82 Desire

shit. I’ll call you.” And she left.
    Jane felt let down. She sat there in the lobby for a few minutes, more or less gazing into space. She felt more than let down—she was depressed.
    Get a grip , she told herself. Come on. What do you want here?
    The answer came fast and brought with it a rush of energy:
    To get out of that asshole’s control.
    She found the phone booths and looked up Douglas Seaberry and Edward Favret. They were both listed, addresses and all. A little flush of delight warmed her: Come to Mama, little chickens.
    She’d spoken to Seaberry before, in connection with Russell’s disappearance. She tried him first, and was rewarded with a male voice on the line.
    “May I speak to Danny Seaberry, please?”
    “This is Douglas Seaberry. You must have the wrong number.”
    “Oh, gosh. Sorry.” Nothing should be that easy. Let’s try Favret.
    But this time a woman answered and said her husband wasn’t in.
    Douglas Seaberry lived on Walnut, a gorgeous street near Audubon Park. A lovely place to visit. But on what pretext?
    A diabolical plan began to form in her mind. The tipster would be proud , she thought, to know what he inspired.
    The man came to the door himself, with all the commanding air of a big cheese, though at the moment he was dressed not for success but speed. He wore a white T-shirt and tiny, tiny royal blue running shorts, and he was all but running in place. Jane had a sense of contained energy, somewhat like that of a cat in a cage.
    “Douglas Seaberry?” she said, and took him in. The man was a miracle of engineering.
    “Yes,” he said. She almost mentioned how happy she was not to have caught him at the office, thus missing the spectacle of legs that would make a lesbian weep.
    But she caught herself, and said she was Jane Storey, on a story.
    He raised one eyebrow, giving an irresistibly asymmetrical look to a face that, under other conditions, might have caused her to hyperventilate.
    “It’s about Russell Fortier.”
    His demeanor was instantly grave, as if he expected the worst. “They’ve found him?” he said, and it was clear from his tone that he was really asking if they’d found his body.
    In spite of herself, she felt guilty. “No, I’m sorry to give you a start. So far as I know, they haven’t.” She decided to keep going. “I know you really care about him; that’s why I’m here.”
    For all she knew, Fortier and Seaberry were bitter enemies, but what was he going to do—deny it?
    He nodded, as if a reporter on the porch was a perfectly normal occurrence right before a nice jog, but she thought she saw his jaw work slightly before he said, “Won’t you come in?”
    “Thanks. I won’t take much of your time.”
    He led her into a living room of period perfection. Even Jane, on a reporter’s salary, knew that serious bucks had been spent here, on heavy draperies, eighteenth-century everything, magnificent antique rugs. She could see the dining room as well, with its gleaming table, silver candelabra, and more silver on the buffet. Seaberry caught her looking. “My wife and I collect silver.”
    “Lovely.”
    “What can I do for you, Ms. Storey?” He put his right foot on his left knee, in casual fashion, but it was also, to Jane’s way of thinking, incredibly sexy.
    As if on cue, any incipient fantasies were quickly nipped in the bud by a female voice: “Doug? Who is it?”
    She was already at the door, barefoot and wearing a bathing suit, wet hair dripping, though unmistakably colored a luscious and expensive blond. Her limbs were tan and toned, her body impossibly perfect. “Oh,” she said, in a hushed little voice, as if she’d caught Jane and her husband in bed.
    Seaberry said, “This is Jane Storey from the Times-Picayune . My wife, Megan.”
    Megan might look like a movie star, but she was never going to win an Academy Award. She was clearly a woman whose home had been invaded. “I just got out of the pool,” she said, in lieu of hello.
    Jane was at a bit of a loss. She thought of apologizing for her presence, but caught herself, thinking of The Baroness’s parakeet poem: I’m not going to be pushed around by this little bird.
    She smiled: “Nice swim?”
    Megan looked utterly amazed, as if she’d ordered Jane off the premises and she’d failed to obey.
    “Ms. Storey’s here about Russell,” Seaberry said.
    “Oh. What does she want to know? “
    Jane was starting to loathe this woman. She smiled again, putting so