Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

Annie dug the necklace out of her pocket and held it up, watching the small gold locket sway back and forth. Renard had tried to give Pam a necklace for her birthday two weeks before she was killed.

"Officer Broussard?"

The soft voice broke Annie's concentration. She caught the locket in her fist and turned. Doll Renard stood beside her in a prison gray June Cleaver shirtwaist that had been intended for a woman with breasts and hips. In her hands she played nervously with the stem of a delicate butterfly-shaped mask covered in iridescent sequins. The elegant beauty of the mask seemed at odds with the woman holding it-plain, unadorned, her mouth a bitter knot.

"Mrs. Renard. Can I help you?"

Doll glanced away, anxious. "I don't know if you can. I swear, I don't know what I'm doing here. It's a nightmare, that's what. A terrible nightmare."

"What is?"

Tears glazed across the woman's eyes. One hand left the stem of her mask to pat at her heart. "I don't know. I don't know what to do. All this time I thought we'd been wronged. All this time. My boys are all I have, you know. Their father betrayed us, and now they're all I have in the world."

Annie waited. In her previous meetings with Doll she had found the woman melodramatic and shrill, but the stress stretched taut in Doll Renard's voice now had the ring of genuineness. Her small, sharp nose was red at the tip, her eyes rimmed in crimson from crying.

"I knew motherhood would be a joy and a trial," she said, rubbing a hankie under her nose. "But all the joy of it has been robbed from me. And now I fear it's become a nightmare." Tears skimmed down her thin, pale cheeks. "I'm so afraid."

"Afraid of what, Mrs. Renard?"

"Of Marcus," she confessed. "I'm afraid my son has done something terribly wrong."

"Could we go somewhere and talk?" Doll asked, glancing anxiously around at the masked revelers that moved up and down the street. She raised her own mask to partially hide her face. "Marcus is here somewhere. I don't want him to see me speaking to you. We had a terrible quarrel last night. It was horrible. I never left my bed today, I was so distraught. I don't know what to do. You've been so kind, so fair to us, I thought…"

She paused, fighting the need to cry. Annie put a hand on her shoulder, torn between a woman's sympathy and a cop's excitement.

"I'm afraid I'm on duty-" she began.

"I wouldn't ask- I didn't want to- Oh, dear…" Doll raised a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment, working to compose herself. "He's my son," she said in a tortured whisper. "I can't bear the thought that he might have-" Breaking off again, she shook her head. "I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry."

She turned to go, shoulders hunched.

"Wait," Annie said.

If Marcus Renard's mother had something, anything, that could connect him to the murder, she couldn't put off getting it. It was clear Doll's conscience had won the internal battle to bring her to this point, and just as clear that in a heartbeat she could back away in order to save her son.

"Where are you parked?"

"Down the street. Near Po' Richard's."

"I'll meet you down there in five minutes. How's that?"

She shook her head a little. Her whole body seemed to be trembling. "I don't know. I think this is a mistake. I shouldn't have-"

"Mrs. Renard," Annie said, touching her arm. "Please don't back down now. If Marcus has done something bad, he needs to be stopped. It can't go on. You can't let it."

She held her breath as Doll closed her eyes again, looking within herself for an answer that had to be tearing her mother's heart in two.

"No," she whispered to herself. "It can't go on. I can't let it go on."

"I'll meet you at your car," Annie said. "We can have a cup of coffee. Talk. We'll sort it all out. What kind of car do you drive?"

Doll sniffed into her handkerchief. "It's gray," she said, sounding resigned. "A Cadillac."

Annie couldn't find Hooker in the sea of people, which was just as well. She didn't want him to see her going off in the opposite direction of the station. Ducking into a door well on the side street, she called him on the two-way to tell him she'd been stricken ill.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Broussard? You been drinking?"

"No, sir. Must be that stomach flu going around." She paused to groan for effect. "It's awful, Sarge. Out."

Hooker swore his usual blue streak, but let her off. Deputies vomiting in public were bad for the image of the department. "If I hear you been drinking, I'll suspend your ass! Out."

Banishing the threat from her mind, she went to the cruiser and dumped the radio, afraid the chatter might frighten or distract Doll. Grabbing her minicassette recorder, she shoved it in a pants pocket and hustled down the dark side street toward Po' Richard's.

Doll Renard drove a gray Cadillac. If the passenger's side was damaged, then Marcus was the one who had terrorized her on the road that night. That would confirm Annie's Jekyll and Hyde theory. The adrenaline rush of finally catching a break was incredible. She felt almost light-headed with it. Renard's own mother was going to give him up. To her. Because of the work she had done on the case. Losing Marcus's trust wouldn't matter.

As she hurried down the sidewalk between closed businesses and parked cars, she tensed at every shadow, bolted past the openings to alleys. Marcus was lurking somewhere, hurt and angry over what he saw as her betrayal.

God only knew what he might do if he saw her with his mother. The relationship there was too twisted to fathom. The mother relying on the support of a son whom she never ceased to criticize and belittle; the grown man staying out of obligation to a woman he resented to the marrow of his bones. The line between their love and hate had to be a hairbreadth. What would it trigger in him to know his mother was about to commit the ultimate betrayal? The rage, the pain, would be incredible.

Annie had seen what his rage had done to Pam Bichon.

The car was parked at the curb, just east of Po' Richard's. Doll Renard paced beside it, one arm banded across her waist as if her stomach hurt, the other hand rubbing her sternum. Even in the poor light that reached over from the restaurant Annie could see the scars along the side of the Cadillac.

"Did you have an accident, Mrs. Renard?"

Doll looked blank, then glanced at the car. "Oh, that," she said, moving again. "Marcus must have done that. I rarely drive. It's such a big car. I can't imagine why he bought me such a big car. So conspicuous. It's vulgar, really. And difficult to park. It preys on my nerves to drive it.

"I've developed a slight palsy from my nerves, you know. You can't imagine the strain it's been. Wondering, wanting to believe… Then last night… I can't stand it anymore."

"Why don't we sit down and talk about it?" Annie suggested.

"Yes. Yes," Doll repeated almost to herself, as if to reinforce the decision she had made. "I took the liberty of getting coffee. It's just over here on this table."

The cheap picnic tables that sat out in front of the restaurant were deserted and poorly lit. A hand-lettered sign in the front window announced: CLOSED for CARNIVAL. Take Out ORDER'S ONLY.

Doll settled on the bench, fussing with her skirt like a debutante at a cotillion. Annie took her seat, stirred her coffee, and tested it. Dark and bitter, as always; hot but drinkable. She took a long sip, wanting the caffeine to burn off the fatigue of too many late nights. She needed to be sharp now, though it wouldn't do to appear overeager. She left her notebook in her shirt pocket. Under the table, she pressed the record button on the minicassette recorder.

"I'm not proud of this," Doll began. She rested one hand on the table, her handkerchief clutched at the ready. "He's my son. My loyalty should be to my family."