The rape cases were closed, but the rapes were not her focus. Pam's murder was her focus. To that end she had Marcus Renard and Donnie Bichon to hold her attention.
'You have got no respect for this office,' Myron greeted her dourly. 'There is work to be done, and you're off watching television.'
Annie rolled her eyes as she scooped the afternoon mail off the counter. 'Oh, Jesus, Myron, go have a bowel movement, why don't you? This is the records office. We're not guarding the ark of the covenant, for crying out loud.'
The clerk's eyes bugged out. His nostrils flared and his wiry frame quivered with outrage. 'That is it, Deputy Broussard! You are through in my office. I will not stand for any more.'
He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him, and headed in the direction of Noblier's office. Annie leaned over the counter and shouted after him, 'Hey, ask for my old job back while you're at it!'
Guilt nipped her as he strode out of sight. She had always appreciated Myron for who he was-until she had to work with him. She had always had a respectful attitude toward her elders and her superiors, with few exceptions. Maybe Fourcade was a bad influence. Or maybe she just had more important things on her mind than kissing Myron's skinny ass.
She sorted through the mail, knowing Myron would go ballistic if she opened anything he deemed important. Most of it looked like insurance stuff: requests for accident reports and so on. One envelope bore the Our Lady of Mercy letterhead and was addressed to her.
Tearing the end open with her thumb, Annie extracted what looked to be a lab report. A copy of the chem 7 blood analysis on Lindsay Faulkner that Dr. Unser had requested during Faulkner's seizure. The test Annie had requested after Lindsay's death. The test the Our Lady lab had apparently lost.
She looked down the row of indecipherable symbols and corresponding numbers, none of it meaning anything to her. K+: 4.6 mEq/L. C1-: 101 mEq/L. Na++: 139 mEq/L. BUN: 17 mg. Glucose: 120. It didn't matter much now. Willard Roache would likely be credited with both the attack and the death of Faulkner, unless the autopsy Stokes had requested turned up some anomaly.
'I have left my message with Sheriff Noblier's secretary,' Myron announced. 'I expect your position here will be terminated by the end of the day.'
Annie didn't bother to correct him, though she figured she had at least until Monday to be reassigned or suspended, depending on Gus's mood. Less than an hour shy of five o'clock on Friday, with a big win under his belt, the sheriff was doubtless off toasting himself with the town fathers.
'Then I might as well leave, hadn't I?' Annie said. 'As my last official act as your assistant, I'll take this report over to the detectives. Just to be kind to you, Myron.'
Annie walked into the Pizza Hut without bothering to ring the bell. On the phone, Perez looked up at her, dark eyes snapping impatience. She waved the report at him and gestured back to the task force war room.
The task force members had all been invited to the press conference so that Noblier could show them off and earn more praise for having the wisdom to select such a crack team. They had left their command center looking as if it had been ransacked by thieves. The radio on the file cabinet was blaring Wild Tchoupitoulas.
Moving along the table, Annie scanned file tabs until she came across the one marked faulkner, lindsay. It seemed pitifully thin for representing a woman's violent death. Not much would be added to it before the case was closed and it went into the drawers in Myron's domain. The autopsy report, Stokes's final report, that would be it.
She flipped the folder open and pulled the lab report Stokes had already collected, scanning the document to make certain it and the one she'd received were indeed the same item. K+: 4.6 mEq/L. C1-: 101 mEq/L. Na++: 139 mEq/L. BUN: 17 mg. Glucose: 120.
'What the hell is with you, Broussard?' Stokes demanded, striding into the room. 'Are you stalking me? Is that it? There's laws against that. You know what I'm saying?'
'Yeah? Well, who'd have thought you knew anything about it after the way you blew off Pam Bichon last fall?'
'I did not blow off Pam Bichon. Now why don't you tell me what you're doing in my face, then get out of it? I was having a damn fine day without you.'
'Our Lady sent over a dupe of the chem 7 blood test on Lindsay Faulkner. I thought it should be in the file, not that you care. Why bother following up when you barely did any work to begin with?'
'Fuck you, Broussard,' he said, snatching the report from her hand. 'It was just a matter of time before I woulda nailed Roache.'
'I'm sure that's a comfort to all the women he attacked after Jennifer Nolan.'
'Don't you have some paper clips to count?'
Mullen stepped into the doorway, cutting a glance from Annie to Stokes. 'You coming, Chaz? They can't start the party without us.'
Stokes flashed the Dudley Do-Right. 'I'm there, man. I am
Annie shook her head. 'A party to celebrate the fact that a civilian closed your case for you. You ought to be so proud.'
Stokes settled his porkpie hat back on his head and straightened his purple tie. 'Yeah, Broussard, I am. My only regret is that Roache didn't get to you first.'
He herded her from the room and from the building.
Annie went reluctantly on toward the law enforcement center, her eyes on Stokes and Mullen as they climbed into their respective vehicles and tore out of the parking lot, blasting their horns in celebration.
A civilian had cleared their hottest case and Pam Bichon's killer was still roaming free. She couldn't see much to be happy about.
'Or maybe I'm just a sore loser,' she muttered.
43
'You're listening to KJUN. All talk all the time. Our topic: safety versus civil rights-should prospective employees be subjected to fingerprinting? Carl in Iota-'
Nick switched the radio off and sat up behind the wheel of the truck as Donnie left his office and climbed into the Lexus. He looked as pale as the car. His hunch-shouldered walk had a little extra bend in it. The pressure was getting to him. He would make a move soon, maybe tonight, and Nick wanted to be there when he did. He crushed out his cigarette with the half dozen butts in the ashtray, put the truck in gear, and waited until the Lexus had turned the corner at Dumas.
Patience was the key word here. Essential in surveillance. Essential in all aspects of life. A useful tool that was difficult to master. Men like Donnie never got the hang of it. He had moved too quickly to get rid of Pam's business. Haste attracted unwanted attention. But then had that been Donnie's doing or Marcotte's? Or mine? Nick wondered, the idea burning in his gut like an ulcer. He hadn't completely mastered patience himself.
La Rue Dumas was busy, the curbs lined with cars, the sidewalk full of people. The Lexus was four cars ahead and waiting at the green light to make a left turn. Friday night always drew people into town. Nick had heard Bayou Breaux's Carnival celebration attracted folks from all over South Louisiana for the street dance and various parties and pageants that went on from tonight through Fat Tuesday. With the demise of the serial rapist, the atmosphere of revelry would be cranked up an extra notch, relief adding wild euphoria to the mix.
All day the news had been full of 'late-breaking information' on the shooting of Willard Roache, who had been subsequently unmasked, so to speak, as the Mardi Gras rapist. So much for Annie's theory on Stokes as a sexual predator, though Nick had to give her grudging admiration for going after the tough angle. She had a passion for the work she was only just beginning to tap. With the rapist out of the way, she would be better able to focus on tripping up Renard.
Renard was still his number one bet. Donnie was up to no good, but it had the smell of dirty money rather than the smell of death. It was Renard who made Nick's hackles rise. Every time he went over the case in his mind, the trail, the logic, wound back to Renard. Every time. The story was there. He just hadn't managed to find
