82 Desire

by Smith, Julie

  She said, “I forgot to mention—I was so dumb I left my gun at the scene. I can’t hold anybody up to get an ID—and even if I could, I’m thinking now. My adrenaline’s kicked in, and I’m trying to be smart.”

  Dee-Dee said, “Couldn’t you just get a brick and knock someone in the head?”

  “Or you could grab them from behind, stick a finger in their back, and pretend to have a gun.”

  “Trouble is, how do you find someone who looks like you?”

  “Maybe you could just borrow an ID from a friend.” The ideas were coming thick and furious now.

  “But then you’d leave a witness.”

  Sheila shrugged. “So steal one from a friend. Ask him out to dinner and then when he goes to the men’s room, take his wallet out of his jacket.”

  “ ‘Course you’d have to pay for dinner,” Dee-Dee said.

  Layne said, “They’re always warning office workers not to leave their wallets in their pockets. You know how you hang your jacket in your office? Anybody could come along.”

  “Not if they looked like they didn’t belong,” said Sheila.

  “Hey! I got it.” Kenny was shouting. “You get a belt like Steve’s.”

  Everyone stared at him, mystified.

  He turned to Steve. “You know. That belt you wear when you’re working on your house.”

  “My tool belt?”

  “Yeah. You get one of those so you look like a repairman. Then you walk into any building you want and no one notices. You’ve got your choice of wallets.”

  Dee-Dee tousled the boy’s imaginary hair. “Hey. Pretty smart, kiddo.”

  Skip nodded. “Very elegant.”

  But Sheila evidently felt her little brother was getting attention that was rightfully hers. “So how did Russell get out of town?”

  Skip said, “Who?”

  “Russell Fortier. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “Of course not. You know I never discuss my cases.” She hadn’t meant it as a joke, but for some reason it provoked merriment.

  It may have been unconventional, but it was a damned good brainstorming session. She’d gotten at least one good idea and a bunch of backups from it. She eliminated car-stealing and mugging on grounds they just weren’t Russell’s style. The Greyhound bus was a possibility, but she put it in the backup category for several reasons—first of all, the inconvenience. If you were at the airport, why take a bus? An easy answer might be simply that you wouldn’t need ID to do it, but if you’d planned this thing in advance—unlike her postulated bank robber—why not plan a smooth, clean, easy getaway? Second, the taxi dispatcher and dozens of cab drivers had been shown Russell’s picture and no one remembered him (though that certainly wasn’t conclusive). The taxi ride to Baton Rouge or a nearby fishing village wasn’t likely either, for the same reason. (Though she would check car rentals in Baton Rouge and maybe some other places, like Biloxi, maybe.)

  The fake ID stolen from a friend was the plan she liked best. And best of the best was the office idea—only Russell wouldn’t need a tool belt to get in. He already had the run of the United Oil building.

  She dropped by there on her way to the office, surprising Douglas Seaberry sipping his morning mug. He had on a crisp striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his face was all pink and healthy, like he’d jogged before work. He gave her a million-dollar smile—the man was nothing if not attractive—and then banished it almost immediately, as if he expected the worst. “Detective Langdon—do you have news?”

  She was so wrapped up in her ID fantasies, she was momentarily taken aback. “News? Oh, about Russell. No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. I just came by to ask you a question.”

  “Sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

  She accepted the seat, but declined the coffee. “I was wondering if you’ve had any problems with thieves lately.”

  Seaberry looked truly mystified, as well he might. “What I mean is, is this the kind of place where you can go to the ladies’ room with your purse on your desk, and know it’ll be there when you return?”

  He seemed to be thinking. She was trying not to ask the question too directly. “Small robberies. Purses, wallets—any problems like that?”

  “Can you tell me why you’re asking? I guess I could call Security and ask them.” Uncertainty blinked like a sign on his features.

  Skip nodded. “Good idea.”

  He made the call, and as they waited for the man from Security, Seaberry suddenly snapped his fingers. “Yes. Here on this floor.”

  Skip raised an eyebrow.

  “Edward got his wallet stolen.” He picked up his phone and punched in an extension number.

  Skip said, “Edward Favret?”

  He nodded and spoke into the phone. “Edward? Detective Langdon’s here. Can you come in for a minute?”

  Favret was there in thirty seconds, Bill, the security man, in forty-five.

  Skip explained what she wanted. Bill shook his head, though what he said was, “Sure. There’s usually one or two a month. You tell people, but they just don’t listen.”

  “Can you get me a list of the people it’s happened to in the last couple of months?”

  “Sure.” He pointed to Favret. “There’s one of them right there.” He left to check his records.

  “So I hear. What happened, Mr. Favret?”

  Favret looked sheepish. “Well, you heard the man. Some people don’t listen. I left my wallet in my coat and hung it on a rack in my office—as usual, I might add. I’ve been doing it for years. I guess by the law of averages, it had to happen.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  He made a face, thinking. “I don’t know. Sometime in the last month.”

  “Did you file a police report?”

  “No. What for?”

  There were reasons, but Skip didn’t think it was a serious question. She shrugged. “What did you lose?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I had to go to the bank anyhow.”

  “Driver’s license? Credit cards?”

  He nodded. “And one check. That’s the last time I leave a check in my wallet.”

  “Why? Did someone try to use it?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “The credit cards?”

  “No.”

  She stood. “Okay, thank you. You, too, Mr. Seaberry.”

  Seaberry seemed out of sorts. “Do you mind telling us what that was about?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  He smiled grimly. “You sound like Joe Friday.”

  She left to get the list of victims from Bill. As it turned out, there were only two names on it besides Favret’s, one a woman’s, one a man’s. She asked about the man: “Who’s Percy Vickery?”

  “He’s one of the mail room guys.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Fiftyish. Stocky build. Black as midnight.” His eyes narrowed, awaiting her reaction.

  She only nodded. “Okay, thanks.”

  She left, feeling exhilarated. She looked at her watch. A good day’s work, and I’m not even there yet.

  There was plenty of grunt work to do, but for once she couldn’t wait. Superficially, Edward Favret matched the description of Russell Fortier. A picture of one might well pass for a picture of the other.

  She had it nailed by ten A.M.—an Edward Favret had taken a Southwest flight from New Orleans to Fort Lauderdale the afternoon Russell disappeared, approximately twenty minutes after he and Bebe claimed their luggage.

  Why Fort Lauderdale? she wondered. Probably because the flight was convenient. He could be anywhere.

  Without much hope, she dialed Fort Lauderdale information, and got nothing. Well, okay, that she expected.

  What was in Fort Lauderdale, anyway? It was near Miami—that could mean drugs.

  Or maybe his Aunt Sara Sue lives there. It could mean anything.

  She called Bebe. “Does Russell have any connection with Fort Lauderdale?”

&nb
sp; “Fort Lauderdale? Why do you ask?” That question again. Why did everyone have to ask it?

  “Would he have any reason for going there?”

  “Skip! You know something. You’ve found something out.”

  “Well, not really. Let’s just say I’m following up a lead. From the sound of your voice, it seems like he does have a connection.”

  “It’s just that we used to go there a lot to charter boats.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “It’s a jumping-off place to the Bahamas, and it’s—you know—kind of a sailing center. I guess the sailing center in the South. The Bahamas?” she said, as if to herself. “Could he have gone there?”

  Skip’s palms began to sweat. She was close. She could feel it. But the department wasn’t about to spring for a trip to Florida to run down a missing person who was probably just having a midlife crisis. If she could work up a little enthusiasm for him as a murder suspect, that might improve matters; but she couldn’t see it.

  She went back to the office and reviewed the case and thought about what to do next. It seemed to her there was only one option. She wondered if Steve had his cell phone turned on. She tried it and it rang about fifteen times before he got to it.

  She said, “Hi. Were you up on a ladder? “

  “How’d you know?”

  “Good guesser. Listen, I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we get out of town this weekend?”

  “You mean, like, declare a moratorium on remodeling? Am I that bad?”

  “It’s not that. I think my favorite case leads to Florida, and that seems like a good place to spend a weekend with your sweetie.”

  “Oh, it does, does it? What do I do while you’re working?”

  “Swim, maybe? I hear the beaches are beautiful. Besides, I won’t work that much. I promise. We could go down to Miami and check out South Beach.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll do that while you’re working.”

  She took that for a yes.

  She was so grateful to Steve for being such a good sport that she dropped by the Five Happiness and got a carload of Chinese takeout to have for dinner. She was met, as usual, by a barking, threatening Napoleon.

  Steve was home, already showered, dressed in clean shorts and T-shirt, and drinking a beer in the courtyard. This was getting to be a regular homecoming sight, and she liked it. If it weren’t for Napoleon going for my throat, I could be pretty happy, she thought. There’s always some damn thing….

  Steve stood to greet her, drawn by the fragrances emanating from the Five Happiness bags. She said, “This is a lot prettier sight than the courtyard last night.”

  Steve pointed with his beer. “All quiet in the Big House. We could have those goodies out here if you like.”

  “Maybe Napoleon could go in for a while.”

  Steve frowned. “I used to think you two were going to end up finding common ground.”

  “Only if we’re both buried in it.”

  He sighed. “If you’d just try a little…”

  “Me! He goes for my throat every time he sees me.”

  “He just smelled the food, that’s all. Why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll set the table.”

  “Let’s put the food in the oven for a while. I feel like a drink.”

  By the time she got out of the shower, the damn dog had settled down and so had she. It was a soft, summery evening, with a light breeze and hardly any mosquitoes. She and Steve sat in the courtyard and sipped, thinking that on nights like this, New Orleans was a good place to be.

  Steve said, “Kenny and I had a little talk while we walked the dogs last night.”

  “I figured you did.”

  “Well, I need your advice. I don’t exactly know what to say to the parents. All this acting out’s about them.”

  “Oh, big surprise.”

  “It’s a really weird thing. You know how Dee-Dee says they like Layne better? Well, they do, sort of. But they’ve got a problem with him.”

  “What? I’m dying to know.”

  “Well, Kenny didn’t exactly put it like this, but I guess the bottom line is, they’re jealous.”

  “How exactly did he put it?”

  “Oh, about the way Sheila did. It was the context that made it clear what it was all about. I just said, ‘How are things going since Layne moved in?’ and he went through that whole business about how terminally cute the guys are. And you know that’s not like Kenny. That’s probably about it for Sheila, but I think Kenny’s got something else going on as well.”

  “What?”

  “Masculinity issues.”

  Skip got that punched-in-the-stomach feeling she sometimes felt when she’d heard a truth. “Oho. The tough-guy thing. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yeah, a real need to prove he’s not gay, now that he’s surrounded by people who are.”

  “The only thing is, that doesn’t exactly explain the earring.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think that was a mistake. He got it because it was weird, and then he was afraid it made the wrong statement. So he shaved his head.”

  “What could be simpler?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “No. It’s just that it’s anything but simple.”

  “Well, Kenny’s a complicated little person. I feel sorry for him. If I were in his situation, I’d probably have tattoos all over my body.”

  “I’d go ahead and tell them.”

  “Tell them what?”

  “Wasn’t that what you asked? What to tell the parents? I wouldn’t hold back—just be straightforward. They can handle it—you know how they are. They like to get in there and parent.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about. Maybe they should just leave the kids alone and let them work it out.”

  “Okay, so don’t tell them.”

  For some reason, both Skip and Steve loved to go on like this, discussing the relative merits of some tiny point of human behavior. Skip particularly liked this subject, because Steve hadn’t always gotten along with Jimmy Dee, and when the kids first arrived had been utterly indifferent. These days he seemed to consider them family as much as she did.

  The two of them continued minding other people’s business for a while and eventually got around to their Chinese delicacies, which they polished off with gusto, still sitting out in the courtyard. It was getting on toward ten o’clock, and the mosquitoes were starting to come out when Skip said suddenly, “My pager. Damn.”

  “Double damn.”

  She went in to call, though it was a number she didn’t know. “Skip Langdon,” she said. “Did someone page me?”

  “Oh, Detective Langdon. Thanks so much for calling back, I—uh … didn’t know who else to call.” It was a woman’s voice, and the woman was frantic.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “This is Deborah Cavignac. Bebe gave me your number. I’m calling because my husband hasn’t come home.”

  Skip felt a sudden flush of alarm. “You’re Beau Cavignac’s wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time does he normally get home?”

  “Oh, between five and six. Six-thirty if he has a drink first. This has never happened before—and we’ve been married seventeen years. Bebe said you’d know what to do.”

  “Have you heard from him today?”

  “Yes. He called before he left work and said he was going to stop for a drink at the Marlin Bar. And that he’d be home by six-thirty. Come to think of it, he actually said that.” She started to sob. “Oh, my God. I’m so worried.”

  Under the circumstances, Skip couldn’t really blame her.

  “Have you called the hospitals?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Well, why don’t you start there, and then I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I don’t know …” Cavignac’s voice was uncertain, as if she really couldn’t be expected to make the calls herself, but Skip hung up before she had time to argue.

  She called the coroner�
��s office, which, happily, had nothing to report. She could hear, somewhere in the distance, that Steve had turned on the television.

  She joined him for fifteen minutes of mindlessness, and then the phone rang again. “Nobody’s got him,” said Mrs. Cavignac.

  “That’s good news, isn’t it? He must not have been in an accident.”

  “Well, where is he now?”

  A very good question. One which she, in good conscience, had to try to answer. She said, “Let me make a couple of inquiries for you.” Having already checked the morgue, she called the jail. Beau wasn’t in it.

  This had a deja vu kind of quality about it, but Skip had a bad feeling Beau wasn’t in Fort Lauderdale. She made her apologies to Steve, then slipped out of her shorts and into a pair of rayon work pants.

  The Marlin Bar was more or less hopping—some say the weekend begins Thursday in New Orleans—but eventually Skip caught the bartender’s eye. She said simply, “Has Beau Cavignac been in tonight?”

  “Beau?” The man’s head swiveled, made a quick survey of the place. “He left an hour or two ago.”

  Skip had no desire to flash her badge, but it looked as if the time had come. She palmed it, hoping no one would see but the bartender, and said, “One or two?”

  “Something wrong, Officer?”

  She smiled. “Not that I know of. How about you?”

  A hush had fallen among the nearby customers, the ones who’d seen the badge. One of them heaved his body around on the barstool to get a better look at her. “More like two,” he said. “Beau left two hours ago.”

  The bartender shrugged and went back to work. Skip held out her hand to the man. “Skip Langdon. Are you a friend of Beau’s?”

  “Bill Tyler. I just see him in here—we talk about sports and the weather.”

  “Did you talk to him tonight?”

  “Yeah, a little bit. He had a beer or two and then said he was going home to dinner.”

  “Did he come in with anyone?”

  “Came in alone. Left alone.”

  “Talk to anyone else?”

  “Just Joe.” He pointed with his chin to the bartender.

  Knowing it was too much to hope for, she asked if Tyler knew where Beau parked.

  “In a parking lot, I guess—he works for United Oil.”