Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

"Shot a few rounds, huh?" Nick said, dousing the eggs with Tabasco from the bottle sitting on the back of the stove. "What'd you shoot? This handgun you've so carelessly left on your kitchen table?"

"Uh…"

"How about rifles? You shoot some clay?"

"Yeah."

"You have no clean plates," Nick announced with disapproval, picking up the frying pan by the handle. He tasted the eggs and forked up a second mouthful. "You hear about someone taking a shot at Renard last night?"

"Yeah." The uncertainty was still clear in his small mean eyes, but he had decided to pretend a bit of arrogance. They were compadres… maybe. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. A smirk twisted his lips, revealing crowded bad teeth. "Too bad he missed, huh?"

"You might assume I would think that, knowing me like you do," Nick said. "That wasn't you trying to help justice along there, was it, Keith?"

Mullen forced a laugh. "Hell no."

" 'Cause that's against the law, don'tcha know. Now, you might say that didn't stop me the other night. Deputy Broussard stopped me."

Mullen made a rude sound. "That little bitch. She oughta mind her own goddamn business."

"I hear you're trying to help her with that, no? Giving her a hard time and whatnot."

"She don't know nothing about loyalty, turning on one of us. Cunt's got no business being in a uniform."

Nick flinched at the obscenity, but held himself. His smile was sharp as he allowed himself to visualize swinging the frying pan like a tennis racket, Mullen's pointy head bouncing off the door frame, blood spraying from his nose and mouth.

"So, you've taken it upon yourself to avenge this wrong she committed against me," Nick said. "Because we're such good pals, you and me?"

"She hadn't oughta fuck with the Brotherhood."

Nick sent the pan sailing across the kitchen like a Frisbee. It landed in the sink with a crash of glass breaking beneath it.

"Hey!" Mullen yelled.

Nick hit him hard in the chest with the heel of his hand, knocking him backward into the cupboards, and held him there, his knuckles digging into the soft hollow just below Mullen's sternum.

"I am not your brother," he growled, staring into Mullen's eyes. "The mere suggestion of a genetic tie is an insult to my family. Nor would I count you among my friends. I don't know you from something I would scrape off my shoe. And you've not impressed me here this morning, Keith, I have to say. So I think you'll understand when I tell you I take exception to you acting on my behalf.

"I fight my own battles. I take care of my own problems. I won't tolerate being used as an excuse by some redneck asshole who only wants to bully a woman. You got your own problem with Broussard-that's one thing. You drag my name into it, I'll have to hurt you. You'd be smart to just leave her alone so that I don't misinterpret. Have I made myself clear to you?"

Mullen nodded with vigor. Gasping for breath, he doubled over, rubbing his hand against his diaphragm as Nick stepped back.

"I might have guessed a man with no honor would keep his kitchen this way." Nick shook his head as he took in the sorry state of the room one last time. "Sad."

Mullen looked up at him. "Fuck you. You're just as fuckin' nuts as everyone says, Fourcade."

Nick flashed a crocodile smile. "Don't sell me short, Keith. I'm way crazier than people think. You'd do well to remember that."

Annie had watched his truck go down the bayou road. A hollow feeling yawned in the middle of her. She didn't fall into bed with men she barely knew. She could count her lovers on one hand and have most of her fingers left over. Why Fourcade?

Because somewhere in the dark labyrinth that was Fourcade's personality there was a man worthy of more than what his past had dealt him. He believed in justice, a greater good, a higher power. He had destroyed his career for a fourteen-year-old dead girl no one else in the world cared about.

He had beaten a suspect bloody right before her very eyes. His hearing was little more than a week away.

"God, Broussard," she groaned, "the things you get into…"

Last night might have been about wanting and needing, but the future wasn't so simple. Fourcade could pretend to separate the attraction from the rest of it, but what would happen when she got up on the witness stand at his hearing and told the court she'd seen him commit a felony? And she would take the stand. Whatever feelings she had for him now didn't change what had happened or what would happen. She had a duty-to burn a cop on behalf of a killer.

Rubbing her temples, Annie went back into the apartment, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and went through her routine with the energy of a slug. She returned home from her run to the depressing sight of her half-trashed Jeep in the lot and A.J. sitting on the gallery.

He was already dressed for the office in a smart pinstriped suit and a crisp white shirt, his burgundy tie fluttering as he leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs.

His eyes were on her, a ghost of a hopeful smile curved his mouth.

At that moment he'd never been more handsome to Annie, never more dear. It broke her heart to think she was going to hurt him.

"Glad to see you in one piece," he said, rising as she came up the steps. "That Jeep gave me a scare. What happened?"

"Sideswiped. No big deal. Looks worse than it was," she lied.

He shook his head. "Lou'siana drivers. We gotta stop giving away driver's licenses with Wheaties box tops."

Annie found a smile for him and tugged on his tie. "What are you doing out here at this hour?"

"This is what you get for never answering your phone messages."

"I'm sorry. I've been busy."

"With what? From what I hear, you've got time on your hands these days."

She made a face. "So you heard about my change in job description?"

"Heard you got stuck with crime dog duty." He sobered just enough to make her nervous. "Why didn't I hear it from you?"

"I wasn't exactly proud."

"So? Since when do you not call me to whine and complain?" he said, his confusion plain, though he tried to smile.

Annie bit her lip and looked to the left of his shoulder. She would have given anything to wriggle out of this, but she couldn't and she knew it. Better to run through the minefield now and get it over with, "A.J., we need to talk."

He sucked in a breath. "Yeah, I guess we do. Let's go upstairs."

Images of her apartment flashed through Annie's head- the kitchen table spread with files from the Bichon case, her sheets rumpled from sex with Fourcade. She felt cheap and mean, a scarlet woman, a kicker of puppies.

"No," she said, catching his hand. "I need to cool off. Let's go sit on a boat."

She chose the pontoon at the far end of the dock, grabbed a towel from the storage bin, and wiped the dew from the last aqua plastic bench seat. A.J. followed reluctantly, pausing to look at the tip box Sos had mounted near the gate-a white wooden cube with a window in front and a foot-long gator head fixed over the top hole, mouth open in a money-hungry pose. The hand-lettering on the side read: TIP'S (POURBOIRE) MERCI!

"Remember the time Uncle Sos pretended this gator bit his finger off and he had all us kids screaming?"

Annie smiled. " 'Cause your cousin Sonny tried to sneak a dollar out."

"Then old Benoit, he did the trick, only he really didn't have half his fingers. Sonny about wet himself."

He slid onto the bench a few feet from her and reached out to touch her hand. "We got a lotta good memories," he said quietly. "So why you shutting me out now, Annie? What's the deal here? You still mad at me about the Fourcade thing?"

"I'm not mad at you."

"Then, what? We're going along fine, then all of a sudden I'm persona non grata. What-"