by Sandra Brown
I could have had you then. But I was patient. I didn't do what it would
have been within my rights to do, did I? Answer me."
"No, you didn't."
"I could have taken you then, but I waited. Even after you were old
enough, I didn't have to marry you, but I did. Have you ever thought of
where you'd be if you'd tried to steal from somebody else that day,
Remy? Hmm? Where would you be if I hadn't been so understanding?" don't
know."
_ "Yes, you do," he whispered, stroking her cheek."You'd be whoring just
like your mother."
Tears sprang to her eyes."No. I wouldn't."
"Yes, you would. When we met, you were already well on your way to
becoming another Angel." His eyes moved over her in a way he knew she
hated."Oh yes, Remy. Even then you were alluring. I bet your mother's
customers were hot to get on you long before I entered your life."
His fingers tightened around her hand. He thrust his face close to hers,
but kept his voice soft."Maybe you would have liked that life.
Maybe you wish I hadn't saved you from all those men. Maybe you liked
their fondling and heavy breathing better than you like being married to
me."
"Stop it!" Yanking her hand free, she left the bed."What are you
threatening to do, Pinkie, report my crime after all these years?
I'm not one of your clients. Or one of your lackeys. So don't speak to
me as if I were. I deserve better than veiled threats. I'm your wife."
"Well, I want my wife to tell me why she's been slinking around the
house like a goddamn ghost!" he shouted.
right! Flarra. I'm worried about Flarra."
Flarra? That's all? That's it? She was depressed over something as
trivial as her sister? First it was Bardo who was agitating her, now
Flarra. He'd been thinking the worst, fearing she might be planning
another escape, and here she was telling him that her dejection was over
nothing more significant than Flarra. Or was she lying?
"What about Flarra?" he asked brusquely.
Angrily Remy pulled on a robe and haphazardly tied the belt around her
waist. As she composed herself, her chest rose and fell, making her gold
cross pendant twinkle in the lamplight. He was glad to see her upset.
His taunting about her former life had reminded her how fortunate she
was.
"She sneaked out again," she said."I went to see her today for a routine
visit, but when I arrived, I walked into a lecture." She told him about
Flarra's latest escapade and Sister Beatrice's warnings against any
further breaking of rules."I reprimanded her, but I'm not sure how much
good it did."
"Sounds to me like she needs a good paddling."
"She's a little old for that."
"You're too soft on her, Remy. I should take over the discipline.
I'll put my foot down and revoke some privileges. That will get her
attention."
Her anger having subsided, Remy frowned with obvious disappointment.
"Well, that answers that."
"What?"
"Never mind. It "
"Tell me."
She gestured nervously."Flarra has been hounding me about something for
months. That's what's been bothering me, and I was a fool to think you
wouldn't notice my distraction." She shot him a guilty smile.
"I want to make my sister happy, but you're my husband and your wishes
must come first. I've felt trapped in the middle. Today, I finally
agreed to ask you." She wet her lips."And frankly, Pinkie, I think she
might have a good idea. It's a valid request."
He spread his hands to indicate that she still had the floor and that he
was listening.
"Flarra wants to move in with us and go to a coed school for her senior
year. She wants to live a more well-rounded life. Meet new people.
Experience what other girls her age are experiencing. That's reasonable,
isn't it?"
He stared hard at her for a long time, stripping her of defenses.
Then he moved his hand to the empty place beside him and patted the
spot.
"Now, Remy."
"What about Flarra?"
"I'll think about it. Now, come back to bed." He uncovered himself,
showing her how aroused he was. Her anger had stirred him, but her
earnest petitioning had excited him even more.
When she rejoined him, he left no doubt in her mind that she belonged to
him. He owned her. Her body, mind, and spirit were his to do with as he
wished.
Afterward he told her that Flarra would remain at Blessed Heart Academy
through her graduation.
For a moment, she didn't respond. Then she said, "Whatever you think is
best, Pinkie."
He stroked her hair."Your sister is young and doesn't know her own mind.
It's up to us to me, actually, because you're far too lenient to see
that she doesn't make any major mistakes or wrong decisions. I know
what's best for her. Just as I knew what was best for you." "She also
asked permission to attend our Mardi Gras party." "She's got her gall,"
he said with a chuckle."That's a very prestigious guest list."
"That's why she wants to come."
"We'll see."
"Be prepared for her to sulk the next few times we're with her." "She'll
get over it," he said, dismissing the warning with a chuckle.
As he drifted off to sleep, he was smiling. Thank God that's the end of
that.
Burke went to the university library because it stayed open later than
the public library, and he knew he had a lot of material to cover.
For hours he scrolled through microfilms of the Times Picayune.
Years back, the newspaper had done a profile on the city's most
illustrious lawyer. Patrick Duvall had grown up in a middle-class
neighborhood, but his parents worked hard to keep him in parochial
schools, where he excelled in contact sports as well as scholastics.
He received a scholarship to university, worked his way through law
school and graduated first in his class, apprenticed in an established,
firm for nine years before he outgrew it and branched off on his own.
How much was truth and how much was fabrication Burke couldn't guess,
but he reasoned that the piece was at least based on fact, because so
much of it could be checked out. What came across clearly was that the
subject of the piece was an overachiever who had been determined to
climb above middle-class mediocrity, and that's what he'd done.
The writer touted Duvall as a philanthropist, but no mention was made of
the clubs and topless bars he owned. Listed were the sundry citations
he'd received for outstanding citizenship from civic groups and
professional associations, but Burke knew of just as many hits Duvall
had ordered, including, most recently, Raymond Hahn. Duvall was living
the good life while thumbing his nose at the law-abiding public who
lauded him.
And therein, Burke realized, lay the mechanism that made him tick.
Drug trafficking wasn't just a means of making money, it was DuvalUs
primo head trip. He did it because he could get away with it. To him it
was a game, and he was winning. His illegal activities allowed him to
Pinkie Duvall figured frequently in front-page stories. Aside from that,
his name routinely appeared in the society columns. But mention and
pictures of his wife were noticeably scarce. When she did appear in a
rare candid photo, she was usually standing in her husband's shadow.
Literally.
Was she camera shy? Or was it impossible to upstage a mediasavvy
egomaniac like Pinkie Duvall, no matter how gorgeous you were?
What Burke also thought odd was that very little copy had been written
about her. She had never been the focus of a write-up. Nor was she ever
quoted. So either she didn't have an opinion about anything, or her
opinion was so vapid it wasn't newsworthy, or her opinion was never
solicited because her verbose husband was always on hand with something
printable to tell reporters or columnists.
Mr. and Mrs. Pinkie Duvall were listed on the rosters of several
charities, but Remy Duvall didn't hold an office in any of the social or
civic women's clubs, nor did she serve on any board or committee or
chair any fund-raisers.
Remy Lambeth Duvall was her husband's antithesis. She was a nonentity.
He stayed until the library closed. They literally locked the doors
behind him when he left. He realized he was hungry: All he'd consumed
today were a stale Twinkie and as much of the banana smoothie as he
could stomach. To help curb the roach population, he kept nothing edible
in his apartment. He eschewed a restaurant in favor of a convenience
store, where he bought two microwave hot dogs and a Big Gulp.
He drove away from the store with no particular destination in mind.
But he knew were he was going. When he got there, the house was dark
except for security lights and a second-story window.
The wieners in the hot dogs were rubbery and the buns stale, but he
chewed and swallowed mechanically, without tasting, wondering what Mr.
and Mrs. Pinkie Duvall were doing on the other side of that shuttered
window.
Talking? From what Burke had seen and read, she was no chatterbox.
Was she capable of scintillating conversation only with her husband?
Were her opinions and insights reserved for his ears alone? Did she
entertain him in the evenings with her witty observations?
Yeah, right, Burke thought sardonically as he wadded up the hotdog
wrappers and threw them to the floorboard. She'd keep ol' Pinkie
stimulated, all right, but about a yard south of his brain.
He belched up the taste of bad hot dogs and washed it down with a swig
of his overcarbonated cola.
Poor Pinkie. He was obviously pussy-whipped by this chick and blissfully
unaware of the thing she had going with Wayne Bardo. Or maybe not. Maybe
Pinkie shared her with his clients. Maybe she was one of the perks he
provided for a client when he got away with murder.
The light went out.
Burke continued to stare at the dark window. The graphic images that
flickered through his mind bothered him so greatly that he squeezed his
eyes shut to try to block them out. His gut felt like lead. He blamed it
on the hot dogs.
A half hour passed before he started his car and drove away.
It was clear to him that Duvall was besotted with his wife. She was
treated like goddamn royalty. Ruby Bouchereaux had told him that Pinkie
kept her under lock and key. He'd seen for himself how well she was
guarded and protected.
"What does that tell you, Basile?"
As he let himself into his bleak apartment, he was smiling.
Remy lay perfectly still, listening to Pinkie's soft snores. She sent up
a small prayer of thanksgiving that her ruse had worked. He had denied
Flarra's request, never guessing that was exactly what Remy wanted him
to do.
This wasn't the first time she had used reverse psychology to manipulate
her husband. Most often it failed. But this time she had the advantage
of knowing that he wouldn't welcome anyone intruding on them and making
demands on her time. Especially Flarra. Pinkie knew how much she loved
her sister, and he was jealous of their bond.
Thank you, God, for his jealousy. Keep him jealous.
Be careful what you pray for.
As on many other sleepless nights, Sister Beatrice's advice came back to
haunt her. She understood now the lesson the nun had been trying to
teach her. As a child, hadn't she begged God for another life, one free
of poverty and responsibility?
Well, that's exactly what she had been granted. Little had she known
what a tremendous price she would pay for this answer to her naive
prayers.
Pinkie slumbered contentedly, his arm around her. The weight of it
seemed crushing.
The men's rest room comprised one side of a square, concrete block
structure. Inside were two rusty sinks, three stained urinals, and a
single enclosed stall, the door of which hung by only one hinge.
There was no roof, but despite its open-air interior, the public toilet
smelled badly in need of cleaning. Burke held his breath as he went in.
It was dark inside because the light fixture had been broken. The
vandalism had probably gone unreported to City Park maintenance.
There weren't too many men crazy enough to be in here after sundown, and
those who were preferred darkness.
When Burke went in, only one other man was in the room. He was standing
at a urinal, his back to the entrance. He must have heard Burke come in,
but he didn't even glance over his shoulder at the sound of approaching
footsteps.
Burke moved to the urinal next to the one being used. The man beside him
finished but didn't immediately zip up. He turned his head slightly in
Burke's direction and somewhat shyly remarked, "Sort of spooky in here."
Burke zipped his fly and turned toward the other man."Sure as hell is.
Never know who you might bump into."
Gregory James slumped against the wall and grappled with his zipper,
groaning, "Basile."
"Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Shit."
"Guess not." Burke took the slender young man's arm and pushed him
toward the exit.
Gregory balked."I haven't done anything. You can't arrest me."
"I ought to take you in just for being stupid. How'd you know I wasn't a
Jeffrey Dahmer? Or a redneck out to roll myself a queer. One of these
days they'll be spooning your parts into a body bag. You're gonna make a
move on the wrong guy and wind up minced meat."
"Don't bust me, Basile," he pleaded."Swear to God, I've learned my
lesson."
"Sure you have. That's why you're lurking around in City Park rest rooms
in the middle of the night."
"I was just taking a leak."
"Save it, Gregory. You're lying through your teeth. I've been following
you, so I know you've been seeing action, friend. Lots of it."
"That's not true! I've cleaned up my act."
"Like hell. The guy you hustled last night looked like a minor to me.
If I hadn't been on other business, I would have hauled you in, and they
could've thrown a book of feloni
es at you."
"Oh, Jesus," the young man sobbed dryly."If you bust me " "They'll lock
you up and throw away the key this time. You're a menace to society."
Desperate now, the younger man began to beg."Please, Basile. Cut me some
slack. I've done you favors in the past, haven't I? Remember all the
times I helped you?"
"To save your ass from arrest."
"Please, Basile, give me a break." Burke pretended to mull it over, then
said brusquely, "Let's go, pretty boy."
Gregory wailed.
"Shut up," Burke ordered, giving him a shake."I'm not going to bust you,
but I'm taking you home and seeing you inside, so at least I'll know
your neighborhood is safe for the rest of the night."
Gregory thanked Burke repeatedly as they made their way toward Burke's
car. Gregory lived alone a few blocks from the park, in a two-story
townhouse that had been fashionably refurbished. The house and courtyard
garden were kept in excellent condition despite the owner's frequent
