I shake my head. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere with this thing, I hit a dead end.”

“Well, Frankie Bergeron sure is a dead end, but Pinky says there’s always another way to find something out.”

“That would be the courthouse.”

“Oh, yeah. This was your last hope. I am so sorry, Mr. Callahan.”

“Maybe Bergeron’s firm would have records,” I say, more to myself than to Jezebel. “Do you know who he worked for?”

“Lacey and Bergeron. Right here in Belle Chasse. You could call Mr. Lacey. I’ll get you his telephone number. Don’t call him after say… oh…” She twirls a Rolodex, tapping one thumb against her lower lip and then writes the number on a Post-it. “Don’t call him after three. Maybe two. He drinks a little.”

She hands me the Post-it. Her handwriting is clear and beautiful. We spend a few minutes replacing the cartons of newspapers we’ve been going through, Jezebel locks up, and I fork over thirty-five bucks. “I almost feel bad about taking this,” she says. “I mean, Frankie Bergeron…”

“Deal’s a deal.”

She folds the money in half and then in half again, then pinches it between her thumb and forefinger. “Then again, I don’t think this thirty-five dollars would really cheer you up all that much, am I right?”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the help.”

She pushes the money into the back of her jeans, then sticks out her hand. “Well, then, good luck, Mr. Callahan. Maybe things will turn around. Pinky says they always do in an investigation if you just keep pounding it.”

“I hope he’s right.”

“Where’s your appointment?

“Tupelo Street.”

“Where you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m going to see a lawyer. Lester Flood.”

She considers that. “First year back from Tulane, but Les is a good enough guy.” She looks at her nails. “Tell him Jez Henton says hey. You know how to get there?”

Jezebel’s directions deliver me within four minutes to the offices of Hawes, Halliday, and Flood, which are housed in a charming old brick building on a street that – judging from the proliferation of shingles – is obviously the preferred location of the legal establishment in Belle Chasse.

I wait ten minutes, and then I’m shown into Lester Flood’s office. It’s charming in that southern way, highly polished antiques, beautiful but worn rugs, and very high ceilings. There’s a collection of snow globes on a side table.

Flood doesn’t look much older than Jezebel. “Mr. Callahan,” he says. “Les Flood.” We shake hands and he gestures to a chair.

“Now,” he says, “what can I do for you?”

It takes me fifteen minutes to tell him. He jots down notes on a yellow legal pad, and occasionally asks me to spell a name or clarify something. When I’m finished, I give him a copy of the rabbit photo. He regards it for a moment or two, then slides it to one side. He taps his pad with his pen.

“I don’t know,” he says, pressing his lips together. “I can take this on; I will take this on if you decide to go that way, but…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. The court requires strong evidence and a pressing need to compel disclosure of information about a hospital patient – which this individual was.” He winces. “I have to say I don’t like our chances.”

“Why not? This is strong evidence. And there sure as hell is a pressing need. My sons.”

He drums his fingers on the legal pad. “I am sympathetic to your position. I might even agree with you. But there are a lot of suppositions in your theory.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for starters – you don’t know that the abductor of your children left the origami rabbit on your dresser. You never noticed it before they were abducted, but it could have been there before, am I right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You a hundred percent sure?”

“I am now.”

He nods. “Yeah. Sure you are. But that’s reversing things, isn’t it? The argument will be that your son could have gotten the thing elsewhere. From a kid, a neighbor, who knows?”

“But he didn’t.”

He nods. “You understand I’m playing devil’s advocate here. I agree that the rabbit is unusual, and that finding a replica of the one found in your house at the facility in Port Sulfur is suggestive. Especially given the links between that facility and the Ramirez murders and the parallels between the Ramirez case and your own. But there’s an awful lot of dots to connect in there. And there are no rabbits in either of the other cases. So it all could be coincidence, which is what the defense will argue. There were no prints on the rabbit found in your home, right?”

I nod.

He presses his lips together. “You also know that there’s another suit out there against the Port Sulfur facility.”

“The Ramirez family.”

“Yes. And the facility felt it was in good standing there. They appealed the lower court’s decision to release that fellow. Lost the appeal. They had to let the guy go. What else could they do?”

“We’re talking about Vermillion.”

“Right, Vermillion. We might not like it, but releasing men like that is compelled by law. Now, you can argue – as the attorneys for the Ramirez family do – that the man should not have been released. But that’s hindsight and a fallacy. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. ‘After this, therefore because of this.’ He killed two kids, therefore you shouldn’t have released him. And anyway, why blame the facility: They didn’t really want to release. To complicate everything, the whole thing’s in a mess right now because the defense records went up in smoke. I heard that the Ramirez legal team has actually agreed to share its files with defense so that the case can continue.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. But probably what’s going to happen is that the state… and the facility… will settle. In the meantime” – he shakes his head – “I can’t think the court’s going to jump at the chance to get into this again and compel disclosure of anything by the facility. At least not until this other thing’s settled. For one thing, if what you suggest is true, it would mean that whole suit the Ramirez family brought would kind of be gazumped, wouldn’t it? I mean you are suggesting that Vermillion didn’t kill those boys?”

“That’s right.”

Lester Floyd raises his hands, palms up. “That would give it a hell of a twist.” He smiles. “Like I said, I’m willing to try to compel disclosure.”

“I’m really in a hurry.”

“I’m even willing to hurry,” Flood says. “I just don’t like our chances real well, and I want you to know that ahead of time.”

“I understand you’re telling me that success is not likely, but I’ve got to try.”

“Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”

We discuss money. My bank account has been temporarily replenished by a five-thousand-dollar cash advance from Visa. I write Flood a check for his requested retainer: a thousand dollars.

I drive back to New Orleans in a somber mood. I finally get a lead and where does it take me?

Scorched earth.

Charley Vermillion had a cyanide capsule taped to his collar and committed suicide upon his capture. An arsonist burned down the hundred-year-old Pointe a la Hache courthouse containing records about Vermillion’s suit petitioning release from custody (after nineteen years). Francis Bergeron, the lawyer who filed that suit, drove off a bridge into the bayou and died. The electronic system designed to store court documents imploded, so there is no record of the court proceedings involving Vermillion.

Can all this be coincidence?