The Seduction - Art Bourgeau by Art Bourgeau

drunk/' she said aloud to her image. She went back to her
desk, the sights and sounds of the newsroom all around her but far
away. Up to the moment she asked Sloan to show her the body, her
interest in the missing girls had been professional. A chance for a
good story. Afterward it became personal. She felt the pain, the fear
of death. It wasn't difficult for her; if anything it was too easy.
The breast cancer and the operation had seen to that. She knew, she
understood . . . She and the girl, she felt they were drawn together
by common secrets. She shook her head, trying to clear away the
thought. Be careful, she told herself. You won't do anybody any good
getting morbid about this. The girl is dead, you survived. Remember
that little detail . . .
    The jangle of her phone brought her back to the press
of the immediate. She looked at her watch. Realistically she couldn't
expect to hear from Sloan for some time yet . . . who knew how many
details had to be worked out before he was ready to talk to the
press. Until then, there was her bargain with Will Stuart—first
deliver the piece on Felix Ducroit; then go for the Terri story.
    She made some calls—first to Justin and Lois
Fortier at Lagniappe, and to Carl Laredo, the artist. Talking with
them, she was reminded of the evening they'd spent together, about
how Felix Ducroit with his grace and graciousness had saved the day,
or night, by taking a raving Missy Wakefield off their hands. No
doubt Felix had his own reasons for doing it . . . whatever variety
of bitch Missy Wakefield might be, she fairly poured sex appeal. Damn
her . . .
    As it turned out, Carl wasn't able to help much.
Neither was Lois, except to remind her that Cynthia Ducroit, owner of
the Pine Street Charcuterie, was his ex-wife. Justin was a different
story. He and Felix had been boyhood friends, went back as far as
either could remember. Tales of playing cowboys and Indians and how
Felix always wore a black hat and he always wore a red one and of a
wooden horse Felix's father had made for them from a sawhorse and a
barrel were charming but not much help. Still, she was personally
taken by the image of these two very adult and handsome men as
children, Felix so dark, Justin so blond.
    All Justin's tales were about a carefree Felix, a
quality hardly evident at Lagniappe the night they'd met. He had been
so quiet, apparently deep in thought. She found herself speculating
on what was on his mind, what was bothering him. More than that, his
preoccupied air attracted her. No surprise . . . brooding men often
affected her that way. "Too much Wuthering Heights as a child,"
she would tell those who noticed and asked about it. After she
finished talking with the Fortiers she called Cynthia and made a
lunch date. The two were casual friends, had been ever since Laura
had done a piece on female-owned businesses in Philadelphia—which
was when she had originally heard the
name
Felix Ducroit . . .
    When Sloan finally called, she had just finished
talking to a fellow reporter from the New Orleans Times—Picayune
who assured her that she would send on anything they had on Felix
Ducroit. Sloan was calling from police headquarters, the
"Roundhouse," as it was called, and told her to meet him at
the Liberty Bell in twenty minutes. She grabbed her coat and was on
her way.
    She parked in the underground garage on Fifth Street
across from KYW television and the Bourse shopping complex, then
proceeded across Independence Mall in the chilly drizzle. The Liberty
Bell was housed in a small brick, metal and glass building shaped
like a paper airplane. She went inside and while she waited for
Sloan, half-listened as a park ranger explained to a high-school
class that the crack in the bell was not what was important. Pay
attention, he said, to the words about liberty engraved near the top
and think about what they meant to all the different groups in
America throughout its history. The kids were in good spirits, and
neither the