Last Car To Elysian Fields by James Lee Burke

Author:James Lee Burke
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Detective, Mystery, Police, Fiction & related items, Louisiana, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Fiction, Robicheaux, General & Literary Fiction, New Iberia, Suspense, Dave (Fictitious c, Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural, Mystery & Detective - Series, Large Type Books, Dave (Fictitious character)
ISBN: 9781587245824
Publisher: Wheeler Publishing
Published: 2010-01-14T23:00:00+00:00

Ten minutes later we turned into Fox Run and drove down the long, oak-lined driveway to Castille Lejeune's front entrance. Almost the entire house was scrolled with white Christmas lights, so that the house glowed like a nineteenth-century paddle-wheeler inside a fog bank on the Mississippi. My guess was that Will Guillot had called Lejeune as soon as we had left his house, and I hoped, in an undeniably mean-spirited fashion, that for the first time in his life Castille Lejeune was genuinely afraid. I parked at the end of the drive and cut the headlights on my truck. A solitary shadow moved across the windows in the living room. I started to get out, but Clete hadn't moved, the shotgun propped at an angle between his legs, the chamber open. "Dave, Guillot's a sex freak and a lowlife and dirty up to his elbows. I'm not so sure about the guy in that house," he said. I looked at him. "All this crap isn't adding up for me," he said. "The war hero didn't pop the drive-by daiquiri guy and neither did Guillot, not if you buy his alibi. But for one reason or another we keep looking at the war hero. No matter what happens, it's always the war hero. Meanwhile Merchie Flannigan's old lady gets a free pass, the same broad who got you kidnapped." "Theodosha is south Louisiana's answer to Bonnie Parker?" I said. "Be a wise-ass if you want. You hate the guy in that house and the class of people he comes from." "I do? You've been at war with these people all your life." He took off his utility cap, looked at it as though he had never seen it before, then refitted it on his head. "He really bagged Bed Check Charley?" he asked. "That's the story." "I'd like to get his autograph. Hey, I'm serious," he said. He got out of the truck, trying to suppress his grin, and followed me onto the porch. A white-jacketed black houseman answered door, a broom and dustpan in his hands. "Is Mr. Lejeune home?" I said. "Took his guests to the country club a half hour ago. I'm still cleaning up," the houseman said. I opened my badge. "Did you receive a phone call in the last ten minutes?" I said. "Yes, suh, I sure did," he answered. "From whom?" "My wife. She tole me to bring home a loaf of bread." On the way to the country club Clete was still grinning. "Why is all this funny?" I said. "I miss the Mob. Shaking up a bunch of Kiwanians just doesn't cut it." "You're too much, Cletus." In that mood we pulled into the tree-bowered entrance of a small tennis and golf club outside the city limits. It wasn't hard to find Castille Lejeune. He and his friends were having drinks under a pavilion and driving golf balls on a lighted practice range dotted in the distance with moss-hung live oaks that smoked in the mist.

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