82 Desire Read online

  “Who’s famous who lives in Lake Vista?”

  “Pete Fountain, I heard. Hey, Pete Fountain? Really?”

  “Try again.”

  “Oh, hell, I’d love to meet Pete Fountain.” She wrinkled up her face and thought. “Bebe!”

  “Jackpot.”

  Babette Fortier—Bebe (“B.B.”) to her friends and supporters—was a city councilwoman and rather a dull one as local politicos went. Truth be told, she wasn’t famous for anything special and she was of more or less good repute.

  They turned into the cul-de-sac that was Jay, and Skip was so surprised she gasped before she could stop herself Trees, gardens, two-story brick houses—very, very nicely done. Not suburban in a boring sense—simply peaceful and well designed.

  Abasolo said, “What?”

  “Nice. Pretty.”

  “Yeah, but is it New Orleans?”

  Skip had to agree. “You’ve gotta wonder.”

  They parked and strolled up a short walk to the Fortiers’ house. The councilwoman answered the door in a red suit, dressed for a hard day of complaints and meetings.

  Abasolo introduced himself and Skip.

  Skip held out her hand.

  “You mean you’re the Skip Langdon? Well, Sergeant—you have hauled out the big guns.”

  Skip hoped she wasn’t blushing. She had gotten her name in the paper often and spectacularly in recent months.

  “Our best little hot dog,” Abasolo said.

  “I am not little.” Skip spoke with mock petulance.

  Fortier laughed. “You sure aren’t. You’re as tall as my husband.”

  “Six feet and growing.”

  “Come in, won’t you?”

  Fortier led them into a room that was evidently a family room or den, a room full of books and furniture that was getting shabby, along with the inevitable “entertainment center” containing television and stereo.

  She sat across from Skip and Abasolo, glancing around as if to see if she had what she needed. A box of Kleenex sat on the floor near her chair. She plucked a tissue and sat back.

  “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  The officers declined. Skip noticed for the first time that Fortier looked haggard and drawn, though her makeup seemed newly applied and there were no tear tracks. She was probably in her early forties, Skip thought, with shiny brown hair cut in a neat bob, side-parted and more or less resembling Hillary Clinton’s. Her face was round, and her figure was trim. She was a pretty woman, with a fresh vitality, almost an eagerness, that made her more attractive than mere features ever could have. She had lovely smooth skin and hands that looked cared for, though her nails were short.

  “I don’t know what to think.” Her hands worked the tissue. “I’m just… well, embarrassed.” She looked the officers in the eye.

  “I assure you we’ll be as discreet as possible.” Abasolo spoke with unaccustomed formality.

  “Does Officer Langdon know?”

  “Call me Skip, please. And, no; I don’t know anything.”

  Bebe tried on a smile for size, but it didn’t work. “I guess you could say it’s every woman’s nightmare.”

  ***

  Russell’s sonofabitch of a father, who had made Russell’s life miserable every day Bebe had known him, had finally died two weeks before, and Bebe would have expected her husband to shout, “Hallelujah!”

  But Russell was unexpectedly moody on the way to the funeral in North Carolina. She probably should have tried harder to cheer him up, but it came at a bad time; there were so many reports to read, and planes were so good for that.

  They stayed at a hotel, as far as they could get from the family madness, scarcely exchanging a word the whole time. And yet it was a friendly silence; after so many years of marriage it wasn’t necessary to talk. Bebe read her reports and made her phone calls; Russell did the family things. It was like a hundred other trips they’d taken.

  But on the flight back, Russell turned to her. “Bebe. That was a lot harder than I expected.”

  “I know it was, darling.”

  “Let’s go away next weekend. Just us. Just for fun.”

  She stared at him—they never did anything like that.

  The idea kind of appealed to her, but it came from so far out in left field. “I have to give a speech Saturday night.” She named a big campaign contributor: “I promised Mary Louise six months ago. I can’t just disappear on her.”

  “Oh.” He looked as disappointed as a child. “Well, maybe the weekend after.”

  “Okay.” She thought about it. “Sure.”

  “You sound kind of doubtful.”

  “No, really, I’d love to. Let’s go to Hilton Head.”

  And so she had cancelled a few little things and they’d taken off in a flurry. Friday night they had a great dinner and made love (though she left that part out when she told the story to the cops).

  Saturday, she worked in the hotel room while Russell explored, and they played tennis, had a nap, another great dinner, and watched a movie. Sunday, she made some phone calls, and then they had brunch and drove to Savannah to get their plane.

  On the plane ride back, she worked some more while Russell read a Patrick O’Brian novel. That is, she worked for a while, and then she fell asleep. She felt rather wonderfully relaxed after such a nice weekend, and when Russell woke her up as they were landing, thought they really should do this sort of thing more often.

  After they’d claimed their luggage, Russell left to get the car while she sat in the terminal, suitcases around her like attentive children. She was still a little zoned-out and quite enjoyed the people-watching, especially the nice warm clinches when family members and lovers found each other and smooched it up.

  She was pleasantly tired, thinking at first about toasted cheese sandwiches and television in bed. Then thinking about all the work she still had to get done. And then beginning to fidget.

  She glanced at her watch. Oh, well. He’d only been gone ten minutes.

  People-watching was starting to pall because nearly everyone from her flight and the one at the next carousel had claimed their luggage and left.

  In another ten minutes, she was starting to get mad. How dare he leave her like this? Without even a magazine to read. He’d probably run into some old friend and stopped to chat.

  She got up and went to the ladies’ room—if he had to wait for her, too bad.

  But when she came back, there was still no Russell. She glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes to get a car out of the lot? What was going on?

  And then it dawned on her: He’d probably gotten stuck in airport traffic. She got up and stepped to the glass doors. Actually, it looked pretty clear out there.

  Only then did she feel the first stab of fear. Suppose he doesn’t come back? she thought. And then: Come on. Get rational. He just went to get the car.

  But she didn’t get rational. He could have gotten mugged. An airport parking lot would be a perfect place to wait until you saw someone alone.

  He could be lying unconscious.

  Or maybe he just left—simply walked away, like those husbands who go out for cigarettes and don’t come back.

  Uh-uh. Not Russell. He was pathetically uxorious—women would kill for a guy like Russell.

  But she couldn’t make that one fly, no matter how hard she tried. He hadn’t been, as they say, himself for a long time.

  But still. They’d had a great weekend, which he had suggested.

  On the other hand, people went a little nuts when their parents died, particularly the second parent, no matter how poorly they got along.

  But Russell just walking out? Not a chance. She’d go with mugging over that one.

  What else was there?

  Hit by a car, maybe?

  Some kind of snafu Bebe couldn’t conjure in her mind? Maybe he just forgot me, she thought. Maybe he got the car and drove on home.

  And maybe she was going nuts. That was assuredly it. She was going nut
s. She was imagining all this.

  She looked at her watch again—fifty minutes, give or take, had now passed since Russell left.

  With nothing else to do, she called home. And there being no one home, there was no answer.

  Well, she could go look for the car if she had a clue where it was, but Russell had dropped her off and parked it.

  What, then?

  She couldn’t call the airport police and say, “This is Bebe Fortier and I’ve misplaced my husband.” She just couldn’t do that.

  She thought of calling her brother.

  But then she thought how stupid she’d feel if Russell turned up after she made the call.

  Hold on, Bebe. Let’s try again to be rational.

  She sat and tried to think, but her brain simply would not focus; absolutely refused to. Darted about like minnows in a stream.

  In the end, she did call the airport police, who couldn’t have been more sympathetic and who located the car in no time, looking as if nobody’d been near it in three days. Then they gave her a nice cup of coffee while they searched for Russell’s crumpled and bleeding body. And while she was sipping it, she decided things had progressed far enough to lean on her brother.

  She was in full meltdown by the time he came and got her.

  ***

  Skip said, “Where’s the car now?”

  “Still there, I guess. I should send someone for it. We called hospitals”—her voice trembled a little—”but nothing. He just disappeared into thin air. I don’t know … what to think.” She sat up straighter, pulling herself together. “As you can imagine, I’ve been on the phone to anyone I dared call. You know how people gossip in this town. I didn’t want to call the superintendent—I’m sure you understand.”

  They understood perfectly. She wasn’t an ally of the mayor’s, and the superintendent was the mayor’s appointee.

  “Someone finally gave me the name of Lieutenant Cappello.”

  Skip put it together: Cappello must have called McGuire and recommended Skip and Abasolo.

  “Is your husband in good health?”

  “The best. He was in a sailing accident a few years ago and he survived for almost a week with nothing but champagne.” She emitted a nervous titter.

  “Well, I guess I should ask your opinion before we go any farther. What do you think happened?”

  “I really have no idea. Could he have been kidnapped? Can you get kidnapped on your way to get your car?”

  Skip considered. “Have you had a ransom demand?”

  “Oh, no. And we don’t have any money, anyway. My husband works for an oil company—neither of us has family money.”

  “Can you think of any other reason to kidnap him? “

  “What other reason could there be?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I really can’t think of any.” Her puzzlement showed in her face—but then she’d forged her acting skills in the public forum.

  “Does he have any enemies?”

  Fortier thought a minute. “Enemies? I’m the one with enemies—but I don’t think you’d kidnap someone’s husband because you don’t have a stop sign on your block.”

  Skip and Abasolo exchanged a glance. Stranger things had happened—just that morning a woman had cooked a cat.

  “Can you think of any enemies you have who might kidnap him?”

  Again she considered. “No. No, I really can’t.”

  “I’m sorry to ask this, but I’m sure you’ll understand. Have you and your husband been getting along?”

  Fortier looked surprised. “Yes, of course. We never exchange a cross word.”

  “I don’t know how to say this without seeming cruel…”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Could he simply have left you?”

  “Out of the clear blue? Without a word? Who would do a thing like that? Why wouldn’t he just say, ‘Honey, let’s hang it up’? Russell’s in business, Officer Langdon. He’s a pretty direct man.”

  “Well, but suppose he did? Where would he go?”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little insulting?”

  Abasolo gave her a look that said: Kid gloves, Langdon.

  Skip said, “I’m sorry I have to ask these questions, but I’m sure you understand it’s my job. We want to find him for you as quietly as possible. The more information we can get from you, the easier it’s going to be to keep it quiet.”

  The councilwoman sat up straighter, one professional dealing with another. She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, but she said, “I’m the one who should apologize. It’s just that this is so upsetting.” Her chin trembled.

  Skip waited, letting her regain her composure.

  Finally, Bebe said, “He works for United Oil Company, where he’s a vice president. He hasn’t missed a day in years. He’s not the sort who’d just take off.”

  Oh, yeah? Skip thought. But then again, New Orleans was a dangerous city. He could have been mugged or kidnapped. She said, “Was there anything about the car that indicated he’d been there?”

  “No, it was still locked. You can go look if you like.”

  “I will. Do you have a photograph of him?”

  Bebe looked momentarily startled. “Sure,” she said, and opened a drawer from which she plucked an envelope of snapshots. As she leafed through them, Skip asked for a few essentials—Russell’s full name and date of birth, the names of his family in North Carolina, and his Social Security number. Bebe supplied the first three, handed over a photo, and excused herself to look up the Social Security number.

  Skip and Abasolo were standing when she returned. “For now,” Skip said, “I think the best course is to do some preliminary investigating and get back to you if we need to. How would that be?”

  Fortier looked as if she’d gotten a negative biopsy report. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Okay. Let’s stay in touch. Here’s my card.” She wrote her pager number on the back.

  Skip and Abasolo walked to the car without a word.

  “See?” he said finally. “You’re a great little VNL. I knew you could do it.”

  “My jaws hurt from clamping them shut.”

  She spent the next two hours on the phone calling hospitals, the morgue, and the relatives in North Carolina. Then she took a ride to the airport with a crime lab crew and processed the car, though dusting for prints seemed excessive at this point.

  Still, this was a heater case.

  She drove the car back to the Fortier house herself. Then she called all the airlines that flew out of New Orleans. No one had a record of a Russell Fortier on an outbound flight in the last twenty-four hours.

  Bebe called in the late afternoon to see if Skip had any news. No ransom demand had arrived.

  Despite all the talk about discretion, it was only the next morning when Skip got her first media call. “Hey, Skip. It’s your old friend Jane Storey.”

  “Janie. How’s the wild world of television journalism?”

  “Too wild for me. Couldn’t stand that superficial shit. I’m back at the Picayune.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Good-bye lovely money, hello responsible journalism. I didn’t get fired, by the way. It just wasn’t for me.”

  “Well, I admire your integrity. I think.”

  “Listen, Skippy. I hear Russell Fortier’s disappeared.”

  “Can’t comment, Janie.”

  “Let me put it another way. I got your name from Bebe.”

  Skip started. That didn’t make sense. “She called you?”

  “Uh-uh. I called her. She confirmed it.”

  “Where’d you hear it?”

  “Can’t say. You know that.”

  “You going to run a story?”

  “Is the pope a cross-dresser?”

  “I’ve got to keep quiet on this one, Janie.”

  “Well, listen, I’ll trade you. I’ve got a little something you may not know.”

  “No t
rades. No way. Not on this one.” Not yet, anyway.

  “So what’ll it be? No comment?”

  “Police reports are public record unless it’s a criminal investigation. You know that.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “For now. We’ve got a public information officer.”

  “Well, it was worth a try.”

  Skip had a call waiting for her. She punched the “Hold button: “Langdon.” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice.

  “Girlfriend. You got PMS or something?” It was her friend Cindy Lou, the police psychologist.

  “Lou-Lou. I thought you were another damned reporter.”

  “Uh-oh. They after you, too?”

  “What do you mean,’too’?”

  “Jane Storey’s on my ass.”

  “Jane Storey? What for?”

  “It’s not nice. You free for lunch?”

  “Davis Deluxe. Twenty minutes.”

  Davis Deluxe had caused Skip to gain five pounds since getting transferred. It was a great neighborhood restaurant—red plaid on the tables, Dr. King on the wall, butter beans on your plate. It was delicious and it was close.

  Since it would take her far less than twenty minutes to get there, she called Bebe first. “I hear the press knows.”

  “Well, it’s a little puzzling. I’ve only had one call, but since they’d found out, I couldn’t see the point of lying. Did I do wrong?”

  “Up to you.” Skip thought a minute. “Probably not. A story might get someone out of the woodwork. I thought you wanted to keep it quiet, that’s all.”

  A sob came over the line. “It’s gone beyond that, Skip. I’m scared to death. It’s been two days.”

  “I think you made the right decision. This makes my job easier.” A lot easier. Discretion took on a different meaning if the whole city knew.

  Something was funny, though. Why Jane Storey and no other reporters? “Has anyone called besides the Times-Picayune?”

  “No. Jane said she had a tip. And don’t worry, I know it wasn’t you. She told me it didn’t come from the cops. And I’ve worked with her a lot. I trust her.”

  So had Skip and she also trusted her—up to a point.

  Still, she thought, That’s your first mistake. Never trust a reporter. She went to meet Cindy Lou.