A Thin Dark Line

aside for sleeping and changing clothes. There were no personal items on the dresser, not even the cast-off miscellany from pockets. Though the temptation was certainly there, she made no move to open a drawer. She would never have invaded someone's privacy without a warrant. Besides, she knew without looking that every sock, every T-shirt, would be folded neatly and arranged in an orderly manner. The bed was made military-style, the covers tight enough to bounce quarters on.

She wondered what he looked like sleeping. Did he attack sleep with the same ferocious focus as he attacked everything else in his life? Or did unconsciousness soften the hard edges?

'Thinking of spending the night, chere?'

Annie spun around at the sound of his voice. Fourcade stood well inside the room, hands on his hips, one leg cocked. She hadn't heard so much as the creak of a hinge or a step on the stairs.

'Don't you know better than to sneak up on a woman when there's a rapist out running around loose?' she demanded. 'I could have shot you.'

He discounted the possibility without comment.

'I was just stretching my legs,' she said, walking away from the bed, not wanting him to imagine she had been thinking about him in it. 'Where've you been? Renard's?'

'Why would I go there?' he said, his tone flat.

'Let's put that past tense,' Annie suggested. 'Why did you go there? My God, what were you thinking? He could have had you thrown back in jail.'

'How's that? You weren't on duty.'

Annie shook her head. 'Don't pull that attitude with me, thinking I'll back off You already know I'm not repentant for running you in, other than that it's made my life a living hell. You must have come here straight from his house last night and you didn't say a word to me.'

'There was nothing to say. I was out in the boat. I ended up in the neighborhood. I didn't cross the property line. I didn't touch him. I didn't threaten him. In fact, he approached me.'

'And you didn't think any of this would be of interest to me, partner?'

'The encounter was irrelevant,' he said, moving away, dismissing Annie and her argument. She wanted to kick him.

'It's relevant in that you didn't share it with me.' She pursued him to the long table where she had been studying. 'If we're partners, we're partners. There's an expectation of trust, and you've already managed to break it.'

He sighed heavily. 'All right. Point taken. I should have told you. Can we move on?'

It was on the tip of Annie's tongue to demand an apology, but she knew Fourcade would somehow make her feel like a fool in the end.

He had turned his attention to the papers on the table. He picked up the discarded wrapper of a Butterfinger from among the files, frowned at it, and tossed it in the trash. 'What'd you learn tonight, 'Toinette?'

'That I probably need reading glasses, but I'm too vain to go to the eye doctor,' Annie said dryly.

He looked at her sideways.

'Joke,' she stated. 'A wry remark intended to lighten the moment.'

He turned back to the statements and lab reports.

She sighed and rubbed the small of her back with both hands. 'I learned that no fewer than a dozen people swore to Donnie's level of intoxication the night of the murder- some of them friends of his, some not. Doesn't necessarily let him off the hook.

'I learned there was no semen found during the autopsy. The mutilation made it difficult to find out if she'd been raped, but then again, it just may not have been there. That makes me nervous.'

'Why is that?'

'This jerk running around out there now. I responded to the first call-Jennifer Nolan. No semen and the guy was wearing a Mardi Gras mask. Pam Bichon: no semen and a Mardi Gras mask left behind.'

'Copycat,' Fourcade said. 'The mask was common knowledge.'

'And he also knew not to come?'

'There's a certain rate of dysfunction among rapists. Maybe he couldn't come. Maybe he used a rubber. The cases are unrelated.'

'That's what I like about you, Nick,' Annie said sarcastically. 'You're so open-minded.'

'Don't become distracted by irrelevant external incidents.'

'Irrelevant? How is a serial rapist not relevant?'

'From what I've heard, there are more differences than similarities in the cases. One's a killer, one's a rapist. The rape victims were tied up. Pam was nailed down-thank Christ we managed to keep that out of the papers. The rape victims were attacked in their homes, Pam was not. Pam Bichon was stalked, harassed. Were the others? It's simple, sugar: Marcus Renard killed Pam Bichon, and someone else raped these women. You better make up your mind 'bout which is your focus.'

'My focus is the truth,' Annie said. 'It's not my job to draw conclusions-or yours, Detective.'

'You saw Renard today,' he said, dismissing her argument and her point once again.

Annie gritted her teeth in frustration. 'Yes. He left a message on my answering machine last night, asking for my assistance in dealing with your little chance encounter. It seems the deputy who answered the call yesterday was unsympathetic.'

'Where's the tape?'

She dug the cassette recorder out of her purse, turned the volume up, and set the machine on the table. Fourcade stared down at the plastic rectangle as if he could see Renard in it. He seemed to listen without breathing or blinking. When it was done, he nodded and turned toward her.

'Impressions?'

'He's convinced himself he's innocent.'

'Persecution complex. Nothing is his fault. Everybody's picking on him.'

'He's also convinced himself I'm his friend.'

'Good. That's what we want.'

'That's what you want,' she muttered behind his back. 'As a family they'd make great characters on The Twilight Zone.'

'He hates his mother, resents his brother. Feels shackled to the both of them. This guy's head is a psychological pressure cooker full of snakes.'

She couldn't argue with Fourcade's diagnosis. It was his vehemence that bothered her.

'What he said about that truck-the guy that supposedly helped him with his car that night,' she said. 'Did you check it out?'

'Ran the partial plate through DVM. Got a list of seventy-two dark-colored trucks. None of the owners helped a stranded motorist that night.' He gave her a sharp look. 'What you think, chere-you think I don't do my job?'

Annie chose her words carefully. 'I think your focus was proving Renard's guilt, not verifying his alibi.'

'I do the job,' he said tightly. 'I want my arrests to stand up in court. I do the job. I did it here. I don't just think Renard is guilty. He is guilty.'

'What about New Orleans?' The words were out before she could consider the folly of pushing him. The necessity of trusting him and the reluctance to trust him were issues too important to ignore, especially after his sin of omission regarding his visit to Renard.

'What about it?'

'You thought you knew who did the Candi Parmantel murder-'

'I did.'

'The charges against Allan Zander were dismissed.'

'That doesn't make him innocent, sugar.' He strode over to a neat stack of files on a corner of the table, digging down to pull one out. 'Here,' he said, thrusting it at her. 'The DMV list. Call 'em yourself if you think I'm a liar.'

'I never said I thought you were a liar,' Annie mumbled, peeking inside the cover. 'I just need to know you didn't run through this case with blinders on, that's all.'

'Renard, he winning you over, chere?' he asked sardonically. 'Maybe that's what this