Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

"I do."

She rose with the poise and grace of old Southern breeding. "Then why didn't you just walk away?"

"Because that would have been murder."

Lindsay Faulkner shook her head. "No, that would have been justice. Now, you'll excuse me," she said, moving to the door. "You will leave these offices. I have nothing further to say to you."

Annie let herself out the rear exit of the realty office and stood in the hall. To her right was the door to the parking area where Fourcade had attacked Renard. Before her rose the stairs to the second floor and the offices of Bowen amp; Briggs. Renard was up there.

She thought of going up the stairs. The cop in her wanted to study Marcus Renard, try to pick him apart, figure him out, see how he would fit into the range of stalkers she had studied in books. A deeper instinct held her in place. He had called her his heroine, had sent her roses. She didn't like it.

The decision was taken away from her when the door at the top of the stairs swung open and Renard stepped out. He looked grotesque, like a monster from one of the Grimms' grimmer fairy tales. The troll under the bridge. Moderate swelling distorted features dotted with bruises the hues of rotten fruit. For a second, he didn't see Annie, and she thought of stepping back into the Bayou Realty office. Then the second was lost.

"Annie!" he exclaimed as best he could with his jaw wired shut. "This is an unexpected pleasure!"

"It's not a social call," Annie said flatly.

"Following up on my attack?"

"No. I came to see Ms. Faulkner."

He put a hand on the stair railing and leaned against it. Beneath the bruises he was pale. "Lindsay is a hard, uncharitable woman."

"Gee, and she says such nice things about you."

"We used to be friends," he claimed. "In fact, we went out a time or two. Did she mention that?"

"No." Lie or not, she wanted to hear more. The cop in her shoved the cautious woman aside. "There's never been any mention of that anywhere."

"I never brought it up," he said. "It seemed both irrelevant and indelicate."

"How so?"

"It was years ago."

"She's very vocal in accusing you of murder. I'd think you'd want to discredit her. Why haven't you said something?"

"I'm saying it now," he said softly, his gaze beaming down on her. "To you."

It was an offer. He would give her things he wouldn't give anyone else. Because he thought she was his guardian angel.

"I was about to take my lunch break," Renard said, easing his way down the steps. "Would you join me?"

The offer struck her as so… ordinary. She believed this man to be a monster of the worst sort. The sight of Pam Bichon's body flashed in her mind. The brutality of the crime seemed bigger, stronger, more powerful than the man standing before her.

"I don't want to be seen with you," she said bluntly. "My life is difficult enough at the moment."

"I'm not going out. I can't," he admitted. "My life is difficult, as well."

The side door to the parking area opened, and a delivery boy stepped in with a white deli bag.

"Mr. Briggs?" He looked up at Renard, his eyes widening. "Man, that musta been some car wreck you was in."

Renard pulled out his wallet without comment.

"I'll share my gumbo," he offered Annie as the delivery boy left.

"I'm not hungry," Annie said, but she didn't turn away. Marcus Renard was at the heart of everything, the rock in the pond that had set wave after wave rippling through life in Bayou Breaux.

"I'm not a monster," Renard said. "I'd like the chance to convince you of that, Annie."

"You shouldn't talk to me without your lawyer."

"Why not?"

Why not indeed? Annie thought. She was alone. She had no wire, no tape recorder. Even if he confessed, it wouldn't matter. Kudrow was the attorney of record; without his presence nothing Renard said would be admissible in court. He could confess to a dozen murders and not hang for one of them.

She weighed her options. They were in a place of business. She could still hear muffled voices coming from Bayou Realty. She was a cop. He wouldn't be stupid enough to try anything here, and he was in no condition to try. She wanted to know what drove him. What was it about Pam Bichon that had caught hold of this otherwise seemingly ordinary man and pulled him over the edge?

"All right."

The offices of Bowen amp; Briggs encompassed a single, huge open space with a wood floor that had been sanded blond and varnished to a hard gloss. Gray upholstered modular walls set off various office and conference spaces on the west side. The east side was studded with half a dozen drafting tables and work centers. Renard took his bag to a table in the southeast corner, a space set aside for relaxing, drinking coffee, having lunch. A radio on the counter played classical music.

Annie followed him at a distance, taking her time to assess the place and wishing she had worn her backup weapon.

"You're in trouble."

She jerked around toward Renard. He was busy lifting his lunch from the deli bag.

"You said your life is difficult now," he prompted. "You're in trouble because of Fourcade?"

"I'm in trouble because of you."

"No." He motioned her to the chair across from him and took his own seat. Fragrant steam billowed up as he pried the lid off the cup of gumbo, dark roux and sassafras file. "You would be in trouble because of me if I were Pam's murderer. I'm not. I should think you'd be convinced of that after that poor Nolan woman was attacked."

"Unrelated cases. One thing has nothing to do with the other," Annie said.

"Unless they're both the work of the Bayou Strangler."

"Stephen Danjermond was the Bayou Strangler, and he's dead. The evidence against him was conclusive."

"So was the evidence Fourcade planted in my desk. That doesn't make me a killer."

Annie stared at him. She'd gone over the chronology of events. All the pieces fit. But he swore he was innocent. Was he just an accomplished liar or had he convinced himself of his innocence? She'd seen it happen. People embraced a persecution complex like a security blanket. Nothing was ever their fault. Someone else caused them to be selling dope. It was the fault of the rotten cops that they got busted. But she didn't think a persecution complex fit either Renard or Pam's murder. That was about something else entirely. Obsession.

"I want you to understand, Annie- May I call you Annie?" he asked politely. "Deputy Broussard is a bit difficult for me, all things considered."

"Yes," Annie said, though she didn't like the idea of his using her first name. She didn't like the idea of it in his mouth, rolling over his tongue. She didn't like the idea of giving him anything, of acquiescing to any wish of his, no matter how small.

"I want you to understand, Annie," he started again. "I loved Pam like-"

"Like a friend. I know. We've been over this."

"Are you working on her case now? Will you try to catch her killer?"

"I want her killer brought to justice," she said, evading the specifics of her involvement with the case. "You understand what that means, don't you?"

"Yes." He lifted a spoon of gumbo to his stitched lip. "I wonder if you do."

Annie ignored the ominous import and pressed on. "You said you went out with Lindsay Faulkner. Forgive me for saying so, but I have a hard time picturing that."

"I don't always look this way."

"You don't seem… compatible."

"We weren't, as it happened. I believe Lindsay may have- How shall I suggest this? Other preferences."

"You think she's a lesbian?"

He made a little shrug and looked down at his meal, seeming uncomfortable with the topic he had raised.

"Because she wouldn't sleep with you?" Annie said bluntly.

"Heavens, no. We had dinner. I never expected more. It was clear we wouldn't progress that far. It was her… her way with Pam. She was very protective. Jealous. She didn't like Pam's husband. She didn't like any man showing an interest in Pam."