She thought instead of the story Fourcade had told her about New Orleans and Duval Marcotte. It didn't matter, she decided. Donnie Bichon had not contacted Marcotte before Pam's death, therefore, Marcotte was not a motive for Donnie to have killed her. Unless Marcotte had contacted him. Unless their conversations had taken place over pay phones. Which made Donnie smarter than he let on. Who knew what his potential might be? She couldn't see him doing what had been done to Pam, but Fourcade's beating at the hands of DiMonti's men raised the unpleasant possibility of hired help.
She headed for the door, stopping as the scarf on the kitchen table caught the corner of her eye. What was she doing mapping out conspiracy scenarios when she had a suspected murderer leaving her tokens of his affection? Maybe she would have been better off with Fourcade's tunnel vision. Maybe whatever Lindsay Faulkner had to offer her would help put her on track.
She hit the trail at a slow jog. The ground fog was waist high, like something from an old horror movie. The sun was a huge fuchsia ball rising up through it in the east. Islands of trees seemed to float on it in the distance. Annie ran through it down the levee road. Fifty yards ahead a squadron of five blue herons leapt from the reeds and skimmed the top of the fog bank to a willow island, their spindly legs trailing behind them like fine streamers.
She ran two miles that seemed like ten, showered and dressed, then joined Fanchon and Sos for breakfast in the cafe.
"Someone left a package for me yesterday," Annie said, stirring milk into her coffee. "Did either of you happen to see him?"
"A secret lover?" Sos bobbed his eyebrows, mischief lighting his face. "Dat's gotta be Andre, no? Sends you flowers, brings you presents. Dat boy's got it bad for you, 'tite chatte. You listen to your Uncle Sos."
Annie gave him a look. "It wasn't A.J. I know who brought it. I was just wondering if either of you saw him."
Sos scowled and muttered something under his breath.
Fanchon waved off the possibility. "Mais non, chère. We was so busy here, me, I thought I was chasin' myself. Two busloads of chil'run from Lafayette for the boat tours. Dat's like turnin' a hundred li'l raccoons loose in the store. Why for you wanna know?"
"No reason. It's not important." Annie grabbed her coffee mug and pushed back from the table. She kissed them each on the cheek. "I gotta go."
"So who was he?" Sos called, his curiosity winning out over his pique.
Annie snatched a Snickers from the box as she passed down the candy aisle and waved good-bye with it. "No one special."
Just a likely stalker and murderer.
She didn't like the idea of Renard showing up here, trespassing on her private life, coming into contact with Sos and Fanchon. It seemed impossible Renard could have become fixated on her so quickly. She'd given him no encouragement, had in fact tried to discourage him. Just as Pam had… and Pam Bichon had never saved his life.
She swung west at the edge of town, hoping to catch Lindsay Faulkner before she left for the office. Annie couldn't help but think her patience and persistence had paid off. She had appealed to Faulkner woman to woman and now she was going to get something Faulkner hadn't given the male detectives. She allowed herself a moment's smugness as she turned down Cheval Court.
Faulkner's garage door was closed. The front drapes were drawn. Annie walked up to the house and punched the doorbell as she leaned close to peer in the sidelight.
Lindsay Faulkner lay on the entry floor, her nightgown bunched up beneath her chin, her right arm reaching toward the portable handset of a phone that lay on the floor with an assortment of debris. Blood caked her golden hair at the roots. Her face was covered with it. Her ginger cat lay curled beside her, sleeping.
Swearing, Annie ran back to the Jeep and grabbed the radio mike.
"Partout Parish 911. Partout Parish 911. Requesting officers and an ambulance at 17 Cheval Court. Please hurry. And notify the detectives. This is a probable 261. Over."
She confirmed the information as requested, giving her name and rank. Then, grabbing her gun out of her duffel in case the assailant was still on the premises, she ran back to the house to see if Lindsay Faulkner was alive.
The front door was locked, but the assailant had obligingly left the patio door standing wide open. Annie covered Lindsay's body with a blanket hastily dragged from the guest bedroom and knelt beside her, monitoring her weak pulse.
"Hang in there, Lindsay. The ambulance is on its way," she said loudly. "We'll have you to the hospital in no time. You've gotta hang tough. We'll need you to tell us who did this to you so we can catch the guy and make him pay. You've gotta hang on so you can help us with that."
There was no response. Not a movement of eyelids or lips. Faulkner seemed to be clinging to the finest thread of life. The only good sign was that she had not gone into a fetal posture indicative of severe brain damage, but that didn't mean she couldn't die.
Annie stared at the face some animal had battered into unrecognizability. If this was the work of their serial rapist, why had he singled out Lindsay Faulkner? For the obvious reasons? That she was single, attractive, lived alone? She was also connected to a murder investigation. Just yesterday she'd found something relevant to say in regard to that murder. Had someone shut her up before she could tell it? The possibilities made Annie's nerves twitch.
The wail of approaching sirens penetrated the silence of the house. The EMTs stormed the place first, followed closely by Sticks Mullen. He scowled at Annie. She scowled at him.
"What the hell are you doing here, Broussard?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Annie said, glancing at her watch. "You're usually stuffing your face with doughnuts about this time. Lucky me, you picked today to be diligent instead of delinquent."
She stepped back into the living room, out of the way of the EMTs, one eye on the paramedics as they worked.
"It looks to me like the attacker cracked her head with the base unit of the phone." She pointed to where it lay bloody on the floor among scattered broken picture frames. "She put up a fight."
"For all the good it did her," Mullen muttered.
"Hey, some jerk comes after me, I go down swinging," Annie said. "I'll make the guy wish he'd never set eyes on me."
"There's plenty of that going around anyway."
"Don't start with me," Annie snapped.
She dared him with a glare, then started for the dining area. "He came in here through the patio door. She must have heard him, came out of her bedroom, and confronted him."
"Should have stayed put and called 911."
"Wouldn't have done her any good. The phone's dead. You'll find the line cut, I imagine. Just like the others."
The EMTs hefted up their stretcher and rolled it out the front door with Lindsay Faulkner motionless beneath the blanket. As they left, Stokes walked in, a gray fedora sitting back on the crown of his head, a slip of toilet paper glued to his left cheek with a dot of blood. His light eyes were shot through with red.
"Man, I hate these early calls," he grumbled.
"Yeah, how inconsiderate of people to be attacked during your off-hours," Annie said. "At least she waited until morning to be found raped, beaten, and unconscious."
Stokes scowled at her. "What're you doing here, Broussard? Somebody call for McGruff?"
"I found her."
He took a moment to digest that, his gaze sharpening. "And I say again, what are you doing here? How'd you know her? You two playing 'Bump the Doughnut' or something?"
Mullen snickered. Annie rolled her eyes.
"You know, Chaz, I hate to break it to you, but just because a woman won't have sex with you doesn't mean she's a lesbian. It just means she has standards."
"Stop. You're spoiling my fantasies." He nodded to Mullen. "Go see if the phone line's cut. And see if there's any good footprints in the yard. Ground's soft. Maybe we can get a cast."