82 Desire

had it right the first time.
    “No, I don’t—that’s what’s known as a flirtatious remark. What do you know?”
    “Well, I just think it’s kind of strange she works the same place Russell Fortier did.”
    “What?” She heard the electricity in her own voice, and hoped she hadn’t spooked him.
    “I guess you didn’t know, huh?” He sounded so glum she hated to give him the bad news.
    “She used to work there.”
    “She’s working there now. I take it this isn’t good.”
    “For romance? I don’t know, I think she likes you. She’s obviously been a lot more candid with you than she has with me.”
    “Oh, terrific—got to go. The bell just rang.”
    “Wait a minute. You wouldn’t have her phone number, would you?”
    But the other end clicked gently. Either he hadn’t heard, or he didn’t want to rat out The Baroness any more thoroughly than he already had.
    Phoning didn’t seem like the best plan anyway. It would warn Talba—give her time to destroy evidence. On the other hand, assuming The Baroness was innocent of murder, marching into the office could alert the wrong people. And waiting till after work just wasn’t going to cut it.
    On third thought, phoning was the best—she borrowed Abasolo’s cell phone so she could call from the lobby at United. After a little back-and-forth about temps and who supplied them, then a call to Comp-Temps, she located her quarry. Without a hello, she said, “You should have told me you were working here again.”
    A frightened voice said, “Who is this?”
    “Skip Langdon. I’m in the lobby—be here in two minutes or I’m coming up.”
    “I can’t, I’m—”
    “Say you’re going to the ladies’ room and duck out—I’m timing you.”
    The Baroness, so quick to lose her temper, even at the law, stepped out of the elevator with something like fear on her face. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
    “Fine.” Skip opened the door for her. “My car’s right here.”
    “I’ve only got a minute.”
    “This is a murder investigation, Ms. Wallis. Don’t keep telling me how valuable your time is.” She wasn’t eager to arouse suspicion herself—this would have to be short, but she wanted this woman’s full attention, and she couldn’t get it in a car. Besides, Talba had a bad temper. Skip had to get her in a controlled situation. She drove to the nearest police station, which was the Eighth District (in the French Quarter), and secured the loan of a room.
    Talba brushed her hair back with an angry swipe. “What the hell’s this about?”
    “That attitude’s not going to get you anywhere.”
    The Baroness sat down. Skip said, “What are you doing at United?”
    The other woman shrugged. “I’m a good temp. They asked me back.”
    “Don’t lie to me. You’re scared to death of something.”
    Talba breathed deeply a few times, chest heaving. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision. “I can’t believe I’m so stupid. No way do I need money this bad! Look, I’m working for Allred’s client.”
    Skip’s heart started to pick up speed, but Talba interrupted her fantasies of a coming revelation: “But I still don’t know who he is.”
    “Don’t bullshit me, Talba.”
    “I’m not!” She yelled it so loud Skip put her hands to her ears.
    “Sorry. I just hate being called a liar when I’m not lying.”
    Skip gave her the “come on” sign.
    “He called me,” Talba said. “I guess he got my number from Allred. He knew everything I’d been doing at United, and he wanted me to go back.”
    “If you don’t even know the man, why do you think he’ll pay you?”
    “He said I’d find seven hundred fifty dollars under the mat and I did. I’d call that earnest money.”
    “Okay. Tell me what he wants you to do.”
    “Get the same file as before.”
    “Dammit! Why didn’t you call me when this guy called?”
    Talba shrugged, looking a little ashamed.
    “Well? Did you do it?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Why not?”
    “I haven’t had the right opportunity.”
    Skip could have chewed nails. “Talba, come on.”
    “Look. It’s encrypted—it wasn’t before; they’ve done it since I was there last.”
    “And you didn’t think this was important enough to tell the police? Have you forgotten a man was murdered? Is this some sort of game to you?”
    The poet’s face told Skip she more or less had forgotten; Talba looked a bit like a child caught stealing. “I’m sorry—I didn’t