You know."
"Hmm," brother Joe said, very noncommittally.
Only I don't know how to contact him."
"What makes you think he wants to be contacted?"
Shrewdness was a Basile family trait. Brother Joe wasn't a cop, but he was no mental midget either."Before he left, he said it was too bad I couldn't go with him, something to that effect. Now that I can, I figure he'd welcome the company."
During the long silence that ensued, Mac gnawed on his lower lip.
His eyes darted about the cafe, trying to detect any early morning diner who might be spying on behalf of Pinkie Duvall or Del Ray Jones.
None seemed the least bit interested in the nervous man hunched over the public telephone.
Finally Joe Basile said, "I'm afraid I can't help you, Mr. Mccuen.
When I last spoke to Burke, he sounded pretty down in the dumps. He mentioned getting away to me, too, and, frankly, I got the impression that he wanted to be left alone."
Forgetting his recent prayers, Mac mouthed a few obscenities."I see."
"Tell you what, though. If Burke calls me, I'll pass along your message. Then if he wants to invite you to join him, he can. Okay?
That's the best I can do."
Mac considered telling Joe that his older brother had committed a federal crime. That might make him more cooperative. But he rejected the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. Duvall didn't want it broadcast that his wife had been abducted. If the news got out and the leak was traced back to Mac Mccuen, he'd be dead sooner than later.
"Look, Mr. Mccuen, I've got to go," Joe Basile said."It was nice talking to you. If I hear from Burke, I'll tell him you're available to join him. Have a nice day."
He hung up, leaving Mac holding a dead phone. He replaced the receiver and trudged back to the counter, where he asked for a coffee refill, then stared into it morosely.
Jesus, how had things gotten so bad, so fast?
A couple of weeks ago he'd been feeling pretty damn good about his life. He'd been in debt to Del Ray Jones, but he'd been in debt before.
One could always get some money, big money, if he knew how to go about it. Sure, the numbers were higher than ever before, but wasn't that just a matter of zeros? True, he'd been a fool to get involved with Del Ray that scumbag gave loan sharks everywhere a bad name but it was a temporary crisis, and a solution was waiting right around the corner.
He'd been confident that everything would work out.
Now all hell had broken loose. Basile had up and quit, tossing the whole Narcotics Division on its ear. Internal Affairs had decided it was time for another probe, which put everybody, including Mac, in a very bad mood. Pat was disconsolate and distracted by Basile's resignation and involvement in what seemed a kidnapping. Del Ray Jones had reared his ugly head, and he had Pinkie Duvall behind his threats, making them much more viable.
Mac's only hope of salvation was to find Basile for Duvall, and his only hope of finding Basile had just told him to have a nice day.
"Not fucking likely," he mumbled as he fished a couple of bills from his pants pocket and left them on the counter.
Pinkie had given him twenty-four hours. By nightfall he had to know where Basile was holed up with the lawyer's wife or else. The odds were lousy.
Joe Basile thoughtfully hung up the telephone in the den and pondered the strange call from Mac Mccuen. But he couldn't dwell on it long because there was a guest seated at the dining table in the kitchen drinking coffee with Linda. His wife hadn't planned on being a hostess early this morning. Pulled from bed by the ringing doorbell, she was in her oldest, warmest robe. Her eyes were still puffy from sleep.
She looked at him as he reentered the kitchen."Who was on the phone?"
'"Somebody from the office, asking what time I'd be in." She gave him an odd look, but said nothing, and offered to cook their guest some breakfast."No thanks, Mrs. Basile," Doug Pat replied."I grabbed something at Denny's before coming over. I apologize for showing up at your front door this early in the morning."
"No problem."
"You drove up from New Orleans last night?" Joe asked him.
"Yeah, I got in late, and I'm heading straight back as soon as I leave here. I knew it would be a quick-turnaround trip."
"Why didn't you just call?"
"I could have, but I thought we should talk in person."
"It's that important?"
"I believe so. Over the course of your brother's career, he's cultivated a number of enemies, not only among criminals, but inside the police department. I thought it best if we not discuss this matter over the telephone."
"You're scaring us, Mr. Pat," Linda said."Has something happened to Burke?"
"That's what I don't know but want to find out. He resigned from the department, then a few days later disappeared under mysterious circumstances."
"He called and told me he was going away for a while to sort things out," Joe offered."In light of his and Barbara's split, and his sudden retirement, I don't consider those circumstances mysterious."
"You're unaware of other factors involved."
"Such as?"
"I'm sorry, Joe, but I can't discuss them. It's classified police information " Placing his folded hands on the table, he appealed to them."Please. If you have any idea where Burke might have gone, tell me. It's essential that I locate him before anyone else does. I can't impress upon you how important this is."
"Are you saying his life is at risk?" Linda asked.
"Possibly."
Meaning yes, Joe thought. He felt the weight of his predicament.
He and his older brother saw each other only once or twice a year, but they were closer than those infrequent visits indicated. He would go so far as to say they loved each other.
If Burke was in some sort of jam, he would move heaven and earth to help him out of it. His dilemma arose from not knowing what to do, because he didn't know whether or not Burke wanted to be found.
By anybody. Mccuen. Or Doug Pat.
Joe had a gut feeling that if Burke had left without telling anyone where he was going, then he wished to be left alone. Having quit the police force, wouldn't he have washed his hands of "classified police information"? And why were Mccuen and Pat looking for him separately?
Neither had mentioned the other. If the situation was as critical as they independently claimed, why hadn't they made locating Burke a team effort?
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pat, I can't help you," Joe said, repeating what he'd already told Mccuen."Burke didn't tell me where he was going."
"Any ideas?"
"No."
"If you knew, would you tell me?"
He answered honestly."No, I wouldn't."
Pat sighed. He looked at Linda and determined instantly that she supported her husband's decision. He smiled crookedly."You're very much like your brother, Joe."
"Thank you. I consider that a compliment."
Pat laid his business card on the table and stood."If you change your mind, contact me at any hour. Mrs. Basile, again I apologize for barging in without calling beforehand. Thank you for the coffee."
The Basiles watched from the front door as he got into his car and drove away. Linda turned to Joe."Your office never calls to ask what time you're coming in."
"It was Mac Mccuen, another cop. Guess what he wanted?"
"To know where Burke is?"
"Exactly. And Pat drove all the way to Shreveport to see us this morning."
"What does it mean? What is going on, Joe?"
"Damned if I know. But I'm going to find out."
He returned to the kitchen and thumbed through their personal telephone directory until he found the number for Dredd's Mercantile.
Dredd, unmindful of the rain, had already been out to check his trotlines. He was squatting at the end of the pier, gutting fish, tossing the entrails back into the water, when he heard the telephone ringing.
Cursing the interruption, he jogged toward the building in his bow legged gait, his flat bare feet slapping against the wet planks of the pier.
"Hold on, I'm coming," he said out loud as he opened the screen door.
Winded from the exercise, he grabbed the receiver and gasped, "Hello?"
Nothing but a dial tone. He slammed down the receiver."Damn it to tarnation!"
He hated telephones and didn't really mind missing the call. If it was that important, the caller would call back.
What irked him was that as he'd reached for the phone, he'd glanced outside in time to see a pelican making breakfast of his catch.
Despite the rain, tourists queued up for the paddlewheel Creole Queen excursion upriver to view the antebellum plantation homes. They juggled brochures, umbrellas, plastic rain bonnets, cameras, and camcorders as they traipsed up the loading plank to the boat.
The embarkation was delayed by the inclement weather and by a group of senior citizens, some of whom needed special assistance getting onboard.
The embarkation was stopped altogether by a blood-curdling scream.
It came from a woman, who slumped against her astonished husband and aimed a shaking finger down toward the muddy water of the Mississippi River, into which she'd been absently gazing while inching along in line.
Others crowded close to the railing in order to look down and see what had caused the woman's distress. Some gasped and turned away in repugnance. Some placed their hands over their mouths to keep from retching. Those with stronger stomachs took pictures or shot videos.
A few prayers were whispered.
Attracting much more attention dead than he ever had alive, Errol, floating on his back, stared up through the water with eyes already turning milky.
(Burke was standing in the open doorway of the shack, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the rain when he heard her come up behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, almost expecting to see her raising an iron pot or some other blunt instrument with which to brain him.
Last night she hadn't taken too well to being handcuffed to him and had put up quite a struggle, which he had trouble quelling without hurting her."This wouldn't be necessary if you hadn't tried to escape," he had told her."I can't run the risk of you knocking me out or killing me while I'm asleep."
"That never even occurred to me."
"Well, it occurred to me." He had stretched out on the bed, dragging her down with him."It's been a long, tiring day for me. I'm going to sleep. I suggest you do the same."
She refused to lie down and sat on the edge of the bed, seething with resentment. He closed his eyes and ignored her. Eventually she surrendered to exhaustion, lay down, and was asleep long before he was.
This morning, he'd unlocked the handcuffs and gotten up without waking her. Clearly she was still miffed, but she wasn't trying to sneak up on him with a weapon.
"Coffee's on the stove," he told her.
Nonchalantly, he resumed his contemplation of the weather. The swamp was curtained by a heavy rain that showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. It was a good thing he'd brought enough supplies to last a couple of days. He wouldn't be going to Dredd's today. Not that he could get there anyway since the boat now had bullet holes in it.
The weather was keeping them inside the cabin. Didn't it stand to reason that it would also keep everyone else out? How close was Duvall to locating them? When would he show up? Within the next ten minutes?
Or would it take another week?
Burke hoped it was sooner rather than later. The shack seemed to be shrinking around them. He was beginning to feel the squeeze, and the pressure was getting to him. Lying beside her last night, he'd been aware of each breath she took. Every time she moved, he knew about it.
His sleep had been constantly interrupted by her sighs. Now, even though his back was to her, he knew exactly where she was standing and what she was doing.
In New Orleans, she had worn clothing that blatantly advertised her as a sex object. Her wardrobe was expensive, but bordered on trashy.
Now, dressed in the gray Wal-Mart sweat suit, she looked softer and sexier even than she had that night in the gazebo in the low-cut black dress. Without makeup, her cheeks rosy from sleep, her hair tousled, she looked as warm and snuggly and innocent as a kitten. And as erotic as hell.
It was becoming impossible for him to ignore the desire she aroused in him, and had since the first time he laid eyes on her. That night, he'd experienced a surge of lust that hadn't abated even when he discovered that the ethereal goddess in the gazebo was the wife of Pinkie Duvall.
When he realized who she was, why hadn't he had the good sense to find some nice obliging woman and spend the night with her, just to take the edge off? The last few months of his marriage, he and Barbara hadn't been intimate, so he'd had lots of time to build up a full head of steam. He should have taken Dixie up on her offer of a freebie. Or Ruby Bouchereaux. An hour with one of her talented girls would have done him a world of good. But he'd said no thanks. What was he, nuts?
Although he feared that even an experienced whore using every carnal trick in the book wouldn't have put out this particular fire.
Where the devil was Duvall?