82 Desire (24 page)

But someone from his old life. Surely there was someone he could talk to, someone who knew him as Russell Fortier, husband and family man, well-known business figure, solid citizen (except for a few unfortunate lapses), loyal friend.

Who am I kidding? I just ran out on my wife and friends. And my kid, goddammit, my kid. Russell Fortier doesn’t exist anymore.

Eugenie’s face floated into his consciousness, so trusting, so utterly undeserving of what had happened to her.

It was better this way
, he had thought. This way she wouldn’t have to suffer the public indignity of a disgraced daddy. But he saw, through mists of Scotch, that he was wrong. She would go through that no matter where he was. And this way, he wasn’t even there to say he loved her, low-down scum though he was.

He had to tell her at least that he was okay, he wasn’t dead, that he’d acted in the way he thought best for everybody.

And yet that wasn’t true.

The alcohol couldn’t blunt the facts, which were simply that he had acted first stupidly, and then selfishly. It was not a nice thing to face.

He poured himself another Scotch.

He thought,
I have to talk to her
, a thought he’d had plenty of time to think in the last few days, but which in the sober state had never occurred to him.

The thing built and built until he had to pace the deck to keep from calling her. And in the end, he did. He called her at school, but was told she’d gone home.

Because of him, he was sure of that. She was probably missing half the damn semester, and all because of him. He had to tell her to go back to school, to quit worrying about him, to quit hating him, to love him anyway, no matter that he was pond scum.

He definitely could not call her at home. Bebe might pick up the phone and if he heard Bebe’s voice, he’d probably bay like a hound.

Maybe he could somehow get a message to Eugenie. He could call someone else.

He liked that idea a lot.

Okay, there were three choices—Doug, Edward, and Beau.

Three choices and no contest.

Of the three, only one would be unequivocally and genuinely glad to hear from him. Only one would be likely to keep his secret and not try to use it for his own gain. Only one was a real human being and not the shell of one. Beau. Lumbering, blundering, slightly stupid Beau. Big old tears filled Russell’s eyes as he remembered all the snotty things he’d ever thought about Beau—thought and said, most of them.

Russell was truly aghast at the life he’d led, and starting to fear this new life was just more of the same. He didn’t want to think about what the alternative might be. Certainly didn’t want to undergo another moment of truth like that time on the boat two years ago. If he had yet another, where the hell could it possibly lead?

He looked at his watch—eleven-thirty. That made it a mere ten-thirty in New Orleans, the shank of the evening for a man who never missed Jay Leno. Which Beau was.

Russell didn’t even hesitate. He dialed from memory, and in about fifteen seconds he was listening to that old-shoe voice. He said, “Beau, if Deb’s with you, go to another room.” Surely his old pal would recognize his voice.

Good old Beau—he didn’t miss a beat. “Wait a minute, the TV’s on in here. Let me get to a different phone.”

Russell drummed his fingers. But in just a moment, Beau was saying, “Russell! God damn, it’s good to hear your voice.
God damn
. I mean it.”

Now that Russell had him, he didn’t know what to say:
Sorry I left y’all in the lurch?
Somehow, that didn’t seem to cut it.

But Beau was taking the lead. “You okay, fella? Anything I can do for you?”

“I’m fine, Beau. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Man, you just don’t know. Lots of people think you’re dead.” A beat passed, and then Beau apparently remembered something. “Oh, God, you don’t know, do you? Listen, there’s a lot to cover. Let me talk a few minutes, okay? There’s some stuff you’ve really got to know.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Whatever was coming couldn’t be good.

“After you left, somebody tried to blackmail us. Guy named Gene Allred. Two-bit private eye who’d been hired by crazy Ray Boudreaux to get some dirt on us. Well, he did get it, God knows how—out of the ‘Skinacat’ file you left in your computer.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Russell said again. He remembered the file all too well. “I didn’t think anyone could get to it.” Actually, he hadn’t thought about it at all.

“So, as near as we can figure out, he decided to double-cross Boudreaux and blackmail us instead. But here’s the bad part—here’s the really, really bad part. The guy ends up dead.”

“What?”

“Murdered. Shot in his office.”

“Jesus, Beau.” Russell was having a pretty profane night. “Who did it?”

“I don’t know.”

Russell couldn’t miss the absence of the plural pronoun. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“All I’m saying is, the police haven’t caught the guy.” His voice got louder, and carried a note of pleading in it. “Hey, Russell, this is murder. That other stuff was bad, yeah, but it probably wasn’t even illegal—or at least most of it wasn’t. It was just mean, stupid shit. But this is murder. You follow me?”

“No. No, I don’t.” Right now, he probably couldn’t follow a map of his own backyard.

“I think we ought to come clean, buddy. I don’t think we can hide this shit anymore.”

“What do the others think?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. We’re going to meet tomorrow to talk about it.” He sounded troubled. “Listen, buddy, I could sure use any support you could give me.”

Russell was trying to think of an answer when Beau spoke again. “Uh … there’s one other thing you need to know. There’s a school of thought says you did it.”

Twenty-two

THURSDAY MORNING SKIP woke up with a new lease on life—or at least on the case. She had a headful of new ideas, most of them, curiously enough, out of the mouths of babes.

Things had been up and down on St. Philip after Steve and Kenny came back from their walk. (Naturally, Kenny had agreed to go—no way was he going to turn down an opportunity to be with Steve and Napoleon. In fact, Napoleon had once been his dog until Skip and Dee-Dee laid down the law—and now they were stuck with the big lug anyway.)

The chicken was just getting done, Skip had had a shower, and Kenny and Steve were in terrific spirits when they returned. Dee-Dee and Layne were up for fun, but clearly on edge. And Sheila was sulking all the way through the meal, putting a damper on the whole event. At first they tried ignoring her, just nattering on about anything at all.

But the girl was like a storm cloud, emitting black energy and random lightning bolts. So Skip did something she rarely did, except in extreme circumstances—turned the conversation to her work. Sometimes she told stories about past cases, a guaranteed icebreaker; but by now Kenny and Sheila had heard all the good ones. Sometimes—and she usually did this only with Steve—she’d postulate a problem. As it happened, she had one on her mind, a little thing that had niggled at her ever since Abasolo brought up the notion that Russell might have used a false ID to get out of the airport.

The thing had merit, but she hadn’t yet had a chance to put her mind to it. “Listen,” she said, “can I run a police problem by y’all?”

Five avid pairs of eyes turned to her, Sheila’s no less alert than anyone else’s. Kenny said, “Yeah! Yeah!” and Sheila gave him the requisite withering big-sis look, but it was only a glance, really. This stuff never failed.

“Okay, yesterday I robbed a bank with a security camera trained right on me…”

Sheila said, “Nobody would be that dumb.”

“You’d be surprised. Say I’m a first offender—how’re they going to ID me?” Mouths popped open, but she put up both hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. That has nothing to do with reality, it’s just how criminals think—in the event they do think, which most of them don’t. And I’m no exception. But say I’ve smeared my license plate with mud, thinking that’s real professional, but then it rains—so there I am with naked plates. I’m making a getaway and I hear sirens. I get home and my house is surrounded by police cars.”

“Oh, sure. They’re really going to send a whole fleet of cars…”

Once more, she held up an open hand. “Oh, wait, I forgot to mention, I killed somebody in the course of the robbery. Let’s make it worst-case scenario.

“So I can’t go home. All of a sudden I realize I’ve got to start thinking. I abandon my car because it’s no longer safe, quickly get some new clothes and a backpack for all my new money, some sunglasses, maybe—I do the best I can to look different. But I know what I really need to do is get out of town. So what do I do next?”

Jimmy Dee said, “Take a taxi to the airport and get on the next flight to anywhere.”

But Sheila objected. “The cops would be watching the airport.”

“You’d have to get there before they got around to it,” Jimmy Dee said.

Kenny said, “Hey, I’ve got it. Just keep going. Take the taxi all the way to Baton Rouge and fly from there.”

“Or,” said Sheila, “you could rent a car in Baton Rouge.” It was a thought. Skip hadn’t considered it.

Dee-Dee said, “How about a boat? You take a taxi to some little fishing town and hire a fisherman to take you somewhere—maybe somewhere with an airport.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Steve. “Why don’t you just steal a car?”

“ ‘Cause the cops would put out a bulletin on it—right, Auntie?”

Sheila said, “Hang on. You could also steal a license plate and switch it with the one on the car you stole.” Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright as pennies.

“That would work,” said Skip. Anything to keep the good mood going.

Layne, the puzzle-maker, finally spoke. “Greyhound bus is always good. I think you can buy an anonymous ticket—not like if you rent a car or fly.” He paused and thought a minute. “But what you really need’s a fake ID. Because you’ve changed your appearance, all they’ve got is your name. You’ve got to get rid of it.”

This was going nicely, Skip thought. She’d successfully thrown them off the track of what she was getting at, and they were getting there anyway.

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?”

“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.