82 Desire

by Smith, Julie

  The girl looked down at her lap. “Kind of makes you ashamed to be white.”

  Darryl Boucree tousled her hair. “Take it easy, kid. White’s okay.”

  Steve Steinman gestured at an empty chair. “Why don’t you two sit down? What are you doing here, anyway?”

  The man spoke quietly, but Ray could just make out the words: “Lou-Lou got some kind of threat; I’m not sure what it was but when I called her about the speaking thing, she was practically crying. So I offered to bring her.” He glanced briefly at the psychologist, who was deep in conversation with Langdon, and then back at Steinman. “You think the dude in dreads is her boyfriend?”

  “Cindy Lou’s?”

  “No, man. The Baroness’s.”

  Steinman laughed. “Now don’t you be getting above your station.”

  “Would a Baroness date a common man?”

  “You can’t date her, man. I forbid it.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Cause you’d lose your dignity, that’s why. Say you got lucky and that magic moment came along. Are you gonna holler, ‘Urethra, Urethra!’?”

  The shrink turned toward them and spoke with disdain: “Are you two ever going to grow up?”

  Ray didn’t know what to make of it. He hadn’t known they were all friends. He wondered if that would help or hurt him.

  The reporter came back with The Baroness. Jane was frowning. “Skip, can I talk to you?”

  Darryl Boucree bowed again to the poet. “Your Excellency. May I have an audience?”

  “Speak, serf.”

  “Would you do me the honor of talking to my high-school English class?”

  “Are you kidding? Me, a role model?”

  Boucree wiped the smile off his face. “Yeah. Yeah, you really are. You don’t know how much they need one.”

  “My story’s true, you know.”

  “About your name? I am truly, truly sorry if it is.”

  “Don’t be. One day I’m gonna get that Pill Man.”

  Seven

  WHAT A SELF-PROMOTER. But there’s something about her. I don’t know—maybe it’s a story and maybe it’s not. Jane would have given anything to discuss The Baroness with Walter. At the very least he would have had something wry to say about her, and it would probably have been wise as well.

  Jane found herself smiling and shaking her head when she thought about the poet—the way you do with a naughty but charming child. The Baroness had gone and done what everyone would like to do—she’d re-created herself.

  Maybe I’m envious, Jane thought. The thing about being a reporter is, it’s not living, it’s just watching. And sometimes you can’t tell what you’re seeing.

  She’d been excited when Talba took her aside, but all she got was a pitch to do a story on her. She was starting to get the feeling she was being manipulated in a way that didn’t serve her—because, of course, she was being manipulated; she’d known that from the first. The tradeoff—information in return for being the tipster’s pawn—had seemed fair enough at first. But maybe the thing was spinning out of control.

  She snatched up the phone when it rang, ready to hit the tipster with a big piece of her mind. But it was an unexpected announcement from below. “Skip Langdon to see you.”

  “Not again,” she almost said, but her heart beat a little faster. This ought to be enlightening. “Tell her to meet me on the second floor.”

  Skip was grinning. She had on a pair of black drawstring pants and a taupe T-shirt: Ms. Non-Fashion as usual. “Hey there, culture vulture.”

  “Let’s get some coffee.”

  “Let’s talk poetry.”

  The T-P cafeteria was really pretty nice—lots of light and the scent of red beans and rice. Jane didn’t mind entertaining there.

  “So,” she said, when they were settled. “How’d you like the reading?”

  “Does it occur to you we’re bumping into each other an awful lot?”

  Jane nodded. “I was pretty surprised to see you last night.”

  “So was Cindy Lou. She got an anonymous call telling her to attend—the caller said she’d better be ready to defend herself. I got a tip myself. The Baroness claims she doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”

  Jane sipped, so she wouldn’t have to say anything, but Skip kept staring. Finally she settled on, “Umm.”

  “Could I ask why you were there?”

  “You could, but I probably wouldn’t tell you.”

  “In that case, I’m going to guess. Whoever told you about Cindy Lou and Russell Fortier summoned you to the reading as well. And because Cindy Lou and I received anonymous calls, I’m going to guess that you did, too. Unless you were both acting, The Baroness didn’t know who you were. Therefore, it wasn’t she. Moving on to another subject—you had all your i’s dotted and your t’s crossed in your Gene Allred story. You have Saturday off, don’t you? How’d you end up covering that story?”

  Jane’s armpits were clammy. The bad feeling she’d been having when Skip arrived was turning into something like nausea. She held both hands up in front of her chest. “Okay, okay. I got an anonymous tip.”

  “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. What did the tipster say?”

  “Just that there’d been a murder I might be interested in. Because of the other tips, I thought it might have something to do with Russell Fortier. That’s why I asked.”

  “And did you ask Ms. Wallis about that?”

  Jane nodded. “She denied all knowledge. Her agenda was to get in the paper. Period.”

  “Pretty interesting poem about her name.”

  Jane looked out the window, still undecided. “Yes, I might write something … I don’t know.” She fixed Skip with a glare. “Now I’m asking you—does Allred’s death have something to do with Russell Fortier?”

  “Off the record?”

  Jane wrinkled her nose. “Three little words I love to hate. Okay—off the record.”

  “Probably. I’m telling you because this thing’s nasty. Your tipster could be a murderer, Jane. You watch yourself.” Skip pushed back her chair and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Jane was sweating again—and it wasn’t the coffee. The tipster knew her phone number. When she got home from the reading last night, there’d been a message on her machine: “Nice story this morning. I’ll have something good for you soon.”

  ***

  Mentally, Skip went over the faces of the white men she’d noticed at Talba’s reading—or tried to. There were probably ten or twelve and some of them were sitting behind her. Also, it was more dark than light in the restaurant, and a lot of the time she’d been surrounded by people she knew. It had occurred to her last night that the tipster was there, but no one stood out, even seemed worth watching. No one strange approached her or Cindy Lou or the poet.

  Of course, the man needn’t be white, but she thought he was—mostly because of his accent. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was playing the odds.

  She was disappointed in her visit with Jane Storey—she was pretty sure the reporter had told her all she knew, which was exactly how much Skip knew. Someone was manipulating both of them.

  On the other hand, the informant hadn’t lied. Skip had found out something by attending Talba’s reading—she’d understood the extent of the tipster’s machinations.

  She had the feeling of walking in quicksand—she really had no idea where solid ground might be, after a great snowball of a weekend that had led, so far, to nothing.

  Immediately after her Saturday afternoon talk with Talba, which had seemed so productive at the time, she’d made a beeline for the offices of United Oil, which, as she’d hoped, were populated mostly with security staff and the random weekend warrior.

  A few cover-the-butt calls, a little huffing and puffing on the part of executives reached by phone, and she was in Russell Fortier’s computer—and without even mentioning the murder case. She pinned the whole mission on Fortier’s disappearance.

  The com
puter, however, proved to harbor neither a file called “Skinacat,” nor any file containing either “skin” or “cat” in its name. Someone had undoubtedly been there before her.

  Frustrated, she finally called Wilson, the Third’s own computer nerd, to see if he had any tips, and nothing would do but he had to come down and join her and rifle through electronic files himself. And still no “Skinacat”—nor, for that matter, anything else of interest.

  She and Wilson took a pretty thorough spin, to no avail, through Fortier’s computer, finding he didn’t even have a calendar program. Then she had a look through his desk drawers and checked out his calendar—the old-fashioned kind that sat on his desk. He had dates for this week, the following week, and the one after. There was nothing at all to indicate he’d been planning a change of scenery.

  She began to look carefully at the names, then to thumb backward for repeats. Cindy Lou’s was absent, anyway. Almost all names were written out—there were no coy initials and very few women’s names.

  Finally she left, with his calendar, his Rolodex, and Talba’s bug in a plastic bag.

  Next had come the odd tip about the poetry reading, and on Sunday, Talba’s performance, with its assembled cast of characters.

  And then the weekend was over and she was up to her knees in quicksand.

  It was time for another talk with Bebe.

  She found the councilwoman in neat black slacks and a red silk blouse. Bebe looked as if she’d lost weight; her cheeks were a little sunken, her eyes seemed to turn down at the corners. The haunted look, Skip thought.

  She said, “How are you holding up?”

  Bebe put a hand to her mouth, and Skip could see that the hand held a tissue. Bebe bit her fingers, trying not to cry. “My daughter’s here. That helps a little.”

  “No word from anyone? Not Russell, not anyone with information?”

  Bebe shook her head.

  “Do you know a man named Gene Allred?”

  She looked puzzled. “Allred? I know the name, but I don’t know why.”

  “He was a private detective.”

  “The murdered man! Of course. I read about him.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I never heard of him before yesterday. Why?”

  “There could be a connection to Russell’s disappearance.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Someone seems to have hired him to investigate your husband.” She raised a hand to serve as a wall against the inevitable questions. “Does the phrase ‘Skinacat’ mean anything to you?”

  The other woman was shaking her head, looking as if Skip had lost her mind. “No. Nothing.”

  “Okay, let’s move on to a difficult subject.”

  Bebe gave Skip a cool, direct glance. “Women.”

  Skip nodded.

  The councilwoman shook her head again. “I don’t think so. I’ve thought long and hard about it. Russell’s just too straitlaced. He’d be too guilty.”

  “He’s straitlaced. Okay, there’s something I didn’t know. Talk to me about him. Help me form a picture of this man I’m looking for.”

  “Well …” She shrugged. “He’s a great husband and family man. He’s almost dull—goes to work, plays golf, sails. Church on Sunday; Friday lunch at Galatoire’s. One martini a night.”

  Skip raised an eyebrow. “You find him dull?”

  “Dull? Why do you ask?”

  “I thought you just said so.”

  “Oh, no. I just meant his stats. He’s very interesting to talk to.”

  “What does he like to talk about?”

  “Oh … uh … city government. What’s going on. He gives me advice about my job—we talk about that a lot. And our friends. We gossip.”

  “Who would you say are his best male friends?”

  “Douglas Seaberry and Beau Cavignac, I guess. Beau’s probably his best friend. He’s going crazy right now—almost crazier than me.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “Also at United Oil. In the same department as Russell. And Edward’s there, too. My cousin, Edward Favret. They all play golf—they even go away on weekends together. Duck hunting and sailing and stuff. I just can’t imagine…”

  Fearing a session of tears and nose-blowing, Skip interrupted. “Okay. I’m sorry I had to probe, but… it was necessary.”

  “Meaning his body hasn’t turned up, and he’s not in a hospital.”

  Skip said, “Listen, thanks for your time,” and left.

  For friends, it looked like one-stop shopping. Except for the Cindy Lou episode, Bebe seemed to have called it—Russell sounded dull. He went to work and played golf with his work buddies. Yikes.

  She headed once more for the United Oil building.

  Though police officers usually manage to go anywhere they want, Skip found she couldn’t control every situation as thoroughly as she’d like. She asked for Cavignac first and was told his line was busy.

  Seaberry wasn’t in his office. That left Favret, whom she found in conference with his secretary about what refreshments to offer a police officer. There was another man in his office.

  Favret rose, the picture of Southern graciousness. Or Southern WASPishness, Skip thought, with slight disdain. Despite efforts to meditate, possibly find religion, and peel off prejudice like a potato skin, she found certain men a little too smooth.

  On the face of it, there was nothing wrong with Favret. He was well over six feet tall, and thin, built on elegant lines. His brown hair was streaked with blond, as if he’d graduated from Tulane last month instead of twenty years ago. He had a youthful, open look—even friendly. Skip didn’t trust him at all.

  The other man rose as well and stuck out his hand. “Douglas Seaberry.”

  “Bebe called us,” Favret explained. “She thought you’d like to see both of us.”

  Skip raised an eyebrow: Might as well go for broke. “She also mentioned a Beau Cavignac.”

  The two men exchanged glances. The secretary said, “Would you like some coffee?” and Seaberry said, “He asked us to make his apologies—he’s on a conference call.”

  Seaberry was darker than Favret, with graying hair, at the stage when a man is beginning to make the transition from youthful to distinguished—so easy for men, so difficult for women. He wore glasses, and he was also tall, yet not nearly so lanky as Favret. He probably worked out every day of his life. He smiled, showing teeth so perfect you almost wanted to get bitten. “Would you like to sit down?”

  She thought it was odd, his offering when it was Favret’s office.

  “Thank you, I’d prefer to talk to you one at a time.”

  Again they looked at each other and seemed to shrug slightly, almost in unison. She had the odd sense they’d just evaluated her and found her wanting, as if they’d agreed tacitly not to let her in their club. Seaberry looked at his watch. “Certainly. Edward, I have a lunch date in ten minutes. Would you mind if I took Detective Langdon back to my office?”

  “Of course not. Go right ahead.”

  Skip followed Seaberry to a large corner office, which told her more about both men and their relationship than half an hour in Favret’s office would have. On impulse, she said, “Are you Russell’s boss?”

  He sat down, lowering his head slightly, possibly meaning to seem modest. He picked up a pencil and tapped his desk with it. “Not for long. He’s headed for big things at United—real big things. And sooner rather than later.” He frowned. “Or at least he was. We’re worried sick about him. The crime in this town…”

  “Tell me about him, Mr. Seaberry.”

  “Could we … uh—anything we can do to help you guys?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, can’t we offer a reward or something?”

  “Sure. You can do that. And you can help me out with information—if you hear from him, for instance, call me right away.”

  Seaberry nodded, looking slightly relieved, as if he’d seen his duty
and he’d done it.

  “Now tell me about him.”

  “Russell? All-around good guy. Terrific sailor. Absolutely terrific. Loves to sail in a way that”—he stared past her for a moment, then pinned her with sharp brown eyes—”well, he loves the sea. He has a sort of spiritual feel for it.”

  Skip almost said what she thought—that “spiritual” was the last word she expected to hear in the halls of the United Oil Company.

  “I have a very bad feeling about this, Detective Langdon. Russell Fortier isn’t the kind of man who disappears.”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  Seaberry lowered both head and voice.

  “I think he’s dead. I think he’s a holdup victim—you just haven’t found the body yet.”

  Skip nodded, pressing her lips together. “I might agree with you but…” She paused and let the pause last, looked into space as Seaberry had done.

  He bit. “But what, Detective?” She thought he looked slightly anxious.

  “The airport. The fact that he was at the airport. It’s a little on the pat side.”

  Seaberry shrugged and spread his arms, palms up, showing he had no weapons, nothing to hide, and not a dangerous bone in his body. “I don’t know. Is it?”

  The interview went on like that, Seaberry insisting Russell was a good guy with nothing to hide and Skip hovering between boredom and disbelief. Finally, she left him, wondering if it was really possible to know so little about someone with whom you spent long, cold hours crouching in a duck blind—and deciding that if both parties were men, it was.

  When she got back to Favret’s office, she found only an apology delivered via his secretary—Mr. Favret was so sorry he had to leave for lunch.

  Ah, well, she thought. I’ll show him. I’ll go see him at home.

  She asked Favret’s secretary to direct her to Beau Cavignac’s office, something the woman seemed loath to do—corporate discipline appeared downright military in this place.

  But in the end, Skip prevailed, finding Beau Cavignac wearing a worried look—a perennial one, she surmised after a bit. He was a shorter, chunkier man than either of his two companions. He probably jogged but didn’t lift weights—he looked soft, especially in the middle, as if he never passed up a hunk of pecan pie.