CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Expedited hearing?” Camille DeMour said to Hotchkiss once we were out in the hall. “That’s a new one on me. I didn’t know that federal revocation procedures allowed such a thing.”

He shrugged. “I’m learning some really creative law enforcement techniques from Sheriff Handel.”

We drove her back to the café to get her car. She took her leave of us, and took our professions of profound gratitude along with her. It was Roland DeMour’s day off and he had come in his personal vehicle. He left it at the South Winds and rode with us, first to the café to drop Camille off, then he directed us across town to a shady, upscale suburb where the houses would have averaged a quarter million dollars or more.

“This escort deal has a small office downtown,” he said. “Lavonne has a couple of girls covering it, but mostly she works out of her house.”

“You know her pretty well?” I asked.

“Sure. Hookers are some of the best snitches a lawman can have. But I’m sure you know that as well as I do.”

“Only in theory. We’ve had very few cases of prostitution in my county over the years, and they’ve all been outsiders just passing through.”

“What’s Avante like?” Hotchkiss asked.

“Thirty-five years old and looks ten years younger. Smart, classy, fluent in both French and Spanish, has all the social graces. And she’s learned it all on her own. Her old man was a drunken plumber. He beat her mother to death when she was about fifteen, and she’s been peddling her ass in one way or another ever since. That part I could kinda admire if that was as far as it went. I mean, we all do what we have to, and it’s to her credit that she didn’t let the world beat her down. But at one time she was a blackmailer, and I know of a couple of guys she ruined just because it amused her to destroy their lives.”

“That’s a good way to get killed,” I said.

“Yeah, but she’s quit all that business. Me and her have come to an understanding.”

“Yes?” I asked.

DeMour laughed a tight little laugh. “Yeah. For some reason I can do things for her that nobody else can do. I think it’s because I know what makes her tick.”

Lavonne Avante’s house was constructed of dark brick and weathered wood much like the South Winds, with a front door of seasoned oak that looked like it belonged in a medieval castle. DeMour ignored the bell and pounded on the door. A few seconds later it opened to reveal a black maid in a black uniform and a white apron. She obviously recognized DeMour because she smiled and stepped back to admit us.

Inside, the place reeked of money—sophisticated, carefully spent money. The floors were mottled white marble in fifteen inch squares with simple Oriental rugs in greens and golds. The walls were a soothing dark green. A bit of carefully chosen modern art here, an exquisite Chinese vase on a Louis Quinze table there, evidence of good taste everywhere. It was hard to believe that the home was owned by a nouveau riche prostitute who laced herself up in a leather corset and whipped men for pay.

DeMour led us into a library whose walls held row after row of books. Much to my surprise, most of them showed signs of actually having been read. At the far side of the room a woman sat behind a French Empire desk, talking on the telephone. Off to her right, double doors of lightly tinted glass opened onto a landscaped garden.

The woman herself was small and petite, with short, dark hair, ivory skin, and dark eyes. She wore a white silk blouse and a pair of black lounging slacks. Her only jewelry was an antique garnet ring on the third finger of her left hand. When she put down the phone and turned to look at us, I saw a face that belonged on an eighteenth-century cameo. Her background might have been plebeian, but her appearance was pure aristocrat.

“Hello, Lavonne,” DeMour said.

“Hello, Fat Rolly,” she said. “So you’ve come to see me again.”

“Can’t stay away.”

“What’s the matter, Fat Rolly? You bored? And by the way, you’ve gone and dribbled spaghetti sauce on your shirt. Poor Rolly. He’s such a slob.”

He gave her a serene smile, his eyes sleepy, a calm, knowing smile on his face. “You know what happens when you talk to me that way, don’t you?”

“Is that what lights your fire, Fat Rolly?”

“It’s not a matter of what lights my fire, dearie. It’s your fire that we’re talking about.” He pointed at me. “This is Sheriff Handel from Texas. And this other gentleman is Agent Hotchkiss of the FBI. You’re going to tell them what they want to know or I’m going to drag you in that special room of yours and use some of your own toys on you. How would you like that, my little Bumblebee? So you better be a good girl and mind your manners.”

She motioned for us to sit. Hotchkiss and I took a pair of French Empire chairs that sat beside the desk while Roland DeMour perched on the corner of the desk itself.

“We need to know about Paul Arno,” I said.

“What about him?” she asked.

“When did you see him last?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, but I talked to him last week. He called me.”

“What was the nature of that call?” Hotchkiss asked.

Avante stared at the young agent for a moment, then mocked in a high falsetto, “ ‘What was the nature of that call?’ Damn, but you sound like that idiot who does the Crime Stoppers segment on TV. Is there some kind of special school where a guy like you can learn to talk like he’s got a broom handle up his ass?”

DeMour reached over and rapped his knuckles on the desk right in front of her. “I told my friends how sweet and cooperative you were going to be,” he said. “And here you go embarrassing me. You keep on, and it’s going to be a hot time on the old town tonight. And you know what I mean by that, don’t you, Bumblebee?”

“I think Fat Rolly’s getting all excited,” she said.

I didn’t. Roland DeMour was as calm as an icicle, but Lavonne Avante’s face had an expectant look like I used to see on the faces of country girls seeing the Texas State Fair midway for the first time.

“And I think you need to cut the crap and get with the program,” DeMour said.

“Why not?” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Arno’s nothing to me, anyhow. He told me that if anybody called or came by asking, I should say that I spent the night with him at the South Winds last Monday night.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” I asked.

“Hell no,” she snapped. “I’ve never slept with that bastard.”

“Then exactly what is the nature of your relationship with Arno, Miss Avante?” Hotchkiss asked.

She gaped at him once again, then asked, “Please tell me where you learned to talk that way.”

“Cut the wiseass and answer his question,” DeMour said

She laughed but her expression was eager. “My relationship with Arno is that he’s nuts about one of my girls. And that’s it. I’ve known him for years, but he hasn’t been a client until the last few months. Actually, he’s not really a client because he never pays. I don’t think he pays for anything.”

“So we’ve been told,” I said. “What’s this girl’s name?”

“Brandi Springer. She’s out of town right now visiting her family in Dallas.”

“Do you have their phone number, by any chance?” I asked.

“I run an escort service, not a welfare agency. I don’t keep dossiers on my people. Which means I have her number here in town, but not her parents’ number.”

“I wonder why he didn’t get this Brandi to alibi him out instead of you,” DeMour said.

Avante laughed. “Probably because she has the brain of a gnat, Rolly. Even a pinhead like Arno would have sense enough to know she couldn’t hold it together under questioning from a deputy constable, let alone somebody who knew what they were doing.”

“I don’t suppose he told you why he wanted you to do this,” I said.

“No, and I didn’t ask.”

“Did you agree to lie for him?”

“Of course I did. I don’t need any trouble with a guy like that. Now are you people through? I hope so because that’s all I know.”

DeMour looked across at me. I nodded, and Hotchkiss and I rose. Lavonne Avante got to her feet and walked with us to the hall door. “You’re not leaving too, are you, Roland?” she asked.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Roland, no…”

“Want a little session, do you?”

“Roland, please…”

“Spell it out for Rolly. Let our friends hear. You know you love that.”

“Roland, please don’t make me…” Then to my utter amazement, Lavonne Avante put her hands over her face and actually started crying.

He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me with a shrug. “Call me if I can help any more with this deal.”

“You’re staying here?” Hotchkiss asked.

“Yeah, she can take me back to get my car later. You two go on ahead.”

When we reached the front door the maid appeared out of nowhere. “Good afternoon to you gentlemen,” she said sweetly. “You all come back now, you hear?”

As we walked across the drive toward the Suburban, Hotchkiss asked, “Bo, what in hell was going on back there?”

“Hotch, most hookers are flakes in one way or another. Beyond that, that story is too rough for your young and tender ears.”