by Sandra Brown
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast
the day before. He searched the car for something to eat and found a
forgotten Twinkie in the glove box.
What was taking so freaking long? The chauffeur had found a way to pass
the time. He was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife.
Burke saw him cough up a wad of phlegm and spit it into the shrubbery
flanking the gate. Nails clean, he folded his arms across his chest and
leaned back against the iron post of a gaslight. Burke couldn't see his
eyes, but he would bet they were closed and that the goon was taking a
nap standing up.
Forty-seven minutes after Remy Duvall went into the school, she came
out. She said nothing to the chauffeur until they reached the car, when
she paused before getting in and spoke to him over her shoulder.
He doffed his cap.
"Yes, ma'am. Anything you say, madam. Kiss your ass? You bet.
Jump? How high? Roll over? Play dead? Your wish is my command."
Burke's muttering was tinged with contempt as he watched the chauffeur
hustle to carry out her orders.
He cranked up the engine of the Toyota and followed at a nonthreatening,
nonsuspicious distance as the limo left the Garden District, traveled
down Canal Street, and then turned left, entering the French Quarter via
Decatur Street.
The driver double parked beside a row of parking meters, all of which
were occupied. Straight ahead lay the French Market. The chauffeur got
out and went through the routine of opening her door and helping her
out.
Burke whipped his Toyota into a space farther down the street, ignoring
the stripes marking it as a loading zone. He reached for the duffel bag
in his backseat. When he stepped out of the car a few moments later, he
was wearing not a sport coat and dress shoes, but a loose rain jacket,
Nikes, a baseball cap, and dark sunglasses.
Placing his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he strolled down the
banquet looking like an average Joe who had the afternoon off, with
seemingly no purpose in mind except to shop the fresh produce of the
French Market and to meander among the stalls where vendors sold
everything from voodoo dolls to alligator money clips.
He picked through a bin of Vidalia onions while, one row over, Remy
Duvall sorted through the oranges. Now no more than eight feet away,
Burke got his first close look at her.
There was no cleavage showing today, yet her two-piece suit could have
been tailored for a Barbie doll. The skirt was short and snug. Its
tightly nipped waistline drew attention to her breasts his attention
anyway. Her heels were high, her earrings flashy. The diamond on her
ring finger was the size of a doorknob. She looked like the girls in the
get-off magazines, except for her hair. It wasn't long and tangled.
It was sleek and smooth. But there was something about the way it
brushed her cheek each time she moved her head that was like an
invitation to touch. Cherry-colored lips parted into a smile when she
lifted one of the oranges to her nose and sniffed it.
Except for the small gold cross around her neck, she couldn't have
looked more blatantly sexual if she'd been stark naked and had BoFF ME
tattooed on her tits.
Even the fruit vendor was almost too flustered to sack up the pair of
oranges she selected. The chauffeur paid for her purchase, but the
vendor handed her the sack, placing it in her hands with his profuse
thanks.
As she moved away, the bodyguard fell into step with her, his eyes
sweeping right and left. Burke thanked the onion vendor but declined to
buy any. Instead he ambled across the street, past the stand that sold
African artifacts and clothing, toward the kiosk coffee bar where Mrs.
Duvall had taken a chair at one of the small, round tables. She opened
the brown paper sack and began to peel one of the oranges, her long
fingernails digging into the flesh of the fruit.
At the bar, Burke ordered a banana smoothie. He stood elbow to elbow
with the bodyguard. The guy's forearm was bigger around than Burke's
neck. He picked up Mrs. Duvall's cappuccino with his beefy hand and
carried it to her. He returned to the bar only long enough to get his
own cup of coffee, but he didn't return to Mrs. Duvall's table. He
stationed himself at another one nearby, while she sat alone, eating her
orange section by section and sipping her cappuccino.
The banana smoothie was even more obnoxious than Burke had imagined, but
he drank it slowly and with feigned, drawn-out pleasure as he watched
Mrs. Duvall's reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
She attracted attention from passersby, but she didn't make eye contact
with anyone and spoke to no one. For a woman with her looks, a rich
husband, a mansion, and a chauffeur-driven limousine, she seemed to make
an event out of something as simple as eating an orange. She chewed each
section slowly, and waited several minutes before consuming another.
Burke began to wonder if she was waiting for someone to join her.
Could Duvall be using her as a courier for his extracurricular
activities? But no one came near her, and the guard didn't appear on
edge. His head was buried in a tabloid newspaper.
The banana smoothie had melted into a syrupy slush that smelled like
suntan lotion before Remy Duvall finished her orange and Wrapped the
peel in a paper napkin. When she stood to dispose of it in a trash can,
the chauffeur closed his tabloid and rushed over to assist. Together,
they began making their way back toward the illegally parked car.
"Hey, lady!" Burke cursed himself for acting impulsively, but at that
point he was committed. Both Mrs. Duvall and her guard dog had turned
back and were looking at him.
The brown paper sack with the extra orange in it was still sitting on
the table. He picked it up and jogged toward her."You forgot this."
It was the chauffeur who snatched the sack from him."Thanks."
Burke, ignoring him, addressed her."No problem."
He was close enough to smell an expensive floral fragrance and the
essence of orange. For her hair to be so dark, her eyes were an
incredibly light shade of blue, almost clear. The red lipstick had been
eaten off, but her lips were rouged from the orange's acid sting.
She said to him, "Thank you."
Then the bodyguard stepped between them, blocking her from Burke's view.
Although wanting to watch her walk away, Burke turned and ambled off in
the opposite direction. He waited until the limo was out of sight before
returning to his car, where he sat for a long time, motionless, but
breathing as though he'd sprinted a mile.
"And that's it?"
Errol the chauffeur was sweating under the incisive glare that Pinkie
used on clients he knew were lying."That's it, Mr. Duvall. I swear.
I drove her to the school. Then she asked me to take her to the market.
She bought a couple of oranges and had some coffee at that little cafe
across the street there. I took her to church. She was in there for half
&n
bsp; an hour, same as always. Then I brought her home."
"You didn't take her anywhere else?"
"No, sir."
"She was within your sight the entire time?"
"Except when she was inside the school, yes, sir."
Pinkie steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips, while
keeping the nervous bodyguard beneath his baleful stare."If Mrs. Duvall
asked you to take her somewhere, somewhere that I hadn't okayed first,
you would refuse to take her and then you'd tell me, right?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Duvall."
"If she went somewhere that wasn't scheduled, if she kept an appointment
that I didn't know about, you'd report it to me right away, correct?"
"Right, sir. I don't understand"
"Because I'd hate to discover that your loyalty had shifted from me to
my wife, Errol. She's a beautiful woman. I'm sure you're aware of that."
"Jeer, Mr. Duvall, I'd have to be " "My wife could twist any man around
her finger. She could get a man to do something for her that she knows
would not meet with my approval."
"Swear to God, sir," the chauffeur exclaimed, swallowing hard.
"No, sir, that would never happen. Not with me. You're the boss.
Nobody else."
Pinkie reprieved him with a wide smile."Good. I'm glad to hear you say
that, Errol. You can go now."
Baffled and looking downcast, Errol slunk from the office. Pinkie
watched him go, thinking that he had come down on him a little harder
than necessary, but that's how a man in his position instilled and
maintained fear in the people who worked for him.
Look at Sachel. He was now a guest of the state at Angola and would be
for a while. Was fear a powerful motivator, or what? Pinkie had enjoyed
several private chuckles over how quickly Sachel had capitulated when
his son's football aspirations were threatened.
Tonight, however, he didn't feel like laughing. Something was going on
with Remy, but damned if he could figure out what it was.
For weeks this problem had been nagging him with the persistence of a
toothache. Remy had become uncommonly withdrawn. Uncommonly being the
operative word, because, on occasion, she retreated into herself and
nothing could touch her, not lavish gifts, not teasing, not sex, not
threats to snap out of it. These spells were usually shortlived and she
always got over them. Except for that one character flaw, she was as
perfect as a woman can be.
But this period of despondency had lasted longer than most, and it was
more profound. When he looked into her eyes, they were shuttered.
When she laughed, which was rarely, it seemed forced. She was distracted
when he talked to her, and vague when she talked to him.
Even in bed, it seemed he couldn't touch her, no matter how tender or
how forceful he was. She never refused him, but, at best, her
performance could be described as passive.
Her symptoms were those of a woman having an affair, but that was
impossible. Even if she'd met another man, which was highly improbable.
she couldn't rendezvous without Pinkie knowing about it.
He could account for how she spent every minute of her day.
He doubted that Errol's loyalty had shifted. The man was too afraid of
him. But, even supposing Remy had managed to bribe her bodyguard or
otherwise put something over on him, someone within Pinkie's wide
network of acquaintances would tattle on her. He had already asked the
house staff about incoming and outgoing telephone calls. Besides those
to and from Flarra, there'd been none. No one had come to the house to
see her. She'd received no packages, no personal mail.
Rule out an affair.
Then what in God's name could be the matter? She had everything a woman
could want or dream of wanting. Although, he reminded himself, she might
think differently.
After they married, she had sulked when he told her that college wasn't
in her future. That's when she began taking courses by correspondence
and reading every goddamn book she could get her hands on. He'd indulged
her quest for knowledge until it became so tiresome he forced her to
ration her studies and to read only when he wasn't in the house.
A few years after that, she had become obsessed with the notion of
joining the work force, at least on a part-time basis. That whim had
been squelched soon enough.
So was this current mood just another female "passage" that he must
endure before she returned to normal?
Or was this something more serious?
On impulse, he pulled up a card from the Rolodex on his desk."Dr.
Caruth, please." After identifying himself, the call was put straight
through to Remy's gynecologist."Hello, Mr. Duvall."
The broad greeted him tersely, like she had better things to do than
take his call. He'd heard from doctors he played golf with that she was
a real ball-breaker, the scourge of the hospital. She was one of those
women who seemed to work at making herself unattractive and unlikable,
especially to men.
Pinkie had never liked her, and he knew the feeling was mutual.
But Remy was her patient because he sure as hell wasn't going to give
another man, any man, that kind of private access to his wife.
"Are you calling on behalf of Mrs. Duvall?" she asked."There's nothing
wrong, I hope."
"That's what I'd like to know. Is there something wrong with her?"
"I can't discuss a patient with you, Mr. Duvall. That would violate
professional privilege. As an attorney, you should understand that."
"We're not talking about a patient. We're talking about my wife."
"Even so. Is she ill?"
"No. Not exactly."
"If Mrs. Duvall feels she needs to see me, have her call in the morning
and set up an appointment. I'll work her in. it would be improper for me
to carry this discussion any further. Good night." She hung up on him.
"Goddamn dyke! " Her abrupt manner made him furious, but the call had
told him what he needed to know. Dr. Caruth had always talked down to
him. She talked down to everybody. She'd been no different tonight.
If Remy had recently been diagnosed with a serious illness, the doctor
would have been much more alarmed. She would have put aside her low
opinion of him to find out what symptoms he had noticed to prompt the
call.
Contacting the doctor had been a long shot, anyway. Remy's problem
wasn't health related. It was mental, emotional. There was something
weighing heavily on her mind that she wanted to hide from him.
Whatever it was, he would find out. Eventually it would surface, and
when it did, he would quell it.
These minor insurrections were of no lasting consequence. They were
irritations, like a mosquito bite that itched like hell for a few days,
and then it vanished, not even leaving a scar to remember it y office
Beyond further.
by.
He could reshape Remy's attitude as easily as he could remold warm clay.
With a few words, he could cleanse her mind of any dissatisfaction. He
had the extinguisher that would put out any fires of rebellion that
might burn i
n her heart.
Because he knew what she feared most.
Pinkie was reading a legal brief when Remy came from her dressing room
and joined him in bed. He removed his reading glasses and set the brief
on the bedside table."Remy, I want to know what's going on with you."
"What do you mean?"
He'd never struck her, but he came terribly close then to slapping the
phony innocence off her face. Instead, he reached for her hand and
squeezed it hard, but not as hard as he felt like."I'm tired of this
game. I was tired of it weeks ago. It ends tonight."
"Game?"
"Your game of keeping secrets."
"I'm not keeping secrets."
"Don't ..." Bringing his raised voice under control, he began again,
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
He gave her a long look."Are you planning to run away again?"
"No!"
"Because if you are, I caution you not to try. I was forgiving before.
But I won't be again."
She tried to turn her head away, but he pinched her chin between his
fingers and forced her to look at him. He rubbed his thumb across her
lower lip, pressing hard."I wanted you the first time I saw you.