Fat Tuesday(132)

Sweat had loosened the spirit gum holding his fake beard in place.

"The delectable Marie Antoinette," he breathed in her ear.

"Reputedly she was a whore, too. Did you know that, Remy?"

"I'm not a whore."

"A senseless argument, my dear. One for which I'm afraid I haven't got the time right now. Thank you for making it so convenient for me to find you. You were the next item on my list of things to be seen to, after I disposed of some records in this safe."

She probably could have wrestled her arm free, but she didn't attempt it because of the pistol being pressed against her temple. If she moved, he would have no compunction against killing her.

"Because one of my key men inside the N.O.P.D tried to kill me a few minutes ago," he went on, "I suspect he was trying to eliminate the man who could finger him as a traitor. Namely me. Which also leads me to deduce that the shit is coming down, to put it in the vernacular."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Basile?"

"Him. District Attorney Littrell. The attorney general."

"Your lover has been one busy boy."

'"Killing me won't get you out of this."

"No, but at least Basile won't get the spoils."

The three flowerpots nearest Pinkie exploded, showering him with fern root, bits of clay, and fragments of what had been prizewinning cattleyas.

"The next one's for you, Duvall, unless you drop the gun and move away from her."

Burke had left the house at a run and searched the immediate backyard area. The necking couple had left the gazebo. No one else was in sight.

Was the waiter wrong about Remy's leaving the house by a back door?

Or was it a trick? Had he been set up?

Scanning the yard again, he spotted the greenhouse. Remy had referenced it numerous times. Avoiding the paved path, he took the most direct route across the grass.

The evening was cold, so the glass walls of the greenhouse were foggy with condensation from the warmer air inside. Even then he didn't stop to question the wisdom of barging in there before first determining what he would find. He pulled the door open and ran in. He saw nothing at first, but he heard Remy's shocked cry. Seconds later, Duvall pushed her through the door of a small enclosure.

Burke didn't stop to consider calling for help, or waiting for backup to arrive. He didn't think about letting the system take over from here.

Because the system had failed him before.

Say a SWAT team swarmed the greenhouse and arrested Duvall by the book, he could afford a defense attorney as unscrupulous as himself.

Evidence had been stockpiled against him. Eyewitnesses like Roland Sachel, who had already tired of prison, were ready to testify against him in exchange for early parole. But depending on the judge and jury and the competency of the prosecutor, it was possible he would walk, just as Bardo had.

Even if he were convicted and sent to prison, life behind bars wouldn't stop him from terrorizing Remy and Flarra. He could order them killed from a cell block as easily as he could from his fancy office.

Those were sufficient reasons for handling Duvall alone. But none was the main reason. The night Burke had sworn to Kev Stuart's memory that he would avenge his death, he hadn't promised to see that the system carried out the rightful punishment. He had promised to carry it out himself.

So, crouching down beneath the level of the lowest metal shelves, he duckwalked forward until he had an excellent vantage point. When he fired those three warning shots into the flowerpots and issued his warning to Duvall, it was a cursory nod toward legality and civil rights. Burke had every intention of killing him.

But first he had to buy time enough to get Remy out of the way.

And, of course, Duvall was aware of that. He laughed at Burke's dramatic warning."Go ahead and shoot me, Basile. She'll die first."

"You can't count on that."

"I don't have to. Just the possibility of it will keep you from pulling the trigger. You don't want another situation like Stuart."

A curtain of crimson rage descended over Burke's eyes. His fingers turned white around the pistol. He wanted to blast this bastard, this scumbag who had stripped Remy of her self-respect and all hope of independence, who had kept her in bondage with shackles of oppression and fear.

"You're a burnout, Basile. A head case," Duvall taunted.

"Shut up."

"I don't mind killing the cunt," Duvall said conversationally.

"She deserves it. But I don't think you want another snafu on your conscience, do you? So lay down your pistol, and then I'll release her."

"Don't do it," Remy cried, speaking for the first time."Do what you know is right."

"If you hit her, I bet you'd blow out your own brains next, wouldn't you, Basile? You couldn't live with knowing you had made another mistake and killed her, just like you killed Stuart."

"I said, shut up." Sweat was rolling off his forehead into his eyes, making them sting. His vision turned cloudy. His hands, too, were perspiring so copiously he could barely maintain his grip on the pistol.

Duvall's eyes narrowed. His fingers tensed around the revolver in his hand. Basile knew there was no way in hell that a man like Duvall, a man without a conscience, was going to back down from a standoff. He knew Burke's sore spot, and he would probe it. He would pour acid into it.