“You’ve got a lot more to worry about than just me,” I said.

“No, my life is fine. It’s you that’s the problem. I didn’t finish high school or go to college. But I did pretty good. Maybe that don’t always sit too well with some people. Think that might be the trouble here, Dave?”

I rested one hand on the hood of the Buick. I rubbed the finish and the passenger-side headlight molding and brushed away a leaf that was stuck to the glass. “Fine car you have here. Ever have any work done on it? Looks like somebody might have had a sander on your fender.”

He tried to keep his face empty, but I saw my words take hold in his eyes. Tony gazed down the driveway at the bayou as though he had never seen it before.

“I always treated you good,” Bello said. “We both go back to the old days, when people talked French and kids like us didn’t have ten cents to go to a picture show. How come you can’t show respect for our mutual experience? How come you treat me like some kind of bum?”

“Because you lied to me.”

The skin on his face flexed, just as though I had spit on it. I started back toward the gallery, wondering if he was not about to attack me. Just as I reached the steps, I felt his fingers touch me through my shirt.

“That’s my only son, there,” he said. “He’s gonna be a doctor. He never done anything to deliberately hurt anybody, particularly not to some poor girl who shot herself. Why you trying to mess him up? You got colored kids shooting each other in the streets. Why you got to go after my boy?”

But the hand had already been dealt, for both Bello and me and his son as well. None of us, at that moment, could have guessed at the outcome. I heard a flapping of wings above our heads, like a giant leathery bird rising from the oak tree’s crown into the sky.

THURSDAY MORNING, Mack Bertrand called from the crime lab. “The blood on the Buick headlight fragment came from Crustacean Man,” he said.

“No gray area, no contamination, no dilution of the specimen, none of that stuff?”

“This one is dead-bang. It even gets better. You actually brought me two specimens.”

“Say again?”

“A microscopic piece of bone was on the inside of the molding. My guess is it came from the collision of the fender against Crustacean Man’s hip.”

“You don’t think it came from the blow to his head?”

“Maybe. But the body-and-fender guy told you the glass and molding came from the passenger side of the vehicle, right?”

“Correct.”

“Crustacean Man’s left hip was crushed. My guess is he either walked in front of the vehicle or he was walking on the side of the road, in the same direction as the Buick, when he was hit.”

“Here’s the problem with that scenario, Mack. The cause of death was massive trauma to the right-hand side of the cranium. Death was probably instantaneous. He ended up in the coulee, which means he wasn’t slammed to the asphalt. He wasn’t knocked into a post or telephone pole, either.”

“You’re saying the fatal injury wasn’t caused by the Buick? Maybe a second vehicle killed him?” Mack said.

“There’s another possibility.”

“What?”

“The second blow didn’t come from a vehicle,” I said.

“Maybe he got hit by a chunk of meteorite. Ease up on the batter, Dave,” he said.

A few minutes later I went into Helen’s office and told her of Mack Bertrand’s findings. She was hunched over her desk, her short sleeves folded in tight cuffs on her arms. She thought for a moment before she spoke. “Okay, so we’ve got a dirty vehicle, but we can’t put Bello Lujan behind the wheel,” she said.

“We can make a case for destroying evidence and aiding and abetting.”

“Provided we can prove he had knowledge a crime was actually committed. What if his kid was the driver? What if one of the kid’s fraternity brothers borrowed the car? How about the wife?”

“She’s an invalid. She doesn’t drive. These wouldn’t be issues if the victim wasn’t a wino,” I said.

“If there were no gravity, monkey shit wouldn’t fall out of trees, either.”

“I don’t think this is a simple hit-and-run, Helen. Something else is involved.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Dave, there are times I want to kill you, I mean actually pound your head with my fists.”

I gazed out the window, choosing reticence as the better part of valor.

“Go back to that business about it not being a simple hit-and-run,” she said.

“Mack believes the Buick either struck Crustacean Man in the hip while he was walking down the right-hand side of the road, or Crustacean Man walked out in front of the car. But neither Mack nor Koko can explain the origin of the fatal injury, which was to the head.”

“I think we’re starting to drown in more information than we need here. Look, somebody hit this guy with the Buick. He was left to die on the side of the road. The DNA evidence on that is absolute. Somebody is going down for what we can prove happened. Whoever it is, Bello or somebody else, will probably not receive the punishment he deserves. But we’re going to do our jobs as best we can and leave the rest of it to God. Am I putting this in words you can understand?”

“ Bello ’s son is the key.”

“Why?”

“Because his face is full of secrets.”

“Be honest with me. Are you trying to tie all this to the suicide of Yvonne Darbonne?”

“I have the feeling it’s connected. But I can’t tell you how.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, her starched shirt tightening across her chest. Then she laughed to herself.

“Want to let me in on it?” I asked.

“No, I want to keep you as a friend. Get a warrant on Bello and bring his kid in as a potential material witness.”

Time to deep-six the role as receptacle for Helen’s invective at my expense, I thought. “Tony Lujan’s name is now involved in three separate investigations-the assault on Monarch Little, the shooting death of Yvonne Darbonne, and a vehicular homicide. You think I’m obsessive or being unfair to him? How often does the average premed student get in this much trouble?”

Helen rolled her eyes and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, but this time she had nothing to say.

AFTER LUNCH, she and I met with our district attorney, Lonnie Marceaux. When I first met Lonnie a few years ago, I had thought he was one of those people whose attention span is limited either by an inability to absorb detailed information or a lack of interest in subject matter that isn’t directly related to their well-being. I was wrong. At least partially. Lonnie was usually three or four jumps ahead in the conversation. He had been Phi Beta Kappa at Tulane and had published in the Stanford Law Review. But the real content of his thoughts on any particular issue remained a matter of conjecture.

Lonnie was blade-faced, six and one half feet tall, and had a body like whipcord from the marathons he ran in New Orleans, Dallas, and Boston. His scalp glistened through his crew cut; his energies were augmented rather than diminished by the two hours a day he spent on a StairMaster. When he turned down a position as United States Attorney in Baton Rouge, his peers were amazed at his sudden diffidence. But it didn’t take us long to see the true nature of Lonnie’s ambitious design. In spite of his own upscale background, he charmed blue-collar juries. The press always referred to Lonnie as “charismatic” and “clean-cut.” No high-profile case in Iberia Parish ever went to an ADA, and God help the man or woman Lonnie got in his bomb sights. He was on his way up in the sweet sewer of Louisiana politics and I believe long ago had decided it was better to be first in Gaul rather than second in Rome.

Lonnie kept nodding his head as Helen and I explained the chain of evidence on Bello Lujan’s involvement with Crustacean Man’s death. Then he crossed his legs and began playing with a rubber band, stretching and twisting it into rhomboids and triangles on his fingers, while he spoke with his gaze focused above our heads. “So the kid is the weak sister, we squeeze him, scare the piss out of him, and force him to come clean on who clobbered the homeless guy with the Buick?”