Fat Tuesday (50 page)

But there was a telephone in the greenhouse. It was in a small closet at the rear of the structure where the climate controls were located.

For that reason, the enclosure was off limits to everyone except Pinkie.

She needed that telephone for only one call. One. She had only to dial a single number. Seven digits.

She pulled open the closet door.

"Hello, Remy." Pinkie was kneeling over what appeared to be a floor safe, previously covered by tiles and unbeknownst to her until now.

Upon seeing him, she froze. But only for a heartbeat. Then she turned and tried to run. But Pinkie caught her wrist, wrenched it, and shoved it up between her shoulder blades as he came to his feet. Then he roughly pushed her through the open doorway.

He was breathing heavily. His feathered cap was slightly askew.

Sweat had loosened the spirit gum holding his fake beard in place.

"The delectable Marie Antoinette," he breathed in her ear.

"Reputedly she was a whore, too. Did you know that, Remy?"

"I'm not a whore."

"A senseless argument, my dear. One for which I'm afraid I haven't got the time right now. Thank you for making it so convenient for me to find you. You were the next item on my list of things to be seen to, after I disposed of some records in this safe."

She probably could have wrestled her arm free, but she didn't attempt it because of the pistol being pressed against her temple. If she moved, he would have no compunction against killing her.

"Because one of my key men inside the N.O.P.D tried to kill me a few minutes ago," he went on, "I suspect he was trying to eliminate the man who could finger him as a traitor. Namely me. Which also leads me to deduce that the shit is coming down, to put it in the vernacular."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Basile?"

"Him. District Attorney Littrell. The attorney general."

"Your lover has been one busy boy."

'"Killing me won't get you out of this."

"No, but at least Basile won't get the spoils."

The three flowerpots nearest Pinkie exploded, showering him with fern root, bits of clay, and fragments of what had been prizewinning cattleyas.

"The next one's for you, Duvall, unless you drop the gun and move away from her."

Burke had left the house at a run and searched the immediate backyard area. The necking couple had left the gazebo. No one else was in sight.

Was the waiter wrong about Remy's leaving the house by a back door?

Or was it a trick? Had he been set up?

Scanning the yard again, he spotted the greenhouse. Remy had referenced it numerous times. Avoiding the paved path, he took the most direct route across the grass.

The evening was cold, so the glass walls of the greenhouse were foggy with condensation from the warmer air inside. Even then he didn't stop to question the wisdom of barging in there before first determining what he would find. He pulled the door open and ran in. He saw nothing at first, but he heard Remy's shocked cry. Seconds later, Duvall pushed her through the door of a small enclosure.

Burke didn't stop to consider calling for help, or waiting for backup to arrive. He didn't think about letting the system take over from here.

Because the system had failed him before.

Say a SWAT team swarmed the greenhouse and arrested Duvall by the book, he could afford a defense attorney as unscrupulous as himself.

Evidence had been stockpiled against him. Eyewitnesses like Roland Sachel, who had already tired of prison, were ready to testify against him in exchange for early parole. But depending on the judge and jury and the competency of the prosecutor, it was possible he would walk, just as Bardo had.

Even if he were convicted and sent to prison, life behind bars wouldn't stop him from terrorizing Remy and Flarra. He could order them killed from a cell block as easily as he could from his fancy office.

Those were sufficient reasons for handling Duvall alone. But none was the main reason. The night Burke had sworn to Kev Stuart's memory that he would avenge his death, he hadn't promised to see that the system carried out the rightful punishment. He had promised to carry it out himself.

So, crouching down beneath the level of the lowest metal shelves, he duckwalked forward until he had an excellent vantage point. When he fired those three warning shots into the flowerpots and issued his warning to Duvall, it was a cursory nod toward legality and civil rights. Burke had every intention of killing him.

But first he had to buy time enough to get Remy out of the way.

And, of course, Duvall was aware of that. He laughed at Burke's dramatic warning."Go ahead and shoot me, Basile. She'll die first."

"You can't count on that."

"I don't have to. Just the possibility of it will keep you from pulling the trigger. You don't want another situation like Stuart."

A curtain of crimson rage descended over Burke's eyes. His fingers turned white around the pistol. He wanted to blast this bastard, this scumbag who had stripped Remy of her self-respect and all hope of independence, who had kept her in bondage with shackles of oppression and fear.

"You're a burnout, Basile. A head case," Duvall taunted.

"Shut up."

"I don't mind killing the cunt," Duvall said conversationally.

"She deserves it. But I don't think you want another snafu on your conscience, do you? So lay down your pistol, and then I'll release her."

"Don't do it," Remy cried, speaking for the first time."Do what you know is right."

"If you hit her, I bet you'd blow out your own brains next, wouldn't you, Basile? You couldn't live with knowing you had made another mistake and killed her, just like you killed Stuart."

"I said, shut up." Sweat was rolling off his forehead into his eyes, making them sting. His vision turned cloudy. His hands, too, were perspiring so copiously he could barely maintain his grip on the pistol.

Duvall's eyes narrowed. His fingers tensed around the revolver in his hand. Basile knew there was no way in hell that a man like Duvall, a man without a conscience, was going to back down from a standoff. He knew Burke's sore spot, and he would probe it. He would pour acid into it.

He said, "Stuart messed his pants when you shot him, did you know that?

Bardo told me."

"Shut up!" Burke screamed, his voice cracking.

"He said Stuart died stinking to high heaven."

"I'm warning you, Duvall."

"Bardo said it was disgusting, the way he stank."

"Shut up, shut up," Burke moaned.

"Proud of yourself for making your friend die that way, Basile?"

"Stop! "

"He had a nice wife, too. I saw her at the trial. You made her a widow.

And now you'll get to watch Remy die."

"No!" Burke dropped his pistol and raised his hands to cover his ears.

He slumped against the metal post supporting the shelf of orchids, sobbing.

"I knew you were gutless. Kev Stuart died because " But Duvall stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes rolled toward each other, as though to look at the hole between them. Another appeared an inch above the first. Then he fell backward onto the tile floor.

Basile stood up and walked over to him. Looking into the dead man's open eyes, he said, "Kev Stuart died because I didn't miss. Something you obviously forgot, asshole."

Remy moved up beside him. He placed both arms around her.

"Flarra's safe."

"Bardo didn't "

"He never got to her."

She went limp with relief. For several long moments, they clung to one another, then he nudged her toward the door."I've got to call."

She glanced down at Duvall only once, then turned away."Thank God he fell for your emotional collapse."

"So you knew I was faking it?"

"Of course. I was a little worried when you dropped your gun."

"I was a little worried about that myself. It was a risk I had to take."

Hand in hand, they walked across the yard and entered the house.

None of the celebrating guests took notice of them. All were dedicated to cramming as much partying as possible into the last few minutes before midnight.

"The only room not open to guests is the study," she said to Burke above the revelry. He motioned for her to lead the way.

She opened the door of the study, but recoiled when she saw the clown lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

Burke pulled her back into the foyer."Call nine-one-one. Tell them to get in touch with Littrell."

Mutely she nodded and began pushing her way through the crowd.

Burke entered the study, closing and locking the door so none of the guests would venture in, see the bodies, and cause a panic.

He stepped quickly to the young man in the dark suit and felt for a pulse. He was dead.

Then he crouched down beside the clown. Pain had etched lines into the white greasepaint. The eyes, heavily exaggerated by makeup, were closed and still. The large red smile was smeared and looked grotesque.

Burke wasn't at first sure if he were still alive, but then his eyes fluttered open. His lips moved, and he spoke in a thready voice.

"Basile?"

Burke exhaled slowly."Hey, Doug."

"I'm bleeding out, aren't I?"

Burke glanced down at Pat's hand. The white glove was saturated with blood. It also had soaked the baggy costume and had formed a red ocean around him."I'm afraid so."

"Duvall," he said in a thready voice."But at least I took the other one out."

The pistol with which he'd shot Duvall's man was still in his inert hand. Basile didn't disturb it. This was a crime scene."I got Duvall," Burke told him.

Pat closed his eyes."Good. Call ... call ... for help."

Burke stood up and moved toward the door, but when he reached it, he didn't open it to summon help. For several moments, his hand tightly gripped the doorknob, then decisively he released it and returned to Pat, hunkering down nearer him.

"Help me, Burke."

Gently, Burke removed the red bulbous nose and peeled the fiery red wig from Pat's head."Can't do it, Doug."

Doug's fluttering eyes found his. As he stared into Burke's calm face, his shallow breathing whistled through his lips."You know."

"That you were the mole in our division? Yes."

"How long?"

"Since the day you murdered Mac. And it was murder, Doug. Mac didn't come looking for me to turn me over to Duvall, as you said. He came to tell me that there was a better, cleaner way to get to Duvall if only I exercised a little patience.

"I played a hunch this morning, and it turned out to be right. I spoke with Littrell and then to the attorney general. It seems that soon after the A.G. took office he assembled a special team to investigate police corruption.

"Mac was part of it. He went through the police academy, worked his way up through the ropes, but all in preparation of infiltrating Narcotics and Vice and sniffing out the traitor. You, Doug. Mac was close to nailing you. You must have sensed the heat and shot him before he could share his suspicions with me.

"He might have been going for his gun in that fishing shack, but it wasn't to kill me. He only wanted to bring me in and, with the A.G."s sanction, give me the skinny. He also wanted to sit me down and break it to me gently that the man I considered my friend was in fact a cop as dirty as they come.

"You know what the worst of it is, Doug? What I hate the worst? Is that you laid your own crimes on Mac." Burke thrust his face close to the dying man's."Why, Doug? Why Duvall, for chrissake? Why? For the money?"

"Cowardice," he wheezed.

"You're no coward."

"The guy I shot. Remember?"

"Our rookie year?" Burke had a dull recollection of the incident.

"He was armed and went for his weapon when you tried to arrest him. It was a clear case of him or you."

Pat shook his head a fraction."It was a throw-down. I panicked, shot him too soon, covered it." He paused to take several gurgling breaths."He was Duvall's man. Duvall knew the guy used knives, not guns. He wouldn't have died with a pistol in his hand, and Duvall knew that. He's owned me ever since." A tear streaked through the white makeup."I was a good cop. I wanted to be chief."

"It never would have happened, Doug," Burke said sadly."If it hadn't been Mac, somebody else would have caught on to you."

"You."

"Yeah, me. Only I figured it out too late."

Pat let the pistol slip from his fingers and used most of his diminishing strength to grip Burke's loose pirate shirt."How'd ...

how'd ... you guess?"

"I didn't. You told me yourself."

Pat looked at him with confusion.

"After you shot Mac," Burke explained, "you told me that calls to drug dealers had been traced back to him, even the call that tipped them the night Kev was killed. That was a lie, and I knew it."

He bent nearer so that Pat wouldn't miss a single word."A drug dealer is scum. But a cop who plays their game is scum shit. The bad guys were beating us at every turn with the help of one of our own.

Internal Affairs didn't do shit because so many of them are dirty, too.

The D.A. was playing politics and taking his sweet time. I suppose the A.G."s team was working on it, but very covertly. It appeared that nothing was happening toward catching the son of a bitch who was selling us out to Duvall.

"How many raids had to go south before something was done? Ten?

Five?

Maybe only one. Maybe only one more failed bust would spur somebody to take action. Of course, who could guess that that one bust would cost Kev's life? I sure didn't.

"See, Doug," he continued in a quieter voice, "you lied to me that day in the shack when you told me that Mac had tipped the dealers that night. I knew it wasn't Mac. Because it was me."

Pat groaned. His head lolled to one side, but he didn't take his eyes off Burke.

"I tipped them, thinking that a failed raid, even on a chickenshit operation that wasn't very significant, might be enough to get an investigation underway. My brilliant plan backfired. I had no way of knowing Bardo was inside that warehouse. The one time I compromised my standards, the one time I played dirty, Kev Stuart was killed."