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  She didn’t feel the genuine relief she thought she’d experience at having made such a decision. She searched herself a moment to find out the reason. It was a no-brainer. “But I will keep his down payment.”

  Newton raised his chin and aimed his yellow eyes at her. They looked particularly eerie in the darkness.

  Shel stroked the cat’s chin. “Christ, Newton—he won’t even miss that little bit of change.”

  The cat rested his head against her leg. She took it to mean he understood, not that she valued the cat’s opinion. Much.

  She realized that, without intending to, she’d already started thinking about a new life for herself. Perhaps it was the kid’s room that had ignited the change in viewpoint; maybe she was wondering what she’d been missing out on all those years, not that she’d ever desired to parent. Perhaps it was sitting at the table with men who weren’t overt thugs and crooks; men with bona fide legal paperwork in hand, and the prospect of doing something right and money to be made that exceeded her normal two or three digit commissions.

  She drifted to sleep pondering how far away from Louisiana she could get on ten grand.

  * * *

  Shortly after nine a.m., she punched Fortier’s number into the cell phone he’d given her, but didn’t call him right away. She hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the room door, lest anyone discover she’d smuggled in a cat, and walked a block to the already lively French Market where she ordered a Bloody Mary crammed full of pickled green beans, okra and an enormous olive. She figured that even with the booze, the cocktail was more nutritious than her usual morning diet.

  She sipped the Bloody Mary as she ambled toward old Jackson Square to catch a cab to take her the rest of the way to the Warehouse District. Within minutes, she stood in front of the Fortier Gallery on Julia Street.

  She peered through the window of the still-closed shop. Inside, a man with thinning hair and a bespectacled beak of a nose tried not to notice her while he skittered about the place. She rapped a knuckle on the glass. With obvious disdain at being interrupted, he directed his beady eyes her way and quickly sized her up. She knew what he saw: jeans, T-shirt, no makeup, and most importantly, no designer purse bulging with credit cards. He easily dismissed her. It was only when she slapped a badge against the plate glass window that he came to the door, his contempt abundantly evident.

  She grinned at him and quickly pocketed the badge before he could ask for a closer look, which would reveal the thing to be nothing more than a cheap souvenir. Her authentic police badge had gone the way of her authentic police job years ago. But having a badge, legitimate or not, certainly gave her better access, and hardly anyone ever asked to inspect it. People were scarily dumb.

  “How can I be of assistance to New Orleans’ finest?”

  He reminded her of Fortier’s butler, had the butler been shorter and gayer.

  She gave him credit for having the irritated tone down pat. “Shreveport, actually,” she incorrectly corrected him. “I’m looking for Mrs. Fortier.”

  “Well, she’s not here.” He returned inside, practically letting the door slam in Shel’s face. She caught it and followed him into the shop, watching as he plucked a feather duster from a nearby bin and began to wave it over a row of easels. After a moment, he noticed her still watching him. “I could give her a message, if you like.”

  “Yeah.” Shel played along, smiling. “Ask her why she’s in touch with you and not her husband, and then tell her to get her ass home. How’s that?”

  He lowered the feather duster and glared at her through his tiny round spectacles. “If you know she’s not here, why did you ask after her?”

  “If you know she’s gone, why’d you offer to take a message?” She arched an eyebrow. He didn’t budge. She continued, “I’m doing some investigative work for her husband, Richard Fortier.” Hearing those words come out of her mouth made it closer to official. She wasn’t sure she liked the way it sounded. She mentally admonished herself. This was only a very preliminary fact-finding mission. “I’m sure somebody’s already talked to you about her, but just humor me.”

  He blinked. “Why would they?”

  It struck her as odd, but she didn’t show it. Shel pulled a small leather notebook out of her pocket. “You have a name?”

  “Bernard,” he said in his nasal voice.

  She wondered if he’d been questioned before about Mrs. Fortier. “You got a last name, Bernie? Or are you like Madonna or Cher?”

  “Smith.”

  She looked at him, gauging his truthfulness concerning the generic last name. He didn’t flinch. She nodded. “Bernie—”

  “Bernard,” he firmly corrected her.

  “So what kind of relationship do the Fortiers have?” She wandered a bit, looking at some of the pictures in the window showcase.

  “How should I know? Mr. Fortier rarely darkens the door. He’s off brokering high-dollar deals. Not like this gallery.”

  She examined a price tag on the back of one of the pictures and made a low whistle. “This seems pretty pricey to me.”

  “I’m sure it does,” he snootily said. “Generally, Mr. Fortier arrives for show openings and special events, and to collect the deposits, naturally.”

  “Naturally.” Shel returned to his side. “So, he’s just here for the glory.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Bernard said, his dry tone implying that it was exactly what he meant. “I’ve certainly never had occasion or desire to discuss his personal life.”

  “You never saw him with his wife?”

  “Rarely. Not so much I could describe the condition of their marriage.”

  “You’re kidding, right? A sharp guy like you?” She tossed a look toward the storefront. “You had me figured at the window for dirt poor. What’s your take on the wife?”

  Bernard shrugged. “I never saw her alone, and when I did see her, we never exchanged words. As for my take on her, she was an uppity little thing. Holier than thou.” He lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper, despite the fact they were the only ones in the shop. “Too good to speak to the commoners, if you know what I mean.”

  Shel gave him the once-over, considered the irony and shot him a grin. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Anyway, she was always dressed to kill, a little on the racy side, if you ask me. I can tell she’s one of those women who bats their lashes and gets anything they want. I have a feeling she has her husband wrapped tightly around her little finger,” he smugly reported. “Big cow eyes, hair down to here, and—” he made a motion to indicate the woman’s bosom “—out to there.”

  “Stacked, huh?” Shel made a note.

  “Voluptuous. Bought and paid for, I’m sure.”

  She read what she’d written on the page so far: Bernard Smith, clueless, gossipy queen. Still, it was good to appear official. She folded the book shut, crammed it into her back pocket, and flashed him a forced smile. “Mind if I take a look around, Bernie?”

  “Oh, please do.”

  Shel thought his attitude suggested he’d rather eat dust than entertain her inquiry for another minute.

  She began browsing the back of the gallery, noticing much of the same vampiric art she’d seen in the Fortier mansion. Even in a brightly lit shop in daytime, the paintings gave her the willies. “Hey Bernie—you sell much of this stuff?” She waved her hand at the dark oil work.

  He momentarily stilled his frittering duster. “That very one you’re admiring is already sold.”

  “I wasn’t admiring it.” Under her breath, but deliberately loud enough for him to hear, she added, “Stuff’s uglier than a bag of assholes.”

  A significantly kinder, brighter work caught her eye, a drastic departure from the wretched oils. She recognized the style and asked, “This the missus’s work?”

  Bernard nodded. “Mr. Fortier wanted to incorporate some local flavor.”

  “Well, that and she’s fucking him, right?” She grinned. Bernard shrugged. She went on, “It’s ki
nd of nice.”

  “A little undergrad for my taste.”

  Shel performed a quick appraisal of his off-brand shirt, shoes that had been polished too many times, and a Timex instead of a Rolex. “My guess is, Bernie, you can no more afford a painting, even in this shop, than you can afford a year’s rent, electricity, and your cable subscription to LOGO. Am I right?”

  He glared at her, but his mention of undergrad triggered a memory of something Fortier had told her. Since there was so little to go on at this point, she wondered if she might learn a thing or two from her alma mater. She continued to smile brightly. “I’m not familiar with Loyola University. Can I get to the art department by streetcar from here?”

  Obviously delighted at the prospect of the “cop” vacating the premises, he grabbed a pen and a piece of shop stationery, and eagerly began to sketch a map.

  She watched his hands move with practiced precision and nodded approvingly. “Are you an artist, Bernie, or are you just that anxious to get rid of me? I mean, you drew me everything but landscaping there.”

  “Mr. Fortier has a strict policy about only employing degreed artists.”

  Shel accepted the map and gave it a quick look. “Hey look, there’s a hedge.” She felt his glare on her back as she left the shop and continued on her way.

  When she arrived shortly after ten a.m., Collins C. Diboll Art Gallery at Loyola was abuzz with activity. Students were unpacking crates and setting up an extensive display. She stopped a guy who’d caught her attention primarily because his hair was purple.

  “Excuse me, is there a big sale or something?” she asked.

  “This is for a visiting artist, not an actual sale,” he politely informed her. He adjusted the thick glasses on his youthful, pockmarked face. “Of course, if you ask the dean, everything has a price, right?”

  She admired his sweetly crooked grin and gave him one of her own. “Right. Will I be in the way if I take a look around?”

  “Not at all. Knock yourself out. Student and faculty work is around the perimeter of the room.”

  “Is there someone in charge if I have any questions?” Figuring a financial transaction would speak louder than a general inquiry, she added, “Someone who takes cash?”

  “And American Express and Visa,” he assured her. “Any faculty you see wandering around. Or you can hit them up at the main office down the hallway.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Good luck finding the next Van Gogh.”

  She continued inside, watching a woman directing student traffic as they assembled a display. She found it surprisingly easy to zone in on Mrs. Fortier’s works. She took that as a good sign.

  “Quaint, aren’t they?”

  Shel turned to see that the traffic director had come to stand behind her—an attractive woman with a personality far more welcoming than Bernard Smith’s. “I was just thinking the same thing,” she replied. “What would one of these set me back?”

  “Ten grand.”

  Shel made a low whistle. “A little too rich for my blood, I’m afraid.”

  “They’ve been quite popular. Very gentle and sweet, painted by a former student.” Apparently realizing she’d failed to introduce herself, the woman smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Jane Artello, Professor of Art Studies. Most of these people are my students, but I can’t take credit for their skills.”

  “Mad skills.” Shel glanced at the displays of pottery and mixed media arts before her gaze returned to the paintings of funny-shaped New Orleans-style homes. “You have Kathleen Fortier in class?”

  Artello nodded, her short blond hair bobbing. “Quiet woman.”

  “Secretive?”

  Artello regarded her a moment. “Gossip is a dangerous game for the tenured professor.”

  “I suppose so.” Shel quietly flashed her fake badge.

  Seemingly eager not to draw attention to the fact she’d been entertaining a cop, Artello didn’t ask to inspect the badge, a disappointment as the professor was an otherwise smart-looking package.

  Shel tucked the badge into her jacket pocket. “I’m investigating Mrs. Fortier’s disappearance.”

  “I didn’t know she’d gone missing,” Artello said, making a poor attempt at a surprised expression. The façade didn’t last long. She looked down at her feet almost shamefully and revised her statement. “I’d heard as much. I hoped it was a rumor.”

  “Anything you remember about her that might mean something to me or her husband?”

  “Kathleen aced my class. In fact, she tested out of it the first week. Mine is a level one requirement and she was way beyond that.” Artello wore a pensive look. “I believe she was all around quite intelligent.”

  “Happy?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did she appear happy to you?”

  Artello shrugged. “We never talked. She seemed quite reserved.”

  “Anyone who knew her better than you did?”

  Artello stared at Kathleen Fortier’s work, a watercolor clapboard house next to a body of water. “You might ask Coach Sawyer. He is a fan of her work.”

  Shel pulled out her notebook and jotted down the name. “Now, when you say fan, do you mean—”

  “Gossip is dangerous territory for the tenured professor,” Artello repeated.

  “Gotcha.” Shel put the notebook away. “Where can I find him?”

  Artello provided her with the details. She rocked back on her heels and looked at Kathleen’s painting, the admiration in her eyes tinged with sadness. “I’ve already had to inform her fans that our supply is devastatingly low. These are our last two.”

  “Fans?” Shel’s interest was piqued. “They local?”

  “Some. She also has a decent regional fan base, mostly southern cities.” Artello directed her attention at the misshapen pink house with spirals emerging from the smokestack under a silvery sliver of a moon and folk-art style waves in the background. She shook her head. “I hope she is found safe.”

  “Me, too.” Shel started to go, but doubled back when she thought of something else. “Professor, where do you send her commission checks when her works sell?”

  “These particular works are donated by the students. All proceeds from sales benefit the fine arts department, naturally.”

  “Well, then, what the hell,” Shel muttered, pulling the freshly minted black AmEx card out of her wallet. “He can write it off.”

  Artello looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “Means I’ll take it,” Shel said, feeling surprisingly liberated to be able to make such a spontaneous purchase of anything at all—if only artwork to hang on a wall in a house she didn’t have—she handed over the new credit card. “I like the one on the left—that pink house. Can you have it wrapped by the time I get back?”

  The professor brightened significantly. “Certainly.”

  It took Shel fifteen minutes to find the University Sports Complex and track down Frank Sawyer. He seemed less than eager to speak about Kathleen Fortier. It was only after her clear announcement in front of his training staff that she was investigating anyone with a possible connection to the woman’s disappearance that he squired her back to his office.

  Behind closed doors, Sawyer took a seat at his desk, motioning for her to sit down in a chair opposite. Having come into the air-conditioned office from the humid outdoors, she wondered why he appeared suddenly flush and uncomfortable. His gaze helplessly flashed toward the side of his desk. There on the floor, propped against the wall, were six familiar, whimsical paintings featuring shotgun houses with daisies floating out of bricked chimneys, and silvery moons hanging overhead.

  “What’s this about?” Sawyer asked.

  “You tell me. Do assistant coaches normally make enough money to snatch up a private collection like this or do you have an inheritance?”

  He didn’t even blink. “Just tell me what you want from me, Detective. I’m cooperating.”

  “Let’s start with the art.
Those Kathleen Fortier originals go for around ten thou a pop. Like I asked, you got family money or something?”

  “Did you find Kathleen?”

  “On a first name basis with her,” she remarked, delighted to gain some ground. The coach’s expressive face also pleased her. It could be that the case of the missing wife might be solved before it began. Perhaps this would be the quickest money she’d ever earned. She shook her head. “No, we haven’t found Mrs. Fortier.”

  He was visibly relieved—not a point in his favor.

  Shel wondered if knew Kathleen Fortier’s location, or worse, the location of her body. Years on the force had caused her to think the worst up front, especially when someone was missing more than twenty-four hours.

  Sawyer sat back in his seat and folded his hands in front of him on his desk blotter. “The paintings are for my house. It’s being renovated at the moment, so I didn’t rush to get them home.”

  “You’re telling me you bought them?” She shook her head. “Forget it. I’m really looking for the kid.”

  His eyebrows plunged. “How should I know where she is?”

  “Yet I believe you do know, since you knew the ‘kid’ in question is indeed a she.” Shel hooked air quotes with her fingers. She stood and casually walked down the short row of artwork leaning against the wall. “You must be in the mood to bring a shit-storm scandal on the entire athletics department. You involved with Kathleen Fortier?”

  “I resent your implication that I would have anything to do with a missing woman or her child,” he curtly informed her. His shoulders heaved. He appeared to be restraining his building anger. She wondered how bad his temper could get. His voice lowered. “As far as Kathleen goes, I’m married.”

  “So that makes you a bona fide saint.” She rolled her eyes. “Look at it from where I stand, Coach. It seems to me the biggest concentration of Kathleen Fortier’s pricey art is in your possession. Given that you’re only one of many athletic assistants, and judging by the size of this closet-shaped office, no way can you afford these luxuries. Either you stole the paintings, which is doubtful, or Kathleen gave them to you. Why would she do that? You tell me.”