DR17 - Swan Peak

  I had to work my way through a large crowd of onlookers that had gathered behind the crime-scene tape, and show my Iberia Parish badge to a uniformed deputy to gain access to the sheriff, Joe Bim Higgins. The sheriff was not in a good mood.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “Clete Purcel called me for backup,” I replied.

  “He inserts himself into a criminal investigation and calls you instead of 911 just before he kills a man? That’s interesting. Is this the way you do business in Louisiana?”

  “If Clete shot somebody, it was for a reason.”

  “I’ve seen Purcel’s sheet. Your friend is rolling chaos. The victim is Quince Whitley, a guy your friend had a grudge against. Now Whitley’s brains are glued to a windshield. You think there might be a problem here?”

  “Can I talk to Clete?” I asked.

  “When my investigator is through with him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t get the wrong impression. I’m fed up with both you guys.”

  The ambulance made its way through the crowd and headed back through Hellgate Canyon, its siren off, its emergency lights pulsing in the darkness. I saw Candace Sweeney and Troyce sitting in the back of another cruiser, talking to a deputy in the front seat. The interior light was on, and I could see blood splatter like tiny rose petals on Candace’s blouse. Five minutes later, the investigator who had been questioning Clete put away his notepad and rejoined the sheriff. Clete walked toward me, his face empty, his green eyes locked on mine, like a drunk man who thinks the ground might cave under him at any moment.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Whitley was going to toss acid in the girl’s face. J. D. Gribble threw his guitar case in front of her. Whitley pulled a hideaway and was about to drop her. So I parked one above his ear.” He widened his eyes briefly, as though his words were floating in front of him.

  “Where’s Gribble?”

  “He took off in Albert’s truck.”

  “He doesn’t want to be a hero again?”

  “He saw Troyce Nix coming out of the club. I think Gribble is the dude Nix has been looking for.”

  “We need to get you a lawyer.”

  “I’m clean on this one, Dave. The girl saw what happened. So did Nix. Gribble left his guitar case behind. There’s acid all over it. I’ve got a permit for the piece in five states, including Montana.”

  “Higgins is pissed off. Don’t empower him. You made your statement. From this moment on, you’re deaf, dumb, and don’t know.”

  “Forget Higgins. I need a drink.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I just splattered a guy’s grits all over an SUV. So it’s time for a double Jack and a beer back, and that’s the way it is.” He started to walk away, then stopped and turned around. “You want a Diet Doc?”

  “Tell Higgins where you’re going.”

  “He’s got my piece and my keys. I can’t go anywhere. The way I see it, I’m the injured party here, not Higgins, not the dirt bag I just smoked. What’s the matter with you, Dave? You know the score. The locals can’t clean up their own shit, and they’re putting it on us. We were locking up the skells when these guys were in the 4-H Club.”

  You’re wrong, Cletus, I thought. But I didn’t want to argue with him. For a lifetime, violence and the shedding of blood had been our addiction and bane. We had traded off our youth for Vietnam and had brought back a legacy of gall and vinegar that we could not rinse out of dreams. We had learned little from the past and were condemned to recommit most of its mistakes. This parking lot was perhaps just another stopping-off place in our odyssey toward the destruction of everything we loved. Clete’s cavalier attitude was a poor disguise for the ethos of blood and the heart-pounding adrenaline high of burnt cordite we had chosen for ourselves. Unfortunately, illusion is sometimes the only element that keeps us sane, and you don’t rob others of it when they need it most.

  What’s the point? You don’t have to drink alcohol to stay drunk.

  I saw two deputies finishing a search of the diesel-powered truck Quince Whitley had driven to the nightclub. I also saw Special Agent Alicia Rosecrans talking to them. She was not wearing the customary blue windbreaker with yellow lettering on the back that she and her colleagues usually wore when they investigated a crime scene, and she was obviously agitated by the way things were going. She made a call on her cell phone, then snapped it shut when the deputies tried to hook Whitley’s pickup to a tow truck.

  “What’s the trouble?” I said, walking up to the three of them.

  “Who are you?” one of the deputies asked.

  “Dave Robicheaux,” I said. I already had my badge holder in my hand. I opened and closed it before he could take a good look at it. “What’d y’all come up with?”

  He held up a bone-colored mask inside a large Ziploc bag. The mask was made of plastic and was shiny and ribbed with streaks of blue when the light struck its angular surfaces. “I think we may have our guy,” the deputy said.

  “Which guy?” I said.

  “The one who’s been killing people around here. You’re not working with Joe Bim?” the deputy said.

  “I have. I’m here to help in any way I can,” I said.

  “You were conducting the search without gloves, you idiot,” Alicia Rosecrans said to the deputy. “You didn’t try to obtain a telephone warrant, either. You may have already queered the evidence.”

  The deputy had a brush mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. He shook his head and looked at me. “You know her?” he asked.

  “Do you want to say something to me?” Alicia Rosecrans asked.

  “No ma’am,” the deputy replied. He laughed to himself and looked at his partner.

  “Then you’d better change your fucking attitude,” she said.

  “What else did you guys find?” I asked.

  “A transfer of ownership in the glove box. It looks like this guy just bought his truck from somebody named Leslie Wellstone.”

  “Where was the mask?” I asked.

  “Under the backseat, wrapped in an old shirt.”

  “I don’t want to break in on all you swinging dicks here, but none of you are to put your hands on that truck,” Alicia Rosecrans said. “We have jurisdiction on this investigation, and as of this moment you’re out of it. In about five minutes, three people who talk like me are going to be kicking a telephone pole up your ass.”

  “Yes ma’am. Whatever you say. We got it. We’re here to please. So sayonara or hasta la vista, whichever you prefer,” the deputy said, bowing slightly, his hands pressed together in prayerful fashion. “When you’re at the Asian Garden restaurant, you and your fellow agents have a big plate of shiitake on us.”

  “What did you say? What did you say?” she asked.

  Both deputies walked off without replying, glancing absently at the smoke that was beginning to veil the stars, and I was left alone with Special Agent Alicia Rosecrans. Her small wire-framed glasses were full of light.

  “You like sexist and racist humor, Mr. Robicheaux?”

  “They were out of line, but they’re not bad guys. The feds talk down to them. So they get defensive.”

  “How grand and kind. I wish I had that level of humanity. It must bring you great comfort.”

  Don’t take the bait, I told myself. “You had Whitley under surveillance?”

  She paused as though deciding whether I was worth continuing a conversation with. “We got a report off the police band. I was a few blocks away.”

  I didn’t believe her, but I let it go. “You think Whitley is the guy who tried to burn Clete?”

  “Maybe. What has Clete Purcel told you?”

  The fact that she didn’t refer to Clete in the familiar wasn’t insignificant. “You haven’t talked with him?” I asked.

  “Someone else will be doing that.” She was looking toward the cruiser where Troyce Nix and Candace Sweeney were sitting, her eyes not meeting mine.

&
nbsp; “Clete’s personal relationships have nothing to do with what happened here tonight,” I said. “Clete hasn’t done anything wrong. I don’t think you have, either.”

  “I noticed the religious chain and medal around your neck. Are you Catholic, Mr. Robicheaux?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Have you ever considered taking a Trappist vow of silence?” she asked.

  I went inside the club to find Clete. He was standing at the far end of the bar, knocking back shots from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, chasing it with a can of Bud. The customers who had come back into the club were avoiding him, and so was the bartender.

  “Pouring your own drinks these days?” I said.

  “Yeah, suddenly I’m butt crust.”

  “Did you see your girlfriend?”

  “Alicia’s here?”

  “Amerasian, likes to call county cops ‘swinging dicks’? I think that might be her.”

  “She get in your face about something?”

  “Let’s get you out of here before the feds arrive in force.”

  “What’d Alicia say to you?”

  “Nothing. I think you’re nuts, that’s all.”

  “I get this from you every time I meet a new woman.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what Henry the Eighth said to his confessor once.”

  “What?”

  I saw a red smear on the back of Clete’s thumb. I wiped it off with a paper napkin and crumpled the napkin and dropped it on the floor. He looked dumbly at the spot I had cleaned. “He fell on top of his piece. I took it out of his hand so his weight wouldn’t discharge it,” he said.

  “You did everything you had to do, Clete. You saved the girl’s life and probably Gribble’s, too. No matter how this plays out, you’re the best.”

  But my words were probably too late and too few. He sat down on the bar stool like an elephant that has tired of its own performance and has decided to sit down on a small chair in the middle of the ring. I could almost hear a wheeze of air from his chest. His shot glass was half empty. There was a smear of salt on his lip from his beer chaser. His eyes looked scorched in the glow of the beer sign behind the bar. “You think the feds might use this to get me for the Sally Dio plane crash?”

  “Who knows? They’ve got their own agenda. They don’t share knowledge of it with others. We brass it out.”

  He pinched his temples and closed and opened his eyes. “Some life, huh?”

  I cupped my hand on the back of his neck. It was as hot as a sunburn. “Going up or coming down, it’s only rock and roll,” I said.

  But we both knew better.

  CHAPTER 20

  AT SUNRISE THE next day, Albert Hollister found his truck in his driveway but did not see J. D. Gribble. Nor did he find J.D. at his cabin on the other side of the ridge. At noon, while I was out in the yard, I saw Alicia Rosecrans drive past the arch over Albert’s driveway and turn in to the dirt lane that led to our cabin, north of the barn.

  I wasn’t anxious to see her again. She and Clete had created a problematic personal relationship that could cause her to lose her career. Second, Clete knew that Gribble was probably a fugitive from the law and had not yet told her. Who said you should never go to bed with a woman who has more problems than you? Actually, it doesn’t matter who said it, because the admonition was not one I could have passed on to Clete. Why is that? Because I’ve never met a woman who had more problems than he did.

  “Have you seen J. D. Gribble?” she said.

  “No, I haven’t,” I replied.

  “I called Mr. Hollister earlier. He said Gribble left his pickup in the driveway before dawn. He said he thinks Gribble may be in town.”

  “Could be.”

  “Mr. Robicheaux, I seem to get one of two responses from you. You’re either handing out moral observations, or you’re the laconic Spartan who has trouble putting two words together.”

  “I guess that’s the way it flushes sometimes,” I said.

  “Clete Purcel’s fingerprints are on the twenty-five auto that was found next to Quince Whitley’s body.”

  “Whitley fell on top of his gun. Clete removed it from his hand so it wouldn’t discharge and hit somebody in the parking lot. What difference does it make? There were eyewitnesses. Candace Sweeney was there, and so was Nix.”

  “Candace Sweeney has an arrest record for possession of heroin.”

  “So what? She saw what happened. Why should she lie about it?”

  “I don’t think she’s lying. She says after Whitley threw acid at her, she crouched in front of the SUV. She thinks Gribble knocked Whitley down with his guitar case. When she got up, somebody’s headlights were shining in her eyes. She says she started to run and heard Whitley say something, then the headlights went out of her eyes and she saw Clete aim his weapon with both hands and blow Whitley’s brains out. She was close enough to him that blood splattered on her blouse. But she didn’t see a gun in Whitley’s hand.”

  “What did Nix see?”

  “He was just coming out of the club when he heard the gunshot. He says he heard the gunshot, but he couldn’t see what was happening on the far side of the SUV.”

  “One of the paramedics told me Whitley had a holster strapped on his ankle.”

  “That doesn’t put the gun in Whitley’s hand. It also won’t make Clete’s prints go away.”

  “You ran the twenty-five?”

  “It was boosted in a home invasion in New Orleans six years ago.”

  How bad could Clete’s luck be? What were the odds of Whitley ending up with a weapon that had been stolen in Clete’s hometown? “I don’t buy this stuff. Clete probably saved two people’s lives. Everything you’ve told me is based on the worst kind of conjecture. Are some of your colleagues trying to put Clete in the cook pot?”

  I saw the beat in her eyes before she spoke. “Clete killed a government witness years ago. A lowlife by the name of Starkweather. Some people might see that as a precedent.”

  It took a second before I realized what she was telling me. “Whitley was an informant?” I said.

  “We need Gribble as a witness, Mr. Robicheaux, unless you want to see Clete jammed up real bad.”

  A time comes in every human situation when you finally decide to stop protecting people from others and themselves. A time comes when you simply have to tell the truth and let the dice create their own arithmetic. But in this case, no matter how you cut it, the fallout for Clete was probably going to be treys, boxcars, and snake-eyes.

  “I think Gribble may be an escapee from a contract prison in West Texas,” I said, holding my eyes on her. “I think his real name may be Jimmy Dale Greenwood. I think Troyce Nix came to Montana to find him.”

  “How long have you had this information?”

  “I’m not sure I know any of this with certitude.”

  “Take the marbles out of your mouth, Mr. Robicheaux.”

  “Call me Dave or call me Detective Robicheaux, but stop patronizing me, please.”

  “You and Clete both knew this man was probably an interstate fugitive?”

  “I can only speak for myself.”

  “Stop lying. Clete knew Gribble’s background but protected him because Gribble saved his life. Is that fair to say? Don’t just stare at me. Answer my question.”

  “Sorry, I’m all out of gas.”

  “How would you like to go to lockup for aiding and abetting?”

  I heard Molly open the screen door and step out on the porch. “How would you like to take yourself to hell and gone down the road?” Molly said.

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  “No, it’s not all right, Detective Robicheaux. You deceived me, and so did Clete Purcel.” Alicia Rosecrans raised a finger at me, her little glasses wobbling with light. “I won’t forget it, either.”

  JAMIE SUE WELLSTONE’S favorite time of day had become the hour between false dawn and the first glow of blue light on the walled garden behind the main house. Even when the gar
den was still cold and speckled with night damp, she would take the morning newspaper from the cylinder out front and read it and drink coffee at the mosaic-tile table just inside the garden’s back gate, which allowed her a view of the sun when it first broke above the mountaintop and lit the hillsides on the far end of the valley.

  This morning the lead story in the paper was about a shooting death in East Missoula. She started to skip over the story, then saw names inside the type that seemed as sharp in relief as lettering on a headstone. Quince Whitley was dead, killed instantly by a visiting private investigator from New Orleans, Louisiana. According to the story, Whitley had tried to throw acid in the face of a woman by the name of Candace Sweeney. A man named J. D. Gribble had thrown his guitar case in front of the woman when she was attacked by Whitley. Then Gribble had disappeared. The shooting was under investigation, and by press time no one had been charged or taken into custody. In the last paragraph, the article stated that Whitley was thought to be an employee of the Wellstone ranch in the Swan Lake area.

  The sun had just broken above the mountaintop, shining through the trees on the crest. A shadow fell across the front page of the newspaper as Jamie Sue was reading it.

  “The sheriff’s office called late last night,” Leslie said, standing behind her in a purple robe and slippers and a warm scarf wrapped around his throat. “The phone didn’t wake you, sleepyhead?”

  “No, it didn’t,” she replied.

  “I explained that we had to fire Quince yesterday. Poor fellow, it must have sent him over the edge.”

  “Fire him?”

  “I thought I told you. He’d become so ill tempered and disrespectful, I decided it was time we let him go. Are you coming upstairs?”

  “I was going to have some dry toast.”

  “Cook can bring it up. Would you like an egg-white omelet?”

  “I really don’t feel well.”

  “That’s too bad. Must be the weather. Fire season upon us again and all that. Looks like your fellow Mr. Purcel earned himself some ink this morning.”

  She rested her forehead on her fingers. The print on the newspaper was swimming before her eyes.