by Tami Hoag
"Better get your story straight about what happened with Renard last night," he said.
"I know exactly what happened."
Stokes shook his head. "You chicks just don't know shit about honor, do you?"
She pushed his hand away. "I know it doesn't involve committing a felony. I'll go talk to those neighbors now."
9
Nick stood in the pirogue, his gaze focused on a watery horizon, his mind concentrating completely on his slow, precise movements. Balance ... grace ... calm ... breathe ... harmonize mind, body, spirit ... sense the water beneath the boat—fluid, yielding ... become as the water...
Despite the cool of the day, sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked through his sleeveless gray sweatshirt. Biceps and triceps flexed and trembled as he moved. The strain came not from the Tai Chi form, but from within, from the battle to remain focused.
Move slowly ... without force ... without violence...
A scene from the night broke his concentration for a heartbeat. Renard ... blood ... force ... violence ... The sense of harmony he had been seeking pulled away from him and was gone. The pirogue jerked beneath his feet. He dropped to the seat of the boat and cradled his head in his hands.
He had built the boat himself from cypress and marine plywood, and painted it green and red like the old swampers had done years ago to identify themselves as serious fishermen and trappers. He had been glad to come back to the swamp. New Orleans was a discordant place. Looking back, he had always felt spiritually fractured there. This was where he had come from: the Atchafalaya—over a million acres of wilderness strung along the edges with a garland of small towns like Bayou Breaux and St. Martinville, and smaller towns like Jeanerette and Breaux Bridge, and places that seemed too small and inconsequential to have names, though they did.
He had passed his boyhood some miles removed from one of those places, on a house barge tethered to the bank of a nameless lake. He remembered his father as a swamper, fishing and trapping, before the oil boom hit and he took a job as a welder and moved the family to Lafayette. They had lived richer there, but not better. Armand Fourcade had confessed more than once he had left a part of his soul in the swamp. Only since coming back had Nick begun to realize what his father had meant. Here he could feel whole and centered. Sometimes.
This was not one of those times.
Reluctantly, he picked up his paddle and started the boat toward home. The sky was hanging low, dulling the color of the swamp, tinting everything a clingy gray: the fragile new lime green leaves of the tupelos that stood like sentinels in the water, the lacy greenery of the willows and hackberry trees that covered the islands, the few yellow-tops that had been tricked into opening by the warmth that had come too early in the season. This day was cool, but if the weather heated up again, the bright flowers would soon crowd the banks, and white-topped daisy fleabane and showy black-eyed Susans would grow down to the water's edge to blend in with the tangles of poison ivy and alligator weed and ratten vine.
The swamp was usually bursting with life in the spring. Today it seemed to be holding its breath. Waiting. Watching.
Just as Nick was waiting. He had set something in motion last night. Every action produces reaction; every challenge, a response. The thing hadn't ended with Gus sending him home. It had hardly begun.
He guided the pirogue through a channel studded with deadhead cypress stumps, and around the narrow point of an island that would double in size when the spring waters receded. His home sat on the bank two hundred yards west, an Acadian relic that had been poorly updated as modern conveniences became available to the people of rural South Louisiana.
He was remodeling the place himself, a room at a time, restoring its charm and replacing cheap fixes with quality. Mindless manual labor afforded an acceptable outlet for the restlessness he once would have tried to douse with liquor.
He spotted the city cruiser immediately. The car sat near his 4X4. A white uniformed officer stood beside the car with a stocky black man in a sharp suit and tie and an air of self-importance discernible even from a distance. Johnny Earl, the chief of the Bayou Breaux PD.
Nick guided the pirogue in alongside the dock and tied it off.
"Detective Fourcade," Earl said, moving toward the dock, holding his gold shield out ahead of him. "I'm Johnny Earl, chief of police in Bayou Breaux."
"Chief," Nick acknowledged. "What can I do for you?"
"I think you know why we're here, Detective," the chief said. "According to a complaint made this morning by Marcus Renard, you committed a crime last night within the incorporated municipality of Bayou Breaux. Contrary to what Sheriff Noblier seems to think, that's a police matter. I assured DA Pritchett I would see to this myself, even though it pains me to have cause. You're under arrest for the assault of Marcus Renard—and this time it's for real. Cuff him, Tarleton."
Annie took the stairs to the second floor of the courthouse, trying to imagine how she might escape having a private conversation with A.J. If she could slip into the courtroom just as the case against Hypolite Grangnon was called, then skip as soon as she had testified...
She'd had enough confrontations for one day. She hadn't been able to so much as fill her cruiser with gas without getting into it with somebody. But the capper had been getting called to the Bayou Breaux Police Department.
The interview with Johnny Earl had seemed like the longest hour of her life. He had personally taken charge of the case and personally grilled her like a rack of ribs, trying to get her to admit to having arrested Fourcade at the scene of the incident. She stuck to the story the sheriff had force-fed her, telling herself the whole time that it wasn't that far from the truth. She hadn't heard any radio call about a prowler—because there hadn't been one. She hadn't really arrested Fourcade—because no one else in the department would let her.
Earl hadn't swallowed a word of it. He'd been a cop too long. But busting Noblier's chops over the cover-up was only secondary on his agenda. He had Fourcade in custody and would make as much political hay off that as possible. He didn't need her true confession to make the sheriff look bad, and he knew it. In fact, he might have been just as well off without it. This way he could allege the corruption in the sheriff's office was widespread, reaching into all echelons. He could count her as a coconspirator.
Conspiracy, giving a false statement. What's next? To what new low can I aspire? Annie asked herself as she turned down the corridor that led past the old courtrooms. Perjury.
Sooner or later she would be coming to this courthouse to testify against Fourcade.
The hall was clogged with loitering lawyers and social workers and people with vested interests in the cases being heard. The door to Judge Edmonds's courtroom swung open, nearly bowling over a public defender. A.J. stepped into the hall. His gaze immediately homed in on Annie.
"Deputy Broussard, may I see you in my office?" he said.
"B-but the Grangnon trial—"
"Is off. He copped a plea."
"Swell," she said without enthusiasm. "Then I can get back on patrol."
He leaned close. "Don't make me drag you, Annie, and don't think I'm not mad enough to do it."
The secretaries in the outer office of the DA's domain sat up like show dogs as A.J. stormed through, oblivious to their batting eyelashes. He tossed his briefcase into a chair as he entered his own office and slammed the door shut behind Annie.
"Why the hell didn't you call me?" he demanded.
"How the hell could I call you, A.J.?"
"You get in the middle of Fourcade trying to kill Renard, and you don't bother to mention that to me? Jesus, Annie, you could have been hurt!"
"I'm a cop. I could be hurt any day of the week."
"You weren't even on duty!" he ranted, tossing his hands up. "You told me you were going home! How did this happen?"
"A cruel twist of fate," she said bitterly. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"That's not quite how Richard K
udrow put it when he dropped this little bomb on Pritchett this morning. He hailed you as a heroine, the only champion for justice in an otherwise morbidly corrupt department."
"The department is not corrupt," she said, hating the lie. What was a cover-up of police brutality if not corruption?
"Then why wasn't Fourcade in jail this morning? You arrested him, didn't you? Kudrow claims he saw the report, but there's no report on file at the sheriff's department. What's up with that? Did you arrest him or not?"
"And you wonder why I didn't call you," Annie muttered, staring to the left of him. Better to look at his diploma from LSU than to lie to his face. "I can do without this third-degree bullshit, thank you very much."
"I want to know what happened," he said, stepping into her field of vision, wise to all her argument strategies. "I'm concerned about you, Annie. We're friends, right? You're the one who kept saying it last night—we're best friends."
"Oh yeah, best friend," she said sarcastically. "Last night we were best friends. And now you're a DA and I'm a deputy, and you're pissed off because you looked bad in front of your boss this morning. That's it, isn't it?"
"Dammit, Annie, I'm serious!"
"So am I! You tell me that isn't true," she demanded. "You look me in the eye and tell me you're not trying to use our friendship to get information you couldn't get any other way. You look at me and tell me you would have accosted any other deputy in the hall in front of two dozen people and dragged him in here like a child."
A.J. snapped his teeth together as he turned his face away. The disappointment that pressed down on Annie was almost as heavy as the inescapable sense of guilt. Hands clamped on top of her head, she walked past him to the window.
"You don't have any idea what I've fallen into," she murmured, staring out at the parking lot.
"It's simple," he said. The voice of reason, calm and charming as he came up behind her. "If you caught Fourcade breaking the law, then he belongs in jail."
"And I have to testify against him. Rat out another cop —a detective, no less."
"The law is the law."
"Right is right. Wrong is wrong," she said, nodding her head with each beat as she turned to face him once more. "I'm glad life is so easy for you, A.J."
"Don't give me that. You believe in the law as much as I do. That's why you stopped Fourcade last night. It's for the courts to mete out punishment, not Nick Fourcade. And you had damn well better testify against him!"
"Don't threaten me," Annie said quietly. He took a step toward her, already contrite, but she held her hands up and backed away. "Thanks for your compassion, A.J. You're a real friend, all right. I'm so glad I turned to you in my time of need. I'll look forward to getting your subpoena."
"Annie, don't—" he started, but she waved him off as she pushed past him. "Annie, I—"
She slammed the door on whatever he had been about to say. At the same time, the door to Smith Pritchett's corner office flew open and a quartet of angry men bulled their way into the hall, with Pritchett himself in the lead. The chief of police came close on his heels, followed by Kudrow and Noblier. Annie pressed her back against the door to let them pass, her heart tripping as Kudrow nodded to her.
"Deputy Broussard," he said smoothly. "Perhaps you should join us in—"
Noblier muscled the lawyer to the side. "Butt out, Kudrow. I need a word with my deputy."
"I'm sure you do," Kudrow said with a chuckle. "Need I remind you, witness tampering is a serious offense, Noblier?"
"You make me want to puke, lawyer," Gus snarled. "You get a murderer off and go after the cops. Somebody oughta turn you ass-end up and knock some decency into you."
Kudrow shook his head, smile in place. "You even preach brutality. How the press will prick up their ears when they hear about this."
"His guts aren't the only thing that's cancerous in him," Gus grumbled as Kudrow followed the others down the hall. "That man's soul is black with rot.
"He pulled Pritchett's tail," he said, seeming to talk to himself. "That's my fault. I should have called Pritchett myself last night. Now he's got it into his head this is some kind of pissing contest. That man has an ego bigger than my granddaddy's dick.
"And Johnny Earl ... I don't know who put the bug up his ass. The man is contrary. Doesn't understand the rhythms of life around here. That's what happens when the city council hires outsiders. They bring in Johnny Fucking Earl from Cleveland or some goddamn place where don't nobody know jack about life in this place. The man has an attitude. He thinks I'm some lazy, crooked, racist cracker out of a goddamn movie. Like I don't have blacks working in my department. Like I'm not friends with blacks. Like I didn't win thirty-three percent of the black vote in the last election."
He turned his attention squarely on Annie with a ferocious scowl as he backed her toward Pritchett's empty office. "I told you not to talk to Kudrow."
"I didn't talk to him."
"Then what's this bullshit he's spewing about an arrest report?" he whispered. "And how come your sergeant told me he saw the two of you in the goddamn parking lot not twenty feet from the building?"
"I didn't tell him anything."
"And that's exactly what you're gonna say at this press conference, Deputy. Nothing."
Annie swallowed hard. "Press conference?"
"Come on," he ordered as he strode down the hall.
Pritchett opened the show with a statement about Marcus Renard's alleged attack. He announced Detective Nick Fourcade had been taken into custody by the Bayou Breaux PD. He promised to get to the bottom of the allegations and expressed outrage at the idea of anyone attempting to circumvent the justice system.
Kudrow, looking wan and tragic, quietly reminded everyone of Fourcade's checkered past, and asked that justice be served. "I will state again my client's innocence. He has been proven guilty of nothing. In fact, while he lay in the hospital last night, put there by Detective Fourcade, the real criminal was at large and may well have committed a brutal rape."
And then began the feeding frenzy.
The questions and comments of the reporters were pointed and barbed. They had been chasing the story of Renard in one form or another for better than three months with no solid conclusion as to his innocence or guilt. While they couldn't find sympathy for the officers who had endured the same frustration, they didn't hesitate to vent their own. They went after everybody, sided with no one, and homed in on the chance for fresh blood.
"Sheriff, is that true—that another woman was attacked last night?"
"No comment."
"Deputy Broussard, is it true you formally arrested Detective Fourcade last night?"
Annie squinted into the blinding light of a portable sun gun as Gus nudged her forward. "Ah—I can't comment."
"But you are the officer who called in the ambulance. You did return to the sheriff's department with Detective Fourcade."
"No comment."
"Sheriff, if Renard was in the hospital while this other woman was being attacked, doesn't that prove his innocence?"
"No."
"Then you're confirming the attack occurred?"
"Deputy Broussard, can you confirm taking a statement from Mr. Renard at the hospital last night? And if so, why was Detective Fourcade not in custody this morning?"
"Ah—I—"
Gus leaned in front of her at the microphone. "Detective Fourcade was responding to a report of a prowler in the area. Deputy Broussard was off duty and did not hear the call. She came across a situation she found questionable, contained it, and accompanied Detective Fourcade back to the sheriff's department. It's as simple as that.
"I immediately suspended Detective Fourcade with pay, pending further investigation. And that's where this case stands as far as I'm concerned. My department has nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. If the district attorney wants to have the police investigate the matter, I welcome the scrutiny. I stand behind my people one hundred percent, and that's all I have to say o
n the matter."
Pritchett stepped back up to the microphone, determined to have the last word, while Gus herded Annie away from the podium toward the door. Annie kept at Noblier's heels like a faithful dog and wondered if that made her some kind of hypocrite. She expected the sheriff to protect her but not Fourcade. I didn't try to kill anyone. All I did was lie and file a false report.
Disgusted with herself, with her boss, with the vultures trying to pick at her on the fly as she made her escape from the courthouse and went to her cruiser, she kept her mouth shut and her eyes forward. The mob split into factions then, some of them running back up the courthouse steps as Kudrow emerged, some trailing after Noblier as he drove away in his Suburban. Half a dozen tailed Annie to the law enforcement center and chased her across the parking lot to the officers' entrance to the building.
Hooker stood in the foyer, staring out at the show, arms crossed over his round belly. "Where's the follow-up report on that cemetery vandalism?"
"I turned it in two days ago."
"The hell you did."
"I did!"
"Well, I don't have it, Broussard," he stated. "Do it again. Today."
"Yes, sir," Annie said, biting down on the urge to call him a liar. Hooker was an asshole, but fair in that he usually treated everyone with equal disrespect.
"Like it's not bad enough to have to do paperwork once," she grumbled as she came up on the briefing room. "I get to do mine twice."
"Who you want to do twice, Broussard?" Mullen sneered. He and Prejean stood in the hall, drinking coffee. "Your little pervert friend, Renard? I hear when he nails a woman, she stays nailed—to the floor." He snickered, flashing his bad teeth.
"Very funny, Mullen," Annie said. "And in such good taste. Maybe you could get a job doing stand-up comedy down at the funeral home."
"I'm not the one gonna be looking for a job, Broussard," he returned. "We heard about you going over to the townies to suck Johnny Earl's dick."
"I hate to spoil your sordid daydreams, but I didn't go over there because I wanted to, and the chief wasn't exactly happy when I left."