Page 53 of Broken Bayou
I pull out my phone as I turn away from the bayou and head back over the levee. I check the time.
No more waiting.
Chapter Sixteen
Cold stale air greets me inside the small front room of the Broken Bayou police station. It’s still brown. Still outdated. The same woman still sits behind the big brown desk, her bouffant a little messier than the first time I saw her. She looks exhausted. Holding up one short finger, she motions for me to have a seat. The options for having a seat are a row of brown plastic chairs. And in the last one sits Charles LaSalle II. He rises when he sees me, straightens his pale suit. It’s time to get this errand over with.
“Ms. ... Dr. Watters,” Charles says, holding out his hands.
I hope calling him was a good idea. He’s not a criminal lawyer, but at least he can be a presence if I need him. I told him everything. About the car, the supposed insurance money, about who helped me dump it. The license plate and who I believed left it. I did not tell him about my mother’s boss. Or about the videotape. Not yet. He explained how my coming into a police station with a lawyer will not look good. I’ll look guilty. I told him I still wanted him there. So he asked for one dollar to retain his services and told me to let him talk first so he can neutralize that from the start.
I watch Charles wringing his hands and hope to God he can actually do that.
“Willa?” I look up and see Travis standing by the front desk. His eyes dart to Charles. “What’s going on?”
“I came to talk to Chief Wilson.”
“And you brought a lawyer?”
“Just to be safe.”
Travis shoots Charles a look of utter bafflement, then refocuses on me. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“I don’t think that’s—” Charles starts, but I cut him off.
“It’s fine.”
Charles looks wounded, like he was denied a moment to shine.
Travis leads me to the far side of the room. Margie has finished her call, and she watches us with hawk eyes.
His voice is low in my ear. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I need to talk to the chief.”
He shakes his head. His voice is steady and smooth. “I want to help you, Willa. But you showing up with him”—he points to Charles—“doesn’t look good. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No, I just thought it would be best to have someone with me. I’ve never done this before.”
“All right. I get it.” Travis’s eyes are accented by dark circles. His skin looks sallow and more wrinkled than I remember. But mostly, it’s his voice that’s different. I hear the stress in it. “But help me here. We cleaned out that trunk. Right? Remember?”
“Yes, we did,” I say, glancing at Margie, who seems to be engaged in stacking papers. “That car was empty when I put it in the bayou.”
“Well, the trunk wasn’t empty when it came out.” He releases a long breath.
“Travis, what if that car didn’t sink all the way? What if someone else had been there? Seen an opportunity and took it. I don’t remember seeing anyone when I left, but that doesn’t mean I was alone.”
Travis studies me. “The only person that would have been there is Walter Delaroux, but something’s not adding up for me.”
I glance at the brown paper bag I brought in with me. “There’s something else that doesn’t add up.”
“What?”
I point to the bag on the chair next to Charles. “Someone left that teacher’s license plate in a bag on my front porch.”
What little color he had in his face drains away. “What the fuck? When?”
Margie darts a look in our direction.
