added.
“I think a strip search is in order here,” Pitre suggested, reaching for her arm.
“Fuck you, Pitre,” she snapped, jerking away from him.
A salacious sneer lit his face. “I’m up for it, sugar, if you think it’ll help your case.”
“Go piss up a rope.”
“The sheriff told you to go home, Broussard,” Rodrigue said. “You’re disobeying an order. You wanna go on report?”
Annie shook her head in disbelief. He would condone brutality, and write her up for loitering. She looked at the door to the interview room, uncertain. Procedure dictated one course of action, her sheriff had ordered another. She would have given anything to know what was being said on the other side of that door, but no one was going to let her in either literally or figuratively. Gus had taken over, and Gus Noblier was absolute ruler of the Partout Parish Sheriff’s Office, if not of Partout Parish itself.
“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll do the paperwork in the morning.”
She felt their eyes burning into her back all the way to the door, their hostility a tangible thing. The sensation made her feel ill. These were men she had known for two years, men she had joked with.
The mist had evolved into a steady, cold rain. Annie pulled her denim jacket up over her head and ran to the Jeep, where her ice cream had melted and was seeping through the carton into a milky puddle on the driver’s side floor. A fitting end to her evening.
She sat behind the wheel, trying to imagine what would happen tomorrow, but nothing came. She had no frame of reference. She had never arrested a fellow officer.
“We don’t arrest our own. Nick, he’s part of the Brotherhood.”
The Brotherhood. The Code.
I broke the Code.
“Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?” she asked aloud.
The plastic alligator that hung from the mirror stared back at her with a mocking leer. Annie snapped at him with a forefinger and sat back as he danced on the end of his tether. She glanced at the paper bag she had tucked between the bucket seats. The bag her ice cream had come in. The bag she had used to collect Fourcade’s bloody gloves. Each glove should have been bagged individually, but she’d made do with what she had on hand, slipping one glove in, then folding the bag and inserting the other in the top pocket created by the fold. Procedure dictated she log in the evidence, see to it that it was secured in the evidence room. Instinct kept her from running back into the station with the bag. She could still feel the burning gazes of Rodrigue and Degas and Pitre boring into her. She had broken the Code.
And yet, she had bent rules, had made concessions for Fourcade she wouldn’t have made with a civilian. She should have called a unit to the scene, but she hadn’t. The jurisdiction was City of Bayou Breaux, not Partout Parish, but it seemed like betrayal to turn Fourcade over to another department. She had called an ambulance for Renard, explained nothing to the paramedics, and hauled Fourcade to the station in her own vehicle. She hadn’t even called in to dispatch to warn them, because she didn’t want it on the radio.
She had made concessions to Fourcade because he was a cop, and still she was being made the heavy. Men she would have joked with last night suddenly looked at her as if she were a hostile and unwelcome stranger.
She started the Jeep and rolled out of the parking lot as two cars turned in. Deputies coming on for the midnight shift. The news of Fourcade’s run-in would spread like hot oil in a skillet. Her world had suddenly turned 180 degrees. Everything simple had become complex. Everything familiar had become unfamiliar. Everything light had gone dark. She looked at the rain and remembered Fourcade’s whispered word:
Shadowland
.
The streets were deserted, making the traffic lights seem an extravagance. The majority of Bayou Breaux’s seven thousand residents were working-class people who went to bed at a
“I think a strip search is in order here,” Pitre suggested, reaching for her arm.
“Fuck you, Pitre,” she snapped, jerking away from him.
A salacious sneer lit his face. “I’m up for it, sugar, if you think it’ll help your case.”
“Go piss up a rope.”
“The sheriff told you to go home, Broussard,” Rodrigue said. “You’re disobeying an order. You wanna go on report?”
Annie shook her head in disbelief. He would condone brutality, and write her up for loitering. She looked at the door to the interview room, uncertain. Procedure dictated one course of action, her sheriff had ordered another. She would have given anything to know what was being said on the other side of that door, but no one was going to let her in either literally or figuratively. Gus had taken over, and Gus Noblier was absolute ruler of the Partout Parish Sheriff’s Office, if not of Partout Parish itself.
“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll do the paperwork in the morning.”
She felt their eyes burning into her back all the way to the door, their hostility a tangible thing. The sensation made her feel ill. These were men she had known for two years, men she had joked with.
The mist had evolved into a steady, cold rain. Annie pulled her denim jacket up over her head and ran to the Jeep, where her ice cream had melted and was seeping through the carton into a milky puddle on the driver’s side floor. A fitting end to her evening.
She sat behind the wheel, trying to imagine what would happen tomorrow, but nothing came. She had no frame of reference. She had never arrested a fellow officer.
“We don’t arrest our own. Nick, he’s part of the Brotherhood.”
The Brotherhood. The Code.
I broke the Code.
“Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?” she asked aloud.
The plastic alligator that hung from the mirror stared back at her with a mocking leer. Annie snapped at him with a forefinger and sat back as he danced on the end of his tether. She glanced at the paper bag she had tucked between the bucket seats. The bag her ice cream had come in. The bag she had used to collect Fourcade’s bloody gloves. Each glove should have been bagged individually, but she’d made do with what she had on hand, slipping one glove in, then folding the bag and inserting the other in the top pocket created by the fold. Procedure dictated she log in the evidence, see to it that it was secured in the evidence room. Instinct kept her from running back into the station with the bag. She could still feel the burning gazes of Rodrigue and Degas and Pitre boring into her. She had broken the Code.
And yet, she had bent rules, had made concessions for Fourcade she wouldn’t have made with a civilian. She should have called a unit to the scene, but she hadn’t. The jurisdiction was City of Bayou Breaux, not Partout Parish, but it seemed like betrayal to turn Fourcade over to another department. She had called an ambulance for Renard, explained nothing to the paramedics, and hauled Fourcade to the station in her own vehicle. She hadn’t even called in to dispatch to warn them, because she didn’t want it on the radio.
She had made concessions to Fourcade because he was a cop, and still she was being made the heavy. Men she would have joked with last night suddenly looked at her as if she were a hostile and unwelcome stranger.
She started the Jeep and rolled out of the parking lot as two cars turned in. Deputies coming on for the midnight shift. The news of Fourcade’s run-in would spread like hot oil in a skillet. Her world had suddenly turned 180 degrees. Everything simple had become complex. Everything familiar had become unfamiliar. Everything light had gone dark. She looked at the rain and remembered Fourcade’s whispered word:
Shadowland
.
The streets were deserted, making the traffic lights seem an extravagance. The majority of Bayou Breaux’s seven thousand residents were working-class people who went to bed at a
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