A Thin Dark Line

by Tami Hoag

  "It's because I'm black, isn't it?" he charged.

  They were in the parking lot at the Voodoo Lounge. A hot summer night full of bugs and bats swooping to eat the bugs. Heat lightning sizzled across the southern sky out over the Gulf. The humidity made the air feel like velvet against the skin. They'd gone to the bar with others as a group, as they often did on Friday night. A bunch of cops looking to unwind a little. Stokes had too much to drink, mouthed off enough about her being frigid that Annie had walked out in disgust.

  She gaped at his accusation.

  "Go ahead. You might as well admit it. You don't want to be seen with the mulatto guy. You don't want to go to bed with a nigger. Say it!"

  "You're an idiot!" she declared. "Why can you not accept the fact that I'm simply not attracted to you? And why am I not attracted to you? Let me count the reasons: It could be that you have the maturity of a high school junior. It could be that you have an ego the size of Arkansas. Maybe it's because you have no interest in a conversation that doesn't center on you. It's got nothing to do with what kind of people are climbing around in your family tree."

  "Climbing? Like they're monkeys? You're calling my people monkeys?"

  "No!"

  He came toward her, his face hard with anger. Then a car drove in the lot and some people came out of the bar, and the tension of the moment snapped like a twig.

  The scene was so vivid in Annie's memory that she could almost feel the heat of the night on her skin. She opened the French doors at the end of her living room and stepped out onto the little balcony, breathing in the cool damp air and the fecund smell of the swamp. There was just enough moonlight to silver the water and outline the eerie silhouettes of the cypress trees.

  Funny, she'd never really thought about it, but she could relate in a small way to Pam Bichon's experience. She did know what it was like to deal with men who wouldn't take no for an answer. Stokes. A.J. Uncle Sos, for that matter. The difference between them and Renard was the difference between sanity and obsession.

  "Men," she said aloud to the white cat that jumped up on the balcony railing to beg for attention. "Can't live with 'em, can't open pickle jars without 'em."

  The cat offered no opinion.

  In all fairness, it wasn't just men, Annie knew. Stalkers came in both sexes. New studies were showing that these people were unable to shut off that focus. The impulse, the fixation, was always there. Simple obsessionals, the shrinks called them. Often these men and women seemed perfectly rational and normal. They were doctors, lawyers, car mechanics. Their level of schooling or intelligence didn't matter. But regarding the object of their fixation, their brains weren't wired right. Some moved on to what was known as erotomania, a condition in which the person imagined and actually believed there was an ongoing romantic relationship with the object of the fixation.

  A simple obsessional or an erotomaniac—she wondered which description applied to Marcus Renard. She wondered how he could hide either so well from everyone around him.

  Somewhere out in the swamp a bull alligator gave a hoarse roar. Then the shriek of a nutria split the air like a woman's scream. The sound razored along Annie's nerves. She closed her eyes and saw Pam Bichon lying on that floor, moonlight pouring in the window, spilling across her naked corpse. And deep inside her mind, Annie thought she could hear Pam's screams ... and the screams of Jennifer Nolan ... and the women who had died four years ago at the hands of the Bayou Strangler. Screams of the dead.

  "It's cold there, no?"

  "Where?"

  "In Shadowland."

  Goosebumps racing over her flesh, Annie stepped back inside the apartment, closed the doors, and locked them.

  "Nice place you got here, 'Toinette."

  Heart in her throat, she wheeled around. Fourcade stood just inside the front entry, leaning back against the wall, ankles crossed, hands in the pockets of his old leather jacket.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Not much of a lock you got on this door." He shook his head in reproach as he straightened from the wall. "You'd think a cop would know better. Especially a lady cop, no?"

  He moved toward her with deceptive laziness. Even halfway across the room Annie could sense the tension in him. She sidestepped slowly, putting the coffee table between them. Her gun was in her duffel bag, which she had abandoned in the entry. Careless.

  Her best hope was to get out. And then what? The store had closed at nine. Sos and Fanchon's house was a hundred yards away and they were out dancing just like every other Friday night of the year. Maybe she could get to the Jeep.

  "What do you want?" she asked, edging toward the door. Her keys hung on a peg above the light switch. "You want to beat me up, too? You haven't committed your daily quota of sins? You want to get rid of the witness? You should know enough to hire out that kind of job. You'll be the obvious suspect."

  He had the nerve to appear amused. "You think I'm the devil now, don'tcha, Toinette?"

  Annie broke for the door, grabbed for the keys with one hand, and knocked them to the floor. With the other hand, she grabbed the knob, twisted, pulled. The door didn't budge. Then Fourcade was on her, trapping her, hands planted against the door on either side of her head.

  "Running out on me, 'Toinette?"

  She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, laced with the scent of whiskey.

  "That's not very hospitable, chère," he murmured.

  She was trembling. And he was enjoying it, the son of a bitch. She willed herself to control the shaking, forced herself to turn and face him.

  He stood as close as a lover. "We have so much to talk about. For instance, who sent you to Laveau's that night?"

  Nick watched her face like a hawk. Her reaction was spontaneous—surprise or shock, a touch of confusion.

  "What'd you think, 'Toinette? That I was too drunk to figure it out?"

  "Figure what out? I don't know what you're talking about."

  His mouth twisted in derision. "I'm in this department six months, you never say boo to me. All of a sudden you show up at Laveau's in a pretty skirt, batting your eyelashes. You want in on the Bichon case—"

  "I did want in."

  "Then there you are on that street. Just happen to be passing by—"

  "I was—"

  "The hell you were!" he roared, enjoying the way she flinched. He wanted her frightened of him. She had reason to be frightened of him. "You followed me!"

  "I did not!"

  "Who sent you?"

  "No one!"

  "You been talking to Kudrow. Did he set it up? I can't believe Renard would go for it. What if I came at him with a gun or a knife? He'd be stupid to take the chance just to ruin me. And he's not stupid."

  "No one—"

  "On the other hand, maybe that was Kudrow's justice, heh? He has to know Renard is guilty. So Kudrow gets him off to save his own rep. Works it so I kill Renard. Renard is dead and I'm caged up with the red hats in Angola, twenty-five to life."

  He's insane, she thought. She'd seen what he was capable of. She cut a glance at the duffel bag sitting on the bench. Two feet away. The zipper was open. If she was fast ... If she was lucky ...

  "I don't have a clue what you're talking about," she said, keeping her mouth in motion to buy time. "Kudrow's trying to jam me up with the department so I don't have anyone to turn to but his side. I wouldn't work for him if he paid in gold bullion."

  Fourcade didn't seem to hear her.

  "Would he chance all that?" he mused to himself. "That's the question. 'Course, he'd only have to pay off the blackmail 'til he's dead, and that won't be long..."

  With all the power she could muster, Annie brought her right knee up into his groin, then dropped to the floor as Fourcade staggered back, doubled over, swearing.

  "Fils de putain! Merde! Fuck! Fuck!"

  Oh please oh please oh please. She plunged her hand into the duffel bag and groped for the Sig. Her fingertips grazed the holster.

&nbs
p; "Lookin' for this?"

  The Sig appeared before her eyes in the palm of Fourcade's hand, one finger hooked through the trigger guard. He had dropped to his knees behind her and now pulled her head back by a handful of hair and shoved his body into hers, pinning her against the bench.

  "You fight dirty, 'Toinette," he murmured. "I like that in a woman."

  "Fuck you, Fourcade!"

  "Mmm..."he purred, pressing against her, pressing his rough cheek against hers. "Don't give me ideas, 'tite belle."

  Slowly, he rose, his hand still tangled in her hair, drawing her up with him.

  "You, you're not much of a hostess, 'Toinette," he said, directing her toward the kitchen where the light was bright and cheery. "You haven't even offered me a chair."

  "Sorry, I flunked home ec."

  "I'm sure you have other talents. A flair for decorating, I see."

  He took in the small kitchen with amazement. Someone had painted a dancing alligator on the door of the ancient refrigerator. Canisters in the likeness of stair-step doughboys lined one counter. The wall clock was a plastic black cat whose eyes and tail twitched back and forth with the passing seconds.

  One chair was pulled out at the chrome-legged table. He sat her down. Snatching up the pen she had left on the tabletop, he backed up to the counter.

  Annie stared at him. Some of the wildness had gone out of his eyes, though his gaze was no less intense. He stood with his arms crossed in front of him, her gun dangling from his big hand as if it were a toy.

  "Now, where were we before you tried to kick my balls up to my back teeth?"

  "Oh ... somewhere between delusional and psychotic."

  "Was it Kudrow? He buy you and Stokes?"

  "Stokes?"

  "What? You thought you were getting all the pie? Stokes got me into that bar. Why go there? Nobody ever goes there. To be away from the grunts, he tells me. And Bowen & Briggs, that just happens to be right across the alley. How fucking handy. Then along comes little 'Toinette to keep an eye on me while ol' Chaz goes his merry way."

  "Why would I let Kudrow buy me?" she asked. A futile attempt at reason, she supposed. "Yours isn't the only career taking a beating here, you know. I'll be mopping out jail cells before this is over. Kudrow doesn't have enough money to make up for that."

  Nick tipped his head to one side and considered. He hadn't eaten all day, but had fed on anger and frustration and suspicion, and washed it all down with a few belts of whiskey. And now something black and rotten surfaced in the brew and slipped out of his mouth in a whisper.

  "Duval Marcotte."

  Son of a bitch. The pieces fit with oily ease. The similarity of the cases would appeal to Marcotte's sense of irony. And he sure as hell knew how to buy cops. The face of the New Orleans reporter at the courthouse came back to him. Shit. He should have seen it coming.

  He pounced at Annie, making her bolt back in the chair. "What'd he give you? What'd he promise you?"

  "Duval Marcotte?" she said, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind? Oh, Christ, look who I'm asking!"

  He leaned down into her face, wagging the nose of the Sig like a finger. "He'll take your soul, chère, or worse. You think I'm the devil? He's the devil!"

  "Duval Marcotte is the devil," Annie repeated. "Duval Marcotte, the real estate magnate from New Orleans? The philanthropist?"

  "That son of a bitch," he muttered, pacing along the counter. "I shoulda killed him when I had the chance."

  "I don't know Duval Marcotte, other than to see him on the news. Nobody bought me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Believe me, I regret it."

  "I don't believe in coincidence."

  "Well, I'm sorry, but I don't have any other explanation!" she shouted. "So shoot me or leave me the hell alone!"

  Turning possibilities over in his mind, Nick reached back and scratched behind his ear with the nose of the gun.

  "Jeez! Will you be careful with that thing!" she yelled. "If you don't shoot me, I'd rather not be left to scrape your brains off my cupboards."

  "What? This gun?" He twirled it on his finger. "It's not loaded. I figured it might be too tempting."

  Relief surged through Annie, and she rubbed her hands over her face. "Why me?"

  "That was my question."

  "I've told you all I know, which is exactly nothing. I would no more be in league with Chaz Stokes than I would be with someone like Marcotte. Stokes hates me. Besides, who sets up a frame that completely relies on the framee actually committing the crime? That's stupid. If someone wanted to set you up, why not just kill Renard and make it look like you're the guy? That's a piece of cake. So why don't you just take your elaborate conspiracy theories to Oliver Stone. Maybe he'll make a movie about you."

  Setting the empty gun aside, Nick leaned back against the counter. "You got a mouth on you, chère."

  "Being terrorized brings out the bitch in me."

  He almost laughed. The urge to do so surprised him almost as much as Annie Broussard surprised him. He pressed his lips together and stared at her. She returned his stare, indignant, angry. If she was as innocent as she professed, then she had to think he was insane. That was all right. Perceived psychosis carried certain advantages.

  "Tell me something," she said. "Did you go to Bowen and Briggs that night of your own accord?"

  He thought of the phone call, but answered the real truth. "Yes."

  "And you made your own decision to beat up Renard?"

  He hesitated again, knowing the answer wasn't so simple, remembering the flashbacks that had burst in his head that night like fireworks. But in the end he could answer only one way. "Oui."

  "Then how is this anyone's fault but your own?"

  Annie waited for his answer. He had never struck her as the kind of man who would shirk his responsibilities. Then again, she hadn't believed he was crazy either.

  "Stokes didn't put you in that alley," she said. "Nobody held a gun to your head. You did what you did, and I was unlucky enough to catch you. Quit trying to blame everyone else. You made your own choices and now you have to live with the consequences."

  "C'est vrai," he murmured. Just like that, the frenetic energy was shut off and he seemed to go still from deep within. "Me, I did what I did. I lost control. I can't think of many people who deserved a beating more than Renard, and I feel no remorse for providing it—other than the impact it will have on my own life."

  "What you did was wrong."

  "In that force ultimately defeats itself. I disappointed myself that night," he admitted. "But the tendency is for every aspect of this existence to continue to be what it is, mais oui? Interfere with its natural state and the thing will resist. Fundamentally, I find it difficult to embrace a philosophy of nonaction. Therein lies the crux of my problem."

  He had taken a hard left turn on her once again. From raving maniac to philosopher in a span of moments.

  "You pled not guilty," she said. "But you admit that you are."

  "Nothing is simple, chérie. I go down for a felony, I'm off the job forever. That's not an option."

  "The resistance of a being against interference to its natural state."

  He smiled unexpectedly, fleetingly, and for a heartbeat was extraordinarily handsome. "You're a good student, chère."

  "Why do you do that?"

  "What?"

  "Call me chère, like you're a hundred years old."

  The smile this time was sad, wry. He came to her slowly and lifted her chin with his hand. "Because I am, jeune fille, in ways that you will never be."

  He was too close, bending down so that she could see every year, every burden in those eyes. His thumb brushed across her lower lip. Unnerved, she turned her face away.

  "So what's your beef with Duval Marcotte?" she asked, sliding out of the chair, walking toward the other end of the table.

  "It's personal," he said, taking her seat.

  "You were quick enough to throw it out a while ago."

  "When I th
ought you might be involved."

  "So I've been absolved of guilt?"

  "For the moment." His attention caught on the papers spread out across the table. "What's all this?"

  "My notes on the Bichon homicide." Slowly, she moved back toward him. "Why do you think Marcotte might be involved? Is there some kind of connection to Bayou Real Estate?"

  "There hasn't been to this point. It all seemed very straightforward," Nick said as he took a quick inventory of what she had compiled. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because I care about what happens. I want to see her killer punished, legally. I believed he would be—until Wednesday. As much as it pains me to admit this at the moment, I had faith in your abilities. Now, with Stokes in charge of the investigation, and attention being diverted elsewhere, I'm not so sure Pam will get justice."

  "You don't trust Stokes?"

  "He likes things to be easy. I don't know if he has the talent to clear this case. I don't know if he would apply it if he did have it. Now you're telling me you think he set you up. Why would he do that?"

  "Money. The great motivator."

  "And who involved with the case would want to see you go down besides Renard and Kudrow?"

  He didn't answer, but the name had taken root in his mind like a noxious weed. Duval Marcotte. The man who had ruined him.

  Annie moved toward the counter. "I need some coffee," she said, as calmly as if this man hadn't burst into her home and held a gun to her head. But her hands were trembling as she turned on the faucet. Breath held deep in her lungs, she reached for the tin coffee canister on the counter and carefully peeled the lid off. She flinched when Fourcade spoke again.

  "So what you gonna do, 'Toinette?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You want to see justice done, but you don't trust Stokes to do it. I go within spitting distance of Renard, I get tossed back in the can. So what you gonna do? You gonna see 'bout getting some justice?"