I wondered if Cisco ever thought about his ancestor's story as material for a film.

The old Flynn house still stood by the lake, but it was covered by a white-brick veneer now and the old gallery had been replaced by a circular stone porch with white pillars. But probably most important to Megan and Cisco was the simple fact that it and its terraced gardens and gnarled live oaks and lakeside gazebo and boathouse all belonged to someone else.

Their father was bombed by the Luftwaffe and shot at by the Japanese on Guadalcanal and murdered in Louisiana. Were they bitter, did they bear us a level of resentment we could only guess at? Did they bring their success back here like a beast on a chain? I didn't want to answer my own question.

The wind ruffled the lake and the longleaf pine boughs above my truck. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the sheriffs cruiser pull in behind me. He opened my passenger door and got inside.

"How'd you know I was out here?" I asked.

"A state trooper saw you and wondered what you were doing."

"I got up a little early today."

"That's the old Flynn place, isn't it?"

"We used to dig for Confederate artifacts here. Camp Pratt was right back in those trees."

"The Flynns bother me, too, Dave. I don't like Cisco bringing this Boxleiter character into our midst. Why don't both of them stay in Colorado?"

"That's what we did to Megan and Cisco the first time. Let a friend of their dad dump them in Colorado."

"You'd better define your feelings about that pair. I got Boxleiter's sheet. What kind of person would bring a man like that into his community?"

"We did some serious damage to those kids, Sheriff."

"We? You know what your problem is, Dave? You're just like Jack Flynn."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't like rich people. You think we're in a class war. Not everybody with money is a sonofabitch."

He blew out his breath, then the heat went out of his face. He took his pipe from his shirt pocket and clicked it on the window jamb.

"Helen said you think Boxleiter might be a pedophile," he said.

"Yeah, if I had to bet, I'd say he's a real candidate."

"Pick him up."

"What for?"

"Think of something. Take Helen with you. She can be very creative."

Idle words that I would try to erase from my memory later.

I DROVE BACK TOWARD THE office. As I approached the old Catholic cemetery, I saw a black man with sloping shoulders cross the street in front of me and walk toward Main. I stared at him, dumbfounded. One cheek was bandaged, and his right arm was stiff at his side, as though it pained him.

I pulled abreast of him and said, "I can't believe it."

"Believe what?" Cool Breeze said. He walked bent forward, like he was just about to arrive somewhere. The whitewashed crypts behind him were beaded with moisture the size of quarters.

"You're supposed to be in federal custody."

"They cut me loose."

"Cut you loose? Just like that?"

"I'm going up to Victor's to eat breakfast."

"Get in."

"I don't mean you no disrespect, but I ain't gonna have no more to do with po-licemens for a while."

"You staying with Mout'?"

But he crossed the street and didn't answer.

AT THE OFFICE I called Adrien Glazier in New Orleans.

"What's your game with Cool Breeze Broussard?" I asked.

"Game?"

"He's back in New Iberia. I just saw him."

"We took his deposition. We don't see any point in keeping him in custody," she replied.

I could feel my words binding in my throat.

"What's in y'all's minds? You've burned this guy."

"Burned him?"

"You made him rat out the Giacanos. Do you know what they do to people who snitch them off?"

"Then why don't you put him in custody yourself, Mr. Robicheaux?"

"Because the prosecutor's office dropped charges against him."

"Really? So the same people who complain when we investigate their jail want us to clean up a local mess for them?"

"Don't do this."

"Should we tell Mr. Broussard his friend Mr. Robicheaux would like to see him locked up again? Or will you do that for us?" she said, and hung up.

Helen opened my door and came inside. She studied my face curiously.

"You ready to boogie?" she asked.

SWEDE BOXLEITER HAD TOLD me he had a job in the movies, and that's where we started. Over in St. Mary Parish, on the front lawn of Lila Terrebonne. But we didn't get far. After we had parked the cruiser, we were stopped halfway to the set by a couple of off-duty St. Mary Parish sheriffs deputies with American flags sewn to their sleeves.

"Y'all putting us in an embarrassing situation," the older man said.

"You see that dude there, the one with the tool belt on? His name's Boxleiter. He just finished a five bit in Colorado," I said.

"You got a warrant?"

"Nope."

"Mr. Holtzner don't want nobody on the set ain't got bidness here. That's the way it is."

"Oh yeah? Try this. Either you take the marshmallows out of your mouth or I'll go down to your boss's office and have your ass stuffed in a tree shredder," Helen said.

"Say what you want. You ain't getting on this set," he said.

Just then, Cisco Flynn opened the door of a trailer and stepped out on the short wood porch.

"What's the problem, Dave?" he asked.

"Boxleiter."

"Come in," he said, making cupping motions with his upturned hands, as though he were directing an aircraft on a landing strip.

Helen and I walked toward the open door. Behind him I could see Billy Holtzner combing his hair. His eyes were pale and watery, his lips thick, his face hard-planed like gray rubber molded against bone.

"Dave, we want a good relationship with everybody in the area. If Swede's done something wrong, I want to know about it. Come inside, meet Billy. Let's talk a minute," Cisco said.

But Billy Holtzner's attention had shifted to a woman who was brushing her teeth in a lavatory with the door open.

"Margot, you look just like you do when I come in your mouth," he said.

"Adios," I said, walking away from the trailer with Helen.

Cisco caught up with us and waved away the two security guards.

"What'd Swede do?" he asked.

"Better question: What's he got on you?" I said.

"What have I done that you insult me like this?"

"Mr. Flynn, Boxleiter was hanging around small children at the city pool. Save the bullshit for your local groupies," Helen said.

"All right, I'll talk to him. Let's don't have a scene," Cisco said.

"Just stay out of the way," she said.

Boxleiter was on one knee, stripped to the waist, tightening a socket wrench on a power terminal. His Levi's were powdered with dust, and black power lines spidered out from him in all directions. His torso glistened whitely with sweat, his skin rippling with sinew each time he pumped the wrench. He used his hand to mop the sweat out of one shaved armpit, then wiped his hand on his jeans.

"I want you to put your shirt on and take a ride with us," I said.

He looked up at us, smiling, squinting into the sun. "You don't have a warrant. If you did, you'd have already told me," he said.

"It's a social invitation. One you really don't want to turn down," Helen said.

He studied her, amused. Dust swirled out of the dirt street that had been spread on the set. The sky was cloudless, the air moist and as tangible as flame against the skin. Boxleiter rose to his feet. People on the set had stopped work and were watching now.

"I got a union book. I'm like anybody else here. I don't have to go anywhere," he said.

"Suit yourself. We'll catch you later," I said.

"I get it. You'll roust me when I get home tonight. It don't bother me. Long as it's legal," he said.