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“Did he call the wife?” Nick asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“No. He said she’s useless, that she’d just say whatever Cody told her to say, so no real point bothering. He says he’s too busy getting ready for this auction to give a shit what his asshole nephew is up to—those are his words, not mine.
“Border Patrol doesn’t have any record of him going into Mexico,” Stokes said. “I put a BOLO out on his truck.”
“What’s he drive?”
“A black Dodge Ram 3500 truck.”
“Have you gotten anything back on those tire casts?”
“In two days? Get real, man. We’ll be lucky if we get something back in two months.”
“True enough,” Nick said. “Come with me.”
He rounded the counter and started for the front door.
“Where we going?” Stokes asked, falling into step.
“Going over to the jail. Sergeant Rodrigue has a couple of our reluctant potential witnesses in custody.”
“No fucking way!” Stokes said. “Just like that?”
“I told you,” Nick said. “Rodrigue and Mr. Arceneaux only had to go and wait. The thieves delivered themselves.”
“They came right back to the same damn place?”
“Of course they did. They’re like little racoons getting in the garbage. They’re gonna keep coming back until somebody stops them.”
“Not a rocket scientist among them, I’m guessing.”
“Mais non. Lucky for us. Couple of dumb kids,” Nick said. “I had Sergeant Rodrigue bring them over here so we can put the fear of God into them.”
“Juveniles?” Stokes said with an evil chuckle. “This is gonna be like shooting fish in a barrel! Unless they’ve called lawyers,” he added, frowning at the thought. “Have they called lawyers?”
“They’re not under arrest,” Nick said. “This is a noncustodial conversation. Their parents will be notified…eventually.”
They went into the building, signed in, and surrendered their weapons at the desk. Rodrigue was babysitting the two thieves, standing on one side of the table in the interview room with his hands jammed at his waist. The overhead light gleamed off his bald dome. His massive mustache emphasized his ferocious scowl as he stared at them.
They couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, Nick thought, scrawny, scraggly-looking with bad haircuts. They were dressed for hunting, their faces streaked with green camo paint as if they were going to war in the jungle. The pair of them sat on the far side of the little white table with their backs literally up againstthe wall. Their eyes went wide as Nick and Stokes walked in. Stokes pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning on the table, staring at them.
“Bonjour, Sergeant Rodrigue.Ça viens?” Nick said. “What have we here?”
“Ça va, Lieutenant Fourcade! Thieves is what we got here. Couple’a goddamn thieves. Caught ’em red-handed, me and Alphonse, raiding his traplines, stealing his nutria.”
Nick shook his head, staring at the boys. “That’s low. Stealing a man’s livelihood. There was a time, was there not, Sergeant, when a man could shoot a thief and dump his body in the swamp?”
“Mais oui. Some still might, if no one’s looking. Who would be the wiser?”
“C’est vrai. That’s for true. Good thing you were with Mr. Arceneaux. Do they have names?”
“Me, I call them Couillon One and Couillon Deux. Couillon One, on the left, he’s named Jimmy Munroe. And the other one is Owen Olivier, who, I am sad to say, is Alphonse’s nephew’s stepson.”
“Bon à rien,” Nick muttered. “Stealing from your relatives. What you got to say for yourself,pischouette?”
“I want a lawyer!” the kid blurted out.
Stokes let out a belly laugh, making them both jump.
