Without pause I cuffed him and began reading him his rights.
“I’m not a sex offender,” he said. “Where do you come off with that?”
“I’m going to walk you to the couch and sit you down,” I said. “Which bedroom is yours?”
“At the end of the hall. Why are you interested in my bedroom?”
“Our search warrant is limited to part of the house,” I said.
“Did you hear what I said? I’m not a sex offender. I have never been charged with a sexual offense.”
I eased him down on the leather couch. He was barefoot. The tops of his feet were laced with green veins.
“Under Louisiana law, a sex offender in another state has to register here as soon as he takes up residence, even though the charge in the other state has fallen into limbo,” I said. “The statutory beef you skated on in California would be considered a ‘deferred’ charge in Louisiana. Deferred offenders have to register. You pissed on your shoes, Mr. Butterworth.”
“I want to call my attorney,” he said.
“You can call from lockup,” I said.
“Mr. Butterworth?” Bailey said.
He looked up. His forehead and pate were tan and greasy, the pupils of his eyes like black marbles.
“Are you high?” she said.
“Me?” he replied. “Who cares? I have prescriptions for mood modifiers.”
“You’re an intelligent man,” she said. “You know we’re not here about that statutory business of twelve years ago.”
“Then why say you are?” he asked.
“Our problem is the young woman on the cross, and an indigent man hanged like a piece of rotted meat in a shrimp net, and a deputy sheriff who had his esophagus and larynx and lungs slowly punctured and ripped apart with a baton,” she said. “Your history indicates that you have sadistic inclinations. If you were in our position, whom would you be talking to now?”
“Nice try, love,” he said.
“Don’t speak to me in that fashion,” she said. “Where were you in the early a.m. on Monday?”
“Asleep. In my bedroom. Desmond will confirm that. Was that when the deputy consummated his appointment in Samarra?”
“Stay with him,” I said to Bailey.
I stepped out on the deck and called Desmond’s cell phone. The wind was hot and full of spray and the smell of salt and seaweed. Desmond picked up on the first ring.
“This is Dave,” I said. “We’re serving two warrants at your house. One on Butterworth’s living area and one on Butterworth.”
“You’re kidding,” Desmond said.
“He says he was asleep in his bedroom in the early morning yesterday. Is he lying?” There was no answer. I put the phone to my other ear. “Did you hear me?”
“He went to bed early Sunday night. His door was closed when I got up in the morning.”
“Did you see him?”
“I had to meet some guys with the rain tower in Lafayette. I left at about six-thirty.”
“So you don’t know if he was in the bedroom or not?”
“Not for certain.”
But there was something he was not telling me.
“Where was his Subaru when you left?”
“I didn’t see it. That doesn’t mean anything, though.”
“Does he drive a black SUV sometimes?”
“He has access to them. We rent a number of them. Look, maybe he was out. He’s got a girlfriend or two. Locals. Sometimes they drop him off and he lets them tool around in his convertible. He lives a bachelor’s life.”
“He’s hunting on the game farm?” I said.
“No. This is harassment, Dave. You’ve got the wrong guy. You may not like to hear this, but Antoine is not the evil bastard he pretends he is.”
“He fooled me.”
“He majored in sackcloth and ashes.”
“Sell it to someone else, Des.”
“This is why I don’t live here anymore. You taint every beautiful thing in your lives and put it on outsiders. Y’all would strip-mine Eden if the price was right.”
“Then why make your films here?” I said, my heart thudding.
“Louisiana is anybody’s blow job,” he replied. “You can buy it for chump change.”
I closed the phone and looked across Weeks Bay to where I had first seen the body of Lucinda Arceneaux floating with her arms spread on the cross, her hair undulating like serpents around her throat. Then I went back inside, the wind whistling in my ears.
“You’re out of luck, partner,” I said to Butterworth. “Desmond doesn’t back you up. Your bedroom door was closed when he left yesterday morning, but your car was gone.”
“Because I gave it to a lady friend to use,” he said.
“Des mentioned that as a possibility,” I said. “Who is she?”
“A lady who works in a blues joint.”
“A singer?” I said.
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Bella Delahoussaye.”
I kept my face empty.
“You got it on with her?” Bailey asked him.
“What is this?” he said.
“You know how it is out here in the provinces,” I said. “Family values, total abstinence, prayer meetings, Friday-night lights and such. We try to set the bar.”
“I realized that the first time I went to a cockfight in Breaux Bridge,” he said.
“Is there anything in your room you want to tell us about before we find it?” I said. “Hallucinogens, uppers, China white?”
He twisted his neck, his skin pulling tight on his face like a turtle’s. “You’re behind the times. What was the name of the deputy who was killed?”
“Axel Devereaux,” I said.
Butterworth nodded. “He was mixed up with the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“How do you know that?” Bailey said.
“Some of them tried to get jobs as extras with us,” he replied. “Devereaux sent them. He had prostitutes working for him. Five hundred dollars a night. He thought he was going to be a friend to the stars.”
“What was your connection to Devereaux?” I asked.
“I didn’t have one,” he replied. “I wouldn’t let him on the set. Desmond banned him, and Lou Wexler walked him to his car. We had to do your job.”
“Get started,” I said to Sean.
I put my hand under Butterworth’s arm and walked him into the bedroom. I pulled up a chair for him to sit in while Sean began opening drawers and placing the contents on the bed.
“You have a phone number for Bella Delahoussaye?” I asked.
“You don’t?” he said.
“Say again?”
“Cut the charade, Detective,” he said. “You took her home.”
Bailey looked at me.
“That’s right, I did,” I said.
“I suspect she was giving you a guitar lesson,” he said.
“Y’all had better take a look at this,” Sean said.
I didn’t know whether Sean had deliberately interrupted Butterworth. Butterworth had gotten the knife in. My face was burning, my wrists throbbing. I saw the shine of disappointment in Bailey’s eyes.
“What do you have?” she asked Sean.
He dumped a hatbox onto the bedspread. A pair of sheep-lined leather wrist cuffs fell out, along with a purple hood, a flagellum strung with felt thongs, a black leather vest, and women’s undergarments. A hypodermic kit and several bags of dried plants or herbs followed.
“These are yours?” I said to Butterworth.
“I’ve used a couple of items in intimate situations. Actually, they’re stage props.” He studied a spot six inches in front of his eyes.
“How about the spike?” I said.
“My medicines are homeopathic in nature. There’s nothing unlawful in that box.”
“I think your sense of reality is from the other side of Mars,” I said.
“You wear your hypocrisy nicely,” he said.
“Let me clear up something for you,” I said. “I took Miss Bella home in an electric storm. I took her to her front door, and then I drove to my house. I have the feeling she told you that, but you used the information to embarrass me and to cast doubt on the integrity of this investigation.”