82 Desire

.”
    “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 trades. 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.

Two
    “I’M IN A heap of shit, girlfriend.”
    “What’s going on?” Skip put down the menu, deciding once again on the fried chicken.
    “Well, I was seeing a married man.”
    Skip sighed. Cindy Lou was African American, beautiful, brilliant, and cursed with abysmal taste in men. She didn’t discriminate on account of race, color, or creed—all they had to be was unsuitable. “So what else is new?” Skip asked.
    “It was Bebe Fortier’s husband.”
    “Holy shit. Why didn’t I see that coming?”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “You talk first. What did Jane want?”
    “She told me she had information I was seeing him and asked me if I knew his whereabouts. I called his office and they said he was out sick. What’s going on here?”
    “He’s disappeared, Lou-Lou. Jane probably thinks you ran away with him. Did you?”
    “Hey, back off. What’s happening?”
    Skip told her the story. “What do you make of it?”
    Lou-Lou shrugged. “I don’t make anything of it. I barely know the man. It doesn’t sound right, though. Uh-uh. It doesn’t sound right at all.” She was shaking her head. “I don’t like it. From the little I knew of him, he was your basic solid family man.”
    Skip almost dropped her fork. “Oh, right. And you’re part of the family? What do you mean, you barely knew him, by the way?”
    “It wasn’t a real affair. We saw each other exactly twice. He was at some party without Bebe and we both drank some champagne and flirted. Then he kept calling and hustling and—hell, he’s cute. So I went