Free The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page B

call last night from a man who says Latiolais has some new information regarding his sister’s homicide.”
    “How does a convict on a brush gang come up with ‘new information’? Isn’t it about time to give this a rest, Mr. Robicheaux?”
    “The caller said Elmore Latiolais had seen a newspaper photo of a white man who knew his sister and is connected with a pimp and drug dealer here by the name of Herman Stanga.”
    “I don’t know anything about this.”
    “Latiolais didn’t tell you about the photo?”
    “No.”
    “He made no mention of it to you?”
    There was a pause. “I usually say things once. I do that because I tell the truth and I’m not used to having my word questioned.”
    “Can I talk with Latiolais?”
    “You want me to put a nigra inmate on my cell phone?”
    “Or you can have him call me collect on a landline.”
    “He’s in lockup.”
    “There’s no phone in your facility?”
    “He doesn’t have phone privileges there. That’s why we call it lockup.”
    “Why is he in lockup?”
    “He was acting like he had some jackrabbit in him.”
    “I need to speak to him, Cap.”
    “If you want to believe that boy’s lies, that’s your right. But I got a half-dozen inmates on my gang who would cut your throat for a dollar and lick the cut clean for an extra fifty cents, and I don’t have time to be worrying about that little halfwit. I hope this is the last conversation we have on the subject.”
    “We can’t promise that, Cap. We were hoping to get your cooperation.”
    “Who is ‘we’?” he said. Then the line went dead.
    Through my open door I saw the sheriff, Helen Soileau, pass in the corridor. She came back and propped one arm on the jamb. She was a trim, firm-bodied woman, attractive in an androgynous way, her expressions often enigmatic, as though she were vacillating between two lives even while she was looking into your face. “I was at a function in Lafayette last night,” she said. “Timothy Abelard was there. He said you and Clete had been out to his house yesterday.”
    “That’s true.”
    “What was Clete doing with you?”
    “He came along for the ride.”
    She stepped inside the office and closed the door behind her, then sat down on the corner of my desk. She was wearing tan slacks and a pink shirt and her gun belt and half-top brown suede boots. “Clete is in a lot of trouble, Dave. But this time he’s not going to drag his problems into our workday. Got me?” she said.
    “My trip to the Abelards was off the clock.”
    “That’s not the point.”
    “You know anything about this guy Robert Weingart?” I asked.
    “He’s a writer. What about him?”
    “He and Kermit Abelard are involved with the St. Jude Project. Herman Stanga claims he is, too.”
    “That’s not a crime.”
    “The fact that Weingart breathes our air is a crime.”
    “I like the way you leave your personal feelings at the front door when you come to work in the morning.”
    “I interviewed a convict in Mississippi who said Stanga is mixed up with the homicides in Jeff Davis Parish.”
    “When did you go to Mississippi?”
    “When I took those two days’ vacation time.”
    She lifted a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What are we going to do with you, bwana?”
    “Weingart is a piece of shit. I think he has Kermit Abelard under his control. I think we’re going to hear a lot more from him.”
    She was shaking her head, holding back something she didn’t want to say.
    “Go ahead,” I said.
    “Go ahead, what?”
    “Say what’s on your mind.”
    “Isn’t Alafair seeing Kermit Abelard?”
    “I don’t know what the word ‘seeing’ means. It’s like a lot of words people use today. I can’t relate to their meaning. Does ‘see’ mean look at someone? Or sleep with someone? Alafair thinks both Abelard and Weingart are great writers. I heard Weingart’s female lawyer rewrote most of his manuscript and got it published for him and that Weingart couldn’t write