82 Desire by Julie Smith Page A

airport. The fact that he was at the airport. It’s a little on the pat side.”
    Seaberry shrugged and spread his arms, palms up, showing he had no weapons, nothing to hide, and not a dangerous bone in his body. “I don’t know. Is it?”
    The interview went on like that, Seaberry insisting Russell was a good guy with nothing to hide and Skip hovering between boredom and disbelief. Finally, she left him, wondering if it was really possible to know so little about someone with whom you spent long, cold hours crouching in a duck blind—and deciding that if both parties were men, it was.
    When she got back to Favret’s office, she found only an apology delivered via his secretary—Mr. Favret was so sorry he had to leave for lunch.
    Ah, well , she thought. I’ll show him. I’ll go see him at home .
    She asked Favret’s secretary to direct her to Beau Cavignac’s office, something the woman seemed loath to do—corporate discipline appeared downright military in this place.
    But in the end, Skip prevailed, finding Beau Cavignac wearing a worried look—a perennial one, she surmised after a bit. He was a shorter, chunkier man than either of his two companions. He probably jogged but didn’t lift weights—he looked soft, especially in the middle, as if he never passed up a hunk of pecan pie.
    His hair was thick and curly, worn short. His neck was thick as well, along with his waistline and very probably his ankles.
    His eyes were brown, matching the curly hair, and also matching a prominent mole on his left cheek.
    Skip said, “I hear you’re a good friend of Russell Fortier’s.”
    “Real good friend. Very good friend.”
    “Can you think of any reason he’d suddenly just disappear?”
    “You mean, did someone have a contract out on him?”
    She couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. She shrugged.
    “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I don’t think he’s ‘the victim of foul play’ like everybody’s saying around here.”
    “Why not?”
    Doubt flickered across an already creased forehead. This one was clearly a worrier. “I guess I just don’t want it to be true. He’s my best friend—I can’t deal with something like that.”
    He patted his pockets, looking down. Discreetly, Skip turned slightly away, thinking he was looking for a handkerchief. But apparently he didn’t find one—he looked up with too-shiny eyes.
    “Can you think of any reason why he’d want to disappear?” Skip asked.
    For a split second, she saw something new in his face, something like pleading—or so she thought for a moment.
    Apparently unable to compose himself, he only shook his head, again looking down.
    The united front presented by Favret and Seaberry was so intimidating, and this such a respite, that she had a sudden thought—if ever there was a time to go for it, it was now. Obviously something was going on here—she wasn’t ready to confront it directly, but she could shake a few trees.
    She said, “How’s business, Mr. Cavignac?”
    “Great. Why?”
    “Great for Russell? How’s he doing in the company?”
    He shrugged. “He’s a rising star. Practically Alpha Centauri.”
    “Somehow I don’t get that feeling. I think something was wrong.”
    “Uh-uh. Not with Russell. No way.”
    She left with the ardent desire to replant Talba’s bug in Edward Favret’s office. She didn’t like his style—and besides, he’d stood her up.
    In fact, she didn’t like anybody’s style at United Oil, even Beau’s. That remark about the contract was just a little too flip.
    They all mouthed the words, but they didn’t seem that worried about their good buddy Russell.

Eight
    RUSSELL HAD AT first delighted in all the little things you have to do when you become someone else. He had dyed his hair white-blond and cut it to a length of about a quarter-inch. Then he’d gone to a department store and bought a spray can of fake tanner, so he’d look like he’d been in the sun for the last twenty