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“Go ahead and laugh,” he said with a snort. I glanced at him, and he gestured toward the clipping. “Everyone else did.”
It spoke volumes that he had the picture up in his office at all, knowing how much ribbing he’d get. “You made these costumes?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yeah, and got into a shootout during the contest.” He shrugged. “No point trying to keep my hobby quiet after that.”
It sounded as if there were previous costumes and contests that he’d kept secret with far more success. I quickly skimmed the article. He and Boudreaux had broken up a drug and human trafficking ring, and took down the head bad guy in a firefight, during which Pellini got shot. All while in awesome—though unwieldy—costumes. “Dude, that’s seriously cool,” I said with genuine awe. “How’d you learn to make costumes like that?”
He grabbed his keys and notebook and exited the office, leaving me no choice but to hurry after or be left behind. “My parents.” he said over his shoulder after I closed his door and caught up with him. “Dad was a tailor, and mom was a seamstress and costumer. She worked on Mardi Gras costumes pretty much all year, every year I can remember.” A smile of pride touched his mouth as we exited the building. “She was always in high demand ’cause of how good her stuff was.”
“You ever do that as a side job?” I asked. “Or does that take the fun out of it?”
He unlocked his car and waited until we were both in before answering. “I tried my freshman year at Northwestern State but didn’t have the time for it. Too much going on with football and classes, and I didn’t want to lose my scholarship.”
“You had a football scholarship?” I asked, impressed yet again.
“A small one,” he said as he started the car. “Barely covered the cost of books, but I liked playing. I had an academic scholarship that paid for most of the rest.”
He pulled out of the parking lot while I fought to hide my surprise—along with my shame for jumping to conclusions. Clearly he hadn’t always been a slacker. So what happened to him? My fingers itched to dig for my smart phone and look up anything I could find on him but I managed to resist. For now.
“I can’t see football and costuming going together very well,” I said.
“About as well as costuming and being a cop,” he replied with a wince. “Boudreaux caught it harder being Sparkle Pants, though. At least I was a menacing Dark Angel.”
“He gets plenty of shit already,” I said, thinking back to any number of interactions between Boudreaux and other members of the department. Cops tended to be macho assholes, and short, scrawny Boudreaux was an easy target.
“He’s tough,” Pellini said. “Can’t survive as a runt around here if you’re any other way.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Runt. Scrawny. We all participated in the casual abuse without thought. Sure, Boudreaux survived, but that didn’t mean he remained undamaged.
Pellini turned onto the highway, accelerated, and set the cruise control for ten miles over the speed limit. “He’s catching grief now because of Angus McDunn being his stepdad. So far it’s indirect, but it’s still bullshit.”
“He can’t take a leave of absence?” But even as I said it I realized Boudreaux wouldn’t. That would be admitting defeat.
“He took one day off to see to his mom,” Pellini replied. “I tried to get him to take a week but he refused.” He flicked the radio on to play classic rock at low volume, and I didn’t protest—both of us content to let the conversation die.
• • •
I pulled my wandering thoughts back to the here and now when Pellini shut the cruise control off. Half a minute later he made the turn onto the long gravel driveway that led to the Farouche Plantation gate.
Though I’d been here before, this was my first time actually seeing where I was going. On the previous trip I’d been in the back seat of a Lexus SUV with my wrists zip-tied and a bag over my head while I pretended to be kidnapping victim Amaryllis Castlebrook.
Old, perfectly trimmed oak trees lined the drive, shading us from the midday sun. In the distance, the mansion stood—tall and stately on the left, and jagged, collapsed, and burned on the right. The gate was closed, with a grey Crown Victoria bearing government plates parked to one side of it. As we neared, a clean cut man wearing tactical pants and a black FBI t-shirt stepped out of the car and glowered at us.
I quickly dug my FBI special consultant ID out of my bag. “Let’s hope this works,” I said, and Pellini gave a mutter of agreement.
My fantasy of gaining entry to the plantation with the power of my ID crumbled swiftly. The agent barely glanced at it before handing it back with a shake of his head.
“Restricted access,” he stated, setting his oh-so-square jaw.
“I’m on Agent Kristoff’s team,” I told him. “Is he here?”
“No, ma’am. He left a few hours ago.”
“There are a few things I really need to check on,” I insisted. “Could you please call him and get his clearance for us to go in?” At this point I had nothing to lose by trying.
The agent’s expression turned more forbidding, but he tugged his phone out of the holder on his belt. “Who’s your partner?” he asked with a lift of his chin toward Pellini.
“Vincent Pellini, detective with the Beaulac PD.”
