82 Desire

by Smith, Julie

  She shook her head. “Uh-uh. Remember, I said it’s mostly legal. Right now, though”—she raised her palms, as if in apology—”right now I’m just doing some computer tech work.” She made a face. “Seriously boring.”

  “I thought you were taking a break from all that.”

  “I am—from programming and software designing. This is just temp work.”

  He looked puzzled. “What’s the firm?”

  “Oh, just an oil company.” Almost immediately, she saw her mistake. An odd, startled expression flickered briefly on his face, the kind people get when they run into an old acquaintance with a new spouse. Quickly, lest her silence seem suspicious, she said, “United. They’re putting in a bunch of new workstations.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing it—it can’t pay as much as what you usually do.”

  “Yeah, but it’s easy work to get and good for pocket money.”

  “Isn’t United where Russell Fortier worked?”

  “Oh, law. As my Aunt Larcenia used to say. That’s all they talk about over there.”

  “Larcenia! You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Weird names run in my family. Seriously, I’ve often wondered if there was a Pill Man in her past, too—it’s spelled with a c, just like ‘larceny.’ “

  Darryl hooted, just once. And because of the momentary tension, Talba started to giggle. That got Darryl going, and next thing you knew, they were deep into a laughing fit that had people staring.

  When she got control, Talba had to wipe her eyes. “Whoo. What was that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you always have that effect on men?”

  “No. Usually they get down on their knees and call me ‘Your Excellency.’”

  “We might get to that. Your Excellency.”

  The mini-crisis evidently had been averted—if it was that. Talba wasn’t sure what harm it would do to let this man know what she was up to, but Allred had always stressed the importance of utter secrecy. He was paranoid, of course, but maybe he knew something she didn’t.

  Seventeen

  SINCE THE DAY before yesterday, it had occurred variously to Jane Storey to quit her job, to disappear in the night, to swallow Drano, and to get unattractively drunk.

  She had settled on the last, which was, after all, the time-honored working journalist’s solution to immediate problems. Her good friend Jeffrey—gay, currently unattached, and always sympathetic—had been happy to join her at Vaquero’s for six or eight margaritas.

  She could remember Jeffrey grabbing her forearm and squeezing it tight. “Don’t let that asshole do it to you, sweetheart. I hate to see you like this.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling we should have had this little talk a few days ago. He’s already done it to me. Or, more accurately, I’ve done it to myself.”

  “You get so precise when you’re drunk.”

  “Jeffrey, I went against every instinct I had. I broke all my own rules.”

  “Maybe it’s not too late for a life of prostitution.”

  “That’s what the problem is—I’ve already got one.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, you could at least make it pay—go back to television. You could probably name your price if you call tonight.”

  “Oooh. First the knife, and then the twist.”

  As a matter of fact, the local stations had broken the story of Mrs. LaBarre’s sudden, mysterious hospitalization the night before. David Bacardi saw it and called Jane at home. “Janie, are you watching the news? Why didn’t we have the attempted suicide?”

  “You don’t know that’s what it was.”

  “Well, why don’t I? Why didn’t you tell me and our thousands of loyal readers?”

  Jane felt so humiliated she couldn’t answer.

  “Janie, are you there? “

  She summoned all her resources, thought of what she wanted to say, and the gentlest way to say it. “David. Does it occur to you we’re causing a lot of pain here?”

  “Janie, for Christ’s sake!” He sounded furious. “Toughen up. This is your job—if you don’t like it, maybe you should consider a career in public relations.”

  That was supposed to be his biggest insult. It was an article of faith among certain newspaper folk that if you couldn’t cut it as a reporter, you became a flack.

  When she tried to explain it to Jeffrey, he said, “Let me get this straight. Am I buying the drinks tonight?”

  “If you insist—why?”

  “Do I always buy the drinks?”

  “Oh, you sweet thing. Are you offering?”

  “And why do I always buy the drinks? Because I make more money than you. Which brings up the question, Who doesn’t? Hold it, I’m getting at something here—you bust your butt at that crummy little job for pennies instead of getting some cushy, good-paying job in the highly respected public relations field, and this is supposed to make you better somehow?”

  “You don’t get it, Jeffrey. It’s like a fraternity or something. You know, a macho thing.”

  “Well, did it ever occur to you that that is garbahge?”

  She had to laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, about a million times. But it’s what I do.”

  “Personally, darling, I’d wish you a more lucrative life that would make you happier. And take you away from that Bacardi faggot.”

  “Jeffrey! Who’re you calling a faggot?”

  “Well, it’s what he’d call me, isn’t it? Tit for tat, dearie.”

  She laughed again. “Jeffrey, you’re a sketch.”

  “Listen, when you call people, are they happy to hear from you?”

  “Are you kidding? They get out their garlic and crucifixes.”

  “I know. And how do I know? You complain about it all the time. You don’t make money, you don’t get respect, nobody likes you, and you have bags under your eyes.”

  Jane felt her eyes moisten.

  “Oh, honey, don’t get mad. I didn’t mean nobody likes you—I mean, it’s an adversarial job. Nobody you call likes you; nobody you write about likes you.”

  “Some of them do,” she said sulkily.

  “And you never meet any decent men.”

  “Amen to that.”

  She wanted to blame the whole debacle on David Bacardi, but she simply couldn’t shake the notion that she didn’t have to do it—that she should have refused even if it cost her her job; that at the very least she could have taken her byline off the story.

  The byline trick theoretically wouldn’t have cost her a thing; but she hadn’t wanted to antagonize David. She could kill herself for ever having gotten involved with him, either professionally or personally.

  Jeffrey said, “You miss Walter, don’t you?”

  And the waiting tears finally spilled.

  Jeffrey was cool, though. “Hey, hey, hey! Don’t get mad, get even.”

  She smiled through her tears and said, “Yeah!” or something fake like that, and let him first buy her another drink, then skillfully turn the teary mood around with stories about his neighbor, Sharleen, the queen-sized drag queen. (“She’s too fat!” Jane insisted. “It’s ridiculous.” “Oh, honey,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve seen her without her makeup. Trust me, this way is best for everybody.”)

  She floated home on a cloud of tequila, but she awoke in the night, sweaty and panting from nightmares. What was chasing her she couldn’t quite remember, but for some reason, Jeffrey’s words echoed in her head like the tell-tale heart: Get even.

  She woke up mad, which made her oddly energetic for a woman with a hangover. The first thing she did was call in sick. The second was make strong coffee, and the third was use the high from that to get to the Camellia Grill, where she ordered a hamburger. Jane believed devoutly that hamburgers could cure hangovers.

  If it didn’t work, at least it made a dent.

  She couldn’t do a damn thing about David Bacardi being her boss, or her ex-lover, or a perfect prick, but he wasn’t the only one she was pissed at. In her shame at what s
he’d done, she’d almost lost sight of the fact that she’d been a prize marionette for too long.

  The time had definitely come to turn the tables on the tipster.

  I’m an investigative reporter, she thought. Why not put my skills to good use for a change?

  Find the tipster or bust.

  She went home and drank three more cups of coffee, turning the whole thing over in her mind and making lists. She approached it like a crime, which didn’t seem to her a bad way to think about it.

  First, she listed the tips themselves:

  1. Russell Fortier’s disappearance

  2. Fortier and Cindy Lou Wootten an item

  3. Gene Allred’s murder

  4. Baroness’s reading

  5. Bebe and LaBarre

  Okay, good. Obviously 1, 2, and 5 were connected—the players were the same. All five must be part of a whole, but how?

  Gene Allred was a private eye, so he must have been working either for the Fortier family or investigating them. (So far, Bebe had claimed to know nothing.)

  The Baroness was a tougher row to hoe. The fact that the tipster had invited Langdon to the reading bolstered the idea of a connection. Jane sat and chewed her pencil. She was guessing Langdon knew what it was. Also, for that matter, that she knew what Allred’s was—but she hadn’t solved the case, so she sure didn’t know everything,

  Her second list was entitled “Things I Need to Know.” It had seven entries:

  1. Russell’s whereabouts

  2. Tipster’s identity

  3. What this is all about

  4. Tipster’s motive

  5. Baroness’s connection

  6. Allred’s connection

  7. Identity of Allred’s murderer

  The last she underlined three times. She had almost forgotten Langdon’s warning to be careful. It was very possible the tipster was the murderer, but why was Allred murdered? She added to her list:

  8. Murder motive

  Well, hell, for that matter:

  9. Reason for Fortier’s disappearance

  It was a little on the overwhelming side, especially since none of the entries were simple little things like addresses or dates, arrest records … wait a minute, arrest records were a possibility. She made a third list, “Sheets On:”

  1. Sandra Wallis

  2. Russell Fortier

  3. Eugene Allred

  Because it was easy, she made that the first chore. She knew a friendly cop (not Langdon) who’d get them for her. She called him and went back to studying the second list. Everything was so huge, so cosmic… except for one thing. One glaring thing, now that she thought of it: “Baroness’s connection.”

  How hard could it be to figure that out? The tipster obviously wanted her to—he’d brought the poet to her attention.

  Well, Langdon wasn’t going to tell her, and neither was The Baroness—Jane knew that because she’d asked her already. However, the poet was unabashedly courting publicity—maybe they could deal, Jane and The Baroness. Wait a minute! Maybe The Baroness herself had asked her there, through the tipster. Maybe the five items on the first list weren’t related at all. Say the tipster was hatching some plot or other that involved the Fortier family, and in the course of it decided to take advantage of the fact that he now had a trained reporter in his kennel.

  Sure enough, The Baroness had an unscrupulous-looking boyfriend—or, at least, assistant. Wait another minute—she’d introduced him as her “partner in crime.” Jane felt the exhilaration of an adrenaline rush. “Lamar” something; she could find out by calling the restaurant where the reading was held. His art—such as it was—was for sale there.

  She dialed Reggie and Chaz. “Hi, this is Irene Adler. I was in the other night for a poetry reading…”

  A male, slightly accented voice answered her: “Oh, yes. The Baroness de Pontalba. Very good, yes?”

  “Excellent, I thought. A really enjoyable evening. I liked the paintings, too, by the man who helped her—her boyfriend, I guess.” She made the sentence faintly interrogative.

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Lamar Foret. Her boyfriend.”

  “Is the show still up?”

  “No, I’m so sorry. It was only for that one night. We felt so bad he didn’t sell anything.”

  “Hey, it’s not over till it’s over. I’m calling because I can’t get one of them out of my head. I was going to ask the price.”

  “Ohhhh. Ohh.” He seemed to be mulling things over.

  Finally he came to the perfect solution: “I could give you Mr. Foret’s phone number.”

  “Oh, could you? Fabulous.”

  She got it and dialed. A machine answered: “This is the robot of Lamar Foret. Leave a number or he’ll send me to kill you.”

  Damn! It wasn’t the tipster’s voice. She was about to hang up when someone answered: “Why is a famous Times-Picayune reporter calling a simple graduate student?”

  She was glad they weren’t face-to-face—she was sure she must look utterly taken aback and stupid. But she said smoothly, “Ah. Caller ID Deluxe—number and name.”

  “You must be an investigative reporter.”

  She couldn’t think what to ask him except her original question. “I was wondering if you were the person who invited me to the reading the other night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I got a tip about it.”

  “What, a hot poetry-reading tip? Yeah, it’s Talba’s cheap way to get a publicist—you get a guy to call up all the reporters and tell ’em she’s Page One material.”

  His voice was nasty with sarcasm. Even over the phone, Jane disliked him. She needed to get off in a hurry. “Well, just thought I’d check it out.”

  “You want a tip? I’ll give you a tip.”

  “Oh, yeah? About what? “

  “About that story you’re working on.”

  “What story?”

  “You know what story. How much will you pay me for it?”

  “Sorry. We don’t pay for information.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Despite universal journalistic policy, Jane privately considered paying for information unethical only in cases where the seller could feed you lies that could end up in the paper. Paying for tips, she felt, was merely bad—and very expensive—policy.

  She said, “What the hell. Twenty dollars.”

  He hung up.

  Her head hurt.

  A hangover, she thought, is like a cold. You have to feed it. In fact, you have to feed it gross stuff.

  She was on her way out to the kitchen to fix a peanut butter sandwich when Lamar called back. “Fifty,” he said.

  She’d already forgotten the conversation. “Fifty what?”

  “Hey, reporter. Wake up. I’ve got something you need to know.”

  “I told you, we don’t pay for information.”

  “Then you told me you do.”

  “Well, I had a weak moment. I can’t do it.”

  “It concerns Mr. Russell Fortier’s place of employment.”

  “United Oil. What about it?”

  “Ms. Sandra Wallis, aka The Baroness de Pontalba, has a day gig.”

  “What? Are you telling me she works for United Oil?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “It’s pretty easy to check out.”

  “Yeah, but you got to admit it’s a damn good tip. If you’re an honest woman, you’ll pay.”

  That kind of got to her. She had halfway promised him. She made a mental note to go against all advice and send cash through the mail. It wasn’t a damn good tip, it couldn’t have been better. It was the tip of tips: United Oil was the link. But why the hell had he told her?

  Lovers’ quarrel, maybe. She shrugged, though there was no one there to interpret the gesture. And then she set about interpreting the data.

  She was starting to wish she hadn’t called in sick. But wait, they wouldn’t know that in the library, and Jane knew a trick—she could get in via modem and downl
oad the United Oil file.

  In half an hour she was inundated. But there wasn’t a blemish anywhere that she could see. There was a great deal of activity, though. United Oil was expanding like crazy, both in the Gulf and elsewhere. You’d think they planned to take over the world.

  Suspicious indeed, in Jane’s opinion—you had to wonder where big bucks came from.

  She called the company, and, having endured endless voice mail choices, she finally scored a human being, whom she asked for Sandra Wallis. The human was silent for a few minutes. Finally, she said, “Sorry. We have no Sandra Wallis here.”

  Jane refused to believe it. Absolutely wouldn’t accept it. This was the first break in this ridiculous thing, and she wasn’t about to give it up just because it wasn’t true. She was considering asking for The Baroness de Pontalba when the human said, “Could she be a temp?”

  Jane didn’t think so, but you never knew. “Yes,” she said. “I’m really not sure.”

  “Well, if she is, she could be here. We don’t have all the temps’ names.”

  “Can you just ring them all? How many are there?”

  “No, I really can’t. There are twenty or so, it looks like.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She thought, There’s more than one way to skin a cat, and picked up the phone book. There were only a few Wallises; no big deal.

  She called the first three and asked for Sandra, or would have if she’d once more gotten a human. But robots, to quote Lamar, were guarding the phones of the Wallises. She kept trying, and on the fifth got one that said she worked for “Sandra and Clara Wallis,” though not in the butterscotch tones of The Baroness. Must be Clara, Jane thought, and wondered if she could be the mama who got duped. “In case of emergency,” the message said, “you can call me at work.”

  Jane scribbled down the number. She didn’t bother making up an emergency, figuring Clara was used to anyone who got the machine just going ahead and calling.

  The same voice answered the phone: “Landry residence.”

  “Ms. Wallis? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m a friend of Sandra’s from her old job—I’ve been trying to get her at United, but I don’t have her extension.”