Tami Hoag - A Thin Dark Line

"How much have you had to drink, Mr. Bichon?"

"Why? Is there now some law against a man drowning his sorrows in the privacy of his own office?"

"No, sir," Annie said. "I'm just wondering if this conversation will be worth my while, that's all."

He raked a hand through his brown hair, mussing it, and propped a shoulder on the door frame. The smile he flashed her seemed thin and forced. He looked tired, physically, spiritually. Sad, Annie decided, though she was careful not to let the assessment taint her feelings toward him. Donnie was the type of man a lot of women would want to mother -the perpetual boy in a man's body, full of charm and mischief and confusion and potential. Had it been that boyish quality that had attracted Pam? Lindsay Faulkner had said Pam had always seen the potential in Donnie, but had never imagined he wouldn't live up to it.

"Are you always so straightforward, Detective?" he asked. "Whatever happened to those coy games women learned while under their mothers' white-gloved tutelage?"

"It's Deputy," Annie corrected. "My mother died when I was nine."

Donnie winced. "God. I can't manage to do much of anything right these days. I'm sorry," he said with genuine contrition. He stepped back from the door and motioned her in. "I'm not so drunk to have lost all my manners or sense, though some would say I never had much of the latter to begin with. Come in. Have a seat. I just ordered a pizza."

A gooseneck lamp was the only light on in his office, glowing gold on the polished oak desk and giving the place an intimate feel. A bottle of Glenlivet single malt scotch sat on the blotter beside a coffee mug that declared Donnie to be #1 DAD.

"Have you seen Josie this week?" Annie asked as she walked slowly around the office, taking in the wildlife art on the walls, the framed aerial photos of the Quail Run subdivision. A photo of Josie smiling like a pixie sat on the desk near the mug.

Donnie dropped into his chair. "Hell, no. Every night's a school night. On the weekend Belle runs off with her. Let me tell you, the only thing worse than having an ex-wife is having an ex-mother-in-law. She lies when I call-tells me Josie's in the bathtub, she's gone to bed, she's doing homework." He poured two fingers of scotch into the mug and drank half. "I admit, I have dark thoughts about Belle Davidson."

"Careful who you say that to, Mr. Bichon."

"That's right. Anything I say can and will be used against me. Well, I'm past caring at the moment. I miss my little girl."

He sipped at the scotch, stroked his fingertips over the printing on the mug. There was an air of surprise about him, as if he had never expected to face any difficulty in his life and what he was going through now was a rude and unwelcome shock. Things had come too easily for him, Annie suspected. He was handsome. He was popular. He was an athlete. He expected love and adoration, instant forgiveness, no accountability. In many ways, he was as much a child as his daughter.

"Please have a seat so I can focus my eyes, Deputy. And please call me Donnie. I'm depressed enough without having to think attractive women feel compelled to call me 'sir.' " He flashed the weary smile again.

Annie took a seat in the burgundy wing chair across the desk from him. He wanted to be friends, to pretend she was here for him instead of as a cop-the way Renard kept trying to do. But she felt less anxious about it with Donnie, which could prove to be a costly mistake, she reminded herself. He had as much reason to kill Pam as Renard. More. But he was handsome, and popular, and charming, and no one wanted to think he was guilty of anything other than cheating on his wife.

If she was going to play detective, it was her role to draw him out from behind his public facade. Get him to relax, get him to talk, see what he might reveal. She could once again play off the adversarial positions Stokes and Fourcade had taken with him. She could be his friend.

"Okay, Donnie," she said. "What's depressing you?"

"What isn't? I'm separated from my child. I'm being stalked by a psychopathic cop who I bailed out of jail. Now I've got Stokes coming in here asking me did I bash in Lindsay Faulkner's head-like I even thought anything could put a dent in it. Business is…" He let the statement trail off on a heavy sigh. "And Pam…"

Tears filled his eyes and he looked away. "This isn't what I wanted," he whispered.

"It's not working out for the best for anyone," Annie said. "I saw Lindsay this morning. She's in pretty rough shape."

"But that's got nothing to do with Pam," he declared. "It was that rapist."

Annie didn't comment. In the brief silence she watched his expression of certainty slip. "I suppose you heard about someone taking a shot at Renard last night."

"It's the talk of the town," Donnie said. "I believe if he'd been killed, the Rotarians would have made the shooter grand marshal of the Mardi Gras parade. People are sick of waiting around for justice to be done."

"Are you one of those people?"

"Hell, yes. Did I pull the trigger? Hell, no, and for once I've got half a dozen witnesses to back me up. I was here last night, working on the parade float."

"And the crew is off tonight?"

"It's finished. I'm celebrating." He lifted the bottle and raised his eyebrows. "Want to help me?"

"No thanks."

"That's the second time you've turned me down. If you're not careful, I'll get the feeling you don't like me."

"And then what?"

He shrugged and grinned. "I'll have to try harder. I dislike rejection."

"What about competition? Lindsay told me you were jealous of Detective Stokes spending time with Pam."

The grin flattened. He poured a little more scotch and took the mug with him as he unfolded his lanky body from the chair. "The guy's a jerk, that's all. He was supposed to be investigating. All he really wanted was to get in her pants."

"Do you think he ever succeeded?"

"Pam didn't sleep around."

"And how would it be any of your business if she had?"

"She was still my wife," he said, his expression tightening with suppressed anger.

"On paper."

"It wasn't over."

"Pam said it was."

"She was wrong," he insisted. "I loved her. I screwed up. I know I screwed up, but I loved her. We would have worked things out."

His determination amazed and unnerved Annie. "Donnie, she had filed the papers."

"She still had my name. She still wore my ring, for Christ's sake." Tears welled in his eyes again and his hand trembled a little. "And she's out with that-"

He wasn't drunk enough to finish the sentence. He shook his head at the temptation, turned away from it.

"What do you mean-out with him?" Annie prodded. "You mean like on dates?"

"Lunch to discuss this aspect of the case. Dinner to go over that aspect of the case. I saw the way he looked at her. I know what he wanted. He didn't give a shit about the case. He didn't do anything to stop what was happening."

"How do you know that?"

He blinked at her. "Because I- I know. I was there."

"Where?" Annie pressed, rising and stepping toward him, her instincts at attention. "Did you follow him around? Did you talk to the sheriff? How would you know what he did or didn't do, Donnie?"

Unless you were involved.

He didn't answer for a moment, didn't look at her. "You ask him," he said at last. "You ask him what he was doing. Ask him what he wanted. I can't believe he hasn't wanted the same thing from you." His gaze moved over her face. "Then again, maybe he has. Maybe you go for his type. What do I know?"

"His type?"

Sipping at his scotch, he moved away.

"Did you ever confront him about his interest in Pam?" Annie asked.

"He said if I had a problem with him, I should take it to the sheriff, but that I'd look like a jackass 'cause Pam sure as hell wasn't complaining."