Fat Tuesday(75)

Literally.

Now that Pinkie's life was in upheaval, Del Ray was eager to return the favor and to demonstrate his loyalty and usefulness. Bardo escorted him in. Cutting to the chase, Pinkie said, "You'd better not be wasting my time."

Del Ray licked his small, sharp teeth."No, sir, Mr. Duvall.

You're gonna love this."

Pinkie doubted that. Del Ray was a self-serving hustler, a slick operator a Sachel without the panache. He would pimp for his mother if there was a dollar to be made.

But surprisingly, Pinkie's interest mounted as he listened to Del Rayss story, related in an ingratiating, high-pitched voice. When he concluded, Pinkie glanced at Bardo, who said, "Sounds good."

"It is good, Mr. Duvall," said Del Ray.

"Get on it then."

"Yes, sir." Smiling like a happy rat, Del Ray scuttled from the room.

Bardo followed him out.

Left alone, Pinkie got up and stretched his aching lower back.

Early this morning, he'd showered in his office bathroom. Roman had brought him a change of clothes from home. He was refreshed but far from rested.

His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.

He poured himself a drink. Scorching the palate he'd cultivated for vintage wines, he quaffed some of Scotland's best export, straight up.

He sipped the second drink while thoughtfully pacing his office.

What had he overlooked? What else could he do? What favor could he call in that might expedite finding Remy and killing the son of a bitch who'd taken her?

He had utilized every available resource. He had galvanized a considerable number of men. Working with the precision of stealthy, well-trained commandos, they were combing the city and surrounding parishes, asking questions, listening to gossip. None had turned up a single clue as to his wife's whereabouts. Others were working solely on gathering information about Burke Basile, his interests, strengths, weaknesses. A helicopter had been chartered to fly low over the swamps in search of them, but so far all that had turned up was the abandoned van.

With blood in it.

Gregory James's? Probably. According to witnesses who would talk, the rednecks had hammered him good. But the van's rear window had also been shattered. Bird shot had been found imbedded in the upholstery.

It was possible Remy's blood had been shed, too. But Pinkie couldn't risk the investigation it would require to determine that. To prevent the authorities, federal and local, from becoming involved, he'd had the van destroyed.

If Remy was alive but hurt, if she was in the swamp, she would be terrified.

Or would she?

Another possibility had insidiously wormed its way into Pinkie's consciousnesst At first it had been nothing more than a tickle of a thought like the first twinges of a discomfort that couldn't be identified or localized, merely a vague uneasiness that all was not right and a premonition that it was going to get worse before it got better As the hours passed without yielding any information about Remy or her kidnapper, without receiving a call or a ransom note, the idea had begun to eat at him slowly like a cancer.

What if Remy hadn't been kidnapped? What if she had run away with Basile?

It was an absurd idea. He was appalled that his subconscious could have produced such a bizarre alternative to what seemed obvious There was no basis for it. None whatsoever. She had no cause to leave him.

He doted on her. He'd given her everything she wanted No, that wasn't entirely true.

She had wanted to be married in the Church by a priest, and he had refused. Marriage was a sacrament, a big deal to someone as religious as Remy. Pinkie had declared that was nonsense, as was most Catholicism.

Religion was for women and weak men. So they'd been married in a judge's chambers without any folderol.

To this day, in Remy's mind, they were living in sin.

Also, she'd wanted a child. Pinkie frowned with distaste at the thought of her ballooned up like a blimp. At the end of nine miserable months of puking every morning, assorted disfigurements, and lousy sex, what did you have? A baby. Jesus.

It was bad enough he had to share Remy with her kid sister. Their mutual affection was a constant source of annoyance and inconvenience.

He felt about family much as he did about religion. No selfreliant man needed it.

But the sisters' devotion to each other also worked to his advantage.

He used it like a rudder to redirect Remy whenever she veered off the course he'd set for her.

As soon as he had returned from Jefferson Parish, where his wife was last seen, he checked with the faculty at Blessed Heart. Without mentioning Remy's kidnapping, he inquired after Flarra and had been relieved to learn that his young sister-in-law was within the cloistered walls.

Remy wouldn't have left without taking Flarra. Which shot to hell the theory that she had run away with Basile. After all, where would she have met him? When and how could they have hatched this elaborate plan?

Pinkie shook his head in firm denial of his own misgivings. She hadn't run away, she'd been taken by force and against her will.

By Burke Basile. The son of a bitch who had laughed in his face when he'd offered him the chance of a lifetime now had his wife.

That much he knew. What he didn't know was what Basile would do with her.

But he could imagine.

Inflamed by the thought, he hurled his glass across the room, where it shattered against the wall, spattering it with expensive scotch.