DR08 - Burning Angel Read Online Free
Author: James Lee Burke
the children of migrant farm workers.
She had a boyfriend in New Orleans who sometimes stayed with her on the weekends, but no one knew his name, and there seemed to be nothing remarkable about the relationship.
What could she have done, owned, or possessed that would invite such a violent intrusion into her young life?
The killers could have made a mistake, I thought, targeted the wrong person, come to the wrong address. Why not? Cops did it.
But the previous tenants in the duplex had been a husband and wife who operated a convenience store. The next-door neighbors were Social Security recipients. The rest of the semirural neighborhood was made up of ordinary lower-middle-income people who would never have enough money to buy a home of their own. A small wire book stand by the television set had been knocked over on the carpet. The titles of the books were unexceptional and indicated nothing other than a general reading interest. But among the splay of pages was a small newspaper, titled The Catholic Worker, with a shoe print crushed across it. Then for some reason my eyes settled not on the telephone, which had been pulled loose from the wall jack, but on the number pasted across the telephone's base. I inserted the terminal back in the jack and dialed the department.
”Wally, would you go down to my office for me and look at a pink message slip stuck in the corner of my blotter?“
”Sure. Hey, I'm glad you called. The sheriff was looking for you.“
”First things first, okay?“
”Hang on.“
He put me on hold, then picked up the receiver on my desk.
”All right, Dave.“ I asked him to read me the telephone number on the message slip. After he had finished, he said, ”That's the number Sonny Marsallus left.“
”It's also the number of the phone I'm using right now, Delia Landry's.“
”What's going on? Sonny decide to track his shit into Iberia Parish?“
”I think you've got your hand on it.“
”Look, the sheriff wants you to head out by Spanish Lake. Sweet Pea Chaisson and a carload of his broads are causing a little hysteria in front of the convenience store.“
”Then send a cruiser out there.“
”It isn't a traffic situation.“ He began to laugh in a cigar-choked wheeze. ”Sweet Pea's got his mother's body sticking out of the car trunk. See what you can do, Dave.“
Chapter 3
MILES UP the old Lafayette highway that led past Spanish Lake, I saw the lights on emergency vehicles flashing in front of a convenience store and traffic backing up in both directions as people slowed to stare at the uniformed cops and paramedics who themselves seemed incredulous at the situation. I drove on the road's shoulder and pulled into the parking lot, where Sweet Pea and five of his hookers- three white, one black, one Asian-sat amidst a clutter of dirty shovels in a pink Cadillac convertible, their faces bright with sweat as the heat rose from the leather interior. A group of kids were trying to see through the legs of the adults who were gathered around the trunk of the car. The coffin was oversize, an ax handle across, and had been made of wood and cloth and festooned with what had once been silk roses and angels with a one-foot-square glass viewing window in the lid. The sides were rotted out, the slats held in place by vinyl garbage bags and duct tape. Sweet Pea had wedged a piece of plywood under the bottom to keep it from collapsing and spilling out on the highway, but the head of the coffin protruded out over the bumper. The viewing glass had split cleanly across the middle, exposing the waxen and pinched faces of two corpses and nests of matted hair that had fountained against the coffin's sides.
2 O
A uniformed deputy grinned at me from behind his sunglasses.
”Sweet Pea said he's giving bargain rates on the broad in the box,“ he said.
”What's going on?“ I said.
”Wally didn't tell you?“
”No, he was in a comic mood, too.“
The smile went out of the deputy's face. ”He
She had a boyfriend in New Orleans who sometimes stayed with her on the weekends, but no one knew his name, and there seemed to be nothing remarkable about the relationship.
What could she have done, owned, or possessed that would invite such a violent intrusion into her young life?
The killers could have made a mistake, I thought, targeted the wrong person, come to the wrong address. Why not? Cops did it.
But the previous tenants in the duplex had been a husband and wife who operated a convenience store. The next-door neighbors were Social Security recipients. The rest of the semirural neighborhood was made up of ordinary lower-middle-income people who would never have enough money to buy a home of their own. A small wire book stand by the television set had been knocked over on the carpet. The titles of the books were unexceptional and indicated nothing other than a general reading interest. But among the splay of pages was a small newspaper, titled The Catholic Worker, with a shoe print crushed across it. Then for some reason my eyes settled not on the telephone, which had been pulled loose from the wall jack, but on the number pasted across the telephone's base. I inserted the terminal back in the jack and dialed the department.
”Wally, would you go down to my office for me and look at a pink message slip stuck in the corner of my blotter?“
”Sure. Hey, I'm glad you called. The sheriff was looking for you.“
”First things first, okay?“
”Hang on.“
He put me on hold, then picked up the receiver on my desk.
”All right, Dave.“ I asked him to read me the telephone number on the message slip. After he had finished, he said, ”That's the number Sonny Marsallus left.“
”It's also the number of the phone I'm using right now, Delia Landry's.“
”What's going on? Sonny decide to track his shit into Iberia Parish?“
”I think you've got your hand on it.“
”Look, the sheriff wants you to head out by Spanish Lake. Sweet Pea Chaisson and a carload of his broads are causing a little hysteria in front of the convenience store.“
”Then send a cruiser out there.“
”It isn't a traffic situation.“ He began to laugh in a cigar-choked wheeze. ”Sweet Pea's got his mother's body sticking out of the car trunk. See what you can do, Dave.“
Chapter 3
MILES UP the old Lafayette highway that led past Spanish Lake, I saw the lights on emergency vehicles flashing in front of a convenience store and traffic backing up in both directions as people slowed to stare at the uniformed cops and paramedics who themselves seemed incredulous at the situation. I drove on the road's shoulder and pulled into the parking lot, where Sweet Pea and five of his hookers- three white, one black, one Asian-sat amidst a clutter of dirty shovels in a pink Cadillac convertible, their faces bright with sweat as the heat rose from the leather interior. A group of kids were trying to see through the legs of the adults who were gathered around the trunk of the car. The coffin was oversize, an ax handle across, and had been made of wood and cloth and festooned with what had once been silk roses and angels with a one-foot-square glass viewing window in the lid. The sides were rotted out, the slats held in place by vinyl garbage bags and duct tape. Sweet Pea had wedged a piece of plywood under the bottom to keep it from collapsing and spilling out on the highway, but the head of the coffin protruded out over the bumper. The viewing glass had split cleanly across the middle, exposing the waxen and pinched faces of two corpses and nests of matted hair that had fountained against the coffin's sides.
2 O
A uniformed deputy grinned at me from behind his sunglasses.
”Sweet Pea said he's giving bargain rates on the broad in the box,“ he said.
”What's going on?“ I said.
”Wally didn't tell you?“
”No, he was in a comic mood, too.“
The smile went out of the deputy's face. ”He
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