Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

A ten-foot-long table held the reams of paperwork the Bichon homicide had generated. Photocopies of every statement, every lab report. Numbered binders filled with Fourcade's notes. A bulletin board behind the table held maps: one of a three-parish area, one of Partout Parish, one of the immediate Bayou Breaux area including the murder scene and Renard's home. Red pins marked significant sites. Fine red lines drawn between sites were annotated with exact mileage.

A second bulletin board held copies of the crime scene photos-stark, hard reality cast in the harsh light of a camera flash.

"Wow," Annie murmured. "I guess you believe in bringing your work home with you."

"It's a duty, not a hobby." He stood in front of one of the bookcases. "You want a time clock and no worries, get a job at the lamp factory. You want to pass the buck on the tough stuff, stay in uniform." He hit her with the Hard Stare. "Is that what you want, 'Toinette? You wanna stay on the surface where everything is simple and safe, or do you want to go deeper?"

Once again she had the feeling he was the guardian at the gate of some secret world, that if she crossed the threshold, there would be no going back. She resented the idea.

"I want to be a detective," she said. "I want to help clear this case. I'm not pledging my allegiance to the Dark Lord or becoming a Jedi knight. I want to do the job, not be the job."

That was Fourcade, the Zen detective. Disapproval hung on him like mist.

"It's a job, not a religion," Annie said. "You were born out of your time, Fourcade. You'd have made a hell of a Zealot."

Her gaze shifted to the table, to the bulletin board and the pictures of Pam Bichon's grisly death. She wanted Fourcade's resources. She didn't have to embrace his doctrine of obsessive-compulsive behavior.

"I want this solved," she said. "End of story."

She selected Donnie Bichon's file folder and opened it.

"Why did you go to him?" Fourcade asked. "We looked at him and cleared him."

"Because Lindsay Faulkner says he's fixing to sell Pam's half of the realty business."

The news hit Nick like a rock to the chest. He had taunted Donnie with the idea just yesterday, never imagining the man would be fool enough to make such a move so soon after Pam's death. "When did you hear this?"

"This morning. I stopped by the realty office." She hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of telling the whole truth.

"You stopped by and what?" he demanded. "If we're partners, we're partners, chère. No holding back."

She took a deep breath as she set the file aside. "She said Donnie claims he has a possible buyer on the hook… in New Orleans. Donnie told me it was a bluff."

Nick had managed to all but banish the idea of Marcotte's involvement. It seemed too far-fetched. He couldn't imagine he had ever meant enough to Marcotte for him to inflict vengeance after all this time. Besides, Marcotte had gotten what he wanted back when, so what would be the point of dragging out the game?

Unless what he wanted now was Bayou Realty, and Nick's involvement was mere coincidence or karma. The question was: If Marcotte was involved, was the murder a result of that involvement or was his involvement a byproduct of the crime?

"C'est ein affaire a pus finir," Nick whispered.

"I figure it's a bluff," Annie said. "We- you've got Donnie's phone records from the period when Pam was being harassed. If the sale of the business was a motive for him to get rid of her, then he would have been in contact with his buyer during that time. Not from his home, if he had any sense, but no one would think twice about him calling New Orleans from the office. We can check it out.

"But I say if Donnie has this fat cat on the hook, why would he even bother to play games with Lindsay Faulkner?" she went on. "And if he was afraid of having the sale raise a red flag with the cops, then why do anything out in the open? It's not that hard to hide deals. In fact, Donnie's done it before. He had Pam hiding property for him so he wouldn't lose it to the bank. Did you know about that?"

"Yes."

Nick forced himself to move. Forward had become a mantra months ago. Move forward physically, psychologically, spiritually, metaphorically. Movement seemed to pull taut the lines upon which facts and ideas aligned themselves in his mind. Movement maintained order. So he moved forward and tried not to be spooked by the shadow that followed him.

"I'll go over the records," he said. "But I doubt the sale of the business has anything to do with the murder. It's more likely scavengers moving in, taking advantage of an opportunity. A woman killed the way Pam was-that's no money murder. People killed for money reasons-they fall down steps, they drown, they disappear."

He stopped in front of the table, his gaze on the photographs. "This… this was personal. This was hate. Contempt. Control. Rage."

"Or made to look so after the fact."

"No," he whispered. "I can feel it."

"Did you know her?" she asked quietly.

"She sold me this place. Nice lady. Hard to believe someone could have hated her this way."

"Renard claims he loved her-like a friend. He insists he's being railroaded. He wants me to find the truth for him." Her lips twisted. "Gee, I'm a popular girl lately."

He didn't pick up on the irony. He concentrated instead on Renard. "You spoke with him? When? Where?"

"This morning. In his office. He invited me up. He's laboring under the misconception that I'm sympathetic toward him."

"He trusts you?"

"I had the great luck to save his sorry ass-twice in one day. He seems to think just because I won't let individuals murder him, I won't want the state to do it, either."

"You can get close to him, then," Fourcade murmured. "That's something Stokes and I could never do. He regarded us as the enemy from the first. Stokes had been riding him already for the harassment, before the murder. You come to him from a whole other direction."

"I don't like the way your mind is bending," Annie said. She went to one of the bookcases and stared at the titles. "I told him flat out I think he did it."

"But he wants to win you over, yes?"

"I don't know that I'd put it quite like that."

Fourcade turned her around, his hands cupping her shoulders, and looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. "Mais oui. Oh, yeah. The hair, the eyes, 'bout the same size. You fit the victim profile."

"So do half the women in South Lou'siana."

"But you came into his life, chère. Like it was meant to be."

"You're creeping me out, Fourcade." She tried to wiggle away from his touch. "You talk like he's a serial killer."

"The potential is there. The psychopathology is there," he said, and began pacing. "Look at him: mid-thirties, white, single, intelligent, domineering mother, absent father, unsuccessful in maintaining relationships with women. It's classic."

"But he doesn't have any criminal history. No pattern of escalating aberrant behavior."

"Maybe, maybe not. Before he moved here, he had a girlfriend back in Baton Rouge. She died an untimely death."

"The papers said she died in a car accident."

"She was burned beyond recognition in a single-car crash on some back road not long after she told her mother she was going to break it off with Renard. She thought he was too possessive. 'Smothering' was the word she used with her mother."

He had obviously gone to the source for his information. The only thing the papers had gotten out of Elaine Ingram's mother was that she found Marcus Renard "very pleasant and a gentleman" and that she wished her daughter had married him. If he'd been a monster then, no one had seen it… except perhaps Elaine.

"The mother doesn't think he killed her," Annie said.