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“Me, I’m gonna find Robbie Fontenot. And whatever happens to you, I don’t really give a shit.”
20
The QuailRun development onthe far west side of Bayou Breaux had been one of Donnie Bichon’s first successes as a developer. High-quality single-family homes of varying sizes situated on generous lots. Rather than razing the entire building site, the developer had left in place as many mature trees as possible and worked around them. The result had been to give a new development the feeling of an established neighborhood. A decade on, Quail Run looked like it had been there for a generation. And with its brick houses and manicured gardens, it looked a world away from Mercier Salvage.
Nick turned onto Quail Trace and muttered a curse. The street was clogged with local TV news vans, the sidewalk crowded with camera crews and reporters. Locals loitered on the outer edges of the media mess, taking it all in. Across the street, a pair of BBPD uniforms stood outside their radio cars, watching and chatting.
Kiki Mercier’s on-air drunken tirade at Our Lady had chummed the waters for the press, her accusations against Melissa stirring their instincts for salacious sensationalism.
Nick hit his siren for a few quick blasts to chase the crowd out of his way and pulled into the Merciers’ drive.
The reporters descended on him like a swarm of mosquitoes as he got out of his vehicle.
“Detective Fourcade!”
“Lieutenant Fourcade!”
“Have you identified the body?”
“Is the body Marc Mercier?”
“Are you here to notify the widow?”
“There is no widow I know of,” Nick said. “We have not positively identified the body.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“Why is it taking so long?”
“Why won’t Mrs. Mercier speak to us?”
“Mrs. Mercier is under no obligation to speak to you,” Nick said. “If y’all had any decency, you would give the family space in this time. Now, stay off this property and do not harass this woman, or your next story will come from inside the Partout Parish jail.”
Several of them started to follow him up the sidewalk toward the Merciers’ front door. He turned and froze them in place with a look.
“I think most of you know I don’t have a sense of humor with this kind of behavior. If you want information, go to the law enforcement center and wait. Sheriff Noblier will be speaking to the media later this afternoon.”
“Is Melissa Mercier a suspect?”
“Do you think she killed her husband?”
“Who is the man who spent the night here last night?”
Nick shook his head in disgust and turned his back on them, going to the house and ringing the video doorbell. “Mrs. Mercier, it’s Lieutenant Fourcade.”
A moment later, the door cracked open and Will Faulkner looked out.
“Thank God,” he said. “Come in, please. This has been insane. They’ve been here all day. Bunch of damn vultures.”
“Mr. Faulkner,” Nick said, stepping into the foyer.
“Do you have news?”
“Is it Marc?” Melissa asked, emerging from a room down the hall with a red-faced baby on her hip. “Did the dental records match?”
“No,” Nick said. “They were unable to make a useful comparison. I’m sorry I can’t give you any kind of closure here either way.”
“What now?”
