* * *
The French Quarter seemed more crowded that late Saturday afternoon than London during the legendary January sales. Boo and Liz struggled through knots of happy people with stacks of beer cups, and skirted by acrobats performing in the middle of pavements, psychic palm or tarot readers speaking intently to their clients at little tables under beach umbrellas, and artists painting or sketching in chairs set against walls or fences where their wares were displayed. Countless tourists clogged the streets, drinking, taking pictures of one another, diving into bars and shops, and emerging with plastic cups full of beer and armloads of sparkling plastic beads. As the sun tipped westward, the neon on the buildings looked more garish and threatening.
Everywhere, Boo reached out to tap a local man or woman on the arm and chatted for a moment before bringing out the photo of Robbie. No one could remember having seen her. All of them promised they’d keep watch, but they didn’t hold out a lot of hope. Liz’s heart sank at the enormity of their task. It wasn’t going to be as easy to find an ordinary-looking woman in blue jeans and a T-shirt on her own as it had been to locate Fee with her short green hair and personal entourage. Even that search hadn’t been simple. If it hadn’t been for Boo-Boo and his connections . . . which weren’t doing them a lot of good just then. His friends were observant, but they’d have to be superheroes to pick out one nondescript stranger in this scrimmage.
They came away from speaking with a very limber Jamaican man in Jackson Square who was trying to fit himself inside a small glass box.
“We coulda just missed her, or she’s on the move,” Boo-Boo said, putting the photo into his pocket as they left the square. “Robbie’s a stranger in town. I’d say she could be anywhere, but there aren’t too many places that she’d feel comfortable about goin’ to if she was in trouble.”
“The hotel,” Liz said, as a thought struck her. “Perhaps she just went back there. She might want to go directly to the airport or the bus station. We should find out if she’s taken her luggage.”
Boo raised his fair eyebrows. “Maybe that ought to’ve been our first stop. I wasn’t even thinkin’ when we came running’ out of the Superdome.” He looked so chagrined that Liz felt sorry for him.
“To tell you the truth,” Liz said, “neither was I. That can’t be helped now.” Boo-Boo recovered quickly, and gave her his brilliant smile. They were equals again. Partners. A small benefit to come out of this awful mission. Only, he had to remember that she was in charge.
* * *
The tall, blond manager of the Royal Sonesta Hotel came bustling out to greet the two agents waiting at the lobby desk at the summons of one of the uniformed clerks.
“Does one of our guests need help?” he asked in a discreet undertone as soon as he reached them. “Does . . . she need help?”
“Not she,” Liz said, “but one of her employees. Ms. Unterburger. Roberta Unterburger.”
The manager and the attractive clerk behind the desk frowned.
“I’m not certain I recall her,” the clerk said.
“She’s kind of an everyday-looking person,” Boo explained, producing the photograph. “It’s important that we find her pretty quickly.”
“She might be ill,” Liz explained, hoping they wouldn’t ask for details.
“Well, we’ll be happy to call a doctor if she needs one,” the manager said, friendly and ready to help.
“It’s a serious condition,” Liz said hastily, thinking of the poor doctor who might encounter a wild magical talent without warning.
“We have some fine medical facilities in this town,” the manager said. “Why, Tulane Univ—”
“Can we check her room?” Boo-Boo asked. “As I recall, she’s sharin’ room 2153 with another woman who works for Ms. Kenmare. She might have come in without anyone noticin’ her. She’s kind of a shy young lady.”
“Certainly,” the manager said. He disappeared into his office and emerged with a set of passkeys. “Just in case she’s collapsed.”
Liz shot a look at her associate. They couldn’t be that lucky to find Robbie present and unconscious.
They stopped a maid in the hallway to ask if anyone was in room 2153. The woman shook her head. The manager knocked on the door. When no one answered, he used his passkey to open the room. Liz was relieved to see the ordinary clutter of two women sharing temporary living quarters. Heaps of garments stood on the bed and the dresser. The luggage piled in the closet seemed of sufficient quantity for two. Liz checked the name tags. Some of them belonged to Robbie. Liz opened them, and found them empty. Thank heavens, the girl hadn’t packed up her bags and disappeared out of town. Not yet.
The manager was watching with keen interest as the two agents inspected the room. Liz finally had to admit there wasn’t a single clue that would tell them where Robbie would go if she felt troubled.
“I think we’ve learned what we can,” she said. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Always happy to be of service to our guests,” the manager said, with a bow, but Liz knew he was thinking of Fionna.
“We need to get Ms. Robbie to a specialist. Just let us know if she comes back here.” Boo grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the nightstand, and scribbled his cell telephone number on it. He handed the slip to the manager. “We shouldn’t let her leave on her own. It could be very serious. If you’ll just have her call us the moment she shows up.”
“I’d be happy to,” the manager said, tucking the piece of paper into his breast pocket. “You can count on us.”
“I never doubted it,” Boo said.
Boo left the same message and his telephone number with the doorman.
“That’s about all we can do here,” he told Liz. “Should we keep on searchin’?”
“The concert isn’t long from now,” Liz pointed out, checking her watch. “We’d better go back to the Superdome. We know the target is Fee. We ought to be there to protect her.”
“And hope there aren’t any fresh booby traps waitin’ for us when we get there,” Boo said, raising a hand for a taxi.
* * *
Feeling considerably more comfortable under the influence of alcohol and Ken’s friendly overtures, Robbie reeled off into a catalogue of adolescent complaints about Fionna. Her looks, her habits, her money and fame were all reprehensible and unfair. How dare she be tall and beautiful and rich and talented? What right did she have to get all those clothes handed to her as though she was some kind of princess or something? What could fate have been thinking, sending all those millions of people to swoon at her feet? Especially a man like Lloyd, who ought to see past the makeup and the phony exterior? Didn’t he know that that green hair was dyed?
Ken nodded and smiled at the right places, all the while keeping one eye on the clock. He had to get her back into the Superdome, reconnect with the machinery somehow and get it turned on and running, and avoid getting thrown out until he caused the chaos he had been hired to cause. Mr. Kingston had a lot at stake, and he wasn’t going to take any excuses if Ken failed. He ought to get her moving soon. Not yet, he thought, but soon. She was still too skittish to react the way he wanted her to. In the meantime, he needed to keep her talking.
“If Fionna was out of the way, then he’d notice you. You’re . . .” Ken swallowed, trying to think of a compliment. He had never really studied her before as a person. He hadn’t thought much about her except how easily she responded to suggestion and magical manipulation. Robbie didn’t inspire poetry, or even much thought beyond plain existence. She wasn’t exactly pretty. Her voice was unremarkable. She didn’t exude sexuality or sensuousness like Fionna did. “ . . . You’re smart. You do everything right. I’ve noticed that about you. You study your cues, and your timing is usually exactly right on. You’ve got a great memory. That’s really special.”
“Yeah,” Robbie said, her voice breaking. “I’m efficient. Big deal. Except I left all my stuff hooked up when I left. The board is still hot, and all the switches are armed. Can you believe it? Normally I turn everything off. I’m so stupid! It’s like Dublin all over again, when that poor man got knocked out during that rehearsal.” Her shoulders heaved. Ken was afraid she was going to cry. The last thing he needed was an emotional outburst, and he didn’t want her mouthing off about that nosy guy in Dublin. That had been a mistake. If it was ever connected to him, he was in big trouble. You never knew who was listening to you. Robbie started to cry, her shoulders heaving in deep sobs. He had to control her. He put his hand onto her wrist and squeezed sympathetically.