The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (25 page)

"True, but we still have nothing to tie in the
earlier disappearances to these deaths. The fact that we found the
bodies indicates a different pattern." Sloan purposely did not
mention the two missing girls whose bodies had not been found but who
had also been linked with Peter "So . . . ?"

"Well, yesterday morning I had breakfast with
Felix and he told me he had a date with Cynthia for cocktails early
in the evening—"

"We know about that. Did he intend to keep the
date?"

"Yes, as far as I know . . . how did you know
about it?"

"The same way we knew about your lunch—from
her date-book. It was in her purse. The entry for you read, 'Lunch
with Laura Ramsey at the Reading Terminal Market to discuss Felix,'
and it had a question mark after it. Any idea why?"

"I don't know. Maybe to indicate it was an
interview," said Laura. "Like she wasn't sure about it."

He nodded. "Makes some sense. The way she wrote
her entries—last names included—she was very complete, almost
like she was keeping a record rather than a reminder to be someplace
at a certain time."

"Oh, well, I wouldn't know about that . . . What
did the entry for yesterday say?"

"'Drinks with Felix at Lagniappe."'

"Was there a question mark after that, too?"

"No, just exclamation points. Going by her other
entries she seemed to think this one was important. Why?"

"I don't know. She made the date, not Felix, and
he didn't seem to know much about it either."

"How were things between them?"

"There was a certain distance, like with any
divorced couple, but on the whole they seemed on better terms than
most."

"Was there any chance of a reconciliation?"
he said, watching her closely.

It was an unpleasant question for Laura to answer. By
admitting earlier that she had seen Felix socially, and by saying
that she was Cynthia's friend, no matter what she said now her answer
would make it seem as if the three of them were some sort of tacky
love triangle. A damned—if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation.

She looked at Sloan. "She wanted to think so."

"But you don't agree—"

"Look, I don't know Felix well enough to agree
or disagree. I've seen him three times . . . once in a group at
Lagniappe, once at dinner to interview him for the article, and once
for breakfast . . . "

Even as she disclaimed their relationship she knew
that by mentioning breakfast she made it sound like she'd spent the
night with Felix, but she didn't care. Let him think what he wanted,
as long as it didn't hurt Felix or jeopardize the case.

"At Lagniappe? That's twice it's come up. You
were introduced to him there, and Cynthia was supposed to meet him
there. Sounds like he hangs out there."

"Well, he's new in town, but Justin Fortier,
he's the owner of Lagniappe, is his friend so I believe he does go
there quite a bit."

"You said he'd only been here about three months
. . ."

"Since late July, I believe. At least that's
when his project actually started. He may have been here a little
earlier . . . George, come on, why do you keep questioning me about
Felix? He couldn't have done it—"

"At the moment it seems he was the last one to
have had contact with the deceased, and he is her ex-husband, and
there was bad feeling between them at one time . . . Plus we ran a
quick check on him this morning. He's been in prison, for
manslaughter. That's not like running a traffic light. It's for
killing someone. We sure as hell have to check him out and consider
him at least a suspect."

"But he was pardoned. It was an industrial
accident that turned out to be his partner's fault. His partner
confessed to the whole thing and Felix was pardoned."

"But his partner got his religion in prison
after an unknown assailant damn near beat him almost to death. That's
when he changed his story about Ducroit's involvement."

As he talked, Laura remembered the scars on the back
of Felix's hands where his knuckles had been broken, and how Felix
wouldn't talk about them. She felt sick. Sloan was building a case
against Felix, but he was wrong . . . "It could have been
anybody, prisons are violent places . . ."

"Wait here a minute," Sloan said, and went
across the store to the counter and returned with something he had
taken from a purse on the counter.

"George," she said, "nothing you've
said is evidence, but you seem all ready to convict him. You don't
have one concrete thing that ties him in to Terri's and Marie's
deaths—"

"We do. It's not much, but added on to the rest,
it's one damn strong circumstantial case. Sure, with the right alibi
it could come tumbling down, but we won't know about that until we
question him."

Sloan, she knew, was not the sort of man to bluff or
grandstand. lf he said he had something he had it.

"What is it?" said Laura, anxiety now clear
in her voice. "I swear to God it goes no further than right
here. No newspapers, nobody. Not unless you say so."

He looked hard at her. "One word to anybody and
I guarantee I'll charge you with obstruction. I'll make it stick,
too; I know your editor. You follow?"

She nodded vehemently.

"Okay, when we found Terri's body, we also found
in her purse a pack of matches from Lagniappe. We knew they sure as
hell couldn't have belonged to her, not to a South Philly kid wet
behind the ears. We figured they might belong to the killer; he gave
them to her to light a cigarette or something, and she kept them."

"But that doesn't mean they were Felix's—"

"True, but at least it establishes a link
between Society Hill and South Philly, and more important, between
Lagniappe and the killings. Between the killer and someone who'd been
at Lagniappe."

"It doesn't prove a thing—"

"That's right," he said. He showed her
something else from the purse. It was a wallet. "This belonged
to the deceased. There are some photos in it. I'd like you to look
and see if you can identify anyone."

The first photo was of Felix and Cynthia. In the
background she recognized Jackson Square in New Orleans, but that
wasn't what held her attention. It was Felix.

His dark, bearded looks eerily matched the
description of Peter.
 
 

CHAPTER 23

MISSY DIDN'T know how she would have made it through
the afternoon but for a second ten-milligram Valium.

Nothing after Kaleidoscope had gone right. Her next
stop had been Bonwit Teller. She had only been there a little over an
hour when her morning Valium failed her. It didn't just fade,
allowing anxiety to replace calm, it evaporated, vaporized. One
minute she was fine, all calm serenity, the next her pulse was racing
and her body was drenched in sweat.

The sense of panic that had filled her as the anxiety
dug in hard had made her want to cut and run, but she had fought it,
forcing herself to stand her ground. She excused herself from the
gray-haired saleslady with the perpetual glasses hanging around her
neck and quietly took her second of the day, swallowing the bitter
pill without water. Then she had walked out of the store and around
the corner to the Commissary on Sansom Street, where she sipped her
way through a double vodka while she waited for the Valium to kick
in, thinking about what a nervous bride she was going to be, and for
the first time in years wishing she were closer to her mother.

Once she was calm again she had walked to the State
Store on Chestnut where try as she might she could find no champagne
to her liking. The same happened at the one on Walnut Street, but
there the manager was kind enough to call a couple of other stores
and did locate a bottle of Dom Perignon blanc de blanc at the State
Store in the Bourse, which meant she had to drive to Fifth Street.

The caviar had been difficult, too. Since the William
Penn Shop had closed its Center City store, beluga was out of the
question, but she did find some acceptable substitutes at the Coastal
Cave Trading Company in the Reading Terminal Market. In the end she
had settled on trout, a delicate, light-tasting one, as an
alternative to the saltier Russian and Iranian varieties. And while
she waited for the Korean fish merchant across the market to shuck
her oysters, she had spent a moment or two at the hot dog stand
enjoying a spicy hot chili dog and chatting with David O'Neill, the
market manager, whom she had met a couple of times at Savoy Opera
Company performances of Gilbert and Sullivan.

Not until she was back home did she realize how much
time all her errands had taken. She rushed to lay out the caviar,
champagne and oysters, and took a hurried shower. She dressed in a
cream linen blouse with a high neck and a black pleated paisley
dirndl by Ralph Lauren, then went back to the living room to be sure
everything was right and ready.

Looking over the elegance of the spread, the
understated dignity of Felix's little gift in its Treadwell &
Company box, and feeling the sensuality of the dirndl as it touched
her legs when she walked, she knew she was going to be perfect for
Felix. As she had done for her father and the office, she would see
to it that his house was kept in good order, that all his needs were
fulfilled. There would always be food, liquor and drugs. She would
shop for him, always look her best for him, and be there whenever he
needed her. Any affairs she might have would be discreet. She would
never go to bed with anyone from Lagniappe, and she would be very
selective, and more careful, as Peter. She would never embarrass her
husband, the way some people did. She would be an ideal wife and
mother . . .

The sound of a car in the driveway intruded on her
fantasy. She went to the window. Rain was beginning to splatter
against the glass. Outside was Felix's dark blue Jaguar XJ6 sedan.
The doorbell rang, she waited, taking a couple of
deep breaths and forcing herself to relax. When it rang a second time
she walked toward it as though going to her judgment. She opened the
door and positioned herself so that for Felix to enter the room he
had no choice except to come to her.

"Darling," she said as her arms closed
around him. She loved the feel of his body against hers. Their lips
met, and it was all she could do to keep from pushing her tongue deep
into his mouth. It would be too much too soon, she decided . . .As it
was she felt him stiffen, seem to push her away. She waited,
expecting him to say something about Cynthia's death. It was a
workday, her employees would long ago have found the body. And
naturally the police would have wanted him to identify it.

But he didn't. Instead he merely said, "What is
it, Missy? You said it was very important when you called."

And then she understood . . . he still didn't know.
He must have been en route between the site and his apartment or the
office, and they had missed him. Well, she wouldn't be the one to
tell him.

"Later," she said. "There'll be time
for that later."

She stepped back to look at him. He was still dressed
in his work clothes: the battered leather jacket, an old button-down
shirt and wrinkled chinos with pleats. With his slightly tousled hair
she thought he looked wonderfully boyish.

Turning slightly so he could see how the cream linen
blouse fitted her breasts, she said, "I like what I see. Do
you?"

". . . Yes, very attractive," with more
than a touch of impatience in his voice. "Now, please, what is
it that's so urgent?"

Missy smiled at his impatience. "Come in and
relax, we'll have a glass of champagne first."

She led him into the living room, actually did what
for all the world looked like a Loretta Young turn with one hand on
her long skirt and the other making a sweep to show the spread
awaiting his royal highness. A critic on the wall might have found
her performance more like the lady showing off the prizes to
contestants on "The Price Is Right".

Sitting on the sofa she said, "Why don't you
come over here, and we'll have a drink. Then if you're a good fellow
I just might give you a massage to help you relax after your hard
day's work . . . come on," patting the cushions beside her.

Felix received all this with a certain wariness. "I'd
still like to know what's so urgent."

"Darling, I didn't say urgent, I said important,
and it's nothing bad, so relax. It's a very nice surprise, and I'll
get to it in due time, but right now do come here. Shall I pour?"
she said, reaching for the champagne.

"All right, all right, but first I'd like to
wash up. I'm a bit rank after a day at the site."

She poured the champagne, stood up with a glass in
each hand.

"You know where the bathroom is, but have a
toast with me first."

He took the glass. "What shall we toast?"

She smiled. "Us?"

He raised his glass. "To us—friends . . ."

"And more, much more," she said, clicking
glasses.

They drank, she more deeply than he, and while he
went to wash up she sat down to wait, enjoying a rare feeling of
contentment, her anxieties in the past.