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He nodded as though the names meant something to him, but I was sure they didn’t. They were the names of two women who died in a Roman arena in the early third century.
“Wimple looked at peace. I think—”
“Yeah?” he said.
“I hope Smiley is in a good place. Let’s take a ride.”
Ten minutes later, my cell phone vibrated and I answered the strangest phone call I have ever received.
• • •
THE CALLER ID said Caller Unknown, but there was no mistaking the voice.
“Detective Robicheaux?”
“Butterworth?”
“Yes,” he said. The word had a knot in it as tight as a wet rope.
“Where are you, sir?” I asked.
“That’s not important.”
“Do you want to tell me something?”
“Yes.”
“About Smiley Wimple?”
“Yes.”
“There’s an echo. Are you on a speakerphone?” I said.
“Yes.”
“It would be better if you came in on your own. Bring a lawyer. The shooting looks like self-defense to us.”
“No. I’ll be going away.”
“Not a good idea,” I said. Clete and I were still in his cottage; he was looking at me from across the room.
“I’ve had many problems over the years,” Butterworth said. “I ruined my reputation in Hollywood. Desmond has been a good soul to me. But he’s about to bid his origins adieu, and perhaps the love of his life. That’s all I have to say.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“What difference does it make?”
For just a moment I thought I heard wind rushing and waves breaking. “Don’t sign off, partner. Did you kill Lucinda Arceneaux?”
There was no answer.
“Are you hearing me? Get on the square, Mr. Butterworth. You’re an intelligent, educated man. Don’t buy in to self-pity.”
“You’re quite the fellow. It’s been good knowing you, Detective Robicheaux.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. That’s all any of it is. Nothing. Someday you’ll read between the lines.”
