Страница 73 из 124
Nick shook his head and started toward the door. "And you say I'm the crazy one."
Stokes shrugged off the responsibility. "Hey, what can I say? He crossed my line."
A
Had she really believed she could become involved in this investigation and float from point to point in a bubble of invisibility? People talked to one another. The case was open and ongoing. Stokes was supposed to be working it; of course he would speak to Lindsay Faulkner. Lindsay had spoken with A
"Except that it could mean my ass," A
If Stokes took this to the sheriff… It made her stomach hurt to imagine what Noblier would have to say about it. They'd have to bury her in that damn dog suit.
But Gus had said nothing outright when he'd called her into his office about the Faulkner attack, which could only mean Stokes hadn't brought it up… yet.
"Hooker was right," Gus had growled, fixing her with his classic look of disgruntlement. "It seems if there's a pile of shit around, you'll find one way or another to step in it. Just how did you come to be at Lindsay Faulkner's home, Deputy Broussard?"
She stuck with the lie she'd told Stokes, wondering too late if she'd trapped herself. There would be no paperwork at Bayou Realty to back her up. What if Stokes walked into the realty office and requested a file that didn't exist?
She would have to deal with that burning bridge when she came to it, she decided, setting her di
Maybe Faulkner hadn't told him about their meetings. There was no way of knowing until either Stokes made a move or Lindsay Faulkner regained consciousness.
"Why can't you just mind your own business, A
Downstairs in the store, Stevie the night clerk was watching Speed again, deep in lust with Sandra Bullock. The sounds of crashes and explosions came up through the floor as if a small war were going on below. Ordinarily A
Still, in spite of herself, she wondered how Fourcade was doing. She had called from a pay phone at noon and left a message on his machine about Lindsay Faulkner. He hadn't called her back. She occasionally lapsed into panicked thoughts of him lying on his floor dead from internal bleeding, but then talked herself out of them. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the receiving end of a pounding. He knew better than she did the extent of his own injuries.
He certainly hadn't kissed like a man on the brink of death.
No, he had kissed her like a blind man sensing light, like a man who needed to make a co
"Don't be stupid," she muttered, turning her attention to the papers she had brought home with her from Nick's place the night before-the reports of the harassment Pam Bichon had endured before her murder, copies of reports from the Bayou Breaux PD on incidents that had occurred at her office.
Pam had feared for her safety and for Josie's. But her level of fear had seemed out of proportion to the officers who had taken the calls. While they had drawn no conclusions in the reports, it wasn't hard for another cop to read between the lines. They thought she was overreacting, being unreasonable, wasting their time. Why would she be afraid of Marcus Renard? He seemed so normal, so harmless. Why should she think he was the one making the breather calls? What proof did she have he was stalking the shadows of her Quail Run property? How could it possibly frighten her to receive a silk scarf from an anonymous admirer?
Gooseflesh swept down A
A
She had given back to him everything he had ever given her, and among those gifts was a silk scarf. A
Nausea swirled through A
"You look like her, you know," Do
"You fit the victim profile," Fourcade said. "… you came into his life, chère. Like it was meant to be… He could fall in love with you."
Had Pam Bichon held this very scarf in her hands, feeling the same strange sense of disquiet A
The phone rang, sending her half a foot off her chair. She tossed the scarf aside and went into the living room.
The machine picked up on the fourth ring and she listened to herself advise the caller.
"If you're someone I'll actually want to talk to, leave a message after the tone. If you're a reporter, a salesman, a heavy breather, a crank, or someone with an opinion of me I don't want to hear, just don't bother. I'll only erase you."
The warning hadn't seemed to deter anyone. The tape had been full by the time she'd gotten home. Word of her involvement in the Faulkner case had leaked out of the department like oil through a bad gasket. Three reporters had been lying in wait for her on the store gallery when she got home. But it wasn't a reporter who waited for the tone.
"A
A
"Just what I said. Someone took a shot at me through a window."
"Why are you calling me? Call 911."
"We did. The deputies who came said it was a pity the guy was such a poor shot. They dug the bullet out of the wall and left. I'd like someone to look around, investigate."
"And you'd like that someone to be me?"
"You're the only one who cares, A
He was silent for a moment. A
"Please, A
Out over the Atchafalaya, thunder rumbled like distant ca