82 Desire

do was an instant replay. If most people went home on time, it shouldn’t be a problem.
    And sure enough, it was the piece of cake she’d predicted. She sneaked back in, brought up the “Find” command, typed in one of the names, clicked the “Find Now” button, and kept doing it until she had nearly all the names—and all in a single file, called “Skinacat,” which she copied onto a disk.
    She sneaked a peek before she copied it, but it was about as sexy as a sock drawer—just names and numbers, as far as she could see.
    If it was something dishonest, or otherwise secret, it was odd, she thought, that Fortier had done nothing to hide it except give it a funny name. But on the other hand, she half expected that. It didn’t occur to the average office worker that his or her drive might be shared. This one wasn’t, but she could fix that. Easily.
    She knew from having spent a couple of weeks installing software that United’s network system was set up with multiple protocols. That meant that, with only a few clicks of the mouse, she could arrange to search Fortier’s workstation from her own anytime she wanted.
    She went into the control panel, and pretty soon read these kind and generous words: “I want to give others access to my files.” Ha! Four more clicks to “Access Type.” Triumphantly, she selected “Full.”
    That was all. Next time Allred wanted something, she could get it by nine-fifteen without leaving her desk.
    She caught the PI once again with his feet up and a glass in his hand. He didn’t even say hello—just nodded. “Let’s see what you got.”
    Talba popped the disk into her laptop and showed him. Unabashedly, he hollered, “Whoopee!”
    Talba made a face. She was about to lecture him on the merits of being cool when he turned to her and beamed. “You done good, girl. You done real good.” She didn’t have the heart after that.
    But she did say, “How’s all this going to help me find the Pill Man?”
    “You know what to do now, don’t you? Just put on your simple temp disguise, get the right job, and rifle the right computer.”
    To her surprise, she really thought she could do it. It might take a while, but she had forever. As it was, she’d waited twenty-two years, which was how long she’d been alive.
    “But come back,” Allred said. “Do some more work for me and I’ll teach you more secrets.”
    “When?”
    “I’ll call you.”
    ***
    Langdon brought her back to the present. “So what was on the disk?”
    “I told you. I don’t know. I wondered … when I saw the office was ransacked, I wondered if that was what the guy in the ski mask was looking for. I mean, with Fortier missing, and Gene dead—there’s got to be a connection.”
    “You don’t remember a thing on that disk? Not even one name?”
    “No. Nothing meant anything. Look, if I opened the phone book and picked out twenty names, do you think I’d remember a one of them in half an hour? Do you think you would?”
    “When was all this?”
    “A few days ago. I haven’t heard from Gene since.”
    “Who was the client?”
    “I don’t know. We never discussed it.”
    For some reason, that sounded more professional than the truth. Talba had begged to know the client’s name—to know what it was all about, this thing she’d worked on for so long.
    But Allred couldn’t be budged.

Six
    RAY BOUDREAUX WASN’T much on poetry, his knowledge beginning and ending somewhere in “Purple Cow” territory, but he was always up for something new. And not only that, he wanted to see The Baroness face-to-face.
    So here he was, sitting way the hell in the back at some hole-in-the-wall black-owned restaurant, looking around at a crowd that probably consisted mostly of the poet’s friends and family members. But his was by no means the only white face.
    The cop was there, for one thing—he knew her from watching Bebe. He hadn’t been sure she’d come, but here she was with a couple of teenage kids, and a man. Ray had left her a very simple message: “Sunday night—don’t miss the poet called The Baroness. You could learn a lot.”
    He’d left several of those messages.
    To his amazement, all the recipients had taken the bait.
    There were three poets on the program, and The Baroness was last. By the time they got to her, he was about ready to walk out. These poets were loud and they were dumb and they didn’t make any sense. None of that surprised him except the loud part—he hadn’t