A Thin Dark Line

She wondered if maybe that was what had happened to Fourcade.

Needing to move, A

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, chère?"

A

"Don't you know better than to sneak up on a woman when there's a rapist out ru

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," A

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

A

"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 A

"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 A

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," A

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 Do

"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 ru

"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," A

"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," A

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

A

"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 i

"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, chère-you think I don't do my job?"

A

"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 i

"I never said I thought you were a liar," A

"Renard, he wi