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spanned the spectrum. Only the emotions were consistent: anger, fear, and uncertainty. People were nervous, easily spooked. Reports of prowlers and Peeping Toms had tripled. The waiting lists for home alarm systems were long. Gun shops in the parish were doing a brisk, grim business.
    The feelings were no strangers to Annie. The lack of closure, of justice, was driving her crazy. That and her own minimal role in the drama. The fact that, even though she had been in it at the beginning, she had been relegated to bystander. She knew what role she wanted to play. She also knew no one would ever invite her into the game. She was just a deputy, and a
woman
deputy at that. There was no affirmative-action fast track in Partout Parish. A considerable span of rungs ran up the ladder from where she was to where she wanted to be.
    She was supposed to wait her turn, earn her stripes, and meanwhile . . . Meanwhile the need that had pushed her to become a cop simmered and churned inside her . . . and Pam Bichon got lost in the shuffle . . . and a killer lay watching, waiting, free to slip away or kill again.
    Night had crept in over the town and brought with it a damp chill. Sheer wisps of fog were floating up off the bayou and drifting through the streets like ghosts. Across the street from where Annie sat the black padded door to Laveau’s swung open and Chaz Stokes stepped out, blue neon light washing down on him. He stood on the deserted sidewalk for a moment, smoking a cigarette, looking up one side of the street and down the other. He tossed the cigarette in the gutter, climbed into his Camaro, and drove away, turning down the side street that led to the bayou, leaving an empty space at the curb in front of a weathered black pickup. Fourcade’s pickup.
    It struck Annie as odd. Another piece out of place. No one hung out at Laveau’s. The Voodoo Lounge was the usual spot for cops in Bayou Breaux. Laveau’s was the mostly empty companion to the mostly empty Maison Dupré hotel next door.
    Out of place
. It was that thought that pushed her out of the Jeep. Even as she told herself that lie, she could clearly see A.J.’s accusatory face in her mind. He thought she had the hots for Fourcade, for all the good that would have done her. Fourcade treated her like a fixture. She could have been a lamp or a hat rack, with all the sexual allure of either. He didn’t resent her, didn’t harass her, didn’t joke around with her. He had no interest in her whatsoever. And her only interest was in the case. She jaywalked across Dumas to the bar.
    Laveau’s was a cave of midnight blue walls and mahogany wood black with age. If it hadn’t been for the television in the far corner, Annie would have thought she had gone blind walking into the place. The bartender flicked a glance at her and went back to pouring a round of Johnnie Walker for the only table of patrons—a quartet of men in rumpled business suits.
    Fourcade sat at the end of the bar, shoulders hunched inside his battered leather jacket, his gaze on the stack of shot glasses before him. He blew a jet stream of smoke at them and watched it dissipate into the gloom. He didn’t turn to look at her, but as she approached Annie had the distinct feeling that he was completely conscious of her presence.
    She slipped between a pair of stools and leaned sideways against the bar. “Tough break today,” she said, blinking at the sting of the smoke.
    The big dark eyes were on her instantly, staring out from beneath a heavy sweep of brows. Clear, sharp, showing no foggy effects from the whiskey he had consumed, burning with a ferocious intensity that seemed to emanate from the very core of him. He still didn’t turn to face her, presenting her with a profile that was hawkish. He wore his black hair slicked back, but a shock of it had tumbled down across his broad forehead.
    “Broussard,” Annie said, feeling awkward. “Deputy Broussard. Annie.” She brushed her bangs out of her eyes in a