Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

"To get away from me, more like," he muttered.

He tipped his bottle up only to find it empty. He scowled and tossed it down into the bucket of the backhoe, where it shattered against the remains of several other brown bottles. The sound pierced through the country music blaring from the radio. Several heads turned in his direction from the float, but no one said anything.

People had grown wary of his moods since Pam's death. They walked around him on eggshells, hedging their bets in case the cops were wrong about Marcus Renard, in case Donnie was the resurrection of the Bayou Strangler. He was sick of it. He wanted it all behind him. It should have been behind him.

"Goddamn cops," he grumbled.

"Sounds like maybe I should come back."

Annie had let herself in a side door of the big shed where the construction company stored some of its heavy equipment.

Donnie glared down at her from his throne. "Do I know you?"

"Annie Broussard, sheriff's office." This time she flashed the badge. Be bold.

"Oh, Christ, now what? Did my check bounce? I don't care if it did. You can throw Fourcade back in the hoosegow, the ungrateful son of a bitch."

"Why do you say that?"

He opened his mouth to complain, then swallowed it back. Fourcade was on suspension, off the case. No sense dredging up old suspicions with a new cop.

"The man is unstable, that's all," he said as he climbed down from the backhoe. "So, you're Fourcade's replacement. What happened to the other guy, that black guy- Stokes?"

"Nothing. He's still on the case."

"Not that I care," he said, bending to dig another bottle out of the old Coleman cooler that sat beside the backhoe's tire. "You want my opinion: That guy is lazy. He was on the case when Renard started hassling Pam, and all he wanted to do was make time with her. Always looked to me like Fourcade was the brains of the pair. It's too damn bad he's off the case, except of course that he's nuts."

He twisted the top off the bottle and tossed it into the backhoe bucket with the rest of the trash. "Too damn bad he didn't get to close the case for good in that alley. You want a beer?"

"No, thanks." Annie dipped her head a little, letting her bangs fall into her eyes, hoping recognition wouldn't dawn on Donnie as it had with Lindsay Faulkner.

"On duty?" He laughed. "That never stopped any cop I ever knew-Gus Noblier included. What are you, new?"

"I need to ask you a couple questions."

"I swear, that's all you people do-ask questions. You got more answers now than you know what to do with."

"I spoke with Lindsay Faulkner this morning."

His face twisted in distaste. "Did she tell you I'm the Antichrist? The woman hates me. You would have thought she was Pam's big sister. They were that close. As close as women get without being lesbians."

"She told me you're going to sell Pam's half of the business."

"I've got my hands full with my own business. I have no desire to have Lindsay for a partner and she has no desire to have me. "

"She said you may have a buyer from New Orleans. Is that true?"

He slanted her a sly look. "A good businessman doesn't tip his hand too far."

"Are you telling me it's a bluff?" She smiled back, like a friend wanting in on the secret. "Because a name came up and I could just make a couple phone calls…"

"What name?" She could feel him drawing back from her, raising his shields.

"Duval Marcotte."

"It's a bluff," he declared flatly. "Make all the calls you want."

He scratched at the stubble on the knob of his chin and gestured toward the float. "What do you think of the masterpiece?"

Annie looked at the work in progress: a cheap pine framework covered with chicken wire. It could have been anything. Two women in cutoffs and tight T-shirts were stuffing chicken-wire holes with squares of blue crepe paper, talking, laughing, oblivious to the larger problems of the world.

"It's a castle," Donnie explained. "My daughter's idea. She picked a scene from Much Ado About Nothing. Can you believe that? Nine years old and she's into Shakespeare."

"She's a very bright girl."

"She wanted to help build it, but her grandmother had other ideas. Another Davidson woman conspiring against me. "

"Will Belle and Hunter challenge you for custody?"

He hunched his shoulders, still staring at the float. "I don't know. Probably. I suppose it'll depend on whether Hunter goes to prison. I've got that in my favor: I haven't tried to kill anybody recently-or ever," he amended, glancing down at Annie. "That was a joke."

"You want Josie to live with you full-time?"

"She's my daughter. I love her."

As if it were as simple as that. As if he had managed to totally separate Donnie the Daddy from Donnie the Don Juan.

"Rumor had it, you would have fought Pam for her."

"Oh, Christ, that again?" Impatience pulled at his features, making him look petulant. "You've got your killer. Why don't you go hound him? I didn't do anything to Pam. I didn't kill her for the insurance or for the business or in a rage or anything else. I couldn't do anything to Pam. I was sure as hell in no condition that night to do anything to anybody. I drank too much, got a ride home from a friend, and passed out."

"I know all that," Annie said. "I'm not looking at you as a suspect, Mr. Bichon." Though it had occurred to her more than once that drunkenness was easily faked and Donnie had as much motive as anyone-more than most.

According to the news reports, he had shown up at the Voodoo Lounge that night between nine and ten, and had been dropped off at home by his friend around eleven-thirty. Pam had last been seen at eight-twenty and had died around midnight. There were windows of opportunity on both ends of Donnie's story.

"I was just wondering what grounds you had to challenge Pam for custody."

"Why? Pam is dead. What difference does it make now?"

"If Pam was involved with someone-"

"Renard killed her!" he roared suddenly. The cords in his neck stood out, as taut as guy wires. He spiked his bottle on the cement floor of the shed, shards of glass exploding outward, beer foaming like peroxide in a raw wound. "He killed her! Now do your fucking job and put him away for it!"

He shoved past Annie and strode for the door. The float crew stared, mouths agape. Mary Chapin Carpenter shouted from the radio-"I Take My Chances."

Annie hustled after him. The brilliance of the afternoon nearly blinded her as she emerged from the shed. Squinting, she shaded her eyes with her hand. Donnie stood at the chain-link fence that corralled the possessions of his company, staring at the train tracks that ran behind the property.

"Look, I'm just trying to get at the whole truth," she said, stepping up beside him. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask questions."

"It's just- It's dragged on and on." He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed like cork. His eyes stayed on the tracks. "Why can't it just be over? Pam's gone… I'm so tired of it…"

He wanted the wounds to heal and disappear with no scars, no reminders. It was a good detective's job to keep picking and picking at those wounds. The trick was knowing when to dig and when to stand back. Annie had thought she would be able to read Donnie Bichon, know him for a liar if he was one. But the emotions that had caught him up were a tangled skein; she couldn't tell grief from remorse, fear from arrogance.

"I could have been a better husband," he murmured. "She could have been a better wife. You can think what you want of me for saying it."

In the distance a train whistle blew. Donnie seemed not to have heard it. He was lost in memories.

"I just wanted what was mine," he whispered, blinking against the threat of tears. "I didn't want to lose her. I didn't want to lose Josie. I thought maybe if I scared her… threatened custody…"