Laughter rolled behind her, Compton 's included.
"You got him again, Annie," Prejean said.
"I quit keeping score," she said, glancing back down the hall toward the sheriff's office. "It got to where it was just cruel."
The shift would change in twenty minutes. Guys coming on for the evening wandered in to BS with the day shift before briefing. The Hunter Davidson incident was the hot topic of the day.
"Man, you shoulda seen Fourcade!" Savoy said with a big grin. "He moves like a damn panther, him! Talk about!"
"Yeah. He was on Davidson like that." Prejean snapped his fingers. "And there's women screaming and the gun going off and nine kinds of hell all at once. It was a regular goddamn circus."
"And where were you during all this, Broussard?" Chaz Stokes asked, turning his pale eyes on Annie.
Tension instantly rose inside her as she returned the detective's stare.
"At the bottom of the pile," Sticks Mullen snickered, flashing a small mouth overcrowded with yellow teeth. "Where a woman belongs."
"Yeah, like you'd know." She tossed her dripping ice bag into the trash. "You read that in a book, Mullen?"
"You think he can read?" Prejean said with mock astonishment.
"Penthouse," someone suggested.
"Naw," Compton drawled, elbowing Savoy. "He just looks at the pictures and milks his lizard."
"Fuck you, Compton." Mullen rose and headed for the candy machine, hitching up his pants on skinny hips and digging in his pocket for change.
"Jesus, don't fish it out here, Sticks!"
"Christ," Stokes muttered in disgust.
He had the kind of looks that drew a woman's eye. Tall, trim, athletic. An interesting combination of features hinted at his mixed family background-short dark hair curled tight to his head, skin that was just a shade more brown than white. He had a slim nose and a Dudley Do-Right mouth framed by a neat mustache and goatee.
His face would have looked good on a recruiting poster with its square jaw and chin, the light turquoise eyes piercing out from beneath heavy black brows. But Stokes wasn't the type in any other respect. He cultivated a laid-back, free-spirit image advertised by his unconventional clothing, which today consisted of baggy gray janitor's pants and a square-bottomed shirt printed with bucking broncos, Indian tipis, and cacti. He pulled his black straw snap-brim down at an angle over one eye.
"You steal that off Chi Chi Rodriguez?" Annie asked.
"Come on, Broussard," he murmured with a sly smile. "You want me. You're always looking at me. Am I right or am I right?"
"You're full of shit and you're kind of hard to miss in that getup. So where were you during all the fun? You been working the Bichon case as much as Fourcade."
He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, glancing out into the hall. "Nick's the primary. I had to go to St. Martinville. They picked up my meth dealer on a DUI."
"And that required your personal attention?"
"Hey, I've been working to nail that rat bastard for months."
"If they had him in their jail, what's the big hurry?"
Stokes flashed his teeth. "Hey, no time like the present. You know what I'm saying. The warrants came out of this parish. I want Billy Thibidoux on my resume ASAP."
"You left Fourcade swinging in the breeze so you could have Billy Thibidoux in your jacket. Yeah, I'd want to be your partner, Chaz," Annie said with derision.
"Nicky's a big boy. He didn't need me. And you…" His eyes hardened a bit, even though the smile stayed firmly in place. "I thought we'd already covered that ground, Broussard. You had your chance. But hey, I'm a generous guy. I'd be willing to give you another shot… out of uniform, so to speak."
I'd rather mud wrestle alligators in the nude. But she kept the remark to herself, when she would have readily tossed it at any of her other co-workers. She knew from experience Chaz didn't take rejection well.
He reached out unexpectedly and pressed his thumb against the darkening bruise along the crown of her left cheekbone. "You're gonna have a shiner, Broussard." He dropped his hand as she pulled back. "Looks good on you."
"You're such a jerk," she muttered, turning away, knowing she was the only one in the department who thought so. Chaz Stokes was everybody's pal… except hers.
The door to the sheriff's office swung open and Fourcade stormed out, his expression ominous, his tie jerked loose at the throat of his tan shirt. He dug a cigarette out of his breast pocket.
"We're fucked!" he snapped at Stokes, not slowing his stride.
"I heard."
Annie watched them go down the hall. Stokes had worked the Bichon case when Pam was alive and claiming Renard was stalking her. He had missed the homicide call, but had worked the murder as Fourcade's partner. They weren't being held up to public scrutiny and ridicule as a team, however. It was Fourcade's name in the papers. Fourcade, who had come to Partout Parish with a checkered past. Fourcade, who had come up with the ring. Stokes wouldn't be raked over the coals after today's court ruling. He had assured that by making himself scarce.
"Billy Thibidoux, my ass," she grumbled under her breath.
Annie stayed late to finish her report on the Davidson incident. When she came out of the building at 5:06, the parking lot behind the law enforcement center was deserted except for a pair of trustees washing the sheriff's new Suburban. The day-shift deputies had split for home or second jobs or stools in their favorite bars. The press had taken Smith Pritchett's brief official statement on Hunter Davidson's situation and gone off to meet their deadlines.
A sense of false peace held the moment. Any stranger walking through Bayou Breaux would have remarked on the lovely afternoon. Spring had arrived unusually early, filling the air with the perfume of sweet olive and wisteria. Window boxes on the second-floor galleries of the historic business district were bursting with color and overflowing greenery, ivy trailing down the wrought iron and wood railings. Store windows had been decorated for the upcoming Mardi Gras carnival. Down on the corner, old Tante Lucesse sat on a folding chair weaving a pine-needle basket and singing hymns for passersby.
But underlying the veneer of peace was something sinister. A raw nerve of disquiet. As the sun went down on Bayou Breaux, a killer sat somewhere in the gathering gloom. That knowledge tainted the shabby beauty here like a stain seeping across a tablecloth. Murder. Whether you believed Renard was the killer or not, a murderer was loose among them, free to do as he pleased.
It wasn't the first time, which made it impossible to discount as an aberration. Death had stalked this patch of South Louisiana before. The memories had barely gone stale. The death of Pam Bichon had dredged them to the surface, had awakened fear and stirred up doubt.
Six women in five different parishes had died over an eighteen-month period between 1992 and 1993, raped, strangled, and sexually mutilated. Two of the victims had come from Bayou Breaux-Savannah Chandler and Annick Delahoussaye-Gerrard, whom Annie had known her entire life. The crimes had shocked the people of Louisiana 's French Triangle into a state of near panic, and the conclusion of the case had shocked them even more.
The murders had stopped with the death of Stephen Danjermond, son of a wealthy New Orleans Garden District shipping family. The investigation had revealed a long history of sexual sadism and murder, hobbies Danjermond had practiced since his college days. Trophies from his victims had been discovered during a search of his home. At the time of his death Danjermond had been serving his first term as Partout Parish district attorney.
The story had put Bayou Breaux in the spotlight for a short time, but the glare had faded and the horror was put aside. The case was closed. The evil had been burned out. Life had returned to normal. Until Pam Bichon.
Her death was too close for comfort, too similar. All the old fears had bubbled to the surface, divided, and multiplied. People wondered if Danjermond had been the killer at all, their new panic clouding the memory of the evidence against him. Killed in a fire, he had never publicly confessed to his crimes. Other folks were eager to embrace Renard as the suspect in the Bichon killing-better a tangible evil than a nebulous one. But even with a target to point their fingers at, the underlying fear remained: a superstition, a half-conscious belief that the evil was indeed a phantom, that this place had been cursed.