82 Desire

delicate about her, even slightly elegant in a laid-back kind of way. She wore pants, but they were tailored and looked expensive (though they probably weren’t); she wore sweaters, but they looked like cashmere—and Skip was damned sure they weren’t.
    Still, Skip told herself, there was nothing wrong with all that—maybe the problem was that McGuire was scarcely older than she was. Maybe she ought to take the sergeant’s test and think about moving up.
    ***
    It was a Monday in late October when McGuire caught her in the hall. Skip was talking to one of the guys from the Power Watch.
    “Look in there,” he said. “I got the cat woman.”
    “Her? That little tiny thing?” The woman’s cat had bitten her; she had sentenced it to death by baking—slowly, in a preheated oven.
    “She’s tiny, but she’s sneaky. She got out of the handcuffs—I had to tackle her and wrestle her down.”
    McGuire joined them. “Handcuffed her in front, didn’t you? I know you, Frankie.”
    The man blushed, staring as if trying to think of a rejoinder.
    “You better watch yourself, my man. You’re going to get hurt one day.” She grabbed Skip by the elbow and steered her a few steps away. Out of the blue, she said, “How do you like working with Adam?”
    Skip was taken aback. “We’re a real good team.”
    “I think you’re probably dangerous. You know how kindergarten teachers separate the bad kids?”
    Skip grinned at her. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
    “I’ve got a soft spot for bad kids. Just don’t screw me, okay?”
    McGuire wafted off, not an easy thing to do in a pair of tailored pants. Skip was vaguely pleased, thinking maybe McGuire was really all right—if she liked bad kids, she couldn’t be all bad. On the other hand, something was up, and she wondered what.
    She got a Coke out of the machine and went back to the tiny windowless, airless office she shared with three other detectives. There were several of these offices off a large room with computers in it—two computers, enough space for a living room; go figure. She was going through the stack of new cases that was waiting in her mailbox when Abasolo happened by.
    Meaning he had taken the trouble to cross the hall, wander through the computer room, and squeeze into her minuscule space. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Too nice to be inside. Come on—take a ride with me.”
    “What’s up?”
    “Let’s just take a ride.”
    Skip shrugged into her jacket. Abasolo was wearing a tie and sports coat, which he did only on state occasions.
    “I need a VNL,” he said.
    This was slang the two of them had picked up from a tough-as-nails hostage negotiator—Very Nice Lady, it meant.
    “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
    “You got a good side, Langdon. You just hide it.”
    When they were in the car, she said, “Okay. Tell me.”
    “Heater case. Your specialty, right? “
    “Not by choice.”
    “Still. The term ‘hot dog’ has been used.”
    “Thank you, I’ll stick with VNL.”
    They were quiet until it dawned on her to ask where they were going.
    “Jay Street—how’s that grab you?”
    “Ah. Lake Vista.” If the street was a flower or a bird, it was Lake Vista; if a gemstone, Lakeshore. “What’s the deal here? McGuire buttonholed me to mention we shouldn’t fuck up.”
    “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