“Dolores saw her talking to Carlane sometime Saturday night,” Kelly said, glancing at his notes. “And she was seen later, alone, on Dumaine Street. I’m going to talk to Carlane but I’d say it’s a dead-end.”

“Who’s Carlane?” Detective Weller asked.

“Pimp,” Chimot answered. “Been around for at least twenty years. Bastard to his girls, but…”

“But why would he all of a sudden start offing them, right?” Kelly said. “And none of the girls were from his string; they were all independents.”

“Trying to increase his take?” Chimot said. “Not really his MO, though, is it?”

“No,” Kelly agreed. “But I’ll talk to him. Right now, it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

* * *

The town couldn’t be called a one-horse town because there wasn’t enough grass for a horse to eat. It was basically a slightly wider, slightly drier spot in the swamp. There was a dilapidated courthouse, a small Piggly Wiggly, a closed gas station and an old mansion that had a sign out front that said “Thibideau House.” Since there was a “Vacant” sign next to it, she had to assume it was the town’s lone hotel and there was a light on that revealed a large, covered front porch.

She parked around the side and went to the front, hoping that the light meant somebody was still awake. The door was open so she pushed on it and listened to the creak with a slight sense of humor. You don’t get good creaks like that every day. They need either real artistry to create or just years of neglect. It was more than the hinges, the whole wall seemed to creak as the door swung open.

She poked her head through the open door and looked inside curiously. The ornate foyer was in as bad condition as the exterior. The house had clearly once been a prime residence to someone addicted to gilt and red velvet. Time and the elements had worked their way on the foyer, however, to an even greater extent than on the door. She cat walked across the floor, just to make sure none of the flooring was going to give way. But there appeared to be no one in sight.