Annie closed her eyes. "It's just the job, Uncle Sos. Things are hard for me right now."
"Because you stop that detective from killing that man what ever'one says is guilty?"
"Yeah."
He hummed a note. "Well, I'd like to see him dead, too, but that don' mean you did wrong. Somebody wanna say different, they can come to me.
"Dat horse's ass Noblier, he don' deserve you for a deputy, chère. You can always come work for your uncle Sos, you know. I'll give you a quarter you come seine the shiners out my bait tanks."
Annie found a chuckle for his teasing, then turned and hugged him fiercely. "I love you."
Sos patted her back and kissed the top of her head. "Je t'aime, chérie. You get some sleep tonight. Leave the rascals to me. I got fresh buckshot in the gun."
"Oh, that's a comfort," Annie muttered dryly.
She dragged herself up the stairs to the apartment. A small package waited for her on the landing, wrapped in paper sprigged with tiny violets and tied with a lavender bow. Automatically suspicious, she picked it up with care, listened to it, shook it a little, then carried it inside.
The light on the answering machine was blinking impatiently. She hit the message button and listened as she unwrapped the box.
"It's me," A.J. said. "Where you been? I thought maybe we could do that movie tonight, but… uh… I guess not, huh? Are you still pissed at me? Call me, will you?"
The confusion in his voice dragged at Annie's heart.
The machine beeped and a reporter came on asking for a few minutes of her time. He might as well have asked her to hit herself in the head with a hammer.
"This is Lindsay Faulkner."
Annie's hands stilled on the white gift box.
"I've been thinking about some of the questions you asked the other day. I'm sorry if I've seemed uncooperative. That wasn't my intent. This has just dragged on, and I- Please call me when you get a chance."
Annie looked at the cat clock on the kitchen wall. 10:27. Not too late. Abandoning the package on the table, she paged through the phone book, then dialed the number. The telephone on the other end rang four times before it picked up.
"Hello, Ms. Faulkner, this is-"
"This is Lindsay Faulkner. I can't take your call right now, but if you'll leave your name, number, and a brief message at the tone, I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
Annie blew out a breath in frustration, waited for the tone, and left her name and number. The expectation that had shot upward at the sound of Lindsay Faulkner's voice dropped like a rock, and she was left with nothing but questions that couldn't be answered.
She had felt all along that the woman was holding back on her. But when she'd read over the statements from the file, they seemed very straightforward. Stokes had not included any notes regarding concerns about Faulkner's candor or anything else. He, rather than Fourcade, had dealt with her during the murder investigation because he had already established a relationship with her during the stalking investigation. Asking him for his opinion was out of the question.
Resigning herself to waiting for Lindsay's revelations, she hit the message button on the answering machine again.
The next one began to play-a snickering, sniveling stream of profanity and lewd suggestions. Annie raised her eyes heavenward and made a mental note never to appear in front of a television camera again.
She turned her attention to the box, lifting the lid carefully, braced for the possibility of unpleasant surprise. Another dead muskrat, perhaps. Another live snake. But nothing sprang out at her. No aroma of death assaulted her senses. Nestled in layers of tissue was a sheer silk scarf, ivory printed with tiny blue flowers.
Frowning, she took it out and ran it through her hands, the cool, sensuous feel of it having the opposite of its desired effect. The card read: "Something lovely for a lovely person. With thanks and gratitude-again. Marcus."
Among the gifts he had given Pam Bichon was a silk scarf.
It appeared he had taken the bait Annie had never intended to dangle.
She set the scarf aside and picked up the phone to call Fourcade.
27
"Our topic tonight: double standards in the justice system. You're tuned to KJUN, home of the giant jackpot giveaway. This is your Devil's Advocate, Owen Onofrio. We've learned today that Hunter Davidson of rural Partout Parish, the father of murder victim Pamela Bichon, was released from jail this weekend after an unprecedented private bond hearing. Sources in the DA's office say a deal was struck late today that will likely sentence Davidson to little more than community service for the attempted assault of murder suspect Marcus Renard.
"What do you think out there? Everyone with a TV saw it on the news last week: Mr. Davidson charging down the courthouse steps with a gun in his hand as the man accused of killing his daughter walked away on a technicality. Curtis from St. Martinville, speak your mind."
"Is it a double standard? I mean, they let Renard go. Why shouldn't they let Davidson go too?"
"But the court has yet to prove Renard guilty of a crime. Davidson committed his crime in front of a crowd of witnesses. Doesn't Davidson's obvious intent to kill deserve worse than a slap on the wrist and community service? Instead, we've been touting this man as a hero and turning him into a celebrity. He's reportedly had offers from Maury Povich, Larry King, and Sally Jessy to appear on their shows."
Lindsay listened with disgust as she drove toward Bayou Breaux. She detested Owen Onofrio. The man's sole purpose in life seemed to be irritating people to the point of outburst. She disliked his devil's advocate game. She had no time for people without solid convictions, and yet she listened to the program more often than not on her drive home from the Association of Women Realtors meetings in Lafayette. The elevation in her blood pressure kept her from falling asleep at the wheel.
Without Pam for company, she had come to dread the monthly trip. They had always used the drive back for girl talk-True Confessions Time, Pam had called it-the kind of talks best held in the dimly lit interior of a car on a dark stretch of road. Soul-searching, souls-bared kinds of talks about life, love, motherhood, sisterhood.
She glanced at the empty passenger seat and felt a bottomless ache in her soul. She couldn't look at the night out here where houses were scarce and the only laws were nature's without thinking of Pam, alone with her killer where no one could see, no one could hear her cries for help.
Needing anger to fight off the despair, she hit the speed dial button on the car phone. As much as she hated Owen Onofrio, he had become a part of her self-therapy.
"You're on KJUN. All talk all the time."
"This is Lindsay from Bayou Breaux."
"Hey, Lindsay, it's Willy," the assistant said, his voice a little too oily and intimate for her liking. "If you don't win that jackpot soon, it won't be for lack of trying."
"I'll donate it to Pam's daughter. Consider it payment for KJUN throwing her family into the public arena like the Christians to the lions."
"Hey, you're on the line, aren't you?"
"Let me talk to Owen."
"You're up next, Lindsay. That's just because I love the sound of your voice."
Lindsay heaved a sigh into the receiver.
Onofrio's voice came on the line. "Lindsay in Bayou Breaux, what's your opinion tonight?"
"I'd like to point out that there's a tremendous difference between a psychopath committing a brutal, sexual murder to satisfy some depraved personal appetite and a law-abiding, productive member of the human race being driven by the inadequacies of our justice system to commit a desperate act."