Annie glared at the rubber face, which sat atop a pair of bony shoulders. She looked down at the skinny stick legs in tight jeans.
"Son of a bitch!" she swore, grabbing hold of him by the shirtfront. "Mullen, is that you inside that empty head?"
The clown hollered, "Shit!"
Reagan stumbled back from her, pulling himself free. The two plunged into the gyrating crowd, laughing.
"Dammit!" Annie said, half under her breath, plucking at her saturated shirtfront.
The beer trickled down into the waistband of her pants, front and back. It ran down inside her body armor in front and soaked through the back. Anyone getting a whiff of her was going to think the stories about her recent sad decline into alcoholism were more than just rumors.
"Sarge, it's Broussard," she said into the two-way as she started up the street. "I just got doused. I'm 10-7 at the station. Back in a few. Out."
"Hurry the hell up."
She made her way north along the back side of the crowd, intending to cut east at the corner of Seventh, where she had parked her cruiser on the side street.
"Annie!"
A.J.'s voice caught her ear and she pulled up. He had left three messages on her machine at home and had tried to get her at work twice since she had been shot at, and she had avoided calling him back. She didn't want to explain. She didn't want to lie. She didn't want him trying to tie a knot in the connection she had severed between them.
He came toward her from the yellow light of a vendor's stand, a red-checked cardboard basket of fried oysters cradled in one hand, a bottle of Abita in the other. He was still in his suit from the day's business, though his tie was jerked loose.
"I thought you were off the street."
Annie shrugged. "I go where they tell me. I'm on my way to the station now. I just got a beer bath."
"I'll walk you to your car."
He fell in step beside her and she glanced up at him, trying to gauge his mood. His face was drawn and a deep line dug in between his brows. The noise of the band and the crowd faded as they turned the corner and walked away from the bright yellow light of the party.
"Why'd you work late?" Annie asked. "Friday night. Big dance and all."
"I-ah-sorta lost my standing date."
She kicked herself mentally for opening that door.
"Task force moved at the speed of light to get the background on Roache, didn't they?"
"Yeah," she said. "Too bad they couldn't have found that enthusiasm earlier. Maybe they could have nailed his ass after Jennifer Nolan."
"You would have," he said, setting his supper on the hood of her cruiser.
"I would have tried, at least. That's the thing that galls me most about Stokes-he skates over everything and still comes out smelling like a rose. I wouldn't care how big a jerk he was if he did the job."
A.J. shrugged. "Some people do the job, some people live the job."
"I don't live the job," she snapped, not liking the correlation to Fourcade that A.J. couldn't possibly have known. "But I hustle when I'm on it. That should count for something."
"It should."
But they both knew the thing that would count for her would be taking the witness stand on Thursday. Annie looked away and sighed.
"So, are you gonna tell me what that was all about the other night?" he asked. "Someone taking a shot at you? My God, Annie."
"Trying to scare me, that's all," she said, still avoiding his gaze.
"That's all? You could have been killed!"
"It was a scare tactic. I'm not very popular as a witness for the prosecution."
"You think it was Fourcade?" he demanded. "That bastard! I'll get his bail revoked-"
"It wasn't Fourcade."
"How do you know that?"
"It just wasn't," she insisted. "Leave it alone, A.J. You don't know anything about this."
"Because you won't tell me! Christ, somebody tries to shoot you and I have to hear about it from Uncle Sos! You don't even bother to call me back when I try to check up on you-"
"Look," she said, reining back her temper. "Can we have this fight another time? I'm 10-7. Hooker's gonna chew me out if I don't go and get back."
"I don't want to fight," A.J. said wearily. He caught hold of her hand and hung on when she would have backed away. "Just a minute, Annie. Please."
"I'm on duty."
"You're 10-7. Personal time. This is personal."
She drew in a breath to protest and he pressed a finger against her lips. His expression was earnest in the filtered light of the streetlamp.
"I need to say this, Annie. I care about you. I don't want to see you hurt by anyone for any reason. I don't want to see you taking crazy chances. I want to take care of you. I want to protect you. I don't know who this other guy is-"
"A.J., don't-"
"And I don't know what he's got that I don't. But I love you, Annie. And I'm not gonna just walk away from this, from us. I love you."
His admission stunned her silent. They hadn't been that close lately. There had been a time when she had expected him to say it, and he never had. Now he wanted her to say it and she couldn't-not with the meaning he wanted. The story of their lives. They were never quite in the same place at the same time. He wanted something from her she couldn't give, and she wanted a man she might just send on the road to prison in a week's time.
"I know you better than anyone, Annie," he murmured. "I won't give you up without a fight."
He lowered his head and kissed her, slowly, sweetly, deeply. He pulled her against him, heedless of her beer-soaked shirt, and pressed her to him-breast to chest, belly to groin. Longing to regret.
"God, you think you mean it, don't you?" he whispered as he raised his head. "That it's over."
The hurt in his eyes brought tears to Annie's. "I'm sorry, A.J."
He shook his head. "It's not over," he pledged quietly. "I won't let it be."
Just like Donnie Bichon, Annie thought. Determined to hold on to Pam even after she'd served him with papers. Like Renard-seeing what he wanted to see, bending reality to open possibilities for the outcome he wanted. The difference was that she felt only frustration with A.J.'s bullheadedness, not fear. He hadn't crossed the line from tenacity to terror.
"Fair warning," he said. Stepping back from her, he picked up his fried oysters and his beer. "I'll see you around."
Annie sat back against the car as he walked away. "I need this like I need a hole in my head."
She gave herself a moment to try to clear away the thought that she had somehow managed to become part of a romantic triangle, an idea that was too absurd for words. Instead, she tried to focus once again on the world around her: the noise of the band, the intermittent bang of firecrackers, the warm moist air, the silver light from the streetlamp, and the darkness beyond its reach.
The sensation of being watched crawled over her. The feeling that she suddenly wasn't alone on the deserted side street. She straightened slowly away from the car and strained to see into the shadows at the back of the paint store she had parked beside. At the mouth of the dark alley a white face seemed to float in the air.
"Marcus?" Annie said, straightening away from the cruiser, moving cautiously toward the building.
"You kissed him," he said. "That filthy lawyer. You kissed him!"
Anger vibrated in his voice. He took a step toward her.
"Yes, he kissed me," Annie said. Pulse racing, she tried to settle her hands casually on her hips-the right one within reach of her baton, a can of Mace, the butt of her Sig. The tip of her middle finger pressed against the stem of the rose Renard had given her and a thorn bit deep into her skin, the pain sharp and surprising.
"Does that upset you, Marcus? That I let him kiss me?"
"He's-he's one of Them!" he stammered, the words slurring as he forced them through his teeth. "He's against me. Like Pritchett. Like Fourcade. How could you do this, Annie?"