A Thin Dark Line

"We can't always see trouble coming," A

"Pam did, though. Not all along, but last summer, after she and Do

"Who did you think-?"

"Do

"How did he react?"

She rolled her eyes. "He accused me of poisoning Pam against him. I told him I'd tried that years ago, and she went and married him anyway. Pam always looked at Do

"It must be very unpleasant for you now-trying to resolve the business issues."

"It's a mess. The divorce would have cut Do

A

"Now what happens?" she asked.

"Now I have to deal with Do

"Hide it?"

"Bichon Bayou Development 'sold' these properties to Bayou Realty on paper. In reality, we were just holding them out of harm's way."

"And you still have them?"

Her smile was slightly feral. "Yes. But now Do

A

New Orleans . Real estate. Duval Marcotte.

Lindsay shook her head at the ridiculousness of the idea. "What would anyone in New Orleans want with Bayou Breaux?"

"You think he's bluffing?"

"He thinks he's bluffing. I think he's an idiot."

"What would you do if he sold his half to this buyer?"

"I don't know. Pam and I started this business together. It's important to me for that reason, you know, as something we built and shared as friends. And it's a strong little business; we do well enough. I enjoy it. I will sell this building if I get the chance," she admitted, turning to look out at the parking lot. "There are too many bad memories now. And that bastard upstairs. I keep picturing Detective Fourcade beating him to death. I-"

She stopped. A

"Broussard," Faulkner murmured with accusation. "You're the one who stopped him. My God. I thought you said you wanted this resolved."

"I do."

She rose with the poise and grace of old Southern breeding. "Then why didn't you just walk away?"

"Because that would have been murder."

Lindsay Faulkner shook her head. "No, that would have been justice. Now, you'll excuse me," she said, moving to the door. "You will leave these offices. I have nothing further to say to you."

A

She thought of going up the stairs. The cop in her wanted to study Marcus Renard, try to pick him apart, figure him out, see how he would fit into the range of stalkers she had studied in books. A deeper instinct held her in place. He had called her his heroine, had sent her roses. She didn't like it.

The decision was taken away from her when the door at the top of the stairs swung open and Renard stepped out. He looked grotesque, like a monster from one of the Grimms' grimmer fairy tales. The troll under the bridge. Moderate swelling distorted features dotted with bruises the hues of rotten fruit. For a second, he didn't see A

"A

"It's not a social call," A

"Following up on my attack?"

"No. I came to see Ms. Faulkner."

He put a hand on the stair railing and leaned against it. Beneath the bruises he was pale. "Lindsay is a hard, uncharitable woman."

"Gee, and she says such nice things about you."

"We used to be friends," he claimed. "In fact, we went out a time or two. Did she mention that?"

"No." Lie or not, she wanted to hear more. The cop in her shoved the cautious woman aside. "There's never been any mention of that anywhere."

"I never brought it up," he said. "It seemed both irrelevant and indelicate."

"How so?"

"It was years ago."

"She's very vocal in accusing you of murder. I'd think you'd want to discredit her. Why haven't you said something?"

"I'm saying it now," he said softly, his gaze beaming down on her. "To you."

It was an offer. He would give her things he wouldn't give anyone else. Because he thought she was his guardian angel.

"I was about to take my lunch break," Renard said, easing his way down the steps. "Would you join me?"

The offer struck her as so… ordinary. She believed this man to be a monster of the worst sort. The sight of Pam Bichon's body flashed in her mind. The brutality of the crime seemed bigger, stronger, more powerful than the man standing before her.

"I don't want to be seen with you," she said bluntly. "My life is difficult enough at the moment."

"I'm not going out. I can't," he admitted. "My life is difficult, as well."

The side door to the parking area opened, and a delivery boy stepped in with a white deli bag.

"Mr. Briggs?" He looked up at Renard, his eyes widening. "Man, that musta been some car wreck you was in."

Renard pulled out his wallet without comment.

"I'll share my gumbo," he offered A

"I'm not hungry," A

"I'm not a monster," Renard said. "I'd like the chance to convince you of that, A

"You shouldn't talk to me without your lawyer."

"Why not?"

Why not indeed? A