82 Desire (19 page)

Seaberry’s face clouded up. “Ms. Storey, do you want me to confirm something? I can’t understand what’s going on here.”

“We’re developing a story on United that isn’t going to thrill you over there.” She told herself it wasn’t exactly a lie—the Money section was always writing about United; surely some stories didn’t thrill them.

“May I ask what it’s about?”

“We think Russell Fortier’s involved.”

“Yes?” he said.

Jane said nothing, just kept staring at him—partly because he was such an eyeful. Ever the gentleman, he didn’t get mad—he just seemed to make a decision that she was wasting his time. “I wish I could help you, but I really can’t if you don’t ask me any questions.”

Jane was deeply embarrassed. What she was doing was unprofessional as hell, and she couldn’t imagine what had ever made her think it would be productive. “We have information that Fortier was involved in some problems with the company. I was wondering if you’d like to tell me about them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” For the first time, his voice sounded irritated.

Jane remembered what department he ran. “Were there any problems with acquisitions?”

“I’m really at quite a loss here.” His voice came out of a soon-to-be-active volcano, and Jane had to admit she’d given him provocation. The thing to do was get out fast.

She produced a card, stood, and handed it to him.

“Well, as I said, the investigation is at a very delicate stage. If you should need a sympathetic ear, I’m here.”

“Thanks for coming by.” He tried a smile, but he hadn’t quite recovered his composure.

Driving home, she chastised herself.
Brilliant, Jane, brilliant. Sure, some oil exec is going to spill the beans just because you asked him. Say, Mr. Executive, know of any recent criminal activity at your company? I need a story for my high school paper.

She hoped he wouldn’t report this visit to David Bacardi, and gasped as David’s face came up on her mental movie screen. He and Douglas Seaberry were cut from the same cloth.

They were both superior specimens; in fact they looked rather alike. They were smooth as K-Y jelly, confident as Marlboro men; and there was something else. What was that quality she hated so much in David?

She let her mind go blank. Oh, yes—an unhesitating willingness to swat any fly that landed on his lunch. How had she escaped Seaberry’s wrath? Probably she hadn’t—he might very well call David, and they’d probably hit it off so well they’d go to lunch and think up whole new ways to torture her. Maybe these corporate guys were all like that.

Maybe she should go out with her neighbor, the unemployed actor.

Eighteen

TALBA TOOK THE bus to work on the days her mama worked. She never boarded the 82 Desire without going into some flight of the imagination. Just the sight of the name on the front got her revved up. It had to be the most poetic damn bus in the world. Sometimes she reflected on how lucky she was actually to live on the Desire line; sometimes she thought about the poem she was going to write about it one day, trying out phrases and half-formed ideas. One day it occurred to her that it would make a round, resonant name for her first volume of poetry. Eighty-two Desire. Now that had a ring to it.

And some days, when real life overwhelmed poetry, it still kicked off a tangent—usually an obsessive, angry focus on her own desires. Today was like that.

She had awakened in a cold sweat, dogged by guilt. She really should have solved this disk thing yesterday. She shouldn’t have agreed to go out with Darryl when she didn’t yet have the files. She shouldn’t have gone out with Darryl at all, no matter how happy it made her mama. She certainly shouldn’t have lied to Lamar.

She went and splashed cold water on her face, but that only worked for a minute. The same obsessive thoughts kept circling in her head, wouldn’t leave even when Miz Clara came in and asked about her date, something she’d never done before in her life. Talba felt like crying and she didn’t really know why.

Riding the 82 Desire was clarifying.
What I want
, she thought,
is never to have heard of Gene Allred and his stupid client. What I want is out of this. I just want to go home and pull the covers over my head.

What I don’t want is the damn fifteen hundred dollars.

And yet she did.

But that wasn’t the worst of it—she was in it now, whether she wanted the money or not.

The passenger across the aisle was having a coughing fit that shouldn’t have been allowed outside a hospital. She got up and moved toward the back. She was feeling too vulnerable to do battle with germs today. She had to save her energy for her own psyche.

The truth was, she was a little afraid. Life had become uncertain. She was afraid she couldn’t handle all the effort and hassle and—frankly—the fear that came with a new man. She was afraid to break up with Lamar. She was afraid Darryl wouldn’t call again.

Then, too, she was afraid for her life.

She hadn’t the least idea who this mystery client was. And her first meeting with him—wearing a ski mask in a room with a dead body—failed to inspire confidence. She must have dreamed last night. The reality of what she’d gotten into suddenly came home to her.

If she failed to deliver, who knew what this man might do. On the other hand, if she did come through, maybe he’d give her a bullet in the heart instead of seven hundred and fifty dollars. Furthermore, he was almost certainly doing something illegal even if it wasn’t murder—stealing corporate secrets, for instance. Or rather, getting her to do it.
I think I’m in love
, she thought.
Why the hell am I so pessimistic?

And then:
Is that the beginning of a poem?

Quickly, she wrote it in the notebook of first lines she kept in her backpack.

When she discovered the encryption, she’d quickly developed a plan—in fact, recognized instantly that there was only one course of action. She had to get Robert Tyson to reveal the unscrambler key, which would probably be pretty easy. She could just ask him about the fascinating project he’d been working on before they put him on tech duty, and he’d talk, and eventually, he wouldn’t be able to resist demonstrating just a few little things. He would probably draw the line at actually showing her the key, but she could watch his fingers when he typed it in. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was all she had.

That depressed her so much she thought of getting off the bus, crossing the street, and taking another one headed for home.

But, as she was still ambivalent, she kept going.

Everyone was cheerful at United Oil. Evidently not having guilty consciences, they had slept better than she had. Rochelle was still pregnant, Favret still flirtatious, everything normal. Except that Robert Tyson had called in sick.

Damn, damn, damn. Why the hell hadn’t she dealt with this yesterday?

Well, it wasn’t a big deal. She had time. Back when she was working for Allred, most of the time she’d been at United, all she’d done was install software. She had to work out the week anyway, in order not to draw attention to herself.

She just wouldn’t think about it for a while. That ought to be easy enough.

***

“So how’re you doin’, kid?” Abasolo put a hand on Skip’s shoulder and paused only a second before sitting down on her desk.

“Your management style is sure different from Cappello’s.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You’re kind of hands-on.”

“Oh, God. You’re not gonna scream sexual harassment, are you?”

She chuckled. The remark would have been half-serious coming from some of the bozos around here, but she and Abasolo had been through far too much together. He was just messing around. “How about plain no-frills harassment?”

He looked hurt. “I thought you liked going over cases. We used to do it all the time.”

“Oh, hell, AA. I guess I’m being defensive because I’m not used to having you as my sergeant yet. Yeah, let’s talk about the case. If you’ve got a minute.”

A smile of such genuine pleasure spread across his features that she made an inner vow to try to get back to the old relationship—clearly, he was willing. “I’m trying to get into Russell’s head—I mean, he might be dead, but the events leading up to his murder still might be relevant, right? It didn’t happen in a vacuum.”

He was lanky as a cowboy, draped on that desk like he was, handcuffs hanging from his belt, reminding her inanely of balls. Far from judgmental, he looked eager. He nodded. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

“Random thoughts, that’s about all. You have time for this?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, he was in this amazing sailing accident about two years ago—it was five days before he was rescued. Shortly after that, his mother died. Matter of fact, you know where Cindy Lou met him? At a workshop she was teaching—on dealing with grief.”

“What! That doesn’t sound right.”

“Why not? Think he picked her up in a bar?”

“Oh, the part about Cindy Lou’s perfectly plausible. Anybody would go for her.” (Skip had always suspected he had a soft spot for Lou-Lou.) “I just don’t see a hotshot executive going to some touchy-feely thing.”

“Kind of a discordant note, isn’t it? Well, a few people say he was different after the sailing ordeal. Maybe—I don’t know—maybe he questioned the meaning of life or something. Oooh, now that’s good. He has some sort of religious experience on the boat, his mother dies and he feels hopeless, his father dies, and he decides to cash it all in.”

“You mean suicide?”

She considered. “Could be. But that wasn’t really what I was thinking of. I mean, what if he was just fed up with his life and decided to get a new one?”

“There’s no body. It’s not a bad bet. But for the sake of argument, what about Bebe and the daughter—what’s-her-name?”

“Eugenie. Well, we already know about Bebe—maybe he knew about her affair with LaBarre.”

“Plausible.”

“So he tries that little thing with Cindy Lou, it doesn’t work—”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t work?”

“Girl-talk. Evidently it didn’t work.”

An odd expression crossed Abasolo’s movie-star features—something like a wince. “I don’t really need the details.”

Skip shrugged. “Well, you asked.” She was keeping it casual to save his feelings, but she could tell he had it bad for the psychologist. She and Lou-Lou had talked about him—Lou-Lou said he was way too decent a fellow for her. With her fabled bad taste in men, it was undoubtedly true, but Skip wondered if there wasn’t more than that at work here—Abasolo was an Italian macho Southern cop. Guys like that just didn’t date black women. Period.

His loss
, she thought, and had the uncomfortable feeling he felt that way as well.

“Anyway,” she said, “Bebe’s otherwise engaged, Eugenie’s away at school, Cindy Lou doesn’t pan out, he’s depressed because he’s lost his parents—”

“What about the job?”

“Well, therein lies the interesting part. We just don’t know what it is. First of all, Allred was investigating Fortier for some mystery client, using an operative posing as a computer technician. As you may recall, the file she copied has since disappeared.”

Abasolo nodded. That had been in Skip’s original report on the Allred murder.

Skip continued, “Beyond asking his boss—dude named Douglas Seaberry—if he knew whether Fortier was up to anything, there wasn’t much I could do. Naturally Seaberry said he didn’t know. Fortier had a couple of other friends there, but I don’t really want to tip them to Allred’s connection with Fortier.

“However, they’re all way too nonchalant about this thing—even uncooperative. One of them ducked out for lunch when he knew I was waiting to interview him.”

“You think if something funny’s going on, they’re in it with Russell?”

“I sure wouldn’t rule it out.”

“You want to try to subpoena their phone bills—see if they have any unusual long-distance calls?”

“I don’t think so. I have a feeling we wouldn’t find anything.” She gave him the half smile that let him know she’d already checked through the confidential phone company source most good cops manage somehow to have.

He said, “Did you go through Fortier’s computer? Maybe there’s something in there.”

“I took a look, but to really do it justice, I’d have to download every single file and read it—and he’s got years of work in there. I’d say it would probably be a full-time job for the next six months, and since I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’d probably miss it. Not only that, if someone killed Allred to keep it from coming to light—Russell, say—you’ve got to figure he’d have deleted it.”

“So where are you going with all this?”

“You put your finger on it—not only was all that other stuff true, but, as we just mentioned, work was getting pretty hot. He could have stood Bebe up at the airport so he could get some time alone to kill Allred—but why do that if he wasn’t trying to protect his own little universe? I mean, if you were willing to give up your life, all you’d have to do is disappear—you wouldn’t have to kill someone, then disappear.”

“Point well taken.”

“So, maybe he just went sailing.”

“What?”

“Well, sailing’s what he did. If he was going to disappear somewhere for good, he’d probably do it on a boat.”

“Did he have one?”

“Oh, yes. It’s still in its slip—or so says the co-owner.”

“Maybe he bought another one.”

“His bank records don’t show any large withdrawals—he could have sold stock or something, I guess. Or maybe he had a stash somewhere. Or maybe he borrowed or stole it.”

“Okay. So maybe he’s off sailing. Where does that get us?”

“I’ve already checked with every clerk in the airport who was working that day. No one remembers him.”

“And anyway, how could he fly? You have to have a picture ID.”

“Well, needless to say, no Russell Fortier flew that day—”

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand “—or the next couple of days; we checked that out, too. If he flew anywhere, he had to have a fake ID.”

“Well, where would an oil company executive get something like that?”

She tapped her mouth with her open hand—it was a mannerism she had when she was thinking. “Very good question, AA. Provocative in the extreme.”

He stood up and gave her a macho grin. “You lose me when you start with the four-syllable words.”

As he walked away, she pressed her hand against her mouth and started to rock a little bit, completing the thought that had started coming to her: What if he had stolen an ID?

She liked this idea. She was just getting into it when the phone rang. “Hey, good-lookin’.”

It was a sexy male voice and she recognized it. “Darryl Boucree. To what do I owe this honor?”

“Hey, I’ve got to talk fast. I’m between periods here. But something’s bothering me. There’s something funny about The Baroness.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I thought you were smitten.”

“Uh-oh. You know something about her.” He sounded so crestfallen she knew she had it right the first time.

“No, I don’t—that’s what’s known as a flirtatious remark. What do you know?”

“Well, I just think it’s kind of strange she works the same place Russell Fortier did.”

“What?” She heard the electricity in her own voice, and hoped she hadn’t spooked him.

“I guess you didn’t know, huh?” He sounded so glum she hated to give him the bad news.

“She used to work there.”

“She’s working there now. I take it this isn’t good.”

“For romance? I don’t know, I think she likes you. She’s obviously been a lot more candid with you than she has with me.”

“Oh, terrific—got to go. The bell just rang.”

“Wait a minute. You wouldn’t have her phone number, would you?”

But the other end clicked gently. Either he hadn’t heard, or he didn’t want to rat out The Baroness any more thoroughly than he already had.

Phoning didn’t seem like the best plan anyway. It would warn Talba—give her time to destroy evidence. On the other hand, assuming The Baroness was innocent of murder, marching into the office could alert the wrong people. And waiting till after work just wasn’t going to cut it.

On third thought, phoning was the best—she borrowed Abasolo’s cell phone so she could call from the lobby at United. After a little back-and-forth about temps and who supplied them, then a call to Comp-Temps, she located her quarry. Without a hello, she said, “You should have told me you were working here again.”

A frightened voice said, “Who is this?”

“Skip Langdon. I’m in the lobby—be here in two minutes or I’m coming up.”

“I can’t, I’m—”

“Say you’re going to the ladies’ room and duck out—I’m timing you.”

The Baroness, so quick to lose her temper, even at the law, stepped out of the elevator with something like fear on her face. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here.”