Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

Room and who would eventually rape and murder a sixteen-year-old girl with a shotgun, was drinking from a bottle of chocolate milk behind his bar while he casually told Helen that even though he had overheard her male fellow officers ridiculing her at the McDonald’s on East Main, he personally considered her “a dyke who’s straight-up and don’t take shit from nobody.”
    Then he upended his bottle of chocolate milk, his eyes smiling at the barb he had inserted under her skin.
    Helen slipped her baton so quickly from the ring on her belt, he didn’t even have time to flinch before glass and chocolate milk and blood exploded all over his face. Then Helen dropped her business card on the bar and said, “Have a nice day. Call me again if I can be of any more assistance.” That was Helen Soileau.
    I tapped on her office door, then opened it. “Wally says we have a homicide by the mill?” I said.
    “The nine-one-one came in about fifteen minutes ago. The coroner should be there now. Where were you?”
    “A couple of bills with dye on them showed up at the new truck stop. Who’s the victim?”
    She glanced down at a notepad. “Yvonne Darbonne. She waited tables at Victor’s. You know her?”
    “Yeah, I think I do. Her daddy used to cane-farm and run a bar up the bayou?”
    “Bring the cruiser around and let’s find out,” she replied.
    We drove through downtown and crossed the drawbridge over Bayou Teche at Burke Street, then crossed the bayou again and headed up a broken two-lane road that led past an enormous sugar mill that almost blocked out the sky. At night, during the grinding season, the fires and electric lights and the giant white clouds of steam that rose from the stacks could be seen from miles away, not unlike a medieval painting depicting Dante’s vision of the next world.
    Hunkered between the mill and bayou was a community of dull green company-constructed houses left over from an earlier time. In the winter, the stench from the mill and the threadlike pieces of carbon floating off the smokestacks blew with a northern breeze directly onto the houses down below. The yards were dirt, packed as hard as brick, strung with wash lines, the broken windows repaired with tape and plastic bags. Several uniformed cops, two forensic chemists from the lab, the coroner, three cruisers, and an ambulance were already at the scene.
    “Who called it in?” I asked Helen as we crossed a rain ditch and pulled into a dirt driveway.
    “A neighbor heard the shot. She thought it was a firecracker, then she looked out the window and saw the girl on the ground.”
    “She didn’t see anyone else?”
    “She thought she heard a car drive away, but she saw no one.”
    The girl’s father, whose name was Cesaire Darbonne, had just arrived. Even though he was almost seventy, he was a trim, comely man, with neatly parted steel-colored hair and pale turquoise eyes. His skin was brown, as smooth as tallow, marked on one arm by a chain of white scars that looked like small misshapen hearts. He was also coming apart at the seams.
    Two cops had to restrain him from rushing to where his daughter lay in the backyard. They walked him back to a cruiser in the driveway and sat him down in the passenger seat, then stood in front of the open door so he couldn’t get out. “That’s my li’l girl back there. Her birt’day was tomorrow. Who done somet’ing like this to that li’l girl? She ain’t but eighteen years old,” he said.
    But the answer was probably not one he wanted to hear. His daughter lay in the Johnson grass by a doorless wood garage, her body in the shape of a question mark. She was wearing a beige skirt and tennis shoes without socks and a T-shirt with a winged horse emblazoned on the front. A blue-black .22 revolver with walnut grips lay by her hand. The entry wound was in the center of her forehead. Her hair, which was dark red, had fallen down in a skein across her face.
    I squatted down next to her and picked