82 Desire

your way to get your car?”
    Skip considered. “Have you had a ransom demand?”
    “Oh, no. And we don’t have any money, anyway. My husband works for an oil company—neither of us has family money.”
    “Can you think of any other reason to kidnap him? “
    “What other reason could there be?”
    “I don’t know. Do you?”
    “I really can’t think of any.” Her puzzlement showed in her face—but then she’d forged her acting skills in the public forum.
    “Does he have any enemies?”
    Fortier thought a minute. “Enemies? I’m the one with enemies—but I don’t think you’d kidnap someone’s husband because you don’t have a stop sign on your block.”
    Skip and Abasolo exchanged a glance. Stranger things had happened—just that morning a woman had cooked a cat.
    “Can you think of any enemies you have who might kidnap him?”
    Again she considered. “No. No, I really can’t.”
    “I’m sorry to ask this, but I’m sure you’ll understand. Have you and your husband been getting along?”
    Fortier looked surprised. “Yes, of course. We never exchange a cross word.”
    “I don’t know how to say this without seeming cruel…”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Could he simply have left you?”
    “Out of the clear blue? Without a word? Who would do a thing like that? Why wouldn’t he just say, ‘Honey, let’s hang it up’? Russell’s in business, Officer Langdon. He’s a pretty direct man.”
    “Well, but suppose he did? Where would he go?”
    “Don’t you think you’re being a little insulting?”
    Abasolo gave her a look that said: Kid gloves, Langdon .
    Skip said, “I’m sorry I have to ask these questions, but I’m sure you understand it’s my job. We want to find him for you as quietly as possible. The more information we can get from you, the easier it’s going to be to keep it quiet.”
    The councilwoman sat up straighter, one professional dealing with another. She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, but she said, “I’m the one who should apologize. It’s just that this is so upsetting.” Her chin trembled.
    Skip waited, letting her regain her composure.
    Finally, Bebe said, “He works for United Oil Company, where he’s a vice president. He hasn’t missed a day in years. He’s not the sort who’d just take off.”
    Oh, yeah? Skip thought. But then again, New Orleans was a dangerous city. He could have been mugged or kidnapped. She said, “Was there anything about the car that indicated he’d been there?”
    “No, it was still locked. You can go look if you like.”
    “I will. Do you have a photograph of him?”
    Bebe looked momentarily startled. “Sure,” she said, and opened a drawer from which she plucked an envelope of snapshots. As she leafed through them, Skip asked for a few essentials—Russell’s full name and date of birth, the names of his family in North Carolina, and his Social Security number. Bebe supplied the first three, handed over a photo, and excused herself to look up the Social Security number.
    Skip and Abasolo were standing when she returned. “For now,” Skip said, “I think the best course is to do some preliminary investigating and get back to you if we need to. How would that be?”
    Fortier looked as if she’d gotten a negative biopsy report. “That would be wonderful.”
    “Okay. Let’s stay in touch. Here’s my card.” She wrote her pager number on the back.
    Skip and Abasolo walked to the car without a word.
    “See?” he said finally. “You’re a great little VNL. I knew you could do it.”
    “My jaws hurt from clamping them shut.”
    She spent the next two hours on the phone calling hospitals, the morgue, and the relatives in North Carolina. Then she took a ride to the airport with a crime lab crew and processed the car, though dusting for prints seemed excessive at this point.
    Still, this was a heater case.
    She drove the car back to the Fortier house herself. Then she called all the airlines that flew out of New Orleans. No one had a record of a Russell Fortier on an outbound flight in the last twenty-four hours.
    Bebe called in the late afternoon to see if Skip had any news. No ransom demand had arrived.
    Despite all the talk about discretion, it was only the next morning when Skip got her first media call. “Hey, Skip. It’s your old friend Jane Storey.”
    “Janie. How’s the wild world of television journalism?”
    “Too wild for me. Couldn’t stand that superficial shit. I’m back at the Picayune