PI On A Hot Tin Roof

doing here that night?”
    Making a sound like a growl, Brad turned around and walked down the pier, much as Royce had earlier. After a moment, he broke into a jog, the better to work off his anger, Talba thought. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked when Royce returned.
    Royce stared down the pier after his friend. “He doesn’t like you much. You blame him?”
    “Not really.” She smiled. “Got that address for me?”
    “Wes lives in Arabi. Ya gon’ leave us alone now?”
    “Thought you wanted me to find your daddy’s killer.”
    Royce winced, and went back in the office. She followed him. “Listen, one more thing.”
    He didn’t answer.
    “The kitten’s down by my car and she looks hungry.”
    His face relaxed slightly. “Oh, Gumbo. Take some shrimp to him, why don’t you? Hell, take him home—he’s just going to die out here, anyhow. Everybody else does.”
    Despite its mama’s admonitions, the kitten was so hungry it ate out of her hand. Talba grabbed it by the scruff. Royce was probably right—and Raisa was going to love this animal.
    She was also going to love Talba for bringing it to her.
    Gumbo—if that was its name—seemed to think the worst had happened, but fortunately Talba had a few more shrimp, which she laid on the seat beside her before releasing the cat. Apparently, as far as Gumbo was concerned, rules were meant to be broken. The cat was far too hungry to stand on ceremony.
    Talba turned her attention back to the interview. The two men were almost laughable. They seemed to be trying to play good cop-bad cop, except that neither of them was convincing as the good one. It was more like each had come to the other’s rescue when he had to.
    She wondered why the hell they hadn’t just clammed up—and then realized, with some frustration, that they more or less had. They hadn’t said what Buddy was doing at the marina, they hadn’t given her the Dorands’ address, and they hadn’t even told her where Wesley Burrell lived.

Chapter 13
    Ben Izaguirre might as well be next,
she thought,
and then the Dorands.
Izaguirre’s restaurant was more or less in the neighborhood, in the Lake Catherine area, going toward the Rigolets, and she figured he’d probably be there in the middle of the morning.
    The restaurant was a musty-smelling old white-shingled dockside joint that looked like it didn’t do much business anymore, if it ever had—the kind of family-owned eatery that was getting harder and harder to find in New Orleans these days, but probably served great seafood. A sign out front announced, F RIDAYS BOILED SEAFOOD—BIKERS WELCOME .
    Talba wasn’t too sure what to do about the kitten; but it was a cool day, so suffocation ought not to be a problem, and it was busy sleeping off its meal. She figured it could fend for itself for a while.
    Inside the restaurant, two or three formica-topped tables looked as if they’d just been deserted by the breakfast crowd and hadn’t yet been cleared. Each of the others was equipped with salt, pepper, Tabasco, ketchup, horseradish, small bowls of lemon wedges, and tiny paper cups for cocktail sauce.
    A white woman was already setting up for lunch, busily ignoring the mess. She was overweight and motherly, the kind of waitress who calls you “dawlin’” and makes you feel like she’s serving her own cooking. Talba was willing to bet she’d lived in Lake Catherine all her life.
    “Mr. Izaguirre here?” Talba asked.
    The waitress put her hands on her hips. “Sorry, dawlin’, we not hirin’.”
    “Tell him I’m a friend of Angie Valentino’s. I work with her father.”
    “Oh. Sorry.” The woman was clearly dismayed, knowing she’d screwed up. “I’ll get him.”
    In a moment, a squat mushroom of a man waddled out behind her, beaming, hand already sticking out like a fin. “You must be that detective gal.”
    Talba let him pump her hand. “Oh! You heard about me. I’m Talba Wallis.”
    “Ben Izaguirre.”
    Like Brad Leitner, he was bald, but in his case, it was natural. He still had a fringe of white to prove it. “Ya want some shrimp? Guaran-damtee ya it’s Louisiana wild-caught. Got some nice ersters, too.” Oysters, he meant. Eddie’s pronunciation.
    Talba smiled. She liked him; he reminded her of Eddie. “Maybe some coffee,” she said.
    “Denise, coffee for the lady,” he told the waitress. “Iced tea for me. Sit down, sit down—anywhere ya like.”
    Talba obeyed, and he lowered his bulk into a