He'd never struck her, but he came terribly close then to slapping the phony innocence off her face. Instead, he reached for her hand and squeezed it hard, but not as hard as he felt like."I'm tired of this game. I was tired of it weeks ago. It ends tonight."
"Game?"
"Your game of keeping secrets."
"I'm not keeping secrets."
"Don't ..." Bringing his raised voice under control, he began again, "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
He gave her a long look."Are you planning to run away again?"
"No!"
"Because if you are, I caution you not to try. I was forgiving before. But I won't be again."
She tried to turn her head away, but he pinched her chin between his fingers and forced her to look at him. He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip, pressing hard."I wanted you the first time I saw you.
I could have had you then. But I was patient. I didn't do what it would have been within my rights to do, did I? Answer me."
"No, you didn't."
"I could have taken you then, but I waited. Even after you were old enough, I didn't have to marry you, but I did. Have you ever thought of where you'd be if you'd tried to steal from somebody else that day, Remy? Hmm? Where would you be if I hadn't been so understanding?" don't know."
_ "Yes, you do," he whispered, stroking her cheek."You'd be whoring just like your mother."
Tears sprang to her eyes."No. I wouldn't."
"Yes, you would. When we met, you were already well on your way to becoming another Angel." His eyes moved over her in a way he knew she hated."Oh yes, Remy. Even then you were alluring. I bet your mother's customers were hot to get on you long before I entered your life."
His fingers tightened around her hand. He thrust his face close to hers, but kept his voice soft."Maybe you would have liked that life.
Maybe you wish I hadn't saved you from all those men. Maybe you liked their fondling and heavy breathing better than you like being married to me."
"Stop it!" Yanking her hand free, she left the bed."What are you threatening to do, Pinkie, report my crime after all these years?
I'm not one of your clients. Or one of your lackeys. So don't speak to me as if I were. I deserve better than veiled threats. I'm your wife."
"Well, I want my wife to tell me why she's been slinking around the house like a goddamn ghost!" he shouted.
right! Flarra. I'm worried about Flarra."
Flarra? That's all? That's it? She was depressed over something as trivial as her sister? First it was Bardo who was agitating her, now Flarra. He'd been thinking the worst, fearing she might be planning another escape, and here she was telling him that her dejection was over nothing more significant than Flarra. Or was she lying?
"What about Flarra?" he asked brusquely.
Angrily Remy pulled on a robe and haphazardly tied the belt around her waist. As she composed herself, her chest rose and fell, making her gold cross pendant twinkle in the lamplight. He was glad to see her upset.
His taunting about her former life had reminded her how fortunate she was.
"She sneaked out again," she said."I went to see her today for a routine visit, but when I arrived, I walked into a lecture." She told him about Flarra's latest escapade and Sister Beatrice's warnings against any further breaking of rules."I reprimanded her, but I'm not sure how much good it did."
"Sounds to me like she needs a good paddling."
"She's a little old for that."
"You're too soft on her, Remy. I should take over the discipline.
I'll put my foot down and revoke some privileges. That will get her attention."
Her anger having subsided, Remy frowned with obvious disappointment.
"Well, that answers that."
"What?"
"Never mind. It "
"Tell me."
She gestured nervously."Flarra has been hounding me about something for months. That's what's been bothering me, and I was a fool to think you wouldn't notice my distraction." She shot him a guilty smile.
"I want to make my sister happy, but you're my husband and your wishes must come first. I've felt trapped in the middle. Today, I finally agreed to ask you." She wet her lips."And frankly, Pinkie, I think she might have a good idea. It's a valid request."
He spread his hands to indicate that she still had the floor and that he was listening.
"Flarra wants to move in with us and go to a coed school for her senior year. She wants to live a more well-rounded life. Meet new people.
Experience what other girls her age are experiencing. That's reasonable, isn't it?"
He stared hard at her for a long time, stripping her of defenses.
Then he moved his hand to the empty place beside him and patted the spot.
"Now, Remy."
"What about Flarra?"
"I'll think about it. Now, come back to bed." He uncovered himself, showing her how aroused he was. Her anger had stirred him, but her earnest petitioning had excited him even more.
When she rejoined him, he left no doubt in her mind that she belonged to him. He owned her. Her body, mind, and spirit were his to do with as he wished.
Afterward he told her that Flarra would remain at Blessed Heart Academy through her graduation.
For a moment, she didn't respond. Then she said, "Whatever you think is best, Pinkie."
He stroked her hair."Your sister is young and doesn't know her own mind. It's up to us to me, actually, because you're far too lenient to see that she doesn't make any major mistakes or wrong decisions. I know what's best for her. Just as I knew what was best for you." "She also asked permission to attend our Mardi Gras party." "She's got her gall," he said with a chuckle."That's a very prestigious guest list."
"That's why she wants to come."
"We'll see."
"Be prepared for her to sulk the next few times we're with her." "She'll get over it," he said, dismissing the warning with a chuckle.
As he drifted off to sleep, he was smiling. Thank God that's the end of that.
Burke went to the university library because it stayed open later than the public library, and he knew he had a lot of material to cover.
For hours he scrolled through microfilms of the Times Picayune.
Years back, the newspaper had done a profile on the city's most illustrious lawyer. Patrick Duvall had grown up in a middle-class neighborhood, but his parents worked hard to keep him in parochial schools, where he excelled in contact sports as well as scholastics.
He received a scholarship to university, worked his way through law school and graduated first in his class, apprenticed in an established, firm for nine years before he outgrew it and branched off on his own.
How much was truth and how much was fabrication Burke couldn't guess, but he reasoned that the piece was at least based on fact, because so much of it could be checked out. What came across clearly was that the subject of the piece was an overachiever who had been determined to climb above middle-class mediocrity, and that's what he'd done.
The writer touted Duvall as a philanthropist, but no mention was made of the clubs and topless bars he owned. Listed were the sundry citations he'd received for outstanding citizenship from civic groups and professional associations, but Burke knew of just as many hits Duvall had ordered, including, most recently, Raymond Hahn. Duvall was living the good life while thumbing his nose at the law-abiding public who lauded him.
And therein, Burke realized, lay the mechanism that made him tick.
Drug trafficking wasn't just a means of making money, it was DuvalUs primo head trip. He did it because he could get away with it. To him it was a game, and he was winning. His illegal activities allowed him to demonstrate his superiority, if only to himself.
Pinkie Duvall figured frequently in front-page stories. Aside from that, his name routinely appeared in the society columns. But mention and pictures of his wife were noticeably scarce. When she did appear in a rare candid photo, she was usually standing in her husband's shadow.
Literally.
Was she camera shy? Or was it impossible to upstage a mediasavvy egomaniac like Pinkie Duvall, no matter how gorgeous you were?
What Burke also thought odd was that very little copy had been written about her. She had never been the focus of a write-up. Nor was she ever quoted. So either she didn't have an opinion about anything, or her opinion was so vapid it wasn't newsworthy, or her opinion was never solicited because her verbose husband was always on hand with something printable to tell reporters or columnists.
Mr. and Mrs. Pinkie Duvall were listed on the rosters of several charities, but Remy Duvall didn't hold an office in any of the social or civic women's clubs, nor did she serve on any board or committee or chair any fund-raisers.
Remy Lambeth Duvall was her husband's antithesis. She was a nonentity.
He stayed until the library closed. They literally locked the doors behind him when he left. He realized he was hungry: All he'd consumed today were a stale Twinkie and as much of the banana smoothie as he could stomach. To help curb the roach population, he kept nothing edible in his apartment. He eschewed a restaurant in favor of a convenience store, where he bought two microwave hot dogs and a Big Gulp.
He drove away from the store with no particular destination in mind.
But he knew were he was going. When he got there, the house was dark except for security lights and a second-story window.
The wieners in the hot dogs were rubbery and the buns stale, but he chewed and swallowed mechanically, without tasting, wondering what Mr. and Mrs. Pinkie Duvall were doing on the other side of that shuttered window.
Talking? From what Burke had seen and read, she was no chatterbox.
Was she capable of scintillating conversation only with her husband?
Were her opinions and insights reserved for his ears alone? Did she entertain him in the evenings with her witty observations?
Yeah, right, Burke thought sardonically as he wadded up the hotdog wrappers and threw them to the floorboard. She'd keep ol' Pinkie stimulated, all right, but about a yard south of his brain.
He belched up the taste of bad hot dogs and washed it down with a swig of his overcarbonated cola.
Poor Pinkie. He was obviously *-whipped by this chick and blissfully unaware of the thing she had going with Wayne Bardo. Or maybe not. Maybe Pinkie shared her with his clients. Maybe she was one of the perks he provided for a client when he got away with murder.
The light went out.
Burke continued to stare at the dark window. The graphic images that flickered through his mind bothered him so greatly that he squeezed his eyes shut to try to block them out. His gut felt like lead. He blamed it on the hot dogs.
A half hour passed before he started his car and drove away.
It was clear to him that Duvall was besotted with his wife. She was treated like goddamn royalty. Ruby Bouchereaux had told him that Pinkie kept her under lock and key. He'd seen for himself how well she was guarded and protected.
"What does that tell you, Basile?"
As he let himself into his bleak apartment, he was smiling.
Remy lay perfectly still, listening to Pinkie's soft snores. She sent up a small prayer of thanksgiving that her ruse had worked. He had denied Flarra's request, never guessing that was exactly what Remy wanted him to do.
This wasn't the first time she had used reverse psychology to manipulate her husband. Most often it failed. But this time she had the advantage of knowing that he wouldn't welcome anyone intruding on them and making demands on her time. Especially Flarra. Pinkie knew how much she loved her sister, and he was jealous of their bond.
Thank you, God, for his jealousy. Keep him jealous.
Be careful what you pray for.
As on many other sleepless nights, Sister Beatrice's advice came back to haunt her. She understood now the lesson the nun had been trying to teach her. As a child, hadn't she begged God for another life, one free of poverty and responsibility?
Well, that's exactly what she had been granted. Little had she known what a tremendous price she would pay for this answer to her naive prayers.
Pinkie slumbered contentedly, his arm around her. The weight of it seemed crushing.
The men's rest room comprised one side of a square, concrete block structure. Inside were two rusty sinks, three stained urinals, and a single enclosed stall, the door of which hung by only one hinge.