decent hour weeknights and saved their hell-raising for the weekends. Commercial fishermen, oil workers, cane farmers. What industry there was in town supported those same professions.
The core of Bayou Breaux was old. A couple of the buildings on La Rue Dumas had been standing there since before the first Acadians got off the boats from
le grand dérangement
in the eighteenth century, when the British confiscated their property in Nova Scotia and kicked them out. Many more buildings dated to the nineteenth century—some clapboard, some brick with false fronts, some in good shape, some not. Annie drove past them, temporarily oblivious to their history.
A neon light for Dixie beer glowed red in the window of T-Neg’s, the nightspot in what was still called the colored part of town. The modern rage for political correctness had yet to sift into the deeper recesses of South Louisiana. She hung a right at Canray’s Garage, a tumbledown filling station that looked like something from a bleak postapocalyptic sci-fi movie, with junked cars and disemboweled engines abandoned all around. The houses down this street didn’t look much better. Tatty one-story cottages rose off the ground on leaning brick pilings, the houses crammed shoulder to shoulder with yards the size of postage stamps.
The properties gradually became larger, the homes more respectable and more modern the farther west she drove. The old neighborhoods gave way to subdivisions on the southwest side of town, where contractors had lined cul-de-sacs with brick pseudo-Acadian and pseudo-Caribbean plantation cottages. A.J. lived out here.
But how could she go to him? He worked for the DA. The cops and the prosecutors may have technically been on the same big team for justice, but the reality was often more adversarial than congenial. If she went over the sheriff’s head and crossed the line into the DA’s camp, there would be hell to pay with Noblier, and the rest of the department would see it only as further proof that she had turned on them.
And if she went to A.J. as a friend, then what? Could she expect him to separate who they were from what they did when a possible felony charge hung in the balance?
Annie pulled a U-turn and headed for the hospital. Marcus Renard’s beating was her case until someone told her differently. She had a victim’s statement to take.
A pristine white statue of the Virgin Mary welcomed the afflicted to Our Lady of Mercy with open arms. Spotlights nestled in the hibiscus shrubs at the base of her pedestal illuminated her all night long, a beacon to the battered. The hospital itself had been built in the seventies, during the oil boom, when ready money and philanthropy were in abundant supply. A two-story brick L, it sprawled over a manicured lawn that was set back just far enough from the bayou to be both scenic and prudent in flood season.
Annie parked in the red zone in front of the ER entrance, flipping down her visor with the insignia of the sheriff’s department clipped to it. Notebook in hand, she headed into the hospital, wondering if Renard would be in any condition to speak to her. If he died, would that make life easier or harder?
“We just got him moved into a room.” Nurse Jolie led her down a corridor that glowed like pearl under the soft night lighting. “I voted for the boiler room—the boiler itself, to be precise. Do you know who beat him up? I wanna kiss that man all over.”
“He’s in jail,” Annie lied.
Nurse Jolie arched a finely curved brow. “What for?”
Annie bit back a sigh as they stopped before the door to room 118. “Is he awake? Sedated? Can he talk?”
“He can talk through what’s left of his teeth. Dr. Van Allen used a local on his nose and jaw. He hasn’t been given any painkillers.” A slyly sadistic smile turned the nurse’s mouth. “We don’t want to mask the symptoms of a serious head trauma with narcotics.”
“Never piss off medical people,” Annie said,
The core of Bayou Breaux was old. A couple of the buildings on La Rue Dumas had been standing there since before the first Acadians got off the boats from
le grand dérangement
in the eighteenth century, when the British confiscated their property in Nova Scotia and kicked them out. Many more buildings dated to the nineteenth century—some clapboard, some brick with false fronts, some in good shape, some not. Annie drove past them, temporarily oblivious to their history.
A neon light for Dixie beer glowed red in the window of T-Neg’s, the nightspot in what was still called the colored part of town. The modern rage for political correctness had yet to sift into the deeper recesses of South Louisiana. She hung a right at Canray’s Garage, a tumbledown filling station that looked like something from a bleak postapocalyptic sci-fi movie, with junked cars and disemboweled engines abandoned all around. The houses down this street didn’t look much better. Tatty one-story cottages rose off the ground on leaning brick pilings, the houses crammed shoulder to shoulder with yards the size of postage stamps.
The properties gradually became larger, the homes more respectable and more modern the farther west she drove. The old neighborhoods gave way to subdivisions on the southwest side of town, where contractors had lined cul-de-sacs with brick pseudo-Acadian and pseudo-Caribbean plantation cottages. A.J. lived out here.
But how could she go to him? He worked for the DA. The cops and the prosecutors may have technically been on the same big team for justice, but the reality was often more adversarial than congenial. If she went over the sheriff’s head and crossed the line into the DA’s camp, there would be hell to pay with Noblier, and the rest of the department would see it only as further proof that she had turned on them.
And if she went to A.J. as a friend, then what? Could she expect him to separate who they were from what they did when a possible felony charge hung in the balance?
Annie pulled a U-turn and headed for the hospital. Marcus Renard’s beating was her case until someone told her differently. She had a victim’s statement to take.
A pristine white statue of the Virgin Mary welcomed the afflicted to Our Lady of Mercy with open arms. Spotlights nestled in the hibiscus shrubs at the base of her pedestal illuminated her all night long, a beacon to the battered. The hospital itself had been built in the seventies, during the oil boom, when ready money and philanthropy were in abundant supply. A two-story brick L, it sprawled over a manicured lawn that was set back just far enough from the bayou to be both scenic and prudent in flood season.
Annie parked in the red zone in front of the ER entrance, flipping down her visor with the insignia of the sheriff’s department clipped to it. Notebook in hand, she headed into the hospital, wondering if Renard would be in any condition to speak to her. If he died, would that make life easier or harder?
“We just got him moved into a room.” Nurse Jolie led her down a corridor that glowed like pearl under the soft night lighting. “I voted for the boiler room—the boiler itself, to be precise. Do you know who beat him up? I wanna kiss that man all over.”
“He’s in jail,” Annie lied.
Nurse Jolie arched a finely curved brow. “What for?”
Annie bit back a sigh as they stopped before the door to room 118. “Is he awake? Sedated? Can he talk?”
“He can talk through what’s left of his teeth. Dr. Van Allen used a local on his nose and jaw. He hasn’t been given any painkillers.” A slyly sadistic smile turned the nurse’s mouth. “We don’t want to mask the symptoms of a serious head trauma with narcotics.”
“Never piss off medical people,” Annie said,