82 Desire

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