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"I-I w-was g-gone to Kristen's h-house. Maybe if-if I h-had been home…"
A
She remembered going down the levee road, the taste of bitter tears as she had thrown her stuffed Mi
"It wasn't your fault, Josie," she murmured at last. "I thought that, too, when my mom died. That maybe if I had been home I could have stopped it from happening. But we can't know when bad things are coming to our lives. We can't control what other people do.
"It's not your fault your mom died, honey. That's someone else's fault, and he's going to be made to pay. I promise. All I ask is for you to believe me when I tell you I'm your friend. I'll always be your friend, Josie. I'll always try to be here for you and I'll always try my hardest for you."
Josie looked up at her. She tried to smile. "Then how come you're dressed up like a dog?"
A
"You were pretty bad," Josie admitted. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You smell really gross, too."
"Hey, watch the insults," A
"Yuck!"
"Come on, munchkin," she said, standing slowly. "I'll walk you downtown. You can help me carry my head."
Lake Pontchartrain shone metallic aqua, as flat as a coin and stretching north as far as the eye could see, bisected by the Pontchartrain Causeway toll bridge. Several boats skimmed the surface in the middle distance, their pilots playing hooky from the usual Monday rigors of work. The view from this stretch of shore was expensive. Real estate along this part of the lake was in the category of "if you have to ask, you can't afford it." Duval Marcotte could afford it.
His mansion was Italianate in design, looking like something that would be more at home in Tuscany than Louisiana. Soft white stucco and a red tile roof. Straight, elegant lines and tall slim windows. An eight-foot-tall wall surrounded the property, but the iron gates stood open, affording passersby a view of emerald lawn and lavish flower gardens. A black Lincoln Town Car sat in the drive near the house. A surveillance camera peered down from atop a gatepost.
Nick drove past and circled around. The service entrance stood open, as well. A florist's van sat near the kitchen entrance of the house with its doors gaping wide. Nick parked his truck outside the gate and walked to the house, grabbing an enormous arrangement of spring flowers out of the van.
The kitchen was a hive of activity. A thin woman was overseeing two aproned assistants in the making of canapes. Two more women were unloading trays of champagne glasses onto the granite top of another work island. A brawny boy of twentysomething emerged from a door with a case of champagne and carried it to a table at the direction of a small effeminate blond man in gold-rimmed glasses, who then swung toward Nick. "Take that to the red parlor. It goes on the round mahogany table near the fireplace."
A maid swung the kitchen door open for him.
He had been in this house twice and had memorized the layout, could see in his mind's eye every stick of antique furniture and every painting that hung on the walls. The red parlor was on the left at the front of the house, a room that looked as if it might have hosted Napoleon, the decor Second Empire, ornate and ostentatious.
Nick set the arrangement on the round mahogany table and walked quickly down the hall of the east wing, his ru
He would have been better off waiting, coming in late to surprise Marcotte in his bed, but that would have given Marcotte too good an excuse to shoot him or have him shot as an intruder. He was here for business, not revenge, he reminded himself as he ducked into a bathroom and shut the door behind him.
He stared at himself in the mirror above the pedestal sink. He wore a loose-fitting black sport coat over his white T-shirt, the cut of the jacket hiding the shoulder rig and the Ruger P.94 semiautomatic. His color was high along his cheekbones. His pulse was pounding a little too hard, and anticipation coated his mouth with a taste like copper. He hadn't seen Marcotte in more than a year, hadn't pla
Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, filled his lungs, and tried to still his mind. Calm, center, focus. Why was he here? Nothing visible tied Marcotte to the Bichon case. He had checked out every New Orleans number on Do
But even after reciting that logic, the uneasiness lingered. The spectre of Marcotte loomed in the shadows at the periphery of the case. Do
He let the air escape slowly between his lips. Calm, center, focus. He couldn't let the past press into this. He had to isolate the present, deal with the moment, think forward. Control. He stepped back into the hall and walked down to the lacquered cypress double doors.
Marcotte's young male secretary sat at a French desk in the small outer office. "Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Marcotte."
The secretary took in Nick's appearance with suspicion and disapproval. "I'm sorry, you don't have an appointment."
"Don't be sorry. He'll see me."
"Mr. Marcotte is a very busy man. He's in a meeting."
Nick leaned across the desk and grabbed hold of the man's necktie just below the knot, twisting it tight around his fist. The secretary's eyes went wide and a strangled sound of surprise leaked out of him.
"You're being very rude, college boy," Nick said softly. They were nearly nose to nose. "Lucky for you I'm such a patient guy. Me, I believe in giving people a second chance. Now why don't I unchoke you, and you can buzz Mr. Marcotte? You tell him Nick Fourcade is here on business."
Nick let him go and the secretary fell back in his chair, sucking in air. He reached for the phone and pressed the intercom button.