82 Desire (10 page)

Bebe drove off and Jane kept waiting, thinking that if worst came to worst, she could persuade the desk clerk to talk to her. She was inventing various ruses when the door of Bebe’s room opened and a man came out, straightening his collar as if he’d just emerged from the shower.

Really
, she thought,
men are so transparent.

The man turned slightly toward her and she found herself bombarded by two emotions at once—disappointment that it wasn’t Russell, and shock at who it was—someone Bebe could barely speak to without causing a scandal. It was Ernest LaBarre, a developer who had a huge proposal before the city council.

Not only did LaBarre need Bebe’s vote now, he’d needed it in the past and he’d be needing it in the future. This was a man who frequently asked the council’s approval on one project or another.

And this was so clearly a story Jane felt slightly nauseated.

This was not a matter of a public official having an affair, which might or might not be anyone else’s business. This was a blatant conflict of interest. Not to write the piece seemed hugely irresponsible. Yet writing it was invasion of privacy. She couldn’t see doing it to Bebe.

But she took LaBarre’s picture and recorded the time.

She didn’t have them together, but that didn’t matter—she had enough material to make an editor believe her, and that was all she needed.

She headed back to the office, still feeling queasy, thoughts racing. And by the time she was on the escalator, cooler heads had prevailed. She wasn’t going to write the damn story.

What would she write, anyway—
OFFICIAL AND DEVELOPER IN LOVE NEST
? Hardly.

She had a piece of something, that was all. And she was glad she’d taken the pictures—they were something concrete, to show if she had to, to prove she had some tiny piece of a greater jigsaw puzzle. Bebe and LaBarre might not be a story by themselves, but the affair was a good reason to keep digging. What if, for instance, Russell turned up dead? The fact that Bebe was having an affair called into question everything she’d said about his disappearance. She could have killed him in an argument, say, disposed of the body at leisure, and made up the story about the airport.

In a sort of daze, she dropped off the film in the photo department and then checked the library for clips on Bebe. Browsing through quickly, she could see that at least once Bebe had voted for one of LaBarre’s projects. Since he had several, Jane wondered if it was a pattern.

She was still scrolling through clips, trying to get a handle on what was happening, when someone touched her shoulder.

“Janie.” It was her editor, David Bacardi, her former lover and big, bad mistake.

“I hate it when you call me Janie.” She turned to look at him as she said it, and she almost gasped, remembering. He was tall, with a good chest and good shoulders. He had dark hair graying at the temples and curling on his forehead—for which she was a sucker—and wore fashionable round, metal-framed glasses, white oxford-cloth shirts, striped ties. He moved sinuously, like someone who played a lot of squash.

He was absurdly good-looking. Not merely handsome, but darkly handsome—handsome in an intellectual way; handsome in a preppy, take-home-to-Mom kind of way. Sometimes she wondered why she hadn’t fallen for him before she did, yet if she thought back, she could remember that, too. He was also handsome in a pat sort of way; a God’s-gift sort of way. She’d been contemptuous of him before he decided to make it a point to seduce her.

But since he was also funny, charming, and bright, who could resist, really?

Anyone with a good sense of self-preservation,
she thought now.

Walter had hated him. That should have been warning enough.

But it hadn’t been, and now she was stuck with her own self-contempt for having fallen for his transparent ploys—having fallen, in a real sense, victim to him. She was stuck with that, and he was her boss, a position that held a bit of the victim in it in the best of circumstances.

She really did hate it when he called her “Janie.”

He said, “How’s the Fortier thing going?”

“Interesting developments. Can we talk about it in your office?” She didn’t want the whole place knowing about Bebe’s sex life.

“Hey, Jane, here’s your prints.” Ozzie Otis, the photographer she’d sweet-talked into doing them, dropped a crisp pile on her desk.

David picked them up. “What’s this? You’re a photographer now?”

“Ozzie was just doing me a favor.”

He looked closer. “Are these what I think they are?”

“Come on. Into your office.”

As she told the story, she could see David’s eyes begin to glitter. He leaned closer and closer, and finally he blurted, “This is a hell of a story, Janie.”

It was absolutely the highest compliment he’d ever paid her.

She leaned back, hoping he’d notice her pointedly drawing away from him, and spoke as frostily as she dared. “Exactly what do you think the story is?”

“Are you kidding? Here’s a powerful politico literally in bed with a guy who wants to destroy half the views in the city and make parking some kind of California nightmare. Needless to say, an extremely controversial figure who needs every vote he can get. Have you checked her voting record?”

“That’s what I was just doing.”

“And?”

“Last time she voted in his favor.”

“Big surprise. That alone makes it a story.”

“I don’t know.” She was quiet, trying to think it through.

“What, are you kidding? The woman’s husband’s missing. Maybe she murdered him.”

“Or maybe he left because he noticed the wife was working late a lot.”

“What’s wrong with you, Janie? This is a great story. And you got it—damn! But I don’t get it with the amateur pictures. Couldn’t you have called the photo desk?”

She couldn’t bring herself to reply.

“Go write it, kid.”

Reluctantly, she went back to her desk. There were only three bits of reporting left to do: finish checking Bebe’s voting record, put together a short profile of LaBarre and his dealings with the city council, and get statements from the principals.

She did the first two, and when there was no more putting it off, she called LaBarre and got no answer. So she had to do what she dreaded most—call Bebe. Her words came out in a rush: “Bebe, I’m really sorry, but we have information you’re having an affair with Ernest LaBarre. I tried to keep it out but—”

“You’ve got to be kidding! That is patently untrue.”

“You were seen this afternoon.” She named the motel.

“You’re mistaken, Janie. That simply wasn’t me.”

There was nothing to do but call her bluff. “I’m really, really sorry, Bebe. We’ve got pictures.”

Without warning, Bebe started sobbing. “Oh, Janie, you don’t understand. It’s not what it looks like. Oh, please, please—you’ve got to keep this out.”

Jane was free to use the quote—Bebe hadn’t said it was off the record—and she knew a kid fresh out of journalism school probably would. But of course she wouldn’t.

Suddenly she thought of a reason other than sex for a city councilwoman to hold a secret meeting with a supplicant—to accept a bribe.

“Bebe, tell me. I can’t do anything unless I know the truth.”

“Can we talk off the record? I just want to tell you—to throw myself on your mercy.”

“Sure.” Jane was feeling a lot more merciful than usual.

“Russell and I—I don’t know, I guess we’ve been growing apart lately. I don’t know why, we just have. And Ernest and I have always been friends. Actually, the four of us have—Ernest and Sharon and Russell and me.”

“I notice you’ve voted for him every time something’s come before the council.” (By now, Jane had nailed this detail down.)

“I agree with what he’s trying to do. That has nothing to do with our friendship.”

“Bebe, you’re an intelligent woman—”

“I know, I know. But, yes, we’ve been allies, and things are different now. We started seeing each other—this way—four months ago. And nothing’s come up in that time. You see what I’m saying? We were casual friends, I admired him, I voted for him. We became lovers so suddenly—so stupidly, I might add, but omigod, I needed it—and then Russell disappeared and I couldn’t go on with it. All we were doing today was saying good-bye. I swear to God that’s what was going on.”

Jane took a deep breath. “I believe you, Bebe.” Because she’d known Bebe a long time and respected her, and also because the whole thing now seemed a sleazy ooze she’d fallen into and couldn’t climb out of, Jane did believe her.

“I believe you, but what am I going to say if all that’s off the record?”

“You can stop the story. You can be a decent human being and just not write it—it’s going to cause a lot of damage, and what good can it possibly do? The whole thing’s over.” She paused, and said what was in Jane’s own mind. “Besides, we’ve always been friends—Ernest and I. Why is it okay to have dinner with someone and absolutely dead wrong to go to bed with them?”

Philosophically it was unanswerable, yet the practical answer should have been obvious to a four-year-old. “You know why. The appearance of impropriety.”

“Jane, I’m begging you—the public good won’t be served by this story.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not my call.”

In the end, she had to go with “no comment” for Bebe and “couldn’t be reached” for LaBarre.

David had agreed to “the
Times-Picayune
has learned,” after Jane threatened to take her byline off if he made her write it as it happened—exposing herself as a love-nest spy. In fact, she might even have quit over it—it was just too cheap and sleazy for words.

The trade-off was, they had to use the pictures to give the story credibility. Jane could have kicked herself for taking them.

After it was all over, she went home, poured herself some wine, and contemplated what she’d become. Only she didn’t get far because she really couldn’t be sure. On the one hand Bebe certainly had a whale of a conflict. On the other, if what the councilwoman said was true, running the story was stupid and meaningless and harmful.

But who was qualified to make that decision?

Didn’t the public have a right to know?

Surely it wasn’t up to a responsible journalist to coddle and protect an irresponsible—and possibly dishonest—public official.

Yet, did that describe Bebe or didn’t it?

“Goddammit, Walter, where are you when I need you?” Jane said to the air.

Ten

SKIP ABSOLUTELY COULDN’T
believe what she was reading. How could a reporter like Jane take such a cheap shot? And how the hell could Bebe be so stupid? The latter, of course, was none of her business, as she perfectly well knew, but she was so mad at Jane she didn’t care.

She breezed into the office with an extra cup of coffee—one for herself and one for Abasolo, to head off any sergeantlike hints about her case. But he raised an eyebrow and tapped the paper on his desk. “Nice pix of our pal.” The subject was open.

“You’d think it was the
National Enquirer
.”

“I thought Jane Storey was your friend.”

“Our relationship’s developing a strain.” Skip filled him in on the tipster.

“He knows way too much to be up to any good,” Abasolo said. “I don’t like the way he’s orchestrating things—it feels like it could escalate. Have you talked to Cindy Lou about him?”

“No, but that’s a great idea.”

“The guy gives me the creeps. Anybody that controlling almost reminds me of—” He stopped.

“Who?”

“Your buddy Jacomine.”

Skip felt a rush of heat. Errol Jacomine. If ever anyone had a nemesis, Jacomine was hers. A pseudoreligious leader, former mayoral candidate, many times a murderer, one-time kidnapper of Jimmy Dee’s niece Sheila, and avowed enemy of Skip, Jacomine was the one who got away. Got away twice. She would never feel completely safe or comfortable until Jacomine was finally run to ground. He was the sort who would kill someone close to her—Sheila or Kenny, say—rather than Skip herself, just to hurt her.

She spoke involuntarily: “Oh, shit.” Drops of perspiration popped out on her forehead. “Let me think about it.”

She closed her eyes and put a hand over them, shutting the world out for a few moments. “I don’t think so,” she said at last. “I could be wrong, God knows he’s always changing his m.o., but this isn’t a big enough production—so far.”

Abasolo opened his mouth, but Skip put up a hand. “Jacomine likes an audience. This doesn’t have a public aspect.”

“Like you said. So far.”

“He couldn’t have known I was going to get the Russell Fortier thing—it isn’t even a homicide case. He probably doesn’t know about decentralization—for all he knows, I’m still in Homicide.”

Abasolo’s blue eyes bored into her. “Aren’t you letting down your guard? Remember how he has spies everywhere?”

She laughed. “How unlike me not to be paranoid.”

“I’m glad you can laugh about it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t rule him out on this one—it just doesn’t feel like him, that’s all. But I agree with you. Whoever this dude is, he’s obsessively controlling. The stuff he’s done is pretty boggling when you think about it. He got Cindy Lou, me, Jane Storey, and Talba Wallis all in one place at one time—just to watch us, I presume. He must have spied on Russell long and hard enough to find out about his three-second affair with Cindy Lou; and then on Bebe long enough to find out not only that she was seeing LaBarre, but when and where—assuming that he tipped Jane to the whole thing, which I’d bet my last penny on. Also, he managed to get a bug planted in Russell Fortier’s office and, you have to assume, listened to Fortier’s conversations. Plus, he seems to have figured out how to co-opt a perfectly honest reporter.”

Abasolo nodded, eyes narrowing. He drummed his fingers. “I see what you mean. Really crazy, creepy stuff. I don’t like it, Skip. You watch your back, girl.” He paused. “Wait a minute. Maybe Allred’s client isn’t the tipster. Maybe the tipster is Russell.”

“He disappears and then plays puppetmaster? What about the tip about Cindy Lou?”

AA grinned. “Damned ingenious red herring—the guy’s so manipulative he might just do it. And this new information lends some credence—Bebe did have a boyfriend. By the way, is it new information?”

Skip managed a grin. “I’m afraid so. Jane Storey seems to be eating my lunch.”

She gave a little wave as she went off to call Bebe. She’d already picked up the phone when she changed her mind, deciding to pay a visit instead.

Bebe answered the door in shorts and a T-shirt, her eyes red from crying. “Oh, Skip. Come on in.”

Once again, Skip was led to the denlike room in the back. She wasted no time. “Bebe, you should have told me about LaBarre.”

“Why the hell would that be any of your business?” She spoke petulantly, half like an angry teenager, half like a city official who was used to wielding power.

Perhaps, Skip thought, there wasn’t much difference. “I’d say a husband in Russell’s shoes would have a damn good reason for disappearing.”

“But … he didn’t know.”

“Oh, really? What makes you think that?”

Skip watched her wrestle with the question. He could certainly have hired a private detective.

Bebe said, “Russell would have said something.”

Perhaps he had, in a loud and angry voice, and one thing had led to another, the whole sorry scene ending with Bebe braining him and disposing of the body.

Skip wasn’t about to drag a popular city councilwoman over to the police station to discuss the idea. At least not yet. Perhaps, she thought, it would be more productive to talk to LaBarre.

He lived out by the lake, in one of the custom-tailored mansions New Orleans’ nouveau riche prefer to the stately, elegant, historic, and far less comfortable homes of Uptown and the French Quarter.

Skip had certainly not expected him to answer the door himself, but he did, in shorts, as Bebe had, and he looked equally distraught. But he was holding up the masculine side to the extent that he wasn’t crying.

“What can I do for you?” He didn’t ask her in.

“I’m investigating the disappearance of Russell Fortier, and I need to talk to you.”

He kept his cool, but his lips set in a hard line. “Okay.”

“I wonder how long you and Mrs. Fortier have been seeing each other.”

“What does that have to do with the price of tea?” A little muscle jumped at the corner of his eye. His jaw looked so tight she’d need a church key to pry it open.

Skip thought she heard something in the distance, some commotion, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I know this is hard for you, Mr. LaBarre, but it’ll be better for everyone if you’ll just be direct and come to the point, so I can go away and leave you alone.”

Suddenly there was a keening female scream, followed by, “Oh, God, oh, God, look what she’s gone and done.”

LaBarre turned and ran, evidently forgetting Skip, who stood on the stoop for a startled moment, feeling like an idiot.

The female voice said, “Oh, God, what am I going to do?” and Skip pounded up the stairs.

LaBarre shouted, “Call 911, goddammit. Get some help.”

A child squealed, “Daddy? Daddy, what’s wrong?”

Skip heard LaBarre say, “Everything’s okay. Everything’s fine. Just go to your room.”

“What’s wrong with Mommy?”

“Go to your room!” LaBarre yelled, and the child’s sobs joined the general cacophony.

When Skip reached the second floor, the child was gone, apparently having obeyed orders. In a bedroom at the end of a carpeted hall, LaBarre was bending over a woman lying on a bed and covered in blood. “Sharon! Sharon, what did you do?”

The woman was crying, not unconscious, and as Skip stepped closer, she saw that the blood came from her hands or wrists. Either a botched suicide attempt or a bit of drama, depending on how severe the wounds were.

“Let me help,” she said, and as LaBarre turned around, she couldn’t mistake the look of gratitude on his face.

The woman on the bed said, “You bastard!” and Skip could see she was in no danger of dying.

“Get some towels,” she said to LaBarre, and she said to the woman, “Police. Let me see your hands.”

Actually, they were hardly bleeding at all. But a little blood went a long way, and the woman—undoubtedly Mrs. LaBarre—had made a fine mess.

As she held out her wrists to Skip, she stared at them and said, “I don’t know what I was doing.”

“Did you do this yourself?” It seemed obvious, but she had to ask.

The woman nodded, terror starting in her eyes. What she was afraid of, Skip didn’t know. Herself, possibly.

LaBarre returned with the towels, which Skip took from him and folded. She pressed one to each of the woman’s wrists. “Here. Hold these in place,” she said to LaBarre. “She’s going to have to be stitched.”

The woman said, “Oh, shit, is this going to get in the paper, too?” and Skip knew what she meant.

Skip said, “I’ll go see what’s going on with 911.”

LaBarre said, “Can you cancel it? I can drive her to the doctor.”

Skip shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

She went to find the woman who’d called 911—the maid, probably. The woman was moving her lips, evidently praying. She nodded at Skip. “They on the way.”

“Mrs. LaBarre’s okay. Could you see about the child?”

The black woman looked her in the eye: “No’m. She ain’t okay. Gon’ be a long time before she okay.” She went off shaking her head. “Melissa probably under the bed again.”

Skip returned to the bedroom. LaBarre was still sitting there, applying pressure to his wife’s wrists. Mrs. LaBarre was sitting up with her eyes closed, tears escaping from beneath the lids.

“They’re on the way. Everything all right?”

Mrs. LaBarre said, “Everything will never be all right.”

“Do you need someone to stay with you? Are you afraid of your husband?”

The woman pointed her chin toward the ceiling as if she could stop her tears by defying gravity. “No, I’m not afraid of my husband. Go.”

LaBarre shot Skip a helpless, pitiful look, as if an animal were dying in his arms. Skip said, “I’m sorry. I can’t go yet. I’m going to have to make a report on this.”

She would very much have liked to go—to have let LaBarre drive his wife to the hospital and slipped quietly out. But demons had been released and there was no getting them back in their box.

She was so damn mad at Jane Storey she felt like behaving like some cowboy in a 1940s movie—just going over and stomping her for causing trouble on the range. But such an action would have been not only highly unprofessional but quite unladylike, as Dee-Dee might have put it.

Anyway, in some sense Jane was just doing her job—not the way Skip thought it ought to be done, but people criticized the police, too.

The real perp had to be the tipster. How else could Jane have known about Bebe and LaBarre?

Whole worlds were starting to fall apart. And to what end? She couldn’t banish the image of Mrs. LaBarre looking up at the ceiling, her husband holding towels to her injured wrists, the shards of their marriage almost visible around them.

If Russell were doing the damage, it might make some sort of twisted sense, but so far, no one had indicated any instability, or even oddity on his part. Perhaps, she thought, she’d try again to talk to Edward Favret.

***

She caught him about to go to lunch, but this time she wasn’t about to leave the office till he’d talked. She sat herself down and ignored his frequent glances at his watch, his anxious looks at the door. She didn’t like Favret, and this gave her a certain perverse pleasure—a sort of validation of her prejudice against white male privilege.

No, that wasn’t it.

Somebody had to be white, male, and privileged. Some men carried it off just fine. It was smug, self-satisfied white male privilege that rubbed her the wrong way.

She said, taking her time, “I understand you’re Mrs. Fortier’s cousin.”

He smiled, trying to look pleasant. “That I am.”

“Have you heard from Russell, by any chance?”

“Why, no.” He seemed taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

“You must have known him at least as long as he’s been married.”

“Oh, much longer than that. We went to Holy Name together, and then Jesuit. But then he went off to Harvard and I went to Tulane.”

“Not Loyola?” That was often the university of choice after Jesuit.

“We were rebels.” He shook his head, smiling in a way that she couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps it was the smile of an older and wiser man, at his own youthful indiscretions. “I introduced him and Bebe—in fact, I was their best man.”

“And you’ve remained good friends?”

He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“You sound as if you’re not sure.”

He shrugged. “People grow apart.”

“Bebe says the two of you go hunting and sailing together. And play golf.”

“Yes. Or the four of us do—Russell and I go with Douglas and Beau. Maybe we’ve known each other so long we just don’t have much to say anymore.”

She sensed something that might be hostility, or might be hurt feelings. She said, “There’s been a change in your relationship.”

“We used to be…pals.” He spoke the last word contemptuously. “Still own a boat together, matter of fact.” He paused, bringing himself back to the present. “There’s been a change in Russell. Ever since that sailing accident.”

“I think Bebe mentioned it. As I recall, it was a few days before he was rescued.”

“He spent five days alone in a capsized boat. The guy’s a hero.”

“How did it change him?”

He opened his hands in the wit’s-end gesture. “I don’t know; it just did.”

She was silent, hoping he’d blather on to fill the void.

“He just got kind of … serious.”

“Withdrawn?” Skip asked, and was instantly sorry—she was probably feeding him false information.

“I guess so. I don’t know, maybe it broke his spirit. He just hasn’t been the old Russell lately.”

“What do you think has happened to him?”

“How would I know?” He sounded openly hostile.

“He must leave a big hole in the company.”

Favret nodded, evidently trying to close the subject.

“You know, you just don’t seem worried about him.”

What had been smoldering hostility flashed into anger. “What do you know about whether I’m worried about him? You don’t see me pacing at night, grabbing Tylenol PMs with one hand and Rolaids with the other—nobody sees that but my wife. You want to talk to her? Sure, I’m worried about him. We’re all worried about him.”

Skip smiled. “Tell me something—that boat in its slip?”