Fat Tuesday (49 page)

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, dressed 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 visit and keeping on the lookout for Duvall or bodyguards, he headed toward the main staircase, which was also a high-traffic area.

He had expected the second floor to be deserted, but there were people waiting in the hallway for their turn in the powder room.

Pretending to be waiting for the facility himself, Burke moved along the corridor, nonchalantly studying the paintings on the wall, admiring the furnishings, until he reached the door of the master bedroom. It seemed like another lifetime when he'd passed himself off as a priest and hidden the wireless bug. That was before he really knew Remy. Before he regarded her with anything except contempt.

Before he loved her.

The door was standing ajar. He pushed it open, glanced in, and saw that the suite was empty.

"Damn! "

"Something wrong?"

He turned. Little Bo Peep was smiling up at him. Strawberry blond curls framed her face beguilingly, but her sultry expression was more in keeping with the flushed bosom that swelled above her low bodice.

"Uh, yeah. Mr. Duvall sent me after his wife. She's not where she's supposed to be."

"How sad," she said, pouting."You've lost her, and I've lost my sheep." She reached out and stroked the leather scabbard strapped to Burke's hip."Nice sword."

"Thanks. Have you seen her?"

"It's so long and stiff. I bet it could hurt a girl."

"Have you seen her?" he repeated, emphasizing each word.

She dropped her hand."Jeer, you're a barrel of laughs."

"Maybe some other time. Right now my job depends on finding Mrs. Duvall."

"Okay. I saw her going downstairs with a group just as I came up to use the powder room. At least I think it was her. She was dressed like Marie Antoinette."

'"Thanks." Burke sidestepped her and bolted downstairs. From the vantage point of the second step from the bottom, he glanced across the sea of people, trying to sort out the masquerades. Seeing no one who resembled the ill-fated French queen, he plunged into the throng, rudely pushing his way through the people, searching each crowded room.

Determined to pack as much enjoyment as possible into the last few remaining minutes of Mardi Gras, Duvall's guests were deliriously making merry.

Burke's progress was impeded by a Red Baron flying ace who was mauling a giggling gypsy girl. A drunken mime made playful grabs at Burke's sword, and a large woman in a toga tried to dance with him.

"Mission accomplished." Burke came around.

Holding a tray of drinks on his shoulder, the sumo wrestler smiled at him."I see you got her to come downstairs. After talking to you, I saw Mrs. Duvall pass through here."

"You're sure? Marie Antoinette?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Same costume as last year."

"Which way'd she go?"

The panniers were almost as wide as the aisles of the greenhouse.

Remy batted them down as she made her way along the aisle in darkness.

Knowing that Pinkie probably had spies posted at every exit, and fearing that she would encounter him, she hadn't felt really hopeful that her plan would work until she was well beyond the house, racing along the path toward the greenhouse.

It wasn't until she'd seen him dressed. as Henry VIII that she remembered the elaborate costume stored in the rear of her closet, complete with white wig, mask, shoes, faux jewelry, even the beauty mark to paste on her cheek. Once she was dressed, she waited for a crowd to collect outside the second-story powder room, which was inevitable with so many guests in the house.

Then, slipping from the master suite unnoticed, she had joined a group of ladies as they descended the stairs. The new bodyguard, engaged in bawdy conversation with Little Bo Peep, hadn't given Remy a second glance. He had probably been shown a picture of her, he hadn't been looking for Marie Antoinette.

It was pointless to try to use any of the telephones inside the main house. There were drunken guests in every room. Even if she dialed 911, she couldn't have made herself understood without shouting to the dispatcher and calling attention to herself.