82 Desire

machinations.
    She had the feeling of walking in quicksand—she really had no idea where solid ground might be, after a great snowball of a weekend that had led, so far, to nothing.
    Immediately after her Saturday afternoon talk with Talba, which had seemed so productive at the time, she’d made a beeline for the offices of United Oil, which, as she’d hoped, were populated mostly with security staff and the random weekend warrior.
    A few cover-the-butt calls, a little huffing and puffing on the part of executives reached by phone, and she was in Russell Fortier’s computer—and without even mentioning the murder case. She pinned the whole mission on Fortier’s disappearance.
    The computer, however, proved to harbor neither a file called “Skinacat,” nor any file containing either “skin” or “cat” in its name. Someone had undoubtedly been there before her.
    Frustrated, she finally called Wilson, the Third’s own computer nerd, to see if he had any tips, and nothing would do but he had to come down and join her and rifle through electronic files himself. And still no “Skinacat”—nor, for that matter, anything else of interest.
    She and Wilson took a pretty thorough spin, to no avail, through Fortier’s computer, finding he didn’t even have a calendar program. Then she had a look through his desk drawers and checked out his calendar—the old-fashioned kind that sat on his desk. He had dates for this week, the following week, and the one after. There was nothing at all to indicate he’d been planning a change of scenery.
    She began to look carefully at the names, then to thumb backward for repeats. Cindy Lou’s was absent, anyway. Almost all names were written out—there were no coy initials and very few women’s names.
    Finally she left, with his calendar, his Rolodex, and Talba’s bug in a plastic bag.
    Next had come the odd tip about the poetry reading, and on Sunday, Talba’s performance, with its assembled cast of characters.
    And then the weekend was over and she was up to her knees in quicksand.
    It was time for another talk with Bebe.
    She found the councilwoman in neat black slacks and a red silk blouse. Bebe looked as if she’d lost weight; her cheeks were a little sunken, her eyes seemed to turn down at the corners. The haunted look, Skip thought.
    She said, “How are you holding up?”
    Bebe put a hand to her mouth, and Skip could see that the hand held a tissue. Bebe bit her fingers, trying not to cry. “My daughter’s here. That helps a little.”
    “No word from anyone? Not Russell, not anyone with information?”
    Bebe shook her head.
    “Do you know a man named Gene Allred?”
    She looked puzzled. “Allred? I know the name, but I don’t know why.”
    “He was a private detective.”
    “The murdered man! Of course. I read about him.”
    “Did you know him?”
    “I never heard of him before yesterday. Why?”
    “There could be a connection to Russell’s disappearance.”
    “How is that possible?”
    “Someone seems to have hired him to investigate your husband.” She raised a hand to serve as a wall against the inevitable questions. “Does the phrase ‘Skinacat’ mean anything to you?”
    The other woman was shaking her head, looking as if Skip had lost her mind. “No. Nothing.”
    “Okay, let’s move on to a difficult subject.”
    Bebe gave Skip a cool, direct glance. “Women.”
    Skip nodded.
    The councilwoman shook her head again. “I don’t think so. I’ve thought long and hard about it. Russell’s just too straitlaced. He’d be too guilty.”
    “He’s straitlaced. Okay, there’s something I didn’t know. Talk to me about him. Help me form a picture of this man I’m looking for.”
    “Well …” She shrugged. “He’s a great husband and family man. He’s almost dull—goes to work, plays golf, sails. Church on Sunday; Friday lunch at Galatoire’s. One martini a night.”
    Skip raised an eyebrow. “You find him dull?”
    “Dull? Why do you ask?”
    “I thought you just said so.”
    “Oh, no. I just meant his stats. He’s very interesting to talk to.”
    “What does he like to talk about?”
    “Oh … uh … city government. What’s going on. He gives me advice about my job—we talk about that a lot. And our friends. We gossip.”
    “Who would you say are his best male friends?”
    “Douglas Seaberry and Beau Cavignac, I guess. Beau’s probably his best friend. He’s going crazy right now—almost crazier than