82 Desire

features.
    Skip nodded. “Good idea.”
    He made the call, and as they waited for the man from Security, Seaberry suddenly snapped his fingers. “Yes. Here on this floor.”
    Skip raised an eyebrow.
    “Edward got his wallet stolen.” He picked up his phone and punched in an extension number.
    Skip said, “Edward Favret?”
    He nodded and spoke into the phone. “Edward? Detective Langdon’s here. Can you come in for a minute?”
    Favret was there in thirty seconds, Bill, the security man, in forty-five.
    Skip explained what she wanted. Bill shook his head, though what he said was, “Sure. There’s usually one or two a month. You tell people, but they just don’t listen.”
    “Can you get me a list of the people it’s happened to in the last couple of months?”
    “Sure.” He pointed to Favret. “There’s one of them right there.” He left to check his records.
    “So I hear. What happened, Mr. Favret?”
    Favret looked sheepish. “Well, you heard the man. Some people don’t listen. I left my wallet in my coat and hung it on a rack in my office—as usual, I might add. I’ve been doing it for years. I guess by the law of averages, it had to happen.”
    “How long ago was this?”
    He made a face, thinking. “I don’t know. Sometime in the last month.”
    “Did you file a police report?”
    “No. What for?”
    There were reasons, but Skip didn’t think it was a serious question. She shrugged. “What did you lose?”
    “Oh, nothing much. I had to go to the bank anyhow.”
    “Driver’s license? Credit cards?”
    He nodded. “And one check. That’s the last time I leave a check in my wallet.”
    “Why? Did someone try to use it?”
    “No. Not yet.”
    “The credit cards?”
    “No.”
    She stood. “Okay, thank you. You, too, Mr. Seaberry.”
    Seaberry seemed out of sorts. “Do you mind telling us what that was about?”
    “I’m not sure yet.”
    He smiled grimly. “You sound like Joe Friday.”
    She left to get the list of victims from Bill. As it turned out, there were only two names on it besides Favret’s, one a woman’s, one a man’s. She asked about the man: “Who’s Percy Vickery?”
    “He’s one of the mail room guys.”
    “What does he look like?”
    “Fiftyish. Stocky build. Black as midnight.” His eyes narrowed, awaiting her reaction.
    She only nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
    She left, feeling exhilarated. She looked at her watch. A good day’s work, and I’m not even there yet.
    There was plenty of grunt work to do, but for once she couldn’t wait. Superficially, Edward Favret matched the description of Russell Fortier. A picture of one might well pass for a picture of the other.
    She had it nailed by ten A.M .—an Edward Favret had taken a Southwest flight from New Orleans to Fort Lauderdale the afternoon Russell disappeared, approximately twenty minutes after he and Bebe claimed their luggage.
    Why Fort Lauderdale? she wondered. Probably because the flight was convenient. He could be anywhere.
    Without much hope, she dialed Fort Lauderdale information, and got nothing. Well, okay, that she expected.
    What was in Fort Lauderdale, anyway? It was near Miami—that could mean drugs.
    Or maybe his Aunt Sara Sue lives there. It could mean anything.
    She called Bebe. “Does Russell have any connection with Fort Lauderdale?”
    “Fort Lauderdale? Why do you ask?” That question again. Why did everyone have to ask it?
    “Would he have any reason for going there?”
    “Skip! You know something. You’ve found something out.”
    “Well, not really. Let’s just say I’m following up a lead. From the sound of your voice, it seems like he does have a connection.”
    “It’s just that we used to go there a lot to charter boats.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “It’s a jumping-off place to the Bahamas, and it’s—you know—kind of a sailing center. I guess the sailing center in the South. The Bahamas?” she said, as if to herself. “Could he have gone there?”
    Skip’s palms began to sweat. She was close. She could feel it. But the department wasn’t about to spring for a trip to Florida to run down a missing person who was probably just having a midlife crisis. If she could work up a little enthusiasm for him as a murder suspect, that might improve matters; but she couldn’t see it.
    She went back to the office and reviewed the case and thought about what to do next. It seemed to her there was only one option. She wondered if Steve had his cell phone turned on.