A Thin Dark Line

sex-related homicides tended to keep souvenirs of their victims. Everything from pieces of jewelry to pieces of bodies. That was a fact.

Annie had attended the seminar on sexual predators at the academy in Lafayette three months before the Bichon murder. She took as many extra courses as she could in preparation for one day making detective. That was her goal -to work in plain clothes, dig deep into the mysteries of the crimes she now dealt with only at the outset of a case.

The crime-scene slides the class instructor had shown them had been horrific. Crimes of unspeakable cruelty and brutality. Victims tortured and mutilated in ways no sane person could ever have imagined in their worst nightmares. But then she no longer had to imagine. She had been the one to discover Pam Bichon's body.

She had been off duty the weekend the real estate agent was reported missing. On routine patrol Monday morning, Annie had found herself drawn to a vacant house out on Pony Bayou. The place had been for sale for months, though the renters had moved out only five or six weeks previous. A rusted Bayou Realty sign had fallen over on one side of the overgrown drive. Something she had read in Police magazine made Annie turn in the driveway-an article about how many female real estate agents each year are lured to remote properties, then raped or murdered.

Hidden in the brambles behind the dilapidated house sat a white Mustang convertible, top up. She recognized the car from the briefing, but ran it to be certain. The plates came back to Pamela K. Bichon, no wants, no warrants, reported missing two days previous. And in the dining room of the old house it was Pam Bichon she found… or what was left of her.

She still saw the scene too often when she closed her eyes. The nails in her hands. The mutilation. The blood. The mask. The flashbacks still awakened her in the night, the images entwining with a nightmare four years old, forcing her to rush to the surface of consciousness like a swimmer coming up from the depths, running out of air. The smell still burned in her nostrils from time to time, when she least expected it. The putrid miasma of violent death. Cloying, choking, thick with the scent of fear.

A chill ran through her now, twisting and coiling in the bottom of her stomach.

The Baggie dribbled ice water down the back of her neck, and she flinched and swore under her breath.

'Hey, Broussard.' Deputy Ossie Compton sucked in his stomach and sidled past her through the doorway to the break room. 'I heard you were a cold one. How come that ice is melting?'

Annie shot him a wry look. 'Must be all your hot air. Compton.'

He gave her a wink, his grin flashing white in his dark face. 'My hot charm, you mean.'

'Is that what you call it?' she teased. 'Here I thought it was gas.'

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