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He’d expected this, but it still got his pulse racing. “I read about that.”
“Yeah. They connected the two break-ins. The common denominator is Gabe Hebert, the guy that owns that restaurant in the Quarter. Le Petit Choux. The PI is his girlfriend, apparently. The other lady is his cousin and the co-owner of the restaurant. They must have expected trouble, because they had bodyguards stationed at both places. Of course, there’s another common denominator.” Cresswell paused dramatically but said no more.
“Which is?” Lamont asked, trying not to sound annoyed.
“Rocky Hebert, a retired cop. Did you know him?”
Be cool. Be cool.“I know of him. He died recently, didn’t he?”
“Shot himself in the fool head, the asshole.” Cresswell tsked. “He worked for me for a few years—right up till his retirement. Not a bad cop, most of the time. He had an alcohol problem, though. Supposedly got sober, but... boom. Ate his gun. Guess he wasn’t enjoying his retirement overly much. His boy, Gabe, didn’t believe his father killed himself.”
“Does the family ever believe such a thing?”
“I expect not. But then, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
Lamont scowled. It wasn’t often that someone brought up wife number one. Lucille had shot herself one night after getting wasted. Or at least that was how he’d staged the scene. Presto chango, he’d become a wealthy man.
“No family member should have to endure the suicide of a loved one,” Lamont said quietly, hoping that Cresswell felt guilty. “It’s a terrible tragedy for everyone. A terrible loss.”
There was a beat of silence. “I apologize,” Cresswell said stiffly. “That was unkind of me.”
“It kind of was. I hope that Gabe Hebert is able to find some peace.” Eternal peace, that is.
“I don’t know. Nobody had seen him for a few days before they brought him in for questioning yesterday morning.”
And if Lamont had known that, he could have taken care of him then and there. The lack of communication irritated him. “Where had he been before yesterday?” he asked.
“He’d taken leave from his restaurant. Said he needed ‘time to process’ his daddy’s passin’.” Cresswell’s air quotes were audible.
“You don’t believe him?”
“No. I think he believes that somebody killed his father. I think he’s investigating.”
No shit, Sherlock.He and Mule had known that since Monday. “Has he found anything?”
“Nothing so far. Or, leastways, nothing he’s sharing. He got a private autopsy done on his father. Did you hear about the lady pathologist getting killed? Out in Baton Rouge?”
“I think so. Her lab was burned up, wasn’t it? BRPD thought it was vandalism.”
“That’s what they said. But she was the pathologist who did Rocky’s secret private autopsy.”
Lamont knew all about it, of course. Killing the pathologist had been Mule’s handiwork. But he hadn’t been informed through official channels and that was... troubling. He’d have to find out why.
They can’t suspect me.
Unless Mule told someone what he was up to, and he didn’t think that was likely.
“What about the guy who was arrested for breaking into the PI’s apartment? Is he talking?” Lamont hoped not. Depending on what Mule had told his bastard son, Tobin could destroy him.
“Not yet,” Cresswell said. “But I expect that he will. So far, nobody knows how he connects to Mule, but we’ll figure it out.”
Lamont swallowed his sigh of relief. He’d have to make sure Tobin didn’t talk, but that could wait. “What about the remains that were found near Mule’s body?”
“The lady? All that was left on land was her head. Divers went in after the rest of her. Found her torso at the water’s bottom, weighted down with a brick. It wasn’t in terrible shape, but the gators had been snackin’. They found a finger, but it no longer had any usable prints. The rest appears to be digesting in a gator’s belly.”
“How... unpleasant.” But just as he’d hoped. “Have they identified her?”
“Not yet. Look, I don’t mind you callin’, but I’m not telling you anything your office doesn’t already know. You should talk to the ADA on the case.”
