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“I don’t see how I helped.”
“This is Louisiana, Cap. The language in our sex offender registry laws would give you an aneurism.”
By noon the next day I had a warrant for Butterworth’s arrest and a warrant to search Desmond’s house. I dialed Desmond’s unlisted number, hoping he would be there. Unfortunately, Butterworth answered.
“Is Desmond there?” I said. “This is Dave Robicheaux.”
“Oh, my favorite detective,” he replied.
“I need to speak to him, please.”
“He’s taking a break today and sailing. The light is all wrong for the scene we’re shooting, anyway. Could I be of assistance?”
“I have to take some photos from your deck. I’m putting together a report on the discovery of the Arceneaux body.”
“This isn’t about the telescope again, is it?”
“No, it has to do with tidal drift. Will you be there for the next hour?”
“I’ll make a point of it,” he said. “Ta-ta, cute boy.”
Bailey and I checked out a cruiser and headed for Cypremort Point, with me driving and Sean McClain following in a second vehicle. There was a heavy chop on the bay, the moss straightening in the trees and boats rocking in their slips like beer cans in a wave.
“I’m not sure what we’re doing, Dave,” Bailey said.
“We’re on shaky ground, but Butterworth doesn’t know it.”
She looked straight ahead, thoughtful. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“You ever hear of a rich man going to the chair or gas chamber or the injection room?” I said.
“I guess that doesn’t happen often.”
“It doesn’t happen at all.”
I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. “We cut the bad guys off at the knees, Bailey.”
“What we do is punish the people who are available,” she said.
I looked at her profile. She was one of those people whose composure and self-assurance gave no hint of arrogance or elitism. But I couldn’t forget that Ambrose Bierce, a war veteran, once defined a pacifist as a dead Quaker, and that Bailey was young for the job and I was old for it, and old for her, and on top of it I wondered if she didn’t belong in the public defender’s office.
“You’re a good fellow, Dave.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m a good judge of people.”
All my thought processes went down the drain.
As we neared the tip of the peninsula, I saw a solitary figure on the deck of Desmond’s house, the wind flattening his slacks and Hawaiian shirt against his body. He was playing his saxophone, obviously indifferent to the sounds of the surf and the wind and seagulls, the gold bell of the sax as bright as a heliograph in the sunlight.
“Why does that guy remind me of an upended lizard?” I said.
“Because he looks like one,” she replied.
• • •
I RANG THE CHIMES. When Butterworth answered, I stepped inside without being asked and held up both warrants. Bailey and Sean followed me. “You’re under arrest for failing to register as a sex offender, Mr. Butterworth,” I said. “Please turn around and place your hands behind you.”
