Comanche. Brett Riley
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was in there the first four times you looked.
LeBlanc came back into the office, muttering dark words, and leaned against the wall near Professor Jacob Frost and Elizabeth McDowell, who were seated in Raymond’s visitors chairs.
Frost looked different than Raymond had imagined. Thin and just under six feet tall, he wore faded blue jeans and a wrinkled powder-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His light brown hair was flecked with gray at the temples and had not seen a brush all day. His brown eyes were bloodshot.
In contrast, McDowell looked radiant and celestial. Her long blond hair cascaded down her back in four braids. Her bright blue eyes sparkled, as did her skin, which seemed speckled with glitter. In a deep-purple tie-dyed T-shirt, she might have stepped out of 1968. She wore a short skirt and high-heeled sandals, her legs crossed right over left. When she smiled at LeBlanc, some of the clouds around him seemed to lift.
Frost was nodding off.
Darrell and me appreciate y’all comin down, Raymond said. We fly out tomorrow. If you’re comin, we gotta make the arrangements.
Frost sighed and looked at the floor. Because life had taught him what disappointment bordering on depression looked like, Raymond knew the professor would say no, even if it hurt. Back at LSU, Raymond had been an all-Southeast Conference strong safety, drafted in the fifth round by the Green Bay Packers, but, when leaping for an interception during his very first training camp, he had landed awkwardly and obliterated every ligament in his right knee. Aimless, his life’s plan as shredded as his medial collateral, and holding a criminal justice degree, he joined the New Orleans Police Department. He rehabbed the knee, pushing harder than anyone thought advisable, and still the injury almost disqualified him from joining the academy. As he had watched his first career implode and then nearly missed his second, Raymond had seen an expression similar to Frost’s in every mirror he passed.
I really appreciate the offer, Frost said. And I want to come. It’s as close to field research as I’ll probably ever get. A murderer who dresses like an Old West gunfighter? That’s the stuff of urban legend. Folklore in the making. But the fall semester just started. I can’t leave.
Well, Raymond said, I’m sorry to hear that. But we understand.
I’ll be happy to help with any research from here.
Thanks. We’ll take you up on that. Don’t worry about it.
Frost nodded, but he still looked like he might step on his own bottom lip. Based on the five minutes Raymond had known him, Frost seemed like a good man. But only LeBlanc was essential, and of the other two, McDowell would likely prove more useful. In the past, some of their conservative clients and suspects had assumed she was just a hippy-dippy weirdo, but soon enough, they were offering her a bowl of jambalaya and asking about rates. Those people skills could prove invaluable. Raymond turned to her.
What about you, little miss? You game for a trip to the land of cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and Dallas Cowboys?
She grinned. Her teeth were even, a little yellowed from the coffee and tea she drank every waking moment.
I reckon folks around here can live without me for a while.
LeBlanc beamed. If his smile stretched any wider, the top of his head might fall off. He saw Raymond watching, and the smile disappeared. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, tugging at his open shirt collar.
Well, LeBlanc said. Now that that’s all settled, let’s go. I’m so hungry, I could eat a raw nutria.
Forty-five minutes later, the foursome sat at an outdoor table in Brennan’s, LeBlanc slurping turtle soup while they awaited their Eggs Bayou Lafourche and crabmeat omelets. Frost still looked crestfallen. He had barely glanced at the menu and seemed most interested in drinking glass after glass of red wine, despite the hour. Raymond patted him on the arm. Frost looked up with watery eyes—exhaustion, the wine, or both? He pushed his glass away but said nothing.
He’s really takin it hard, Raymond thought. Reckon his no came after a lot of lost sleep. I don’t often meet folks who love their work this much.
LeBlanc finished his soup. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. When McDowell smiled at him, his eyes lit up like his brain was on fire. Raymond had not seen so much red-faced grinning since junior high.
He turned to Frost. Look at it this way. At least you probably won’t get shot at.
It just would have been nice to see the lore take root, Frost said.
Maybe next time.
The hell of it is, I think I could have helped. And it would have been a damn interesting line on my vitae.
I reckon so.
The professor made a the hell with it expression and drained his wineglass again. A word of warning, he said, setting the glass down. The killer won’t be your only problem. From what Betsy tells me, you and Mr. LeBlanc have spent your entire lives in cities. Things are different in small towns—the food, the values, the attitudes, even the weather. The phrase fish out of water comes to mind. And I have no idea what they’ll make of Betsy.
Raymond laughed. I’ve been on jobs in half the parishes in this state, from New Orleans to places you’d miss if you blinked. I ain’t never stepped in a pile of shit I couldn’t wipe off my shoes.
Central Texas isn’t south Louisiana. And then there’s the Piney Woods Kid.
What about him? In case you ain’t heard, he’s dead.
Frost picked up his napkin and spread it across his lap. Yes. Your case may have nothing to do with him.
I sense a but comin.
The professor leaned closer. But I saw a History Channel documentary on him a few years back. He was a mean, murdering bastard. If what happened at this truck stop—
It’s a diner.
If what happened at this diner was perpetrated by somebody modeling themselves after the Piney Woods Kid, you might need a life jacket to float through all the blood you’ll find.
That’s damn poetic and all, but we’re goin to Comanche, Texas, not Baghdad.
You’re probably right. But watch each other’s backs.
One server refilled Frost’s glass as another arrived with the food. Plates were distributed as Raymond felt the same tickle in the back of his brain that vacationers feel when they forget to feed the cat or turn off the iron. But then McDowell laughed, and as he took a bite of andouille in hollandaise sauce, he decided he would have plenty of time to think about it in Texas.
Later, they exited onto Royal Street, Raymond and Frost chatting, McDowell and LeBlanc hanging back ten yards or so, dodging map-carrying tourists and street peddlers. Occasionally, their arms touched. They probably looked like a couple in the early stages of infatuation, too nervous to speak much, unaware of each other’s rhythms. By the time LeBlanc found his courage, they had reached the intersection of Royal and St. Phillip. Raymond and Frost had gone ahead.
McDowell started to turn left toward the office when LeBlanc took her arm. She raised her eyebrows. Around them, pedestrians ebbed and flowed. A tourist in a Cadillac stopped at the intersection and rolled down her window, asking passersby if they knew the quickest way to the Garden District. From somewhere nearby, a trumpet burst into life, a jazz tune LeBlanc had never heard before. His face burned. He had grabbed McDowell like she had stolen something, and now he was acting like a sheepish teenager sliding into second base for the first time. She watched him with curiosity and something like amusement.
Finally, she took one of his hands in hers and said, Don’t be so nervous. I won’t bite.
LeBlanc swallowed hard, trying to unstick the words that had lodged