A Thin Dark Line by Tami Hoag

she’d had her fill of people for one day, and a prolonged grilling by Uncle Sos was too much to face. The politics of the Renard case had him in a lather. She knew for a fact he had bet fifty dollars on the outcome of the evidentiary hearing—and lost. That, coupled with his opinion of her current platonic relationship with A.J., would have him in rare form tonight.
    “Why you don’ marry dat boy, ’tite chatte? Andre, he’s a good boy, him. What’s a matter wit’ you, turnin’ you purty nose up? You all the time chasin’ you don’ know what, éspèsces de tête dure.”
    Just the imagined haranguing was enough to amplify the thumping in her head. The whole idea of buying ice cream was to be nice to herself. She didn’t want to think about A.J. or Renard or Pam Bichon or Fourcade.
    She had heard the stories about Fourcade. The allegations of brutality, the rumors surrounding the unsolved case of a murdered teenage prostitute in the French Quarter, the unsubstantiated accusations of evidence tampering.
    “Stay away from those shadows, ’Toinette. . . . They’ll suck the life outta you.”
    Good advice, but she couldn’t take it if she wanted in on the case. They were a package deal, Fourcade and the murder. They seemed to go together a little too well. He was a scary son of a bitch.
    She started the Jeep and turned toward the bayou, flicking the wipers on to cut the thick mist from the windshield. On the radio, Owen Onofrio was still prodding his listeners for reactions to the scene at the courthouse.
    “Kent in Carencro, you’re on line two.”
    “I think that judge oughta be unpoached—”
    “You mean impeached?”
    As she slowed for a stop sign, her eyes automatically scanned for traffic . . . and hit on a black Ford pickup with a dent in the driver’s-side rear panel. Fourcade’s truck, parked in front of a shoe repair place that had gone out of business two years ago.
    Annie doused her lights and sat there, double-parked, engine grumbling. This was not a residential street. There were no businesses open. A third of the places on this stretch of road were vacant . . . but the offices of Bowen & Briggs were located two blocks south.
    She put the Jeep in gear and crept forward. She could see the building that housed Bayou Realty and Bowen & Briggs. There were no lights. There were no cars parked on the street. The sheriff had pulled the surveillance on Renard after the hearing, hoping the press would back off. Renard had been working evenings for the same reason. Fourcade was parked two blocks away.
    “‘One man’s justice is another man’s injustice . . . one man’s wisdom another’s folly.’ ”
    Annie pulled to the curb in front of Robichaux Electric, cut the engine, and grabbed her big black flashlight from the debris on the floor behind the passenger’s seat. Maybe Fourcade was taking it upon himself to continue the surveillance. But if that were the case, he wouldn’t park two blocks away or leave his vehicle.
    She pulled her Sig P-225 out of her duffel bag and stuck the gun in the waistband of her skirt, then climbed out of the Jeep. Keeping the flashlight off, she made her way down the sidewalk, her sneakers silent on the damp pavement.
    “There is no justice in this world. How’s that for a truth, Deputy Broussard?”
    “Shit, shit, shit,” she chanted under her breath, her step quickening at the first sound from the direction of Bowen & Briggs. A scrape. A shoe on asphalt. A thump. A muffled cry.
    “Shit!” Pulling the gun and flicking the switch on the flashlight, she broke into a run.
    She could hear the sound of flesh striking flesh even before she entered the narrow parking lot. Instinct rushed her forward, overruling procedure. She should have called it in. She didn’t have any backup. Her badge was in her pocketbook in the Jeep. Not one of those facts slowed her step.
    “Sheriff’s office, freeze!” she yelled, sweeping the bright halogen beam across the parking