been colored by negative publicity, hearsay, and malicious gossip.
So when Burke barged unannounced into his office, the D.A. was at first
taken aback and threatened to have Burke evicted from the building.
But Burke's fast talking soon got Littrell's attention. He listened with
mounting dismay to everything Burke told him. With a politician's
characteristic caution, however, he made no promises other than to look
into the matter and get back to Burke in due course.
At which point Burke had picked up the telephone on the D.A."s desk and
brandished it like an evangelist with the Holy Bible."Either you call
the A.G or I'm going to call him myself. Either way, doesn't matter to
me. This is merely a courtesy call on you, Mr. Littrell. I'm giving you
a chance to prove which side of this corruption you're on."
Littrell had placed a call to the state attorney general. With his
sanction, things had come together with head-spinning haste. As a result
of quick action, coordination, and luck, Bardo was dead.
Burke stood and shook hands with Ruby Bouchereaux."Thank you for the
drink, and forgive me for rushing off, but I'm hoping to be in on
Duvall's arrest."
"Tonight? Oh, I seriously doubt he'll be arrested tonight, Mr. Basile."
"Why?"
'"It's Mardi Gras."
"So?"
"So, the only news coming from Duvall headquarters is about the costume
party he's hosting. In fact, a few of the gentlemen who've joined our
party here came straight from Pinkie's house, where the party is already
in full swing. From what they've said, it's quite a blowout."
Burke stared at her as the frightening implications of this development
began to sink in. He checked his pager. It was on, no indication of a
low battery. Remy hadn't called it, which was to be his signal that
something had gone terribly wrong.
He asked permission to use Ruby's phone."This is Basile," he said as
soon as his call was answered."Do we have Duvall yet?"
He was patched through to three different desks until one brave soul
finally broke the shattering news to him."Arresting a celebrity citizen
like Duvall is a tricky undertaking, especially if you're trying to
maintain secrecy. There are miles of red tape involved. We want to do it
by the book so it doesn't result in a mistrial. It might take days "
"Days!" Burke shouted."Are you fucking crazy?"
"We're doing the best we can, Mr. Basile. And shouting obscenities at me
"Lives are in danger, you idiot."
"We might be able to pull it off tonight, but "
"Stay on it, you hear me. You get that warrant issued and served
tonight, or I'll have Littrell and the A.G. on your ass, and then I'll
personally come down there and stamp the shit out of you."
He slammed the receiver down."I gotta get over there." Days. Remy
couldn't stay with Duvall for days while the bureaucrats sorted through
the paperwork. As soon as he heard about Bardo, Duvall would go on red
alert. He thought Bardo was locked away in a motel, deflowering his
sister-in-law. When he learned differently, he would start piecing it
together and eventually come around to Remy.
"Mr. Basile," the madam said, catching his sleeve as he rushed past her
on his way out, "you'll be very conspicuous gate-crashing Pinkie
Duvall's party dressed like that. Would you care to borrow a costume?"
Burke didn't have a moment to waste, but he saw the advisability of
taking the time for her to locate him a costume. He paced her office,
cursing the system that had once again let him down, and at the same
time thanking it.
The delay uptown gave him an opportunity to do one better than arrest
Duvall.
It gave him a chance to kill the bastard.
The pain in Remy's back had receded to a dull ache. A bruise was
beginning to appear on her cheekbone, but the swelling was minimal.
the thought of her sister being abused by Bardo.
Burke had sworn to see to Flarra's safety first, even before arresting
Pinkie. He would keep that promise if he could. But what if, in spite of
his valiant attempts, he'd failed? She had. Pinkie had readily seen
through her pretense. Maybe Burke had had no better success than she.
Maybe he'd been unable to persuade the district attorney and the
attorney general to act swiftly.
because she didn't know otherwise, she had to assume that he'd failed,
which meant that saving Flarra still rested with her. A telephone.
That's all she needed. She had met the first challenge of figuring a way
out of the master bedroom she now had a key. The next step was finding
an available telephone.
As soon as she felt it was safe to try the key, she did so. The lock
slid open with hardly a click. She paused, waiting, her heart pounding
in her ears, but when nothing happened, she pulled open the door.
The hallway was clear. She immediately checked the foyer table at the
top of the stairs where there was usually a telephone, but, of course,
her husband hadn't overlooked that detail.
She crept along the corridor until she reached the top of the stairs.
Before stepping onto the landing, she paused to consider what she would
do if she were confronted by one of the house staff. Their loyalty lay
with Pinkie, not her, because all of them were former clients whom
Pinkie had saved from years of incarceration, if not death row.
None would grant a request from her without clearing it with him first.
Errol? What if she met her bodyguard? Could she persuade or trick him
into assisting her? He wasn't terribly bright. Maybe she could
manipulate him into sneaking her out. She hadn't forgotten what happened
to Lute Duskie, the bodyguard who'd allowed her to escape to Galveston.
The thought of duping Errol wasn't very appetizing, but she would do
what she had to and try to protect him later.
Bolstering all her courage, she stepped onto the landing.
But that's as far as she got. There was a man posted at the foot of the
staircase, but it wasn't Errol.
She ducked back out of sight before he noticed her. Where was Errol?
Why had he been replaced? And then, of course, she realized why. He had
been derelict in his duties at the Crossroads. Had he paid for that
mistake with his life?
Whether he had or not was irrelevant to her present problem. Could the
new man be cajoled into helping her, or was he steadfastly loyal to
Pinkie? She favored the latter. He was new. He would be eager to impress
his boss.
The only advantage she had was in their not knowing that she now could
leave the bedroom. And how much longer would she have that luxury?
When would Pinkie discover the key missing from his coat pocket?
Before he did, she must come up with another plan. Trying not to let
this setback defeat her, she tiptoed back to the master suite and locked
herself in.
How long had Burke needed to set into motion the juggernaut he claimed
would crumble Pinkie's empire? How long before he was arrested? And what
was going on with Flarra in the meantime?
If only she knew that Flarra was safe ... but she didn't. So she
continued to fret until she heard approaching footsteps. She quickly lay
down on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest. She stared vacantly
into near space, as though she had lost all hope.
Pinkie rushed into the room, and drew up short when he saw her lying
there lethargically. Had he missed the key? Had he expected to find her
gone? Apparently so, because when he saw her, the wrinkles of worry on
his forehead smoothed out and he smiled.
He moved to the bedside and gazed down at her."Guess who I heard from
this afternoon?" Remy didn't respond or even react as though she'd heard
him."Sister Beatrice," he continued in that same pleasant voice."She
called from the academy where Bardo picked up Flarra, ostensibly to
escort her to our party. By this time, he has introduced your beloved
baby sister to the pleasures of the flesh.
By morning, who knows? Sometimes Bardo's passion gets out of hand."
She drew her knees up closer to her body and buried her face in the
pillow. Laughing softly, Pinkie went into his dressing room and locked
the door behind himself. Twenty minutes later he came out dressed as
Henry VIII.
"You don't seem to be in a very festive mood, Remy. I'll make your
excuses to our guests."
He paused on the threshold."Oh, by the way, it's only a matter of time
before we track down your lover, but I've given strict instructions that
he's not to be killed until it can be done in your presence, and only
then after he's watched you being fucked by all the personnel of the
N.O.P.D on my payroll, which, I assure you, is no small number of men
and women. That should be quite an evening."
He was obviously deranged. He had lost all touch with reality, believing
himself unstoppable and untouchable, the common downfall of egomaniacs,
men who gorge on their own power until it, paradoxically, consumes them.
But Remy didn't point this out to him, or argue against his insane
delusions, or warn him of the impending collapse of his world.
Instead she remained seemingly unaffected by his chilling plans for her
and Basile.
But as soon as she heard the door lock behind him, she scrambled off the
bed. Inadvertently, Pinkie had given her another idea.
Bozo the Clown wended his way through the merrymakers.
He declined the glass of champagne offered to him by a masked waiter
dressed in cowboy hat, boots, and chaps. On one cheek of the wrangler's
bare butt was tattooed a red heart.
No one could touch Pinkie Duvall when it came to hosting a party.
There was enough food and liquor to stock an oceangoing vessel for a
long cruise. The decorated rooms of his home teemed with merriment and
resounded with music and laughter. Masked men and women cavorted with
bacchanalian abandon as the clock ticked toward midnight and the end of
Fat Tuesday.
King Henry VIII was flirting with a mermaid with gold glitter on her
nipples when Bozo spotted him. He moved in their direction and reached
the king's side in time to hear him say, "Wiggle your tail for me."
The mermaid playfully swatted his groping hand with her jeweled scepter,
then undulated away.
Bozo said, "Great party, Your Royal Highness."
"Thank you," Duvall replied absently, still watching the mermaid.
"I understand you're looking for Burke Basile." Suddenly the king's eyes
connected with the clown's. He peered past the makeup.
"Jesus," he hissed."What "
"Not here. Unless you want a scene in front of all your friends."
Duvall, turning red beneath his feathered velvet cap, nodded and
signaled the clown to follow. They went into Duvall's home study.
Bozo closed the door.
"Okay, where is he?" Duvall demanded as he moved toward his desk.
Bozo fired a pistol, striking Duvall in the back just above the kidney.
The attorney staggered. A second shot caught him right between his
shoulder blades. He fell forward across his desk.
Moving quickly, Doug Pat pulled on a plastic glove over the white cotton
one that went with his costume. In his oversized red clown shoes, he
moved to where Pinkie was sprawled across the desk, arms and hands
extended in front of him. He had landed on his cheekbone, one side of
his face turned up, his open eye registering the surprise he must have
felt at dying so unexpectedly and so ignominiously, shot in the back
like a fool.
Pat opened the lap drawer of the desk. In a plastic tray, along with
paper clips, a couple of ballpoint pens, and a book of postage stamps,
lay a loaded snub-nosed.38, a Saturday night special."A no-class weapon
for a no-class guy," Pat said, whispering into Duvall's ear.
He took the revolver from the drawer and placed it in Duvall's right
hand, positioning the dead man's fingers around the weapon as though
he'd been about to fire it.
Pat stepped back and checked the scene. What was he overlooking?
What could trip him up? Duvall had legions of enemies, any number of
whom could have come to the party disguised, enticed Duvall into his
study, and then when an argument ensued, Duvall had been reaching for
his weapon, when said enemy got to him first. No more than fifteen
seconds had passed since they entered the office.
Even with the silencer, the shots had made sounds, but they would never
be heard above the party noise. Pat was confident no one would remember
the last costumed guest Duvall had been seen with, and even if they did,
the man behind the Bozo the Clown makeup could never be identified.
Finally satisfied that he hadn't overlooked an incriminating detail, he
removed the plastic glove and stuffed it into his pocket, then moved
toward the door.
And then he stopped, realizing that he had overlooked something.
Duvall hadn't bled a drop.
Bozo the Clown spun around in a swirl of polka-dot taffeta just as
Duvall fired the.38.
The hollow-tip bullet mushroomed inside Pat's abdomen.
Clutching his belly, he fell to the floor.
"I highly recommend Kevlar," Duvall said, steering his black velvet
slippers clear of the lake of blood forming around Pat as he
approached."You never know when some gutless traitor is going to shoot
you in the back." He aimed the barrel of the pistol at Pat's head.
"Mr. Duvall!" Someone knocked hard on the door, then flung it open.
"She's gone, Mr. Duvall!"
" What?"
"I just checked the room, like you asked me to. The door was still
locked, but she's not in there."
"Did you look out on the balcony?"
"Not there, sir. The windows were still locked."
"That's impossible."
"I'm sorry, sir, but it "
"Get out of my way." Duvall pushed the man aside."Finish up here."
With his cape flaring out behind him, Henry VIII ran out to search for
his wife.
Doug Pat looked up into the face of a man he'd never seen before, but
whom he knew was the last face he would ever see.
grayw Burke, d
ressed like the pirate lean Lafitte, kept to the shadows
at the side of the house until he reached the backyard. He glanced at
the gazebo where he'd first seen Remy. A couple were necking beneath the
vine-covered dome and didn't notice when he vaulted the fence. On his
way inside, he picked up a half-empty glass an invited guest had left
behind and strolled in as though he'd been out for a breath of fresh
air. The rooms were thronged with people, all costumed and masked for
the occasion. He waylaid a waiter a steroid-popping body builder by the
looks of him who was dressed as a sumo wrestler.
Burke had to shout above the party racket to make himself heard."Mr.
Duvall is looking for his wife. Have you seen her?"
"I don't think she's come down yet."
Behind his small black mask, Basile rolled his eyes."The boss is going
to be pissed if she doesn't get her ass down here before this damn
thing's over. Thanks."
He patted the body builder's meaty shoulder and began elbowing his way
through the crowd. Remembering the layout of the house from his previous