"All right."

Jo-el Boudreaux came out of his wife's store, got into his highway car, and roared away. He didn't look at us, but perhaps he didn't know that we were across the square. I said, "Does Sonnier, Melancon practice criminal law?"

"Yes."

"Have someone run a check on Rebenack and also on that guy LeRoy Bennett. I don't know Renés last name, but he might be listed as a known associate if Bennett has a sheet. And run the paper on Milt Rossier, too." I thought about it. "And Edith Johnson."

Lucy said, "I guess you're serious."

"While you're doing that, I'll look up Jimmie Ray again."

She crossed her arms at me. "What does that mean?"

"We were interrupted last time, and Jimmie didn't have a chance to answer my questions. Maybe I'll go see him again and see if he's more forthcoming."

She held up a hand. "If you do anything illegal I don't want to know about it."

I grinned. "You won't."

Lucy made a big deal out of sighing, then got into her car and drove away.

The trip from Eunice to Jimmie Ray's office in Ville Platte took thirty-six minutes, but when I got there Jimmie Ray's Mustang was not in evidence and neither was Jimmie Ray. I double-parked behind the fish market and ran up to see, but the office was empty. I could have rifled his files again, but I didn't expect that there would be anything different in them from yesterday.

I drove to Jimmie Ray's duplex, circled the block, then eased to a stop. No Mustang here, either.

Jimmie's duplex was a shotgun with two doors coming off a common porch and the whole thing sandwiched on a long, narrow lot that was overgrown and kind of crummy beneath a dense oak canopy. I went to Jimmie Ray's door and pressed the bell. I pressed the bell again and knocked loudly, and again no one answered. No sounds came from the adjoining apartment. I went around the side of Jimmie Ray Rebenack's house as if I had been doing it every day for the past ten years and let myself in through his kitchen door. I called, "Hey, Jimmie, what's going on, man?"

Silence. Just think of all the fun Lucy Chenier was missing. And I couldn't even tell her about it.

Jimmie Ray's home smelled of fried food and dust. The kitchen was small. There were dishes piled in the sink and on the tile counter, and the grout between the tiles looked like it hadn't been scrubbed since 1947. A Formica dinette set with mismatched chairs filled the dining area, and a monstrously large overstuffed couch took up most of the living room. The couch was upholstered in a kind of black and white cowhide fabric, and there was a single matching chair and a square glass coffee table. The couch and the chair and the coffee table were too big for the room and ended up jammed together. A Sony home entertainment unit was stacked in the corner, and there wasn't enough room for that, either. Everything except the Sony looked low-end and cheesy, as if the local discount store had run a clearance sale: COMPLETE BACHELOR PAD – ON SALE NOW.!! "Taste," I said. "You can't develop it; you have to be born with it."

There were two rooms on the second floor, along with a bath and a linen closet. Jimmie Ray Rebenack was using the front room for his bedroom and the back room for a study. I went into the back room first. Two cardboard cartons sat against one wall, and a flimsy red card table with a single folding chair stood in the center of the room. A poster of the Bud Light models was pinned to the wall along with a couple of posters of bikinied women dressed up like commandos and holding machine guns. Ah, the bachelor life. One of the cardboard cartons held old copies of Penthouse and Sports Illustrated and a single VHS videotape called Seymore Butts and The Love Swing, but the other was where Jimmie Ray kept his bills and receipts. I lifted the stuff out, turned the stack upside down, and went through it back to front, returning the items to the box so that they'd be in their original order. I didn't think Jimmie Ray would be able to tell, but you never know. Guys like Jimmie Ray can surprise you.

There were Visa card bills going back eight months, and receipts for his office rent and the rent he paid on the duplex. The Visa charges were incidental. Most of the paperwork in the box had to do with buying the Mustang. He had purchased it used for $29,000 three months ago from an outfit called High Performance Motors in Alexandria, Louisiana. It had 8200 miles on the odometer at the time of purchase, and he had made the purchase for cash with a check drawn on his personal account. Three months ago, exactly two days before he bought the Mustang, he deposited $30,000 into his checking. Prior to that he held a balance of $416.12. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Further on in the box there was warranty information and auto insurance papers and phone and utility bills. I didn't bother with the utilities. The phone bills went back five months, and during that time he had made seven phone calls to Los Angeles, California, at two different numbers. Two of the calls were lengthy.

I went out past the bathroom and into the front room and looked out at the street. Still clear. The front bedroom was as well appointed as the rest of the place, with an unmade oversized futon against the wall opposite a yard-sale dresser and a couple of lamps. Two thin pillows had been used as a backrest at the head of the futon, and a black sheet and a quilted spread were kicked to the side. The black sheet highlighted the hair and the lint and the crud in the bed nicely. That Jimmie Ray.

There was a closet beside the dresser, but I didn't have to go into the closet or look through the dresser or dig around under the futon to find what I was looking for. Jimmie Ray had what looked like the entirety of the sealed state files on the relinquishment of Maria Sue Johnson and the adoption of Judith Marie Taylor, and he had left them scattered on the bed. There were nine separate documents, at least two of which appeared to be originals, and all of the documents were complete. They were mixed with more articles and clippings about Jodi Taylor, and with yellow legal pages of what were probably Jimmie Ray Rebenack's handwritten notes. I whistled between my teeth and knew that I could not leave it here. Oh, Jimmie. How'd you get this stuff?

Maybe Jimmie Ray Rebenack wasn't the world's worst private investigator after all.

I gathered everything together, went back into the other room for the phone bills, then let myself out and drove back to the motel. Jimmie would know that someone had been in his house and he would probably know it was me, but if things played out the way I thought they might, Jimmie and I would be discussing these things soon enough.

I phoned Lucy Chenier at her office, but she wasn't back yet. I told Darlene to have her call me as soon as she returned, and Darlene said that she would. I hung up and went through what I'd found. As near as I could tell, everything was there. All of the documents were either original or were new clean copies of the originals. The original birth certificate showing Pamela Johnson as the mother of Maria Sue Johnson was attached to the complete original document showing that the Johnsons had relinquished all rights to the child to the state of Louisiana. A Louisiana State Department of Social Services document showed that Steven Edward Taylor and Cecelia Burke Taylor, lawfully wedded man and wife, were adopting the child known as one Maria Sue Johnson. A Louisiana juvenile-court document showed that Maria Sue Johnson's name was henceforth changed to Judith Marie Taylor. Each of the documents had a file and case number. The handwritten notes were mostly about Jodi Taylor and were probably culled from magazine articles: where she was born, her birth date, the name of her studio and agency and personal manager. Edith Boudreaux's name and address and phone were written on the back of one of the sheets. Jimmie Ray had been to see her, all right. On another sheet the name LEON WILLIAMS was written in big block letters and was the only name I didn't recognize. Six phone numbers were scrawled in no particular order on two of the sheets, two of them with Los Angeles area codes. The name "Sandi" had been written a half dozen times around the page. I checked the numbers against the numbers from the phone bill, and the numbers matched. I picked up the phone and dialed one of the Los Angeles numbers, thinking maybe I'd get someone named Sandi. A young man answered, "Marko-witz Management. May I help you?"