Fat Tuesday (7 page)

"You haven't been yourself lately."

She gave him an unconvincing smile."You know I get a little blue every winter. I'm ready for spring. It seems a long way off."

"You're lying." In their natural state, other men might feel vulnerable and less imposing. Not Pinkie. Nakedness didn't inhibit him.

Placing his hands on his hips, he gave his wife a stern stare."You've been dragging your ass around for weeks."

"I told you, it's " "The time of year? Bullshit. Where'd these newfangled ideas of yours come from?"

"What newfangled ideas?"

"The ones you so outspokenly shared with our party guests last night." Dropping his voice almost to a whisper, he said, "You came awfully close to siding with the opposition, Remy."

"That's ridiculous. You know whose side I'm on."

"Do I?"

"You should."

She met his gaze levelly. He could see no equivocation in her eyes, but he wasn't ready to let the matter drop just yet. Her position in his life did not include the voicing of opinions on anything of importance.

"I also didn't like the fact that you disappeared during my party."

"I didn't disappear. I developed a headache and had to come upstairs and lie down."

'"A headache?" he repeated skeptically."You've never had headaches before. You've never been this lethargic before either. Are you ill?

Maybe I should schedule a doctor's appointment for you."

"No! " The force of her answer surprised even her. She mollified it with a light little laugh."It's nothing, Pinkie. I'm fine. Just a little moody, that's all."

He sat down on the bed close to her and stroked her neck."The one thing I won't tolerate, Remy, is someone lying to me." His fingers ceased stroking her."Tell me, now, what the hell is wrong."

"All right," she exclaimed angrily. Throwing back the covers, she left the bed, then turned back to confront him."It's that man."

He came to his feet."What man?"

"Wayne Bardo."

"What about him?"

"He makes my skin crawl." She hugged her elbows and rubbed her bare arms."I loathe him. I can't stand to be in the same room with him." "Why not? Has he done something, said something to you?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." Obviously vexed, she expelled a deep breath and pushed her fingers through her hair."It's just a feeling I get. He gives off vibes, evil vibes. I was hoping that after his trial he wouldn't be hanging around so much. Tonight, I find him at our kitchen table."

Pinkie was on the verge of laughing with relief. Most women thought Wayne Bardo was attractive until they got to know him better. It pleased him that Bardo's Mediterranean good looks held no appeal for his young, beautiful wife. Her studious avoidance of him was due to repugnance, not attraction.

Hiding his relief, he said, "Bardo does odd jobs for me. He's working off part of his legal fee." "Well, from now on please conduct your business with him somewhere other than the house."

"Why do you dislike him so much?"

"Isn't it clear? He frightens me."

Pinkie did laugh then as he pulled her into his embrace."He frightens a lot of people. That's why he's so useful to me."

"You use him to frighten people?"

Above her head, he frowned. She rarely asked him even the most harmless questions about his business dealings. Lately she had expressed more than a passing interest, and that could be dangerous.

More than a few of his clients had been double-crossed by spiteful wives or girlfriends who knew too much."Why are you so curious about my association with Bardo?"

"I'm not, so long as he doesn't come to the house. I don't want him here."

"All right. If Bardo offends you, I'll try and keep you separated."

"Thank you."

"Now that's settled, I want your promise that you'll stop this irritating moping."

"I'll try."

He placed his thumb beneath her chin and tilted her head back.

"Do."

He spoke softly, but he didn't need to raise his voice for her to catch his drift."Have I given you any reason to be discontent, Remy?" She shook her head."Good." He ran his thumb across her lips."I'm glad to hear that. Because I want you to be happy. I'd hate for us to have another situation like Galveston."

"That was a long time ago."

"But not so long ago that we've forgotten it."

"No, I haven't forgotten it."

"So you're happy?"

"Of course."

He reached for her hand and guided it to his lap."Show me." Later, just as he was drifting off to sleep, she said, "A visit to Flarra will cheer me up. I'll go see her tomorrow."

"Good idea. I'll send Errol to drive you."

"Don't bother. I can drive myself."

Pinkie thought about it a moment. His uneasiness hadn't been entirely allayed either by their conversation or their lovemaking. She'd given him a plausible explanation for her recent melancholia, but he suspected there was more to it than her dislike for Bardo.

Doubts could cripple the thinking of a reasonable man. Mistrust and jealousy were weakening and destructive. On the other hand, Pinkie preferred erring on the side of caution to being a fool. Especially when dealing with a woman.

"Errol will drive you."

"Say, you're sure you're okay with this?"

The woman formed a pouty frown and toyed with the buttons of his shirt.

"Of course I'm okay with it. Would I have invited you to my place if I weren't?"

"But we only met an hour ago."

"Doesn't matter. It didn't take me even that long to know I wanted you tonight."

He grinned."Then what are we waiting for?"

Groping each other along the way, they stumbled up two flights of stairs. The old house had been converted into six apartments, two on each of the three floors. Her unit was small, but nice. The windows in the bedroom overlooked the private courtyard in the rear.

It was in front of these windows that she did a clumsy striptease for him."See anything you like?"

"Nice," he murmured, reaching for her."Very nice."

She had absolutely no sexual inhibitions. Either that, or she was too high to care what he did to her. But after a while her appetite was satisfied, and she became tired and cantankerous.

"I'm sleepy now." "So go to sleep," he said."It won't bother me."

"I can't sleep with you doing that."

"Sure you can."

That earned a giggle from her."You're sick, you know that?" "So it's been said."

"You sure you wore a rubber?" "I said I did, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but I couldn't see. Come on now, really, stop. I'm tired.

We'll save it for another time, okay?"

"The night is young, sweetheart."

"Young, hell," she groaned."It'll soon be time to get up."

"You're just coming down off your high. What you need is a little pick-me-up."

"I can't do any more drugs tonight. I've got to be at work in a few hours. Let's give it a rest for tonight and hey! That hurt."

"It did?"

"Yes. Now cut it out. I'm not into that shit. Ow! I mean it, goddamn it! Stop that!"

"Relax, honey. The best ic vet tr) eame No pun intended."

Raymond Hahn drove himself home from city hall, one eye on the rearview mirror all the way. He was good at his job, mainly because he was scrupulously careful. His cover was a job in a three-man accounting office, but his paycheck originated at the N.O.P.D. Ostensibly calling on clients, he moved facilely through neighborhoods, meeting people and setting up networks of drug users and dealers.

It was dangerous work. He could spend months winning the confidence of a paranoid dealer, constantly putting his ass on the line, and then have all his efforts wasted. A prime example was the snafu at the warehouse where Kev Stuart had been killed.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that somebody in the division was tipping the dealers of impending raids. But that was an inner-office problem. His problem was to stay alive by seeing that his cover wasn't blown.

He'd been working undercover for three years, which may have been too long. He was tired of continually having to look over his shoulder, tired of being suspicious of everyone, tired of living a double life.

Lately, he'd been toying with the idea of relocating and going into another line of work. There was one major drawback: No other occupation would give him easy access to drugs. That was a bonus to his present job, and no small consideration whenever he thought of leaving it.

After making sure that nobody had followed him home, he unlocked the door of his apartment and slipped inside, then secured all the dead bolts. Every time it was necessary for him to be arrested and jailed, it gave him the shakes. He played his part so well that sometimes even he was fooled into thinking that the make-believe was real.

He and Burke Basile were on the same team. Nevertheless, the guy scared the hell out of him. It was frightening to think what Basile would do if he learned about his habit. He wouldn't want to get on Basile's bad side. The guy was all business. So straight-as-an-arrow, in fact, that he hadn't endeared himself to other cops of the N.O.P.D.

Taking graft was the accepted modus operandi. It was the rule, not the exception. Some cops figured that in a crime-crazy society, it made sense to look away from petty malfeasances, and to get tough only on crimes that were a threat to human life.

Burke Basile saw it differently. A law was a law. It was either right or wrong, legal or illegal, period. He didn't preach. He didn't have to.

His silent reproach was effective enough to make cops on the take mistrustful of him. Now that Kev Stuart was dead, the only other officer Basile could regard as a friend and drinking buddy was Doug Pat.

And being the boss's friend didn't win him any favors among his colleagues, either.

Not that Basile seemed to mind being out of the fraternal loop. In that respect, Hahn thought, he and Basile were somewhat alike. He worked alone, and he liked it that way, just as he suspected Basile did.

He doubted Basile ever cried over his unpopularity.

Hahn undressed in the dark. His girlfriend got pissed if he woke her up after she'd fallen asleep. She resented his staying out late and leaving her alone when he went carousing. She thought he was an accountant and didn't understand his penchant for nightclubbing even on weeknights.

Their schedules often clashed, but, actually, the less they saw of each other, the better they got along. Their relationship was based almost strictly on convenience. When she invited him to move in with her, it was more convenient for him to accept than to come up with a reason to decline. Besides, they liked the same drugs. They bonded best when they got stoned together. The rest of the time, they were more or less compatible, but not what you could call intimate except when they had sex.

He knew his main appeal was the drugs he brought home to her, but that didn't bother him. He even suspected her of cheating on him, but since he had to be out nearly every night, he couldn't really blame her.

He just hoped she didn't contract a sexually transmitted disease.

The public-service announcements on TV warned against relationships such as theirs, but, hell, his odds for getting whacked by a drug dealer he had set up were far greater than his dying of AIDS.

He slid in beside her and was grateful that she didn't stir. He didn't want a scene. Not after everything he'd been through tonight, including a couple hours in jail. What a freaking zoo!

He'd been locked in a cell with two redneck brothers covered in homemade tattoos, who'd opened up a third brother's scalp with a can opener during a family dispute. Their other cell mate was a transvestite who cowered in the corner and wept in fear of the abusive rednecks.

He'd cried so hard over their insults that his fake eyelashes had come unglued, and that had brought on another crying jag, which had prompted more shouted invectives.

Raymond never had been a good sleeper, but tonight he found it particularly difficult to relax and shut off his skittering thoughts.

After a while, he sat up, thinking that a joint might help relax him.

He reached across his sleeping girlfriend and switched on the nightstand lamp.

What he saw barely registered before he sensed movement behind him.

Raymond Hahn died with a silent scream on his lips.

Burke knew something was up the moment he reported for work. The men lurking around the coffee machine mumbled good mornings as he approached, but no one made eye contact, and by the time he had poured his coffee, they had scattered.

At his desk, he shrugged off his jacket but hadn't even had time to hang it on the coatrack when Pat opened the door to his office and called him in. Burke left his jacket on his desk but carried his coffee with him."What's going on?"

Pat closed the door to give them privacy."Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down. I want to know what the hell's going on."

"Raymond Hahn is dead."

Burke sat down.

"He and his girlfriend were found in their bed this morning."

Burke took a sip of coffee."Am I to assume he didn't die of accidental or natural causes?"

"They were murdered."

Pat went on to explain that the woman worked as a teller at a branch bank. She clocked in by six-thirty in order to open up the drive-through window at seven. When she didn't show up and hadn't called in sick, a co-worker went to check, expecting to find her hungover or stoned.

She'd failed one random drug test, but had been given another chance on the promise she would get counseling for substance abuse. The co-worker found the apartment door unlocked. She went inside.

"It was ... a mess." "Don't spare me the details," Burke said irritably."I'm not going to faint."

"Well, the woman from the bank did. The girl sustained several stab wounds. Initial coroner's report is that only one of those wounds could have been fatal. The killer took his time and enjoyed killing her.

It appears she'd also been sodomized, but whether before or after she died hasn't yet been established. Hahn was luckier, if you could call it that. He had only one wound in the side of his neck, but it was well placed. The killer knew where to stick him for a quick and silent kill."