She told herself none of that mattered as she loaded tape number one into the player. Fourcade wanted to keep his past to himself, and all she wanted was to close this homicide. The rest was just baggage.
She hit the play button and set the machine on the table.
Fourcade tided the interview with Marcus Renard. He stated the date, time, and case number; his own name, rank, and badge number. Stokes stated his name, rank, and badge number. Chairs scraped against the floor, papers were shuffled.
Fourcade: "What'd you think of that murder, Mr. Renard?"
Renard: "It's-it's horrible. I can't believe it. Pam… My God…"
Stokes: "Can't believe what? That you could butcher a woman that way? Surprised yourself, did you?"
Renard: "What? I don't know what-You can't think I could do that! Pam was-I would never-"
Stokes: "Come on, Marcus. This is your ol' buddy Chaz you're talking to. I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. You and me, we been having this same conversation now for what-six, eight weeks? Only this time you did something more than just look. Am I right? You got sick of looking. You got sick of her turning you down."
Renard: "No. It wasn't-"
Stokes: "Come on, Marcus, get straight with this."
Fourcade: "Let's give him the benefit, Chaz. You tell us, Mr. Renard. Where were you last Friday night?"
Renard: "Am I being charged with something? Should I have a lawyer present?"
Fourcade: "Me, I dunno, Mr. Renard. Should you have a lawyer present? We just want you to set us straight, that's all."
Renard: "You have nothing to tie me to this. I'm an innocent man."
Stokes: "You wanted her, Marcus. I been here all along, remember? I know how you followed her around, sent her little notes, little presents. I know that was you calling her up, hanging around her house. I know what you did to that woman, and you might as well confess, Marcus, 'cause you can bet your ass we're gonna prove it, Nicky and me. If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'."
The rumble of an engine broke Annie's concentration. She clicked the cassette player off and listened for a car door slamming. When the sound didn't come, she rose from her chair, sliding the Sig out of her purse.
The small window on the end of the house afforded a view of nothing. The night was black as pitch. Fourcade's retreat was stuck in the hip pocket of civilization, readily accessible to the animals that prowled the swamp-a fair number on two legs. Poachers and thieves and worse. Society's ragged fringe.
Last night came back to her in a rush. Who would be her enemy here?
No one could have followed her without her knowing it, which eliminated anyone from the department. A random attack by the roving rapist seemed unlikely. That predator knew the lifestyles and habits of his victims. He hadn't chosen them by accident.
Something thumped hard against the floor of the gallery. Leading with the Sig, Annie let herself out onto the landing.
"Nick? That you?"
She waited, debating, knowing she had already tipped her hand. Then came a low groan, the unmistakable sound of pain.
"Fourcade?" she called, easing down the stairs. "Don't make me shoot you. I've got a big gun, you know."
He lay on the gallery floor, the light spilling out the window illuminating his battered face.
"Oh my Lord!" Annie stuck the gun in her waistband and dropped down beside him. "What happened? Who did this?"
Nick cracked open an eye and looked up at her. "Never announce yourself until you know the situation, Broussard."
"Man, even half dead you're bossy."
"Help me up."
"Help you up? I should call an ambulance! Or I suppose I could shoot you and put you out of your misery."
He winced as he tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees. "I'm fine."
Annie made a rude sound. "Oh, excuse me, I mistook you for someone who'd had the shit beat out of him."
"Mais yeah," he mumbled. "That'd be me. It ain't the first time, sugar."
"Why does that not surprise me?"
He straightened slowly, pain rippling through his body. "Come on, Broussard, quit gawking and help me. If we're partners, we're partners."
Annie moved around beside him and let him hook an arm around her shoulders. "I don't mind saying you're more than I bargained for, Nick."
He leaned heavily against her as she helped him into the house. They lurched past the front parlor like a pair of winos. Annie glanced at the blood that dyed the front of his T-shirt and muttered an expletive.
"Who did this?"
"Friend of a friend."
"I think you need somebody to redefine that term for you. Where are we going?"
"Bathroom."
She steered him down the hall and nearly fell into the tub as she lowered him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
"God, are you sure you're alive?" she said, squatting down in front of him.
"Looks worse than it is."
"I suppose you're gonna tell me I should see the other guy."
"They were ugly to start with."
"They? Plural?"
"Nothing's broke," Nick said, fighting off another groan as the muscles in his back seized up. "I'll be pissing blood tomorrow, that's all."
He leaned his forearms on his thighs and tried to concentrate on clearing away the dizziness. His head was banging like a ten-pound hammer on a cast-iron pot.
"Get me a whiskey," he grumbled.
"Don't boss me around, Fourcade," Annie said, digging through the small medicine cabinet. "I have it on good authority you should never piss off your medical personnel."
"Get me a whiskey, please, Nurse Ratched."
She peered over her shoulder with a look of amazement. "You must have a concussion. You just made a joke."
"It's in the kitchen," he ground out between his teeth, three of which felt loose. "Third cupboard on the right."
She went out and came back moments later with a tumbler of Jack Daniel's. She took the first shot herself.
"I want an explanation, Fourcade. And don't jerk me around. I've got a bottle of peroxide and I know how to use it."
She set the whiskey on the sink and started to help him out of his jacket.
"I can do it," he protested.
"Oh, God, don't be such a man. You can hardly move."
Nick gave in and let her remove his jacket and his shoulder rig with the Ruger.
He was disgusted with himself. He should have anticipated DiMonti's attack, should have known better than to go out the same way he'd come in. He should have been fighting off the knuckle hangover with greater success. He shouldn't have needed someone to take care of him, and he couldn't allow himself to get used to it. He wasn't the kind of man who could expect that kind of comfort. His was a solitary existence by necessity. He had pared away the need for companionship to better focus on building the broken pieces of himself into something whole.
But the job was far from finished, and he was tired and battered, and Annie Broussard's touch felt too welcome.
He started to pull the bloodstained T-shirt off himself, until the pain cracked across his back again, as if DiMonti were right there with that damned spade handle.
"I thank God daily that I don't have testicles," Annie grumbled. "They obviously impair common sense."
She began jerking the T-shirt up his back, but her hands stilled before she was halfway. Angry red welts lashed across the small of his back, blood pooling beneath them in bruises as dark as thunderheads.
"Jesus," she breathed. She had to have hurt him just putting her arm around him to help him into the house, and he hadn't made a sound. Damned stubborn man, she thought. He'd probably gotten exactly what he deserved.
"It's nothing," he snapped.
She didn't comment but moved more carefully as she peeled the T-shirt up. His skin was hot, the scent of him masculine with a feral undertone. Sweat and blood, she told herself. There was nothing sexual in it, nothing sexual in the act of undressing him.