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 running shoes all but silent against the polished floor. He bypassed the main staircase in favor of the stairs at the far end of the hall. Marcotte's office was on the second floor of the east wing. A man of habit, he worked from home Mondays and Fridays. Business associates Marcotte wouldn't be seen with at his offices on Poydras Street in the central business district of New Orleans came to his home on a regular basis. Nick thought of the Town Car in the drive and frowned.
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 planned to see him ever again. He had done his best to close the door on that chapter of his life, and now he found himself sneaking back through it.
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 Donnie's phone records from before the murder, finding no direct link to Marcotte. A relief. He didn't want to strengthen Donnie's motive for killing Pam when he knew in his gut Renard was the murderer. If Donnie had contacted Marcotte after Pam's death, Nick had no way of knowing. There was no cause to confiscate Bichon's phone records for that period of time. And if Donnie had contacted Marcotte after the fact, that took Marcotte out of the loop for the murder.
But even after reciting that logic, the uneasiness lingered. The spectre of Marcotte loomed in the shadows at the periphery of the case. Donnie needed Pam's case closed before he could move on plans to sell the realty. If Renard were taken out, the case would likely go away. If Nick was the one to take Renard out, and if he went down for doing the deed, he would then be removed from Marcotte's new playing field.
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.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Marcotte." He tried to clear his throat, but the raspy edge remained in his voice. "There's a Nick Fourcade here to see you. He was adamant that I let you know."
No reply issued from the machine. Nick tapped his toe impatiently. A moment later the double doors to Marcotte's inner sanctum swung open and four men stepped out.
Nick assessed the company quickly, stepping toward the nearest wall. First came Vic "The Plug" DiMonti, a mob boss of middling rank in greater New Orleans. He was built like a small cube with stubby legs and arms. In contrast, the muscle that flanked him was oversized, a matched set of steroid-pumped knee busters with crew cuts, no necks, and round Armani sunglasses.
Marcotte stayed in the open doorway as the wiseguys walked out. He looked like the most ordinary of men in dress trousers and a pin-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie a neat bloodred strip. Slim, sixty, bald on top. He was famous for his smile. His eyes were kindly. And inside his chest, his heart was a small black atrophied lump. He was lavishly benevolent, impressively humble, secretly vicious. He had bought and paid handsomely for a sterling image, and the few people in New Orleans's high circles who knew that gladly looked the other way.
"Well, if it isn't my old friend, Nick Fourcade!" he said, chuckling, jovial, flashing the kind of bonhomie reserved for old and dear acquaintances. "This is a surprise!"
"Is it?"
"Come in, Nick," he offered with a grand gesture. "Evan, bring us coffee, will you?"
"I won't be staying," Nick said as he stepped past his host into the office.
He was impressed against his will by the view of the lake through the Palladian window that centered the main wall. The room itself was no less impressive. The carpet was plush gray, a shade lighter than the walls. Objets d'art were displayed at intervals along the walls. The furnishings were museum quality.
"You've got a long drive back home," Marcotte said, rounding his massive desk. "I hear you've made quite a name for yourself out there in the Cajun nation."
Nick made no comment. He positioned himself behind a Louis XIV armchair at one end of the desk, with the doors in view. He rested his hands on the back of the chair. Marcotte was the antithesis of everything he believed in: morality, justice, personal accountability. Nick had dreamed of punishing Marcotte for it, but there was no way of doing it without corrupting himself. The catch only fueled his anger.