Fat Tuesday(7)

Pinkie laughed along with the others at the mild put-down, but perhaps only Remy noticed that his laughter was forced. His eyes moved over her.

"Remy in a court of law? I hardly think so. Her talents lie elsewhere." As he said that, he ran his fingertip across her low neckline.

Everyone else laughed, but a hot flush of humiliation and anger surged through her."Excuse me. I haven't eaten anything yet." She turned away from the group.

She had an opinion on what had happened the night Stuart died but it wouldn't be prudent to air it in front of Pinkie and his friends.

They were celebrating his client's acquittal, not his innocence, which weren't necessarily one and the same.

She didn't believe for a moment that Wayne Bardo had been confused when gunfire erupted. He had known exactly what he was doing when he lifted the wounded policeman off the floor of the warehouse and used him as a shield when he went through the dark, open doorway, drawing fire from any other law enforcement agents who might have taken cover outside the building.

Unfortunately, Burke Basile had excellent reflexes, and he was an expert marksman. Believing he was firing at an assailant, he'd gone for a head shot, and his aim had been true. The jury's verdict had laid all the blame for Stuart's death at his feet.

Making good her lie about being hungry, she went into the formal dining room, where, as she had expected, the buffet was a gourmand's delight.

Sterling silver chafing dishes were brimming with steaming crawfish etouffee, red beans and rice, and barbecued shrimp steeping in a sauce so fiery that the aroma alone caused her eyes to tear.

Raw oysters on the half shell lay upon trays of ice. A chef was carving slices of ham and roast beef off enormous slabs of meat. There were deviled eggs and deviled crab, along with salads and side dishes and sausages, breads and desserts to suit every palate. The sight and smell of so much rich food didn't pique Remy's appetite, but rather made her slightly queasy.

Glancing around, she saw that Pinkie was now conversing with some of the recently dismissed jurors. They appeared to be enthralled by whatever he was saying, and he loved having an audience, so he wouldn't miss her for a while.

Unnoticed, she slipped through a French door into the relative quiet and seclusion of the backyard. The air was cold enough to make vapor of her breath, but the chill actually felt good against her exposed skin.

She moved along the pathway that led to the gazebo. The lacy wrought-iron structure with the onion-shaped dome roof was located in a far corner of the property. It was one of her favorite spots.

Whenever she desperately needed seclusion, or a semblance of it, she retreated to the gazebo.

Stepping into the circular structure, she leaned into one of the support posts, practically hugging it while resting her cheek against the cold metal. She was still embarrassed over what Pinkie had insinuated in front of his guests. Comments like that underscored what everyone already believed about her, that she was a pampered trophy wife, with limited intelligence and trivial opinions, whose only purpose in life was to accessorize her flamboyant husband in public and satisfy him in bed.

It also appeared they thought she had no feelings, that their subtle insults bounced off her without leaving a mark. They thought she was happy with the sheltered life she led and had everything her heart desired.

They were wrong.

Wild horses couldn't have kept him away.

Burke Basile acknowledged that being here was inadvisable.

Inadvisable, my ass, he thought. It was downright stupid that he was lurking in the shadows of a hedge of tall, dense azalea bushes, glaring malevolently at Pinkie Duvall's Garden District mansion.

The house was as fancy and white as a wedding cake, gaudy as hell in Basile s estimation. Golden light from the tall windows spilled onto the lawn, which was as perfectly tailored as a green carpet. Music and laughter wafted from the shimmering rooms.

Burke hugged his elbows to ward off the cool evening air. He hadn't even thought to wear a jacket. Autumn had come and gone. The holidays had passed virtually unnoticed. New Orleans' mild winter was on the wane, but the changing seasons and encroaching spring were the last things on Burke's mind.

Kev Stuart's death eight months ago had consumed him, immobilized him, and anesthetized him to his environment.

Barbara had been the first to notice his preoccupation, but then she would because she lived with him. When his grief evolved into obsession, she had lodged a legitimate complaint. And then another.

And another, until she exhausted herself with nagging. Her attitude of late had been indifference.

As Wayne Bardo's trial date approached, it became obvious to everyone within his division that Burke's heart was no longer in his work.

He couldn't concentrate on present cases because he was still hung up on the case that had taken him and Kev to that warehouse.

For more than a year prior to that night, they'd been shrinking the size of that particular operation, chipping away at it bit by bit by taking out key dealers one by one. But the really big players had continued to elude them, and were probably laughing their asses off at the bungling and self-defeating efforts of the authorities, local and federal.

To frustrate the division further, their success rate dwindled into nonexistence. Each time a raid was organized, it was foiled. No matter how tight the security, how secret the bust, the criminals were always tipped off beforehand. Drug labs were deserted with the chemicals still cooking. Huge inventories were abandoned moments before the squad arrived for the takedown. These were sacrifices the dealers could afford to make, they simply factored in the loss as a cost of doing business. The next day, they relocated to a new place of operation.