In the Electric Mist With Confederate Dead: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke Page A

woman who was sitting in my chair and talking on my telephone. She was looking out the window at a mockingbird on a tree limb while she talked. She turned her head long enough to point to a chair where I could sit down if I wished.
          She was short and dark-skinned, and her thick, black hair was chopped stiffly along her neck. Her white suit coat hung on the back of my chair. There was a huge silk bow on her blouse of the sort that Bugs Bunny might wear.
          Her eyes flicked back at me again, and she took the telephone receiver away from her ear and slipped her hand over the mouthpiece.
          "Have a seat. I'll be right with you," she said.
          "Thank you," I said.
          I sat down, looked idly through my mail, and a moment later heard her put down the phone receiver.
          "Can I help you with something?" she asked.
          "Maybe. My name's Dave Robicheaux. This is my office."
          Her face colored.
          "I'm sorry," she said. "A call came in for me on your extension, and I automatically sat behind your desk."
          "It's all right."
          She stood up and straightened her shoulders. Her breasts looked unnaturally large and heavy for a woman her height. She picked up her purse and walked around the desk.
          "I'm Special Agent Rosa Gomez," she said. Then she stuck her hand out, as though her motor control was out of sync with her words.
          "It's nice to know you," I said.
          "I think they're putting a desk in here for me."
          "Oh?"
          "Do you mind?"
          "No, not at all. It's very nice to have you here."
          She remained standing, both of her hands on her purse, her shoulders as rigid as a coat hanger.
          "Why don't you sit down, Ms. . . . Agent Gomez?"
          "Call me Rosie. Everyone calls me Rosie."
          I sat down behind my desk, then noticed that she was looking at the side of my head. Involuntarily I touched my hair.
          ".You've been with the Bureau a long time?" I said.
          "Not really."
          "So you're fairly new?"
          "Well, just to this kind of assignment. I mean, out in the field, that sort of thing." Her hands looked small on top of her big purse. I think it took everything in her to prevent them from clenching with anxiety. Then her eyes focused again on the side of my head.
          "I have a white patch in my hair," I said.
          She closed then opened her eyes with embarrassment.
          "Someone once told me I have skunk blood in me," I said.
          "I think I'm doing a lot of wrong things this morning," she said.
          "No, you're not."
          But somebody at Fart, Barf, and Itch is, I thought.
          Then she sat erect in her chair and concentrated her vision on something outside the window until her face became composed again.
          "The sheriff said you don't believe we're dealing with a serial killer or a random killing," she said.
          "That's not quite how I put it. I told him I think she knew the killer."
          "Why?"
          "Her father appears to have been a child molester. She was streetwise herself. She had one prostitution beef when she was sixteen. Yesterday I found out she was still hooking—out of a club in St. Martinville. A girl like that doesn't usually get forced into cars in front of crowded jukejoints."
          "Maybe she went off with a john."
          "Not without her purse. She left it at her table. In it we found some—"
          "Rubbers," she said.
          "That's right. So I don't think it was a john. In her car we found a carton of cigarettes, a brand-new hairbrush, and a half-dozen joints in a Baggy in the trunk. I think she went outside to get some cigarettes, a joint, or the hairbrush, she saw somebody she knew, got in his car, and never came back."
          "Maybe it was an old customer, somebody she trusted. Maybe he