82 Desire

really. But he’s my father.” She gave Skip a smile that might have been slightly guilty, said, “Nice meeting you,” and left the room.
    Skip turned back to Bebe, who was staring after the girl, heartbreak so obviously written on her face that Skip had to feel sorry for her.
    Bebe said, “Sit down.”
    Skip didn’t remind her of any of their previous conversations. Bebe had had time to think about things and might have a different take on them now. “I was thinking,” she said. “Who knew about you and LaBarre?”
    Bebe shrugged. “Nobody. Think about it. Who would I tell?”
    “Could someone have seen you? Someone who might have mentioned it to Russell?”
    “Of course not. We were always very discreet.”
    “Okay, let’s leave that. Would you mind giving this Rolodex a look”—she produced the one Bebe had given her—”and see if any of the names jogs something for you? Is there anyone who had a special relationship with Russell whom he might have confided in?”
    “Confided he was dumping me, you mean?”
    Skip tried to keep her voice even. “If that’s a possibility, yes. But frankly, I think there’s something else—something at work, perhaps.”
    “What do you mean by ‘something’?”
    “A secret of some sort.”
    “You mean criminal activity?”
    “I really don’t know. It could be. He might have known something about someone else.”
    Bebe drew in her breath, seeing what Skip was getting at. She shuffled through the cards while Skip thumbed through a magazine. Skip thought she heard sobs from another room, but it could have been her imagination.
    Finally, Bebe sighed and put the Rolodex aside. “I’m not getting anything.”
    “Okay. How about a phone bill? Let’s see if there’s a calling pattern.”
    Bebe looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. And then, having evidently translated, said, “Why not?” And left the room. She walked like someone with very little energy, barely picking her feet up.
    She came back with a sheaf of papers. “Here are a couple of months of Russell’s bills. He and I have separate phones.”
    Skip checked them. “There is a number.” She showed the other woman. “See? Lots of calls and long talks.”
    Bebe said, “Look at this. Fifty minutes. Seventy-four minutes… Russell hates to talk on the phone.”
    Skip said, “Any idea whose number it is?” She had already memorized it, just in case.
    “Sure.” Bebe sounded utterly amazed. “It’s Beau Cavignac’s. Why Beau, I wonder? He’s not… a confidant. At least, I wouldn’t think so.”
    Skip waited.
    “More like a sports buddy.”
    “Mind if I use your phone?” She wanted to avoid the chance of Bebe’s warning him again. “Mr. Cavignac? Skip Langdon.”
    He said, “Who?” but she couldn’t tell if his ignorance was real or feigned.
    “Detective Langdon. Can you meet me at the Third District in fifteen minutes?”
    “What’s going on?”
    “I’ll tell you when you get there.”
    “Look, I’ve really got a lot of work…”
    “Lunch will have to wait, Beau.” I wonder , she thought, if anyone calls him Beauzeau. He was a man it was hard to take seriously.
    She hung up. “Bebe, do me a favor and don’t call him this time.”
    She turned red. “That was a bad thing, before, huh? I’m sorry—I just didn’t think.”
    “It’s all right.” It was the way New Orleans was, and the way politicians were. This time, though, Bebe might not make a call—not if she was truly surprised Russell was spending so much time on the phone with Beau.
    And Skip was inclined to trust that. Bebe hadn’t balked at showing her the bill.
    As she left, Eugenie stepped into the hall, holding a cat to her face, cradling it against her cheek. She had on very brief denim shorts, and she was barefoot. Her toenails, Skip thought, were probably the only female ones in the whole neighborhood without polish on them.
    “Do you think you can find my dad?” she asked.
    Skip thought the girl was asking for assurance that her dad was still alive. She didn’t feel confident about giving it.
    But she smiled and nodded, thinking the nod wasn’t really a lie, it could be taken as good-bye. She said, “You take care of that kitty, now,” and it sounded so lame she blushed.
    ***
    Cavignac took half an hour to get to the station, not the fifteen minutes Skip had prescribed. Yet, when he arrived he had the air more of a man who’d been caught in traffic than a manipulator