Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

"I got no quarrel with you, DiMonti," Nick said. He kept his weight on the balls of his feet and his eyes on the thug in front of him. He could see the reflection of the twin in the man's sunglasses.

"I remember you, Fourcade," DiMonti said. His accent was the near Brooklynese of the Irish Channel part of town, befitting a movie mobster. "You're some kind of head case. They threw you off the force." He barked a laugh. "That's gotta take some doing-getting thrown off the NOPD."

"It was nothing," Nick said. "Ask your friend Marcotte."

"That's a good point you bring up, Fourcade," DiMonti said, tapping the spade handle against his palm. "Mr. Marcotte is a close personal friend of mine and a valued business associate. I don't want him upset. You see where I'm going with this?"

"Absolutely. So tell Tiny here to step aside and I'll be on my way."

DiMonti shook his head sadly. "I wish it were that simple, Nick. Can I call you Nick? You see, I think you got what they call a pattern of behavior here. You maybe need a little lesson from Bear and Brutus here to break you from that. Make you think twice before you come back here. You see what I'm saying?"

He saw Brutus behind him looming larger in Bear's sunglasses.

A spinning kick caught Brutus in the face, broke his nose and sunglasses, and sent him down on the brick path like a felled tree. Nick spun the other way, blocking a roundhouse right and popping Bear hard in the diaphragm. It was like hitting brick.

The thug caught him with a solid jab, and blood filled Nick's mouth. He brought his right foot up and hit Bear square in the knee, forcing the joint to bend in a way nature never intended. Howling, clutching at the knee, the thug doubled over, and Nick hit him with a combination that split his lip and sprayed a fountain of blood.

All he needed was Bear to go down and he could break for the gate. He didn't want to pull the Ruger. DiMonti hadn't come here to kill him and he wouldn't want the complications, but neither would he hesitate to do it. The Plug had dumped his share of bodies in the swamp. One more punch and Bear would be gone. But before Nick could draw back, DiMonti swung the spade handle like a baseball bat and caught him hard across the kidneys.

DiMonti swung again and Nick staggered forward, struggling to keep his feet under him, to keep moving. If he could run-

The thought was cut short as Brutus tackled him from behind and he went down face-first on the bricks. Then the world went black, and Nick's final thought was that it was probably just as well.

Annie blew out a sigh and dug through the stacks of paperwork, unearthing a packet of microcassette tapes labeled RENARD in Fourcade's bold caps. Interview tapes, no doubt made in his pocket. The official tapes would never have been allowed out of the sheriff's department, but Fourcade lived by his own set of rules-some of which she condoned, and others…

It made her uneasy thinking about it. Where would she draw the line? And where would he? She was breaking rules by involving herself in this case, but she felt it was justified, that she owed her allegiance to a higher authority. And was that what Fourcade had been thinking when he'd confronted Renard in that parking lot? That justice was a higher power than the law?

Where the hell was he? she wondered as she dug through her purse for her tape recorder. For a man who had been suspended and warned off the case, he certainly got around.

"Maybe he's out planting evidence for you to find, Annie," she muttered, then chided herself for it.

She didn't believe he had planted the ring just because he'd been accused of doing it before. No one had proven the allegations made during the Parmantel murder investigation. Fourcade had resigned from the NOPD before anyone got the chance. The hoopla had died down and the case had gone away.

That right there made Annie think something was hinky about the charges. The case had gone away and no civil suit had been filed. Anybody with half a beef against the cops these days filed a civil suit. Allan Zander, the man Fourcade had accused of killing the hooker, Candi Parmantel, had just faded back into anonymity.

She told herself none of that mattered as she loaded tape number one into the player. Fourcade wanted to keep his past to himself, and all she wanted was to close this homicide. The rest was just baggage.

She hit the play button and set the machine on the table.

Fourcade tided the interview with Marcus Renard. He stated the date, time, and case number; his own name, rank, and badge number. Stokes stated his name, rank, and badge number. Chairs scraped against the floor, papers were shuffled.

Fourcade: "What'd you think of that murder, Mr. Renard?"

Renard: "It's-it's horrible. I can't believe it. Pam… My God…"

Stokes: "Can't believe what? That you could butcher a woman that way? Surprised yourself, did you?"

Renard: "What? I don't know what-You can't think I could do that! Pam was-I would never-"

Stokes: "Come on, Marcus. This is your ol' buddy Chaz you're talking to. I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. You and me, we been having this same conversation now for what-six, eight weeks? Only this time you did something more than just look. Am I right? You got sick of looking. You got sick of her turning you down."

Renard: "No. It wasn't-"

Stokes: "Come on, Marcus, get straight with this."

Fourcade: "Let's give him the benefit, Chaz. You tell us, Mr. Renard. Where were you last Friday night?"

Renard: "Am I being charged with something? Should I have a lawyer present?"

Fourcade: "Me, I dunno, Mr. Renard. Should you have a lawyer present? We just want you to set us straight, that's all."

Renard: "You have nothing to tie me to this. I'm an innocent man."

Stokes: "You wanted her, Marcus. I been here all along, remember? I know how you followed her around, sent her little notes, little presents. I know that was you calling her up, hanging around her house. I know what you did to that woman, and you might as well confess, Marcus, 'cause you can bet your ass we're gonna prove it, Nicky and me. If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'."

The rumble of an engine broke Annie's concentration. She clicked the cassette player off and listened for a car door slamming. When the sound didn't come, she rose from her chair, sliding the Sig out of her purse.

The small window on the end of the house afforded a view of nothing. The night was black as pitch. Fourcade's retreat was stuck in the hip pocket of civilization, readily accessible to the animals that prowled the swamp-a fair number on two legs. Poachers and thieves and worse. Society's ragged fringe.

Last night came back to her in a rush. Who would be her enemy here?

No one could have followed her without her knowing it, which eliminated anyone from the department. A random attack by the roving rapist seemed unlikely. That predator knew the lifestyles and habits of his victims. He hadn't chosen them by accident.

Something thumped hard against the floor of the gallery. Leading with the Sig, Annie let herself out onto the landing.

"Nick? That you?"

She waited, debating, knowing she had already tipped her hand. Then came a low groan, the unmistakable sound of pain.

"Fourcade?" she called, easing down the stairs. "Don't make me shoot you. I've got a big gun, you know."

He lay on the gallery floor, the light spilling out the window illuminating his battered face.

"Oh my Lord!" Annie stuck the gun in her waistband and dropped down beside him. "What happened? Who did this?"

Nick cracked open an eye and looked up at her. "Never announce yourself until you know the situation, Broussard."

"Man, even half dead you're bossy."

"Help me up."