In the Electric Mist With Confederate Dead: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page A

truck seat.
          "Where did you go?" I asked.
          "To talk to Hogman Patin."
          "Where is he?"
          "Over there, with those other black people, under the trees. He's playing a street musician in the film."
          "How'd you know to talk to him?"
          "You put his name in the case file, and I recognized him from his picture on one of his albums."
          "You're quite a cop, Rosie."
          "Oh, I see. You didn't expect that from an agent who's short, Chicana, and a woman?"
          "It was meant as a compliment. How about saving that stuff for the right people? What did Hogman have to say?"
          Her eyes blinked at the abruptness of my tone.
          "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to sound like that. I still have my mind on Goldman. I think he's hiding some serious problems, and I think they're with Julie Balboni. I also think there might be a tie-in between Julie and Cherry LeBlanc."
          She looked off at the group of black people under the trees.
          "You didn't bother to tell me that earlier," she said.
          "I wasn't sure about it. I'm still not."
          "Dave, I'll be frank with you. Before I came here I read some of your history. You seem to have a way of doing things on your own. Maybe you've been in situations where you had no other choice. But I can't have a partner who holds out information on me."
          "It's a speculation, Rosie, and I just told you about it."
          "Where do you think there might be a tie-in?" she said, and her face became clear again.
          "I'm not sure. But one of his hoods, a character named Cholo Manelli, told me that he and Julie had been talking about the girl's death. Then ten minutes later Julie told me he hadn't heard or read anything about it. So one of them is lying, and I think it's Julie."
          "Why not the hood, what's his name, Cholo?"
          "When a guy like Cholo lies or tries to jerk somebody around, he doesn't involve his boss's name. He has no doubt about how dangerous that can be. Anyway, what did you get from Hogman?"
          "Not much. He just pointed at you and said, 'Tell that other one yonder ain't every person innocent, ain't every person listen when they ought to, either.' What do you make of that?"
          "Hogman likes to be an enigma."
          "Those scars on his arms—"
          "He had a bunch of knife beefs in Angola. Back in the 1940s he murdered a white burial-insurance collector who was sleeping with his wife. Hogman's a piece of work, believe me. The hacks didn't know how to deal with him. They put him in the sweat box on Camp A for eighteen days one time."
          "How'd he kill the white man?"
          "With a cane knife on the white man's front gallery. In broad daylight. People around here talked about that one for a long time."
          I could see a thought working in her eyes.
          "He's not a viable suspect, Rosie," I said.
          "Why not?"
          "Hogman's not a bad guy. He doesn't trust white people much, and he's a little prideful, but he wouldn't hurt a nineteen-year-old girl."
          "That's it? He's not a bad guy? Although he seems to have a lifetime history of violence with knives? Good God."
          "Also the nightclub owner says Hogman never left the club that night."
          She got in the truck and closed the door. Her shoulders were almost below the level of the window. I got in on the driver's side and started the engine.
          "Well, that clears all that up, then," she said. "I guess the owner kept his eyes on our man all night. You all certainly have an interesting way of conducting an investigation."
          "I'll make you a deal. I'll talk with Hogman again if you'll check out this fellow Murphy Doucet."
          "Because he's with the Teamsters?"
          "That's right. Let's find out how these guys developed an interest in the War