Fat Tuesday(89)

After I've spent several days and nights alone with you, my husband won't want me back."

He laughed shortly."Nice try." Reaching into his back pocket with one hand, he took hers with the other.

"What are you doing?"

"Handcuffing you." He locked the manacles around her wrist with a decisive click.

"To what?"

"To me."

Pinkie left the remainder of his muffuletta sandwich on his desk and moved to the window of his office. Through the slats of the blinds, he looked out across the nighttime skyline."Why in hell can't somebody find them? They couldn't have simply vanished."

"Looks like they did," Bardo mumbled around a mouthful of his carryout dinner.

Since the discovery of the abandoned van, there'd been no further development in locating Basile and Remy. People monitoring public transportation into and out of New Orleans had seen nothing. The helicopter pilot had spotted nothing worth investigating. None of Duvall's informants anywhere in southern Louisiana had anything to report.

"You're sure that whore was straight with you? She didn't know anything?"

Bardo belched behind his hand."Dixie? When I found out she'd helped Basile, I worked her over pretty good." Pinkie turned and gave him a pointed look. Bardo grinned."No, I didn't go that far. She's probably back on the street by now. But I did a good enough job on her, if she'd've known something, she would've told."

Pinkie went back to staring out the window. The city lights were diffused by fog and mist, but he didn't really see them anyway. He was wholly given over to his dilemma. The moment Errol called him from the Crossroads, his perfect, structured life had toppled. His clients had been put on hold. Judges had granted him postponements because of an "illness in his family." His calendar had been cleared of all appointments and social engagements. Telephone calls went unreturned unless they related specifically to the crisis.

Goddamn Burke Basile for reducing his well-programmed life to chaos.

The bastard was going to pay, and pay huge. But where in hell was he?

Pinkie had put the fear of God into Doug Pat, but his only contribution so far had been to report that Burke Basile's wife was out of the country with her boyfriend, and Pinkie's people had already determined that.

His built-in lie detector indicated that Doug Pat was telling the truth when he said he didn't know where Basile was. Even so, Pinkie might suspect Pat of abetting Basile, except for one thing: Pat's love for his position transcended the high regard he had for each man in his division, and that included his favorite, Basile. Pat wanted to advance into the upper echelons of the N.O.P.D. He was no milquetoast, but he wasn't stupid, either. He recognized the hazards of making Pinkie Duvall unhappy.

After the scare they'd given Mac Mccuen, Pinkie predicted he would play on their team. But, who knew? He might turn out to be as loyal and trustworthy a friend to Basile as Basile had been to Kev Stuart.

"Fucking cops," he muttered.

"Come again?" Bardo asked.

"Never mind." After a moment, Bardo said, "You know, I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"About how much Mrs. Duvall knows about our business."

Pinkie came around slowly."Meaning?"

"Meaning that Basile could probably be a persuasive guy if he set his mind to it. Especially with a woman."

Unwittingly, Wayne Bardo had tapped into the mother lode of Pinkie's concern. He had never discussed the details of his various sidelines with Remy, but she could have picked up threads of information, which, woven together, could form the rope that would hang him. She probably knew even more than she realized. Even an offhanded comment could prove useful to someone like Basile, whose police training had honed his innate deductive skills. If he threatened Remy's life, God knows how much she would suddenly remember about her husband's enterprises and compromising connections. All the more reason why she needed to be found and silenced.

"If Basile sweet-talked her, blew in her ear some, she might spill her guts," Bardo surmised."What do you think?"

"What I think," Duvall said evenly, "is that if you talk like that about my wife again, I'm going to tear out your tongue." It was all right for him to speculate on Remy's allegiance, it wasn't all right for someone else to.

"Jeer, Pinkie, don't get sore. All I meant was "

"I need to get out of this room," he said abruptly.

"Where're you going?"

"Out."

"I'll come, too."

"You'll stay here. You have work to do. Remember?"

Pinkie angrily yanked open the door, then strode through the lobby of his law office. Errol, who'd been sleeping in a chair, groggily raised his head, then jerked to attention."Where to, Mr. Duvall?"

"I'm going for a walk. Alone."

He took the elevator to the first floor of the building, passed the security guard without a glance, and pushed through the glass doors, which the guard unlocked electronically from the reception desk.

Pinkie walked two blocks before he hailed one of New Orleans's notoriously expensive taxis. When he gave the female driver the address, she shot him a droll look in the rearview mirror.

Mardi Gras celebrants were keeping the girls at Ruby Bouchereaux's place busy. From now until midnight on Fat Tuesday when Lent began, the gentlemen were limited to one hour, unless they were willing to pay exorbitantly. Ruby had reminded her girls that the more frequent the turnover, the more profit for everybody.