Fat Tuesday (4 page)

Then screams.

For damn sure, someone was down.

Frantic, Burke had called out to Kev.

Silence.

The longer he waited for Kev to answer, the more anxious he became.

"Jesus, Jesus, no, no," he prayed."Kev, answer me, you goddamn mick!"

Then a man came lurching through the open, black maw of the warehouse door. It was dark, Burke couldn't see why he was walking with such an awkward gait, but his gun was drawn and aimed at Burke. Burke shouted for him to drop the weapon, but he kept coming. Again, Burke shouted for him to drop the weapon and put his hands on his head.

The man fired the pistol twice.

Burke fired only once.

But once was enough. Kev was dead before Bardo dropped his body to the ground.

As Burke raced toward the friend he'd mistakenly killed, he heard Bardo's laugh echoing off the metal walls of the warehouse. He hadn't learned it was Bardo until he was captured by the backup unit arriving in time to see him running through an alley behind the warehouse.

There were flecks of Kev's blood and flesh and brains and bone on the face of the repeat offender, but his three-piece Armani suit hadn't even been spattered. He'd walked away clean, literally and figuratively.

The weapon he'd fired was never produced. In those few intervening minutes, Bardo had successfully disposed of it, refuting Basile's claim that Bardo had fired a weapon.

Nor was it ever explained to the court what business Bardo was conducting in the drug lab with Toot Jenkins. Pinkie Duvall argued that Bardo's presence in the lab was irrelevant to what had transpired and that it might only serve to prejudice the jury against his client.

No shit, Einstein, Burke remembered thinking. It was supposed to preJudice the Jury against Bardo.

On that question, the judge had ruled in the defendant's favor. No mystery there. Duvall contributed heavily to the elections of judges.

The candidates with the most money backing their campaigns usually won, and then went soft on the lawyers who helped put them on the bench.

Duvall had most of them in his pocket.

And that wasn't the only dirty pool Pinkie Duvall played. Wayne Bardo had been in that warehouse that night conducting business for his boss, Pinkie Duvall.

It was an accepted fact throughout the division, although never proved, that Duvall was the primo operator they'd been after for years. He had more connections to drug trafficking than whores did to herpes.

Every trail led to him, but ended just short of contact. There was no solid proof against him, but Burke knew the son of a bitch was a player.

A big-time player.

Yet, here he was, living it up in his fancy house, celebrating Kevin Stuart's death with a big, blow-out party.

Movement at one of the rear doors interrupted Burke's bitter reflections. He shrank farther back into the foliage so as not to be seen by the woman who made her way along a path to a gazebo.

She was alone. For a time, she leaned into one of the support columns, then she made a slow circuit around the gazebo, trailing her hand along the ivy-covered railing. When she returned to her original spot, she leaned against the support column again, this time placing her back to it.

Burke saw her face for the first time and, although he didn't speak it out loud, he thought, Wow.

Her black hair looked iridescent in the cool, bluish light, while that same moonlight made her skin appear as pale and translucent as alabaster. The short black cocktail dress showed off a lot of leg.

Her breasts swelled above the scooped neckline.

Burke immediately pegged her as one of the expensive whores who worked the classy hotel bars where conventioneers from out of town were eager to spend huge sums of money for an hour or two of carnality with what they were promised was a genuine, hot-blooded Creole gal.

Burke smiled grimly. He bet this one was higher priced than most. She had a look about her that said I'm expensive and worth every penny.

She was the kind who could hold out for clients with Duvall's flash and finances.

Not that she would have to hold out. A man with a bankroll like Pinkie Duvall's didn't have to surround himself with ugly women. Maybe this one had been hired only for the night as a party decoration Or maybe she was the girlfriend of one of the guests. Or she could be a permanent hanger-on who put out routinely for Duvall and his friends in exchange for designer clothes and good drugs.

The keeping of mistresses had been an accepted practice in New Orleans since the city was first settled. Flesh peddling was a major industry in any convention town, New Orleans was certainly no exception. Every cab driver in the city knew the address of Ruby Bouchereaux's place.

Her girls were top-notch. Ruby herself was one of the richest women in the state.

But there were also the street hookers who worked the dark corners of the Quarter. They would give blow jobs in an alley for a hit of crack.

They were no more selective than the crib girls who had made Storyville one of the most notorious red-light districts in the world.

Regardless of the price tag, there was no shortage of work in the Big Easy for a hard-core whore.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Burke realized that this one didn't look hard-core. Since drug dealing and prostitution often crossed lines with each other, he'd learned a lot from watching these girls. He could size one up and know immediately if she was going to succumb to the life or if she possessed the killer instincts to survive.

He wouldn't put his money on this one to make it. She was classy, all right. But she didn't look rapacious and calculating. She looked. sad.

Still unaware that she was being watched, she relaxed her head against the ornate ironwork and closed her eyes. Then she slid her hands down her body until they met at the center of her lower abdomen.

Burke's mouth went dry. His gut clenched.

The guys working Vice routinely circulated pornographic videos, films, or magazines that had been confiscated for evidence. It wasn't Burke's habit to watch them, but he was as normal as the next guy, and what man, cop or otherwise, could turn away from this scene without waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Actually, nothing did. She didn't remove her clothing. She didn't actually fondle that erogenous zone. She didn't moan or groan or gyrate or breathe heavily through partially opened lips.

Nevertheless, her pose was arresting. Arousing, even.

And apparently he wasn't the only one who thought so.

Burke had been so transfixed by her that he saw the approaching man only seconds before she herself became aware of Wayne Bardo.

Bardo, Basile thought, contempt causing his mustache to curl downward.

He'd mistaken her for a classy chick, when she'd been waiting on Bardo, lord of the lowlives, a career criminal who always beat the rap with the able assistance of Pinkie Duvall.

Did she know that Bardo had killed a prostitute when he was only sixteen? They'd been playing tie-me-up-and-hurt-me when he'd gotten her neck confused with her wrist and strangled her with her own stocking.

He'd been tried as a juvenile for involuntary manslaughter and served only a year of his sentence before being placed on probation. If that's the kind of creep this high-ticket whore pandered to, she deserved no better than she got.

Bardo was all over her now, and she was squirming against him.

Turning away in disgust, Burke thrashed through the hedge and returned to his Toyota, parked among the Beemers and Jags belonging to Duvall's guests.

"Taking the evening air?"

Remy's heart jumped when she opened her eyes and saw Wayne Bardo standing poised in the entrance of the gazebo. He had been intentionally stealthy, wanting to startle her. His dark features were heavily shadowed and indiscernible, like a figure in a nightmare.

Instantly she lowered her hands, but she knew he'd seen her pressing them against her body because his grin was even more suggestive than usual. He was blocking her exit. Short of vaulting the railing, there was nowhere for her to run.

Without bothering to conceal her dislike, she asked, "What are you doing out here?" "I missed you at the party. Came looking for you."

He stepped forward.

Although it took an act of will not to recoil from him, Remy stood her ground. When he was only inches from her, he gave her an insulting once-over, his eyes lingering on her chest. Lowering his voice to a confidential level, he said, "And here you are."

Bardo was handsome in the way of a silent-movie idol. His black hair was combed straight back from a wide forehead and steep widow's peak.

He had a smooth, olive complexion. He was trim and lean, and flashily dressed. But from the day Remy met him, she had mistrusted his suave manner and was put off by the smoldering intensity he affected.

Even before Pinkie was retained to represent him in the Stuart case, they had been associates, so Bardo was a frequent visitor to the house.

Remy treated him with cool politeness, but avoided having any close contact. His smoky stares gave her the creeps.

On those rare occasions when she was caught alone with him, usually by his cagey design, he never failed to say something suggestive, his smirk loaded with innuendo. He always acted as though he and she shared a naughty secret.

"Pinkie will be looking for me."

She tried to move past him, but instead of giving way, he boldly splayed his hand over her lower body and stroked her with his fingers.

"Why don't you let me take over for you here."

He had never dared to touch her, and for a moment she was paralyzed by repugnance and fear. She had overheard enough of his boasts to know that he enjoyed all forms of violence, a penchant that logically would extend to his relationships with women. No less importantly, she feared what Pinkie would do if he were to learn that another man had laid a hand on her.

Bardo's boldness tonight was probably due to his delusions of invincibility following his acquittal, and possibly to the alcohol she smelled on his breath. His excitement would only be fanned if she showed any fear. Instead, in a harsh and distinct voice, she told him to remove his hand.

Stretching wider his reptilian grin, he ground his palm more firmly against her."Or what, Mrs. Duvall?"

Pushing the words between clenched teeth, she said, "If you don't take your hand off me " "He was fucking you, wasn't he?"

Unable to stand his touch another second, she shoved his hand away.

"Leave me alone." This time when she made to go past him, he roughly took her by the shoulders and backed her against the support column.

"That's why you were late for the party, right? Pinkie was screwing his brains out. If you belonged to me, that's what I'd do. Day and night.

All the time, I'd be at you. One way or another."

Lewdly, he rubbed his pelvis against her."You think Pinkie is good?

Until you've had me, you don't know from good, Mrs. Duvall." He stuck out his tongue and wagged it obscenely, then dragged it across her neck.

"It's only a matter of time, you know. I'm gonna have you." She swallowed her nausea and pushed against him with all her strength.

She couldn't have physically overpowered him, he allowed her to push him away. When he stepped back, he was laughing at her attempts to stave him off.

"If you come near me again " "You'll what? Well, speak up, Mrs. Duvall: What'll you do?"

He placed his hand above her head on the column and leaned into her.

His voice was taunting."You'll what? Tattletale to Pinkie?" He shook his head."I don't think so. If you told your husband I'd come on to you, he might blame you instead of me. He trusts me, see. And you do have a way of advertising the merchandise."

He reached for her breast, but she slapped his hand aside."I won't bother telling Pinkie. I'll handle you myself."

"Handle me?" he mocked."I like the sound of that." Her voice calm, eyes glittering as coldly as the gem around her neck, she said, "Mr. Bardo, are you under the misconception that you're the only killer-for-hire on my husband's payroll?"

For a fleeting moment, his arrogant grin faltered and his dark eyes lost some of their gleam. Using that momentary lapse in his selfconfidence, Remy pushed him aside, and this time successfully escaped him.

She walked quickly and purposefully up the pathway back to the house, hoping that Wayne Bardo couldn't see how unstable her knees were.

Because, despite her boast, in a toss-up situation between her and Bardo, she wasn't sure whom Pinkie would believe.

GAg Barbara was already asleep when Burke got home. He undressed in the dark, not wanting to awaken her. But when he got into bed beside her, she rolled toward him."Where have you been?"

"Sorry I woke you up."

"It's late, isn't it?"

"A little after midnight."

"Where've you been?" she repeated.

"Working."

"You told me Doug had given you the rest of the week off."

"He did." He wished she would leave it there, but he sensed her unspoken demand for an explanation."I had to put some closure on it, Barbara. Isn't that the catchphrase these days? Closure?"

She gave a little huff of disapproval."For God's sake, Burke, Kev Stuart's been dead for months. The verdict is in on Bardo's trial."

"I know all that."

"So get over it," she snapped.

"It's not that easy."

"It's not easy, but you're making it harder than it has to be."

A dozen sharp retorts sprang to mind, but he held them back. He and Barbara had plowed this row countless times. He didn't want to plow it again tonight. Their arguments always left him feeling like he'd been wrung out and hung up to dry. He couldn't take another defeat today.

In a more conciliatory tone, she said, "What happened to Kev was terrible. But the harsh reality is that policemen get killed. The risk goes with the job."

"But it's pretty damn rare that a cop's own partner is the risk."

"It wasn't your fault."

"The jury must've thought so. In any event, they didn't blame Bardo."