“Of course you don’t,” Jerry said in a tone I’d heard him use with his kids. “Holly out of the picture means she can’t be your scapegoat. Joyce MacKay took her to the airport today. I confirmed with the airline she was on the flight.”
“What’s Fisher’s last known address?”
“Go home, Zo.”
“No. I know you have it. I know you’re hiding something. Either that or you feel guilty about Michael disappearing and are trying to solve it by yourself. Trying to be a hero again, Jerry?” His whole body flinched, although his face didn’t change its expression. “Where did she live?”
“In an apartment building in the Faubourg Marigny,” The Marigny was a neighborhood adjacent to the French Quarter. It competed for tourist money with the Quarter, and was host to one of Marie’s favorite bars, the Spotted Cat. “I went there, Zo, it was cleaned out. There wasn’t a trace of her.”
“Who owns the building?” I asked.
“I didn’t check.”
“How far away is your car?” I waved for the check and put a hefty tip on the table.
“Why?”
“Because we aren’t walking to your office.” I started to put on my jacket.
“You’re going home,” he insisted.
“I am not going home. If you’d just take me fucking seriously, you’d know that Holly Fisher leaving town makes no sense. She married Ian MacKay, probably for his money. Why leave now when she can stick around and collect insurance money and whatever doesn’t go to his daughter?” When he didn’t say anything, I said, “You want me to tell your wife you haven’t been helping me out when you told her so?” Was that hitting below the belt? Yes. Did I care? Not in the slightest. I was going to make him believe me.
“I’ll get the check.”