82 Desire (21 page)

Skip shook her head and said, “Mmmph,” to show her sympathy.

He leaned toward her, tapping his forefinger on her frog mat. “Now, here’s where it gets good. United Oil bought up our lease and drilled a great big, bodacious new well. Brand-new well. I should have known there was something funny about their offer—big oil companies can’t afford to operate mature fields. It just doesn’t pay ’em. So they already had information there was oil there.”

“How could they possibly know that?”

“Something called Three-D seismic profiling. You know about that? The offer came about the time the equipment was just becoming available—the rest of us were hardly even aware of it.” He leaned back, his wad shot. “So, what do you think of that, young lady? You’re a detective. Are those two things connected?”

Skip hated it when people asked her things like that. She settled for a shrug, with palms turned up. “Do you remember who you dealt with at United?”

“Sure. Man named Beau Cavignac. Nice little fellow. I liked him a lot.”

Bingo
, she thought.
Wonder what’s in Beau’s computer?

“Anyone else?” she said.

“No. Just Beau.”

“I’m going to ask you once more—did you have any connection with Russell Fortier?”

“Well, maybe you could say I did. He refused to take about seventeen of my calls.”

She smiled and stood. “I’ll get out of your hair, Mr. Newman. That was a very interesting story.”

“Anything useful in it?”

“Well, you never know.”

As she drove back to the city, digesting the interview, it occurred to her that the old tyrant had been right to tell her everything. Though the one name was the key she needed to proceed, having the whole family’s life laid bare like that gave an outline of what United might have been up to. Cavignac evidently had something to hide. Maybe Russell Fortier did, too—the same thing.

All she needed was an expert. And Wilson was always a pleasure to work with.

He was a man evidently sent to Earth to improve the image of nerds. He was young, buff, tall, with neat brown hair and green eyes—frankly, more or less a hunk. Didn’t wear glasses, didn’t even have a goatee.

Skip told him the problem. “Uh-uh,” he said. “No way, no how. If it’s encrypted, you gotta have cooperation—the days of codebreaker software are pretty much over. People use gibberish phrases for encryption keys. Unless it’s really amateurish, I couldn’t break it, not that I’m that great, but I wouldn’t even know who to send you to.”

“So when you say cooperation, you mean within the company?”

“Yeah, probably. From somebody who knows the code—and that could be an outside consultant, but if you ask who it is…” he shrugged “… you’ve already alerted them. They could just erase anything incriminating.”

Skip said, “Damn. So I better go over there with a court order.”

“Looks kind of that way.”

She glanced at her watch—four o’clock. She could just make it. She had to get the order (for Russell’s computer)—plus a search warrant for Beau’s—and make a United-assisted sweep before she could properly question Beau.

If she found what she thought was there, she was very close to a motive for Allred’s murder. A lot was riding on this.

And yet nothing came of it. Absolutely nothing. She got both the order and the warrant, secured the cooperation of United Oil through its agent, Douglas Seaberry, and with Wilson’s help, searched both Russell’s and Beau’s workstations, and failed to find a thing.

No Marion Newman. No “Skinacat.” Nothing at all incriminating, enlightening, or interesting in any way. Either she was barking up the wrong tree or they were onto her. Whoever “they” were.

Twenty

SKIP WAS A wreck when she got home, in the mood to put up her feet and watch a movie, if she could get Steve to go down to Tower Video and get one. She was utterly unprepared for a courtyard confrontation. But as she was coming up the walkway from the street to her slave quarters, she heard Sheila shouting, “You are going to get fried!”

Napoleon barked from inside the house, and Kenny answered, “Oh, come on. Everybody’s cool. They worship on the altar of cool. Nobody’s going to give me any shit.”

Skip had to smile. Kenny was a perfect child in front of adults. She didn’t even know he knew the word “shit.” She rounded the corner to see Sheila in amazed contemplation of a kid about her brother’s age and size, wearing clown-legged shorts, a black T-shirt with the name of God knew what devil-rock band on it, and a shaved head—evidently a friend of Kenny’s.

Sheila turned to her in horror, as if she’d been caught shoplifting. “Aunt Skip!”

The boy turned, too, and grinned. “Hi, Auntie.”

She liked being called “Auntie”; they never did it unless something was up. “Kenny Ritter,” she said.

“You recognized me.”

She was fighting for words, any words. She had heard him say they were cool around here, and cool she must try to be. Because she’d be the only one.

Whoever had thought up the term “ear-to-ear” must have at some point come into contact with a fourteen-year-old bald kid. Kenny’s small white face was nearly split in two by metal-banded teeth, teeth that alone would have wrecked the image had not Kenny’s whole persona got to that first. Instead of his usual ankh, he wore a jaunty rhinestone in his ear, which glinted merrily in the light as if it were going to a party, instead of the domestic free-for-all that was about to follow.

He was a skinny kid, slight and sweet-faced. He looked ridiculous in the outfit, even with hair. Bald, he looked preposterous. Grinning, he looked like a newborn with braces. But he was evidently so damn pleased with himself, the last thing Skip could bear to do was burst his balloon. Anyhow, there’d be plenty of time for that.

She finally said, “Quite the fashion statement, sir,” and leaned down to pet Angel, who’d been trying, without success, to get her attention.

His grin got wider, as he noticed she didn’t start shouting or anything. “You like it?”

The question she’d been dreading. She settled on, “I’m trying to decide.”

“At least you don’t hate it. Do you?”

“Well… I kind of have to think this through.”

The grin finally faded. “You don’t like it.”

Napoleon began barking again, and Angel’s tail started to wag. The gate clanged and footsteps sounded on the walkway. They all waited for someone else to fill the void. Steve’s voice came round the corner. “Hey, there. I must be in heaven. It’s the Archangel Angel. Hey, Angel. Hey, girl.” He was still looking down at the dog as he came into the courtyard. When his head came up, he did a double take. “Whoa. Everybody’s here.”

And then, Kenny’s cueball finally registering, he said, “Heyyyy. Mr. Clean,” and moved forward to give the boy a manly scalp brushing.

Kenny grabbed both of Steve’s forearms. “No fair. No noogies. No fair.”

“Noogie! Hey, you want a noogie, I’ll give you a noogie.”

Skip breathed a sigh of relief. Roughhousing was good—it postponed things.

Sheila took advantage of the moment to close in on Skip. She wasn’t exactly older than her sixteen and a half years, but she was certainly at the height of her teenage powers. Though they weren’t related by blood, in some ways, she and Skip were built alike. Skip was six feet tall, Sheila was five-ten; Skip had a tendency to overweight, Sheila to overripeness. But despite her height, Skip had never been spectacular in the boob department, while Sheila sported a pair of Aqua-Lungs.

The girl’s hair and eyes were dark, but her skin was a veritable sunrise of color, tawny and pink and glowing. Her mouth was huge. And unlike many girls her age, she seemed perfectly aware of the power of her sexuality. She was also, by nature, more aggressive than otherwise, while Kenny tended toward passivity—or at least an uncommon, and to Skip, quite winning, gentleness.

If Kenny wasn’t awed enough by Sheila in the way any younger boy would be by an older, taller, more sexually advanced sister, he should have been terrified by the way she pushed the older-sibling routine. She said to Skip, “Have you ever seen anything so utterly stupid and childish in your whole life?”

Skip thought,
It’s remarks like this that put the challenge in being a near-parent.
“Fashion’s fickle,” she said.

“That’s not fashion, that’s retarded.”

Skip said, “Where’s Uncle Jimmy?” hoping against hope that he’d flown off to see the pyramids.

“He and Layne went to Langenstein’s. They’re shopping together now.” Sheila rolled her eyes.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“And then they cook together. Pretty soon they’re going to be wearing matching ruffly aprons.”

Skip bristled. Jimmy Dee had gone through nine or ten different kinds of hell for these kids, inherited when his sister died a few years ago. Kenny had always been a pleaser, but Sheila was like the little girl with the curl—she’d quite often been horrid. Not lately, though, and Skip wasn’t up for any more acting out. But she held herself in check. “Do I detect a tiny bit of homophobia on the home front?”

Sheila looked horrified. “Homophobia! What’s that got to do with anything?”

“ ‘Ruffly aprons’? What’s that about?”

“They’re just so damn cute, that’s all.” She turned and flounced into the house, as well as one can flounce in a denim miniskirt. As she opened the door, Skip heard the domestic clatter of Dee-Dee and Layne putting away groceries.

“Hey, gorgeous,” one of them said.

“Oh, hey, Layne.” Skip could imagine Sheila giving him a half-contemptuous glance as she passed.

Dee-Dee said, “What’s wrong with her?”

“Hormones, I guess. Where’s Angel, I wonder?” Layne stepped out to the courtyard.

Kenny turned instantly from Steve. “Hey, Layne—like my hairdo?” He put one hand on his hip and the other on the side of his face, primping.

Layne stood riveted, eyes round and naked as checkers. He opened his mouth and closed it again, doubtless trying to think of a way to protect Dee-Dee from the spectacle.

Dee-Dee chose that moment to follow him outside. His comment was unequivocal and loud. “Aaaaaaaagggggghhhh.” But seeing Kenny’s sweet face crumple in misery, he tried to inject some humor: “Help! The Martians have landed!”

Kenny smiled again, a little uncertainly, but clinging to the desperate hope that approval would after all be forthcoming.

Sheila chose that moment to rejoin the group, a malicious little smile on her face. “Don’t you just love it, Uncle Jimmy?”

Skip saw Dee-Dee marshalling his resources. “I’m getting there. I’m getting there.”

Kenny was starting to catch on that his sartorial experiment wasn’t a success. “Everybody hates it!” He started to go in the house, about to go through the whole teenage door-slamming routine, but Layne caught him. “Hey, sport. Hold it. It’s cool. I’m not kidding, it’s really … um … cool. Really. It just kind of takes you by surprise, that’s all.”

Kenny wriggled away. “You’re lyin’,” and he pushed past him into the house.

Sheila slunk away behind him, chastened a bit.

Steve said, “I need a beer.”

“We were, uh, going to barbecue in the courtyard,” Dee-Dee began. “Layne’s making his famous potato salad and we were going to have this jolly old time…”

“Are you asking us to join you?” Steve asked. “We accept. Looks like Sheila and Kenny won’t be around—somebody has to eat that chicken.”

“Oh, dinner’s an hour away. They’ll have time to cool down.”

Steve went to shower off after a hard day of home improvement, and Layne went to construct the famous salad. Dee-Dee sat dejectedly in one of the green-painted chairs. “Why, Minerva? Why, why, why did he feel the need to do that?”

Skip said, “Are you speaking to me or invoking the goddess of wisdom?”

“Both, my tiny trifle. As you are the living embodiment of wisdom—or at least the closest thing in this courtyard—please tell me what’s wrong with that boy.”

“Same as ever, Dee-Dee. He’s insecure.”

“Oh, God—I mean Goddess—when will it ever end? What does it take to get a kid secure?”

“Well, I think Sheila’s coming into her own. Speaking of goddesses.”

“Oh, shit. Forget it in that case.’”

Steve came out in fresh shorts and T-shirt, sipping the aforementioned beer. He spoke thoughtfully. “First the earring and now this. Something’s going on with that kid.”

Dee-Dee said, “Wonder if he’s gay.”

Sheila came out with a plate of chicken, which she began forking onto the grill. “He’s not gay. Gay people always think everyone else is gay.”

“Is that so, Missy-Wissy? Tell you who’s not gay—all those hunks that hang around
your
young patootie. I don’t think for a millisecond they’re gay.”

“Oh, Uncle Jimmy, you’re so protective.” Her voice was whiny and irritated.

“Oh, Niece Sheila, I can’t do anything right. What is the problem around here?”

All of a sudden she was crying. “You just don’t know what it’s like to live with two randy old coots!” Once again she did her mini-flounce.

Layne came out. “Old? Who’s she calling old?” He was fifteen years younger than Dee-Dee.

“And randy! After we’ve been so discreet. Separate bedrooms and everything.”

“Hold it. Hold it a minute,” said Steve. “I’ve got an idea. I’m going to spend some time with Kenny and see what I can find out.” He stood up. “Kenny? Hey, Kenny! I’m going to take Napoleon for a walk—want to bring Angel?”

***

Talba was pissed as hell at the damn cop, and pissed at Darryl Boucree, who had to be the one who dropped the dime on her. Fuck him and fuck her, in that order.

She called Lamar, intending to ask him over for dinner.

“Hey, Lamar. What are you doing?”

“Baronessa. Gettin’ ready for a date. Why?”

Was she hearing right? Ahh… she realized what must have happened. So this was his cute way of confronting her. “No reason,” she said, and hung up. “Mama?” she called. “Mama, did Lamar call here last night?”

“Sho’ did. I tol’ him you was out on a date.”

Well, that was that, then—she and Lamar were a former item. Lamar was a petty bastard—she’d be lucky if he didn’t come over and cut up her underwear or something.

Damn. She’d been hoping to bounce her current dilemma off someone. Couldn’t be Lamar. Couldn’t be Darryl. Even if he called, he couldn’t be trusted. And it certainly wasn’t going to be her mama.

Damn
, she thought again.
What am I going to do? Go back to work? Guess I have to, to keep them from getting suspicious. And anyway, I might want a job there sometime. I’ve got to keep in good with Robert Tyson. Maybe I could still get him to show me the back door to that encryption program.

But, no. The damn cop would probably have been in the computer by now. No way that file was going to be there.
But it might.
She just couldn’t shake that thought.

But so what? Even if I got it, I’d still have to turn it over to the cops, and I could hardly justify selling it to the client as well.

The client who might also be the murderer.

Damn, she was mad at that cop. She did feel bad about failing to give up Newman’s name—she should have, no two ways about it—but the damn cop didn’t have to be so nasty about it. Who
was
the bitch, anyway? Well, easy enough—Talba had about a dozen ways to access the
Times-Picayune’s
database.

Idly, her hands began playing over the keys. About a million references came spewing out at her.

Well, look at this. The bitch is somebody—and somebody I know, too.

Everybody knew about the crazy policewoman who’d twice had the misfortune to mess with Errol Jacomine—just about the most dangerous man in the country right now.

I’d better be a little more careful
, Talba thought.
This bitch is tough.

Hey, hey, hey, look at this! The girl’s father’s a pill man. Dr. Richard Langdon—hey, she was a debutante. Queen of a carnival ball? You’ve got to be kidding. How’s that possible?

When she had read it all, Talba found she had a new respect for the complicated creature who’d so unceremoniously jerked her around this afternoon. There’d probably been hell to pay when she became a cop. Miz Clara was probably nothing compared to Miz Lizzie (if that was Elizabeth Langdon’s nickname).

Just for fun, Talba checked out the parents. Uh-huh, there it was. Lizzie was a volunteer queen—if it was a museum, she worked for it; if a disease, against it.

Omigod. Look at this.
Not only was Dick a pill man, he was a gynecologist. What if he were her pill man? The doctor who named her? Their ages were about right.

She riffled through the clips, but couldn’t find a thing about his residency or internship. She tapped into another database, a local doctors’ directory. Aha, there it was. Charity Hospital. It didn’t give a specific date, but the time had to be about right. Had to be.

She started fantasizing about it—about the moment when she could get into Charity’s computer. What would she do? Look up her mother’s records? There was a doctor on her birth certificate, but her mother said he wasn’t the one. It was another one, a young cute one who came around in the mornings, and seemed so nice.

Morning rounds, Corey had told her—a resident or intern. To complicate matters, he could have been either at LSU or Tulane—it would have to be hospital, not med school, records. And who knew, these many years later, if they even had records of who did which rotation when? She began to get dizzy, the way she always did when she felt overwhelmed.

Okay, stop now. Stop, Talba, just stop. Just breathe for a minute.

But no one was going to let her breathe. She just wasn’t going to get to do that. Her damn phone was screaming at her.

“Hello,” she said, in the tone of someone expecting a bill collector.

“This is the man who’s going to give you seven hundred and fifty dollars. Can’t you be a little nicer?”