“You know what I mean. What are we doing?”
He didn’t have an answer, which, frankly, scared the crap out of him. It just seemed wrong. They had been together, exclusively, for two years, and had lived together a good part of that time.
Shouldn’t he know, in either his heart or his gut, how he felt? What he wanted, long term?
“You tell me, Stacy. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’m starting to think I really don’t have a clue.”
They fell silent and remained that way for the rest of the drive. They reached Paulie’s Place, located on Toulouse Street. He parked the Camaro illegally, flipped down his visor with his NOPD identification and climbed out.
They crossed the sidewalk and entered the lounge. Yvette was sitting at the bar, an untouched beer in front of her. She saw him first, then Stacy. To her credit, her expression altered only slightly.
She slid off the bar stool and stood waiting. Her gaze, he noticed, jumped around and she kept clasping and unclasping her hands.
Truth was, she looked terrified. If she was faking it, she should give up dancing and head to Hollywood.
Of course, being authentically terrified only meant she believed her own story. She could still be as nutty as a Christmas fruitcake.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Thank you for…I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”
“Let’s go outside so we can talk.”
She didn’t need to be coaxed. She dug four dollars out of her pocket, deposited it on the bar and grabbed her backpack. “Thanks, Jackie,” she called to the burly bartender.
The street outside was mostly empty. Nearly all the bars and clubs were closed, staff and patrons alike grabbing some shut-eye before the new day.
“Are you cold?” he asked her. “We could sit in the car.”
She shook her head. “I need a cigarette.”
She retrieved her pack of smokes, then fumbled to light one, her hands shaking badly.
“Allow me,” he said.
She shot him a grateful look and handed him the matches.
A moment later, the paper and tobacco caught and she inhaled deeply.
Spencer gave her a moment, then murmured, “You say you know who killed Marcus?”
“I do.” She sucked on the cigarette. “But you won’t believe me.”
“Give us a try,” Stacy said softly. “You might be surprised.”
“I doubt that, but okay.” She tilted her chin up defiantly. “The Artist.”
Stacy’s eyebrows shot up. “The guy you made up?”
“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
Spencer stepped in. “Cut us some slack, Yvette. Just a couple of days ago you told us the Artist didn’t exist.”
She drew on the cigarette again. “I made up his connection to Kitten, but he exists.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve been getting these…love notes. They’re signed the Artist.”
“How many have you gotten?”
She thought a moment. “Five, including the one tonight.” She paused as if expecting a question, then went on. “I didn’t think much about them until…until the day I learned about Marcus.”
She cleared her throat. “I just figured he was some lonely-hearts-club geek until the day you questioned me about Marcus. When I got home, and he’d left me a note. It was inside, tacked to the back of my kitchen door.”
“He was in your apartment?” Spencer said. “He broke in?”
“Yes.” She dropped the smoke, then ground it out with the toe of her strappy stiletto. “The note said ‘I did it for you.’”
“Did what?”
“Killed Marcus.”
“Did he say that? Specifically?”
“No, but what else could it be?”
Spencer glanced at Stacy. Although her expression was neutral, he knew she was having a hard time buying any of this. She wasn’t alone.
“Ms. Borger,” Spencer said gently. “It could have been anything. He jacked off, took a bottle of pills, kicked his dog-”
“No!” she said, cutting him off. “Tonight he was in the club! He had Tonya deliver this.”
She dug into her backpack and pulled out a wad of bills and a card. “It’s five hundred dollars.”
When they didn’t respond, she made a sound of frustration. “Marcus owed me that amount. The last time I did that side job for him, he stiffed me.”
She looked directly at Stacy for the first time. “That’s what we were arguing about in the alley that night. When he tried to choke me. Look.”
She handed the note to Spencer, who read it aloud. “Here’s the money he owed you.”
He handed it to Stacy. She read it and frowned. “This one isn’t signed.”
“That can’t be.” She took it, her expression falling. “I guess I just knew…I mean, he’s signed everything else the ‘Artist.’ I swear!”
“Do you have the other notes?” Spencer asked.
“Not with me, but I saved them. They’re at my apartment.”
“Let’s go get them.”
None of them spoke during the short drive. When they climbed out in front of her building, Spencer saw that light glimmered ever so faintly on the horizon.
It was going to be a long damn day.
She unlocked the street entrance and they filed into the courtyard. They followed her upstairs. Two doors from hers a dog began to bark, a cross between a yap and a howl. Spencer felt sorry for the poor bastards the beast woke up.
She let them in, flipped the light switch just inside the door, but didn’t make a move into the apartment.
“Yvette?” he said.
She looked at him. “Since he’s been in here, it takes me a while to get up the courage to…I know it’s silly, but-”
“It’s not silly. We’ll check it out.”
Within a couple of minutes, they had searched the small apartment and determined it empty.
“Thanks,” she said. “I had the locks changed…I forgot to tell you that part. About the woman.”
“The woman?” Spencer repeated, frowning.
“Yes. I came home the other night and found a woman at my door. She claimed to be my neighbor Nancy’s mother. Said the key Nancy gave her didn’t work.”
“Maybe she was Nancy’s mom?” Stacy offered.
“She wasn’t. That same night, she told Nancy she was my mother. That’s how she got inside. Nancy told her where I keep my spare key.”
Spencer frowned. “What night was this?”
“Monday. I came home early. Cramps.”
Patti’s close call.
He caught Stacy looking at him quizzically, and he refocused. “Could the Artist be a woman?”
Yvette opened her mouth as if to form an automatic no, but shook her head instead. “I just assumed it was a man. I mean, it’s mostly guys who, you know, hang around the Hustle and stuff. Besides, Tonya said a guy gave her the letter to give to me tonight.”
“Tonya?”
“Manages the Hustle’s talent and wait staff,” Stacy offered. Then to Yvette, she said, “Why don’t you get us the letters?”
“They’re in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.”
When she left them alone, Stacy turned to him. “What’s the deal, Malone?”
“What do you mean?”
“When Yvette told you about the woman who claimed to be her mother, you got a funny look on your face.”
“Did I?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that innocent crap. You’re hiding somethi-”
“They’re gone.”
They turned. The young woman stood in the doorway, wild-eyed and pale. “They were here, I swear. He must have taken them.”
“Show us.”
She led them to her bedroom, pointed to the nightstand, its single drawer standing open. “I had them in there.”
“Are you certain you didn’t move them?
”
“I’m sure. They were there. All of them!”
“Tell me about Ramone,” Stacy said.
“What? Who-”
“Ramone?” she said again. “Marcus’s partner. The one you told me about.”
When she hesitated, Stacy answered for her. “Let me guess, you made him up.”
“I didn’t make this up!”
“What about the photograph Detective Malone showed you? You recognized him, didn’t you?”
“Yes! I’ve seen him around the club. He hits on the girls. So what?”
“If that’s the case, why’d you lie?”
“Because I was pissed. Because I didn’t want to get involved. Because someone like me doesn’t help the cops.”
“Give me a reason why we should believe you now.”
“Because it’s true.” She hugged herself. “It’s all true. The letters. The money. The woman breaking in.”
Her voice took on a desperate tone and she moved her gaze between them. “He killed Marcus. I know he did!”
“We’re not saying he didn’t,” Spencer said gently. “We’re not denying any of this is true. But we need something to work with. Some proof that what you’re telling us is true.”
“Screw you.” She spit the words at them. “I should have known not to go to you for help.”
“Put yourself in our shoes, Ms. Borger. What would you believe?”
“Get out! If you’re not going to help me, just get the hell out!”
They didn’t argue or try to reason with her and a couple of minutes later they were on the street. Truth was, without more from her, there was little they could do.
“Well, that was interesting,” Stacy said. “What do you think? Is she a liar or just plain nuts?”
“Part of what she told us was true.”
She stopped and looked at him. “Which part?”
“The woman.” He unlocked the Camaro and opened the door, but didn’t make a move to get in. “It was Patti.”
After dropping that bomb, he climbed into the car. Stacy followed a moment later. Once she was buckled in, she turned to him, expression incredulous. “What do you mean, it was Patti?”
“She wanted something to tie Yvette’s roommate to the Jane Doe. But she couldn’t blow your cover, and she refused to wait.”
“So she broke in?”
“Yes.”
Stacy was quiet a moment, as if processing the information. When she spoke, he heard the disappointment in her voice. “I can’t believe you were involved in this, Spencer. If PID catches wind-”
“I didn’t have any part of it. Aunt Patti didn’t tell me what she was up to.”
“You guessed.”
“Yes.” He started the car and eased away from the curb. “I confronted her with it.”
Traffic was nonexistent. He had cleared the French Quarter and crossed Canal Street within a couple of minutes-a trip that could take twenty minutes when the Quarter was jamming.
They were jumping on the expressway before Stacy spoke again. “Did she find anything?”
“Name of the roommate’s dentist. But before you get too excited, yes, the dentist had X-rays, and no, they didn’t match our Jane Doe’s.”
“She broke the law for nothing.”
“If you can call peace of mind nothing.”
“That’s such crap, Spencer. And you know it.”
“She’s the captain.”
“And she’s losing it, dammit!”
They fell silent. “What are you going to do?” he asked finally.
“You’ve put me in a very awkward position.”
“I’m sorry. Considering the circumstances, I felt I had to tell you.”
“I won’t lie. If I’m asked, I’ll tell what I know.”
“Fair enough.” He exited onto Carrollton Avenue, heading toward the river. “But nobody’s going to ask.”
29
Saturday, April 28, 2007
6:35 a.m.
Stacy couldn’t sleep, couldn’t shut off her mind. Like a hamster on a wheel, her thoughts went round and round, replaying the events of the night, the things she had learned.
Captain Patti O’Shay had broken the law. Spencer had known she was doing it. He’d felt no remorse, then or now.
And he’d kept it from her. So effectively, she hadn’t even suspected.
Stacy was uncertain which revelation had rocked her more-his secret-keeping or her total obliviousness to it.
How could she trust him? And how could a relationship flourish amid secrets and lies? A healthy relationship required total honesty, which led to complete trust.
Like the best cop partnerships. You never wondered if your partner had your back. If you wondered, you were dead.
Spencer snored softly beside her. Not an unpleasant sound. Comforting. Familiar.
She rolled onto her side and gazed at him. No wonder neither of them had a clue where they were going. How could they?
“Why’re you staring at me?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
“I’m not.”
He cracked them open. “Liar.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “Go back to sleep. I’m getting up.”
“Crazy woman.”
Tell me about it.
She slipped out of bed and pulled a sweatshirt on over her cotton pj’s.
“Stacy?”
She stopped at the door and looked back. “Yeah?”
“Marry me.”
She stared at him, quite literally dumbstruck. Several seconds ticked by before she found her voice. “You didn’t just say-”
“I did. Marry me.”
Just last night they had agreed they didn’t know where their relationship was going. “You’ve caught me by surprise, Spencer. Why are you asking me…now?”
“Dunno. Think ’bout it, okay?”
She nodded and backed out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.
Like most girls, she had daydreamed about the day the man she loved would propose marriage. The fantasy included bended knee, candlelight, music and the promise of undying love-not to mention a ring.
Somehow “Dunno,” a sweatshirt and pj’s didn’t cut it.
She started the coffee and went out for the paper. The day looked to be pretty damn spectacular: blue sky, puffy clouds, low humidity. Of course, in New Orleans the weather had been known to turn on a dime.
When she returned with the paper, the coffee was already burbling its last. Spencer stood at the counter, leaning against it for support, staring at the coffeemaker.
“You’re up.”
“Smelled the brew. Couldn’t resist.”
She cocked an eyebrow. Interesting. Fresh-brewed coffee seemed to be able to do what his unanswered question could not-propel him out of bed.
So much for his being on pins and needles. It was only a decision about the rest of their lives.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, sweetened it, shuffled across to the table and plopped onto a chair. “What d’you have t’day?”
“Baxter and I are touring Gabrielle’s listings. See if we missed anything. We’re bringing a canine unit with us.”
The dogs were trained to indicate on all types of narcotics. In fact, their olfactory glands were so sensitive, they could pinpoint areas where drugs had been stored, even when they were no longer there and in amounts as miniscule as parts per billion.
“Smart.” He sipped the coffee. “Gabrielle’s records offer any leads?”
“He’s the one who was smart. His appointment book, PDA and computer were all clean. The lab’s performing forensics on his cell phone.”
The ordinary cell phone user didn’t realize that cell phones retained information even after being deleted or wiped. Mobile Electronic Forensics, which used specially designed software to retrieve stored data, was fast becoming a major player in crime investigation. Invaluable information such as contact lists, numbers called and duration of those calls, text messages sent or re
ceived, as well as pictures, movies and even customized rings tones, could all be lifted. There was even software that could read multiple languages, such as Arabic and Chinese.
“But so far,” she continued, “we’ve got nothing to tie him to either end of the meth process except the word of the bartender.”
“And his getting gunned down in his Uptown driveway on a school night,” he added, yawning. “Want to go for bagels?”
“I can’t believe you’re thinking about food.”
“I’m hungry.”
“By any chance, do you remember dropping a bomb on me a few minutes ago? The ‘M’ bomb?”
“I do. Seems to me, the bomb’s in your court.”
“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”
“If you want to. But in the end it’s either yes or no.”
“You drive me crazy!” She folded her arms across her chest. “Flipping nuts.”
He took a sip of his coffee, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Reason enough to say yes. It’s not every day you can agree to spend the rest of your life with someone who sends you off your rocker.”
That was the closest she was going to get to her romantic fantasy: being sent off a rocker instead of over the moon. Some girls had all the luck.
Something in her expression sobered him. “I am who I am, Stacy.”
And so was she. “No,” she said softly. “I won’t marry you.”
His expression didn’t change. He simply nodded. “Do you want to move out?”
“Is that what this is about, Spencer? You could have just asked me to go.”
He frowned. “That’s not why I asked.”
“Then why did you?” She held up a hand. “And don’t tell me you don’t know. I’m not accepting that.”
“We talked last night about where our relationship was going. This morning, getting married just seemed the thing to do.”
“The thing to do?”
“That it was time. You know, to-”
“Shit or get off the pot?”
“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes.”
This proposal had just gone from bad to worse. “Maybe I will move out.”
“Stacy, I didn’t mean-”
“Yeah, you did.” She pressed her lips together a moment, using the time to focus her thoughts. “You’re right, Spencer. Maybe it’s time we faced the fact that this isn’t going anywhere and moved on.”
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