Robert Crais - Voodoo River

Lucy said, "Oh, my God."

"We left them in place. Rossier wasn't at the scene, and I'm not certain we can tie this to him. We'd get Bennett and LaBorde for sure, but maybe not Rossier."

She said, "Did you get the Cadillac's license number?"

I gave it to her.

Lucy said, "Stay where you are. I'll call you as soon as I have something."

"Thanks, Luce."

She said, "I miss you, Studly."

"I miss you, too, Luce."

One hour and thirteen minutes later Lucy called back. "The Eldorado is registered to someone named Donaldo Prima from New Orleans. He's thirty-four years old, originally from Nicaragua, with three felony convictions, two for dealing stolen goods and one fire-arms violation. There's nothing in his record to link him to illegal immigration, but the feds are out of the loop on most of this stuff. I've got a friend here in Baton Rouge you can talk to. She works for an alternative weekly called the Bayou State Sentinel , and she's done some pretty good work covering the immigration scene. She might be willing to help."

"Might."

"You'll see." Lucy gave me directions, hung up, then Pike and I drove to Baton Rouge.

The Sentinel had their offices in a little clapboard house on a street just off the LSU campus that was mostly rental houses for students and people who enjoyed the student lifestyle. Some of the houses had been converted to businesses, but the businesses were all places like used-CD stores and grunge shops and a place that sold joss sticks and papier mâché alligators. Alternative. A couple of mountain bikes and a Triumph motorcycle were chained to a bikestand in front of a house with a little sign that said BAYOU STATE SENTINEL – THE LAST BASTION OF TRUTH IN AMERICA. I guess being a bastion of truth didn't prevent people from stealing your bicycles.

Pike and I parked at a meter, and Pike said, "I'll wait in the car." Pike's not big on alternative.

I went up a little cement walk and in through the front door to what had probably been the living room when people were living here instead of working here. Now, five desks were wedged into the place, along with a coffee machine and a water cooler and a lot of posters of Kurt Cobain and Hillary Clinton and framed Sentinel covers. The covers had headlines like LIFE SUX and FIVE REASONS TO KILL YOURSELF NOW. Alternative. A couple of African-American women in their late twenties were working at Macintosh computers farther back in the room, one of them on the phone as she typed, and an athletic white guy with short red hair was at a desk just inside the door. A parrot sat on a perch in the waiting area, copies of the New York Times and the New Orleans Times-Picayune spread on the floor beneath it. The parrot flapped its wings when it saw me, then lifted its tail feathers and squirted a load of parrot shit onto the New York Times . I said, "Man, this parrot is something."

The red-haired guy smiled over at me. "That's Bubba, and that's what we think of the mainstream press. What can I do for you?"

I gave him one of my cards. "Elvis Cole to see Sela Henried. Lucille Chenier called her about me."

He looked at the card and stood. "I'll go see. You want some coffee or something?"

"No. Thanks."

He disappeared into a little hall, then came back a couple of minutes later with a tall woman who didn't look thrilled to see me. She said, "You're the guy Lucy called about?"

I said, "Is it that disappointing?"

She frowned when I said it, then went to the windows and peered out at the street, like maybe there would be a horde of FBI agents in my wake. "Lucy said there were two of you."

"He's waiting in the car."

She looked back at me, and her eyes narrowed as if it were somehow suspicious that Pike would wait in the car. "Well. Okay. Come back to my office."

Sela Henried had a long face and short blond hair that had been bleached white and cut into spikes, and a row of nine piercings running up along the edge of her left ear. A small blue cross had been tattooed on the back of her right hand between the thumb and forefinger, and she was wearing cheap silver rings on most of her fingers. I made her for her mid-thirties, but she could have been older. Her office had once been a bedroom at the front of the house. She went to the windows, looked out at Joe Pike again, then put her hands on her hips. "I don't like him sitting out there."

"Why not?"

"He looks like a cop. So do you." She turned back to me and crossed her arms. "Perhaps you are." Suspicious, all right.

I said, "Ms. Henried, did Lucy explain to you what this is about?" Maybe I should turn on the old charm. The old charm might be just the ticket.

"Yes, or I wouldn't be seeing you. I've known Lucy Chenier for a very long time, Mr. Cole. We played tennis together at LSU, but this is a very controversial newspaper. Our phones have been tapped, our offices have been searched, and there is a damn long list of agencies that would like to see us out of business." She sat and stared at me. "This interview will not take place unless you agree to be searched."

"Searched?" Maybe the old charm wasn't going to do much good, after all.

"I trust Lucy, but for all I know you've duped her to take advantage of me."

I spread my hands. "Are we talking a strip search or just your basic frisk job?"

She yelled, "Tommy!" The red-haired guy came in. "Would you see if he's wearing a wire, please?"

Tommy smiled shyly at me. "Sorry."

"No problem."

Tommy patted me down, moving his hands up under my arms and down the hollow of my back and around my waist. Professional. Like he'd done it before, and like he'd had it done to him. When he reached the Dan Wesson he looked up, surprised. "Hey, he's got a gun."

She frowned at me. One of the posters over her desk showed a pistol with a big red slash across it and the words STOP THE HANDGUN MADNESS. She said, "May we see your wallet?"

"Sure." I took out my wallet and gave it to Tommy. He looked through everything the way a kid might, sort of curious but without any real involvement. "It says he's a private investigator from California. There's a license for the gun."

"All right, Tommy. Thanks."

Tommy handed my wallet back and left. Polite. Another day at the truth factory.

Sela Henried went around behind her desk, and sat. She leaned back and put a foot up on the edge of her desk. Doc Martens. "Lucy says you have questions about the immigration scene in Louisiana."

"That's right. We're trying to find out about a guy named Donaldo Prima. We think he's running illegal aliens, but there's no record of it."

"She mentioned Prima." Sela Henried picked up a plastic pencil and tapped it against her knee. "I looked through my notes and I can't find Prima mentioned, but that doesn't mean anything. We have what the mainstream press likes to call an 'immigration problem' down here. New Orleans is a main entry port for people entering the country through the Gulf, and dozens of coyotes work the coast."

"If you can't help us, maybe you know someone who can."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry." She knew something, she just didn't want to talk about it.

"It's important, Ms. Henried."

She jabbed the pencil at me. "I've covered the victimization of those trying to enter our country for years. The Sentinel supports the concept of open borders and the activities of those who circumvent our country's racist and exclusionary immigration policies."

"Ms. Henried, I work for some people who are being victimized in a pretty big way themselves. If I can find out about Donaldo Prima, I may be able to stop their own little slice of the victimization. It ain't saving the world, but it's what I can do."

She said nothing.

"At a little bit after midnight last night, I saw Donaldo Prima shoot an old man in the head with a thirty-two caliber revolver. I think he shot the old man because the old man was making a stink about a. little girl who died in the hold of the barge bringing them into this country. I saw both bodies. I touched them. Is that the kind of activity you support?"