Page 76 of Broken Bayou
I vaguely remember hearing something about that from one of the press conferences.
“I did some digging,” Rita says with another smile.
“Shocking,” I say.
“Did you know there are dozens of types of sand? There’s river sand, desert sand, sea sand.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “So many types, it’s crazy. But do you know what type my source says was in some of those barrels?”
Then it hits me. Doyle’s job. I think of the piles of sand I saw from the bedroom window at his house. “The kind used to fill playground sandboxes?” I say.
“Bingo. And on top of that, guess what I just found out?” She doesn’t wait for me to saywhat. “Doyle’s prints were all over that missing teacher’s license plate.”
My pulse quickens. Doyle left that plate for me. When I asked Eddie about it, he said it was a secret. He knows his brother is up to no good. I sit back in my chair. “Then what’s not adding up?”
“The police are keeping something quiet.” She leans in. “There’s talk at least some of the victims were drugged.”
“How would they know that? Based on the ... condition of the victims.” I shake the thought away.
“The schoolteacher.” Rita’s eyes are wide and bright. “Her autopsy is providing some interesting information.”
“They can’t possibly have that information already.”
Rita nods. “You’d be surprised how fast you can get information when a senator is involved.” She lowers her voice. “There’s something else. That investigator is questioning the way the sheriff’s office handled that stolen barrel report back then. Apparently, the paperwork was filed incorrectly, possibly on purpose. Like someone deliberately filled it out wrong to create problems later on if it ever got brought up again.”
I think of all the law enforcement swarming the bayou. All wanting a piece of this pie.
Rita sips her coffee. “Anyway,” she says. “There’s something else.”
“Christ. What?”
“Really,someoneelse. Emily.”
“What about her?”
“After we talked, I contacted Tom Bordelon about her. Like you said, she seemed important. Could be, she is. My source called me this morning. They want a DNA sample from Liv Arceneaux or one of the brothers.”
“For what?”
Rita rests both her arms on the table and leans closer. “To compare to the bones found in the trunk of that car you dumped.”
The air in Taylor’s Marketplace suddenly feels too thin to breathe, like I’ve elevated to an altitude well above sea level. My chest heaves. My stomach constricts into a knot. “Please, no.”
“Look, no question little Emily was buried on her family’s land. The question is, did she stay buried? They’re working on a warrant to find out.”
If Doyle followed us the night I dumped that car, and saw where it was, he could have relocated Emily to that trunk. Butwhywould he do that?
“Walk me through this again. The dates. When did she die?”
“October 1999,” Rita says.
“And my mother asked me to get rid of her car in August of 2000. I decided to put it in the bayou. I clean out the car. Travis leaves. I use his truck to push the car into the water. That’s it.”
“That’s definitely not it,” Rita says. “That’s why I’m still here. The pieces are starting to reveal themselves. Time to put them together. And I bet I’m a lot closer than that Podunk police chiefandthat investigator.”
“Rita.” I lower my chin, study her. “Slow down.”
She drains the remaining coffee in her cup and stands. “No room forslow downhere. I’m rolling on this.”
“You’re scaring me a little bit.”
