Purple Cane Road by James Lee Burke Page B

Information Center said the print we had sent through AFIS belonged to one Johnny O’Roarke, who had graduated from a Detroit high school but had grown up in Letcher County, Kentucky. His mother’s maiden name was Remeta. At age twenty he had been sentenced to two years in the Florida State Penitentiary at Raiford for robbery and possession of burglar tools and stolen property.
    While in prison he was the suspect in the murder of a six-and-one-half-foot, 280-pound recidivist named Jeremiah Boone, who systematically raped every fish, or new inmate, in his unit.
    Helen sat with one haunch on the corner of my desk, reading from the sheets that had been faxed to us by the Florida Department of Corrections in Tallahassee.
    “The rapist, this guy Boone? He was Molotoved in his cell. The prison psychologist says O’Roarke, or Remeta, was the regular punch for eight or nine guys till somebody turned Boone into a candle. Remeta must have made his bones by torching Boone,” she said, then waited. “You listening?”
    “Yeah, sure,” I replied. But I wasn’t. “Connie Deshotel seemed to be on the square. Why’s she hanging around with a wrong cop, the gel head, what’s his name, Ritter?”
    “Maybe they just ran into each other. She started her career at NOPD.”
    “She stonewalled us, then fell over backwards to look right,” I said.
    “She got us the ID. Forget it. What do you want to do about Remeta, or O’Roarke, or whatever he calls himself?” Helen said.
    “He probably got front money on the Little Face hit. Somebody besides us isn’t happy with him right now. Maybe it’s a good time to start jacking up the other side.”
    “How?” she said.
    I glanced out the window just as Clete Purcel’s maroon Cadillac pulled to the curb, with Passion Labiche in the passenger’s seat.
     

9
    I WALKED DOWN the hallway toward the building’s entrance, but the sheriff cut me off.
    “Purcel’s out there,” he said.
    “I know. I’m going to meet him,” I said.
    “Keep him out of here,” he replied.
    “You’re too hard on him.”
    “You want my job, run for office. I don’t want him in the building.”
    I looked at his back as he walked away, his words stinging in my face. I caught up with him.
    “It’s not Purcel. It’s who he’s with. I think she bothers a few people’s conscience around here,” I said.
    “You’re out of line.”
    “With respect, so are you, sir,” I replied, and went outside.
    Clete was walking toward me from the curb. He wore a light suit and a tan silk shirt and a dark tie with tiny flowers on it, and his porkpie hat had been replaced by a Panama with a green-tinted visor built into the brim.
    “What are you doing with Passion?” I asked.
    “I took her to the clinic over in Lafayette.”
    “What for?”
    “She sees a dermatologist there or something. She didn’t want to talk about it.”
    “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing with her?”
    “None of your damn business, Streak.”
    We stood there like that, in the heat of the afternoon, the shadows of the huge white courthouse falling on the lawn behind us. Then Clete’s face relented and his eyes went away from me and came back again.
    “I took her for a drive because I like her. We’re going to dinner and a movie. You want to tag along?” he said.
    “I want to talk to you in private.”
    “Yeah, anytime I can be useful. Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, and got back into the Cadillac and drove away. Passion smiled at me, brushing her hair out of one eye with the ends of her fingers.
     
    CLETE CAME INTO the bait shop when I was closing up that night. He opened a bottle of Dixie beer and drank it at the counter. I sat down next to him with a Dr Pepper. “I’m sorry about today. I just worry about you sometimes, Cletus,” I said.
    “You think I’m over-the-hill for Passion?”
    “You carried me down a fire escape with two bullets in your back. I don’t like to see you get hurt.”
    “She