A Thin Dark Line

your brains off my cupboards.'

'What? This gun?' He twirled it on his finger. 'It's not loaded. I figured it might be too tempting.'

Relief surged through Annie, and she rubbed her hands over her face. 'Why me?'

'That was my question.'

'I've told you all I know, which is exactly nothing. I would no more be in league with Chaz Stokes than I would be with someone like Marcotte. Stokes hates me. Besides, who sets up a frame that completely relies on the framee actually committing the crime? That's stupid. If someone wanted to set you up, why not just kill Renard and make it look like you're the guy? That's a piece of cake. So why don't you just take your elaborate conspiracy theories to Oliver Stone. Maybe he'll make a movie about you.'

Setting the empty gun aside, Nick leaned back against the counter. 'You got a mouth on you, chere.'

'Being terrorized brings out the bitch in me.'

He almost laughed. The urge to do so surprised him almost as much as Annie Broussard surprised him. He pressed his lips together and stared at her. She returned his stare, indignant, angry. If she was as innocent as she professed, then she had to think he was insane. That was all right. Perceived psychosis carried certain advantages.

'Tell me something,' she said. 'Did you go to Bowen and Briggs that night of your own accord?'

He thought of the phone call, but answered the real truth. 'Yes.'

'And you made your own decision to beat up Renard?'

He hesitated again, knowing the answer wasn't so simple, remembering the flashbacks that had burst in his head that night like fireworks. But in the end he could answer only one way. 'Oui.'

'Then how is this anyone's fault but your own?'

Annie waited for his answer. He had never struck her as the kind of man who would shirk his responsibilities. Then again, she hadn't believed he was crazy either.

'Stokes didn't put you in that alley,' she said. 'Nobody held a gun to your head. You did what you did, and I was unlucky enough to catch you. Quit trying to blame everyone else. You made your own choices and now you have to live with the consequences.'

'C'est vrai,' he murmured. Just like that, the frenetic energy was shut off and he seemed to go still from deep within. 'Me, I did what I did. I lost control. I can't think of many people who deserved a beating more than Renard, and I feel no remorse for providing it-other than the impact it will have on my own life.'

'What you did was wrong.'

'In that force ultimately defeats itself. I disappointed myself that night,' he admitted. 'But the tendency is for every aspect of this existence to continue to be what it is, mais oui? Interfere with its natural state and the thing will resist. Fundamentally, I find it difficult to embrace a philosophy of nonaction. Therein lies the crux of my problem.'

He had taken a hard left turn on her once again. From raving maniac to philosopher in a span of moments.

'You pled not guilty,' she said. 'But you admit that you are.'

'Nothing is simple, cherie. I go down for a felony, I'm off the job forever. That's not an option.'

'The resistance of a being against interference to its natural state.'

He smiled unexpectedly, fleetingly, and for a heartbeat was extraordinarily handsome. 'You're a good student, chere.'

'Why do you do that?'

'What?'

'Call me chere, like you're a hundred years old.'

The smile this time was sad, wry. He came to her slowly and lifted her chin with his hand. 'Because I am, jeune fille, in ways that you will never be.'

He was too close, bending down so that she could see every year, every burden in those eyes. His thumb brushed across her lower lip. Unnerved, she turned her face away.

'So what's your beef with Duval Marcotte?' she asked, sliding out of the chair, walking toward the other end of the table.

'It's personal,' he said, taking her seat.

'You were quick enough to throw it out a while ago.'

'When I thought you might be involved.'

'So I've been absolved of guilt?'

'For the moment.' His attention caught on the papers spread out across the table. 'What's all this?'

'My notes on the Bichon homicide.' Slowly, she moved back toward him. 'Why do you think Marcotte might be involved? Is there some kind of connection to Bayou Real Estate?'

'There hasn't been to this point. It all seemed very straightforward,' Nick said as he took a quick inventory of what she had compiled. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Because I care about what happens. I want to see her killer punished, legally. I believed he would be-until Wednesday. As much as it pains me to admit this at the moment, I had faith in your abilities. Now, with Stokes in charge of the investigation, and attention being diverted elsewhere, I'm not so sure Pam will get justice.'

'You don't trust Stokes?'

'He likes things to be easy. I don't know if he has the talent to clear this case. I don't know if he would apply it if he did have it. Now you're telling me you think he set you up. Why would he do that?'

'Money. The great motivator.'

'And who involved with the case would want to see you go down besides Renard and Kudrow?'

He didn't answer, but the name had taken root in his mind like a noxious weed. Duval Marcotte. The man who had ruined him.

Annie moved toward the counter. 'I need some coffee,' she said, as calmly as if this man hadn't burst into her home and held a gun to her head. But her hands were trembling as she turned on the faucet. Breath held deep in her lungs, she reached for the tin coffee canister on the counter and carefully peeled the lid off. She flinched when Fourcade spoke again.

'So what you gonna do, 'Toinette?'

'What do you mean?'

'You want to see justice done, but you don't trust Stokes to do it. I go within spitting distance of Renard, I get tossed back in the can. So what you gonna do? You gonna see 'bout getting some justice?'

'What can I do?' she asked. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. 'I'm just a deputy. They don't even let me talk on the radio these days.'

'You already been working the case on your own.'

'Following the case.'

'You wanted in on it. Bad enough to ask me. You wanna be a detective, chere. Show some initiative. You already got a knack for sticking your pretty nose in where it don't belong. Be bold.'

'Is this bold enough for you?' She turned with a five-inch-long, nine-millimeter Kurz Back-Up in hand, chambered a round with quick precision, and pointed it dead at Fourcade's chest.

'I keep this little sweetheart in the coffee tin. A trick I learned from The Rockford Files. Call my bluff if you want, Fourcade. No one will be too surprised to hear I shot you dead when you broke into my house.'

She expected anger, annoyance at the very least. She didn't expect him to laugh out loud.

'Way to go, 'Toinette! Good girl! This is just the kinda thing I'm talking 'bout. Initiative. Creativity. Nerve.' He rose from his chair and moved toward her. 'You got a lotta sass.'

'Yeah, and I'm about to hit you in the chest with a load of it. Stand right there.'

For once, he listened, assuming a casual stance two feet in front of the gun barrel, one leg cocked, hands settled at the waist of his faded jeans. 'You're pissed at me. '

'That would be an understatement. Everybody in the department is treating me like a leper because of you. You broke the law and I'm getting punished for it. Then you come into my house and-and terrorize me.