Free Artist by Eric Drouant Page B

pattern on anything in thei r files. Nothing common anyway. They’re still looking at it. It may be an off brand tread or some small manufacturer importing them.”
    “It would help but it’s still not enough to convict him on anything,” said Dupond.
    “Which brings us full circle back to the one thing we haven’t talked about today. And that’s the letters,” said Adan. “They’ve got to mean something. He’s telling us something with the letters.”
    “Maybe.” Cassie said. “What if it isn’t a message to us at all? What if it’s just…like…I don’t know, something that only has significance for him?”
    Dupond broke in. “It may not be a deliberate message to us but it means something. It tells us something about him. He takes the time to do it so it has to be important.”
    “So what do we do now?” Cassie asked.
    “Now,”Adan said, “We get a list together of foreign students and tomorrow we start knocking on doors.”
     
     
      Acme Oyster House perched on Iberville, serving locals and tourists alike for almost a hundred years. The menu included most of the food that made New Orleans an attraction for visitors around the world, but the specialty was and always would be oysters. Dupond and Cassie found a table off in the back and sat down. The clatter and traffic of the French Quarter carried inside. It was a lively place. Tourists zeroed in on it and locals made it a point to get there often enough to make it a family tradition.
    “So,” Dupond said when they got settled in. “Do we need a menu?”
    “You might. I don’t. Here’s what I say. We start with oyster soup while we split an oyster po-boy. Then we go with a dozen grilled and finish with a dozen each raw. And cold beer.”
    “Damn. I guess you do like oysters. I was a little worried. Some people don’t care for them but they’re one of my passions. In food, anyway.”
    “In food? What are your other passions?” Cassie asked. The waiter arrived, took their order, and left before Dupond answered.
    “Hmm. Well, I like my job. Nothing like catching bad guys. Every once in a while I like to go fishing. My family has a camp on the North Shore, right off Highway 11. I read a lot when I get a chance. I hate golf, though my Dad likes to play. Mostly I work and look for good places to eat. I found a lot of them when I was on patrol. You know, the sandwich shops and Mom and Pop deals with good cheap food. I’m not a fan of fancy restaurants.”
    “Do you hunt? Most Louisiana boys like to hunt.”
    Dupond shrugged. “I did when I was younger. It got to be kind of a pain in the ass really. Besides, I carry a gun all the time. And really, when you hunt people, shooti ng a few ducks kind of loses its luster. Do you hunt?”
    “No. I do like to fish though. I haven’t gone in a long time. I’ve been busy.” The beer arrived and they both took a sip.
    “So what were you doing out West?” Dupond asked.
    Cassie took a minute to respond. “I’m going to be honest here and tell you I was basically a wreck. After Ronnie died, he was my boyfriend, we’d been together all through High School, a friend of mine took me in. She worked for the Federal Government and they made me a kind of an offer because of some work I had done with them. I spent a lot of time recovering, then started training for this job.”
    “What kind of work did you do for them?”
    “Nothing I can talk about. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is. Don’t hold it against me.”
    Dupond waved it off. “I’ll forgive you if you make me a promise.”
    “And what’s that?” Cassie asked.
    “You come out on the boat with me and show me your secret fishing spots. I’m always looking for a good fishing spot.”
    Cassie laughed. “I don’t know. First I have to know you can be trusted.”
    With that, the food began piling in. By the time the last raw oyster was polished off and the last of the beer drained, Cassie had had enough. She pushed away from the