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“No. Because he was pissed, and better to sit out there in the boat by his own damn self and pout so he could bitch about it later.”
“What kind of boat?”
“Seventeen-foot War Eagle Blackhawk with a modified V-hull.”
“Where do y’all hunt?”
“We got some property on the marshes, on the western edge of the parish. I drove out there later—”
“I made him go,” Kiki said. “Marc could’a been out there drowned, for all he knew.”
“Well, he wasn’t, was he?” Luc shot back. “He wasn’t there at all.”
“I tried to call him to come over for supper last night,” Kiki said. “My calls, they went straight to voicemail. I tried to call that useless wife of his, but she wouldn’t answer the damn phone!”
“Could they have gone somewhere together?” Nick asked.
Luc made a scoffing sound, as if the suggestion was absurd.
“Me, I called her work this morning,” Kiki said. “They told me she was in a meeting.”
“What’s the wife’s name, and where do they live?” Nick asked.
“Prissy Missy,” Kiki muttered.
“Melissa,” Luc answered. “Twenty-eight Quail Trace, Bayou Breaux.”
“Her Royal Highness,” Kiki grumbled, building up another head of steam. “Luck ain’t good enough for her.”
“Bayou Breaux ain’t good enough for her, neither,” Luc said. “Maybe Marc had enough of her bullshit and left. Who could blame him?”
“He wouldn’t just up and go and leave his baby!” Kiki insisted. “Maybe she killed him!”
Luc rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Well, where’s he at, then?” she demanded. “I told you something was wrong! A mother knows. I feel it in my bones! And here’s the sheriffs, right here now! So who’s ridiculous?”
Luc Mercier looked past her to Stokes and Nick. “Wait a minute. If you ain’t here about Marc, and you don’t know nothing about Marc or where he’s at, then what are y’all doing here in the first place?”
Nick opened his phone and pulled up a photo of the business card he had pulled from the dead man’s pocket. “We came across this card in the course of an investigation and were hoping you might be able to shed some light as to who might have had it or to what that written amount might refer.”
“What kind of an investigation?” Kiki asked.
“Routine,” Stokes said. “We’re just clearing up the little details.”
Luc Mercier stepped closer and squinted at the photo. “Probably an estimate.”
Kiki peered at the photo, frowning. “That’s Marc’s handwriting. He makes his eights like that, like two little circles.”
“Like a kindergartener,” Luc grumbled.
“Does that amount mean anything to you?” Nick asked.
“Why didn’t the person who had it tell you?”
“There was no one there to ask,” Nick said calmly. “It’s just a thing we found. Could mean nothing at all, but if you know anything about it, that could be helpful pointing us in a direction.”
Luc shrugged. “Could be anything. We deal with all different kinds of people—contractors, commercial fishermen, car dealers…Could be for anything.”
