Moving along the table, Annie scanned file tabs until she came across the one marked faulkner, lindsay. It seemed pitifully thin for representing a woman's violent death. Not much would be added to it before the case was closed and it went into the drawers in Myron's domain. The autopsy report, Stokes's final report, that would be it.

She flipped the folder open and pulled the lab report Stokes had already collected, scanning the document to make certain it and the one she'd received were indeed the same item. K+: 4.6 mEq/L. C1-: 101 mEq/L. Na++: 139 mEq/L. BUN: 17 mg. Glucose: 120.

"What the hell is with you, Broussard?" Stokes demanded, striding into the room. "Are you stalking me? Is that it? There's laws against that. You know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah? Well, who'd have thought you knew anything about it after the way you blew off Pam Bichon last fall?"

"I did not blow off Pam Bichon. Now why don't you tell me what you're doing in my face, then get out of it? I was having a damn fine day without you."

"Our Lady sent over a dupe of the chem 7 blood test on Lindsay Faulkner. I thought it should be in the file, not that you care. Why bother following up when you barely did any work to begin with?"

"Fuck you, Broussard," he said, snatching the report from her hand. "It was just a matter of time before I woulda nailed Roache."

"I'm sure that's a comfort to all the women he attacked after Jennifer Nolan."

"Don't you have some paper clips to count?"

Mullen stepped into the doorway, cutting a glance from Annie to Stokes. "You coming, Chaz? They can't start the party without us."

Stokes flashed the Dudley Do-Right. "I'm there, man. I am there."

Annie shook her head. "A party to celebrate the fact that a civilian closed your case for you. You ought to be so proud."

Stokes settled his porkpie hat back on his head and straightened his purple tie. "Yeah, Broussard, I am. My only regret is that Roache didn't get to you first."

He herded her from the room and from the building.

Annie went reluctantly on toward the law enforcement center, her eyes on Stokes and Mullen as they climbed into their respective vehicles and tore out of the parking lot, blasting their horns in celebration.

A civilian had cleared their hottest case and Pam Bichon's killer was still roaming free. She couldn't see much to be happy about.

"Or maybe I'm just a sore loser," she muttered.

43

"You're listening to KJUN. All talk all the time. Our topic: safety versus civil rights-should prospective employees be subjected to fingerprinting? Carl in Iota-"

Nick switched the radio off and sat up behind the wheel of the truck as Donnie left his office and climbed into the Lexus. He looked as pale as the car. His hunch-shouldered walk had a little extra bend in it. The pressure was getting to him. He would make a move soon, maybe tonight, and Nick wanted to be there when he did. He crushed out his cigarette with the half dozen butts in the ashtray, put the truck in gear, and waited until the Lexus had turned the corner at Dumas.

Patience was the key word here. Essential in surveillance. Essential in all aspects of life. A useful tool that was difficult to master. Men like Donnie never got the hang of it. He had moved too quickly to get rid of Pam's business. Haste attracted unwanted attention. But then had that been Donnie's doing or Marcotte's? Or mine? Nick wondered, the idea burning in his gut like an ulcer. He hadn't completely mastered patience himself.

La Rue Dumas was busy, the curbs lined with cars, the sidewalk full of people. The Lexus was four cars ahead and waiting at the green light to make a left turn. Friday night always drew people into town. Nick had heard Bayou Breaux's Carnival celebration attracted folks from all over South Louisiana for the street dance and various parties and pageants that went on from tonight through Fat Tuesday. With the demise of the serial rapist, the atmosphere of revelry would be cranked up an extra notch, relief adding wild euphoria to the mix.

All day the news had been full of "late-breaking information" on the shooting of Willard Roache, who had been subsequently unmasked, so to speak, as the Mardi Gras rapist. So much for Annie's theory on Stokes as a sexual predator, though Nick had to give her grudging admiration for going after the tough angle. She had a passion for the work she was only just beginning to tap. With the rapist out of the way, she would be better able to focus on tripping up Renard.

Renard was still his number one bet. Donnie was up to no good, but it had the smell of dirty money rather than the smell of death. It was Renard who made Nick's hackles rise. Every time he went over the case in his mind, the trail, the logic, wound back to Renard. Every time. The story was there. He just hadn't managed to find the key to open the book. Until Annie.

A mixed blessing, that, he mused. His initial intent had been to use her as bait to draw Renard out. But the better that plan worked, the less he liked it. In his mind's eye he could still see the gruesome tableau in her bedroom. He had made the same connection he knew she had, recalling the sight of Pam Bichon nailed to the floor of that house out on Pony Bayou.

The idea of Renard terrorizing Annie that way, the idea of Renard thinking about Annie that way, the idea of Renard touching Annie in any way, brought a rush of emotion Nick wasn't quite sure how to handle. He knew it wasn't wise, but it was there and he was loath to walk away from it.

She would testify against him in six days.

He turned on Fifth as the Lexus took a right to drive south along the bayou road.

The parking lot at the Voodoo Lounge was nearly full. Nick spotted the Lexus and parked the truck on the berm up on the road. Zydeco music was blowing through the walls of the joint. Colorful Chinese lanterns had been strung around the building. Costumed party-goers were dancing on the half-finished gallery. A curvy blonde in a green sequined mask opened her top and shook her naked breasts like a pair of water balloons at Nick as he mounted the steps. He walked past her without reaction.

"Man, Nicky, you got ice water in those veins of yours! If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'," Stokes announced, clapping him on the back.

Nick shot him a look, taking in the incongruity of a Zorro mask and a porkpie hat.

Stokes shrugged. "Hey, cut me some slack, pard. It's a special occasion!"

"So I hear."

"Drinks are on the house for cops. You picked the right night to come out of your cave, Nicky."

They wound their way through the throng toward the bar. The energy level was high, an almost palpable electricity that magnified the scents of fried shrimp, warm bodies, and cheap cologne. Chaz bulled his way to the bar and bellowed for shots. Nick moved toward the nearest corner, his gaze scanning the room for Donnie, who had found a spot midway down the long side of the bar. He didn't look like a man who had come to party. He sipped at his whiskey as if he were using it for medicinal purposes.

Stokes held a shot glass out to Nick and raised his own. "To the timely end of another scumbag."

"You can concentrate on Renard, now," Nick said, leaning close to be heard without shouting over the noise.

"I intend to. There's nothing I want more than to put an end to that situation, believe me." He tossed back his drink, grimaced at the kick in his gut, and shook himself like a wet dog. "You ain't exactly a party animal, man. What you doing out and about on a crazy night like this?"

"Keeping an eye on something," Nick said vaguely. "A developing situation. Gotta do something to occupy my time."

Stokes snorted. "You need a hobby, man. I suggest Valerie out there on the veranda. That girl is a regular devil's playground for idle hands. You know what I'm saying?"