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“Where’ve you been?”
“Playing handball at Red Lerille’s with Lou.”
“Earlier today Antoine Butterworth was here with some dirt on Bailey Ribbons.”
“Dave, I don’t want to hear any more about Antoine. He’s weird. What else is new? End of subject.”
“This isn’t about Butterworth. He says he got his information from Lou Wexler.”
“No, this isn’t adding up. What would Lou know about Bailey Ribbons? Why would he have any interest in her?”
“Evidently, Wexler hired a PI as part of his scut work for Desmond Cormier.”
“Lou does not do scut work. He’s a producer and a writer. He’s bankrupted himself out of his loyalty to Desmond. You may not know this, but when Des finishes the picture, he may well have produced one of the greatest films ever made. And the only way he can finish it is to beg, borr
ow, and steal every nickel he can. Maybe you don’t agree with that, but give him and Lou some credit.”
I took the towel from her hand and wiped her hair with it. “You want me to fix you something to eat?”
“No.” Her eyes remained on mine. “This isn’t about Antoine or Lou, is it?”
“No.”
“What did the PI dig up on Bailey?”
“She may have accidentally started a fire in a schoolhouse when she was thirteen.”
“That’s it?”
“She’d put some matchheads inside some kindling she wanted to light with a flint.”
Alafair went to the icebox and took a pitcher of tea from the tray, her eyes neutral and impossible to read. She had graduated with honors from Reed and had finished Stanford Law at the top of her class. She had an IQ that only two people in a million have.
“What’s the rest of it?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Don’t play games with me, Dave.”
“I’m not sure who Bailey is.”
“She’s got a history? Something to do with fire?”
“I’d better not say any more.”
She set the pitcher of tea on the table and turned toward me. “Oh, Dave, what have you gotten yourself into?”
• • •
ONE HOUR LATER, the sky had grown darker, the rain heavier, blowing in sheets on the bayou. The phone rang on the kitchen counter. I looked at the caller ID before I picked up. “Is that you, Sean?”
“Remember when we went fishing and you said you’d have my back?” he said.
“Sure.” The truth was, I didn’t remember. But that didn’t matter. “What’s up, podna?”
“I’m a little snaky today and probably not seeing things right. Some of Hugo Tillinger’s church friends was taking his body back to Texas, so I went over to the funeral home and hung around. I wasn’t in uniform.”
Wrong move, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
