Patti turned to Spencer and Stacy. “The question is, does this have anything to do with Yvette Borger?”
Spencer cocked an eyebrow. “Why would it?”
“Two nights ago the Artist paid a midnight visit to Yvette. He managed to enter her house, leave her a note and exit without waking her. She found the note the next morning.”
“Or so she says.”
Patti ignored Spencer’s sarcasm and continued. “That same night, her neighbor’s pug, Samson, was poisoned. And now Alma Maytree is dead, quite possibly killed the same night.”
“And you believe her?”
She frowned at the challenge in her nephew’s voice. “I do.”
“So much so that you’ve taken a leave of absence from your job and, in my opinion, your senses, to help her. Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”
Several people glanced their way. Patti motioned for the door. “Why don’t we take this conversation outside, Detective?”
They filed out of the apartment, Stacy with them. When they’d found a quiet corner of the courtyard, Spencer faced her. “I don’t give a flip if the woman’s a total psycho. Except now, she’s messing with someone I care about.”
“I appreciate your concern, Spencer. I love you, too. But I don’t need protecting.”
“She has no proof. She manufactured the letters. Manufactured the Artist. For attention. She gets her jollies from it.”
“She didn’t manufacture Alma Maytree. Didn’t manufacture Samson being poisoned.”
“How do you know she didn’t kill Alma Maytree? And poison Samson?”
“Why? What’s her motive?”
“How about she’s just plain crazy?”
Stacy stepped in. “Is it so far-fetched, Patti? Maybe she killed Gabrielle, too. Or had him killed? Because he stiffed her. Or because he tried to kill her. She trusted him, he betrayed her.”
“There’s more,” Patti said. “Yvette came to me for help. Her friend from the Hustle, Tonya Messing-”
“Her friend?” Stacy interrupted. “They were anything but friends when I was there working undercover. Yvette called her a ‘bitch.’ Her word, not mine.”
“Apparently when you and Spencer refused to help her, she turned to Tonya. Now Tonya’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“Tonya had recognized our Jane Doe from the paper, as a former dancer from the Hustle. Jessica Skye. Disappeared with the storm.” She leaned forward. “She also recognized the guy sending the notes to Yvette as having been interested in Jessica.”
“And they began their own little investigation.”
“Yes. When Tonya went missing, Yvette came to me.”
“Has anyone else corroborated Skye being the Jane Doe?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Not another dancer at the club?”
When she indicated none had, the two detectives exchanged glances. Spencer spoke first. “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Tonya’s the only one who can positively ID Skye and suddenly she’s ‘missing.’ When Stacy and I went to her apartment to see all of the Artist’s letters, they were suddenly gone. She’s pathological, Aunt Patti.”
“I agree, Captain,” Stacy said. “Aligning yourself too closely with her would be a mistake.”
Too late.
Patti gazed at the pair, torn. Spencer and Stacy were good cops. With good instincts. But she had to go with her own instincts.
“I’m not changing course. I can’t. If what she said is true, the Artist is the Handyman. And she’s my connection to him.”
“If,” Spencer said, voice tight.
“I took Tonya’s place at the Hustle. And moved Yvette in with me. For her own protection.”
For a full three seconds, Spencer simply gaped at her. When he spoke, the words exploded from him. “That’s the most lame-brained, boneheaded scheme-”
“Don’t overstep your bounds, Detective. I’m still your superior officer.”
“Then act like it, for God’s sake!”
Stacy laid a hand on Spencer’s arm. “And you’re doing all this with the chief’s blessing?”
“He doesn’t know anything about it. Officially, I’m on leave.”
Stacy made a sound of distress. “I beg you, reconsider. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re still grieving. Between that and the stress of-”
“My thinking is crystal clear. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Throwing away your career?” Spencer demanded. “Are you prepared for that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let me ask you, Aunt Patti, how did you get Little Miss Scamalot to accept your offer? Out of the goodness of her heart? Because she wanted to help you catch a killer?”
“Yes.”
She had hesitated before answering, a fraction of a second only, but enough to tip off Spencer. “Collaborating with Borger only two days and already lying. That’s not the Patti O’Shay I know and respect.”
It had been a lie, of course. And a poor one.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me. What did you offer her?”
“Money.”
“Now, there’s a surprise. How much?”
“That’s between me and Yvette.”
Spencer gazed at her a long moment, jaw tight. “Then I want in,” he said. “If for no other reason than to watch your back.”
“No. Absolutely not. Jeopardizing my career is one thing, jeopardizing yours is another.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue but she cut him off. “Detectives, I think you have a scene to finish processing. And I’ve got a leave to continue. Excuse me.”
She turned and walked away, aware of their concern, Spencer’s frustration.
She didn’t blame them. If either of them had made the same decisions, she would have been damn concerned indeed.
47
Thursday, May 10, 2007
5:15 p.m.
Yvette paced and checked her watch. She had hung around Patti’s house all afternoon, itching to get out. She was bored. Irritated. It’d been two days and the Artist hadn’t shown himself.
Maybe he had moved on? Found a new girl to go all “whack job” over. Maybe she had gotten lucky and a tree had fallen on him. Or he’d been hit by a truck.
She thought of Patti. The woman’s hands had trembled when she’d handed her the check for ten grand. In that moment, Yvette had realized how important this was to her. How huge an investment.
And in that moment, guilt had plucked at her.
She had taken the money, anyway.
Her cell phone dinged, announcing the arrival of a text message.
Please Come. Tips. 6:00. R.
Yvette reread the message. She wanted to go. She didn’t have to be at the Hustle until nine, which would give her plenty of time to go by Tipitina’s.
If Patti could break the rules, why couldn’t she?
Decision made, she checked her watch again and called a cab. Patti would be really pissed when she found out. And if she didn’t get out before the woman returned, she’d stop her.
Bossy, worrywart.
The cab arrived as she was zipping her sexiest jeans. She slipped into a pair of low-heeled sandals, grabbed her purse and darted out to the cab.
A local landmark, Tipitina’s had featured some big names over the years but was known mostly for showcasing local and regional music. Located in the Quarter, it had been spared the worst of Katrina’s sucker punch.
The taxi dropped her in front of the club. Yvette paid the driver and headed inside. It was early for a place like Tip’s, but there looked to be a fair-size crowd, anyway.
Riley spotted her the moment she walked in. His set hadn’t begun yet, and he hurried over to her. “You came. This is so cool.”
“I can’t stay too long. I have to work.”
“I’m just glad you’re here.” He caught her hands. “I wrote a song for you.”
She felt herself flush with pleasure. “You did?�
�
“I wasn’t going to sing it unless you came tonight.”
“I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.” He bent and kissed her. Just the briefest of touches, his mouth to hers. She felt the contact to the tips of her toes.
“I’ve got to get up there. Clap for me, okay?”
He returned to the stage. She got a Coke and perched on a tall stool. His was a simple style: an acoustic guitar, a piano, Southern ballads about love and heartbreak, faith and family. He had a smoky voice, achingly accessible.
What, she wondered, was he doing managing an art gallery?
When he sang “her” song, he looked right at her. Into her. She felt hot. Light-headed and giddy. The words, the moment, wrapped around her-and she fell in love with him.
No one had ever accused her of being smart.
“Hello.”
She glanced at the woman who had come to stand beside her. She recognized her, though she wasn’t sure from where. “Hi.”
“June Benson,” the woman said. “Riley’s sister.”
“That’s right.” Yvette smiled. “I knew I’d seen you before.” She motioned the stage. “He’s good.”
“I think so, too.”
“He told me y’all are really close.”
“We are.” She paused to sip her drink. “Riley’s been talking a lot about you.”
“He has?”
“Mmm.” She shifted her gaze to the stage, expression ferocious. “My brother is…impetuous. He acts before he thinks. Wears his heart on his sleeve. I wanted you to know that.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
She returned her gaze to Yvette, looking her straight in the eyes. “He’s easily hurt. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Why would you think I’d hurt him?”
“I know who you are. The kind of dancer you are. And that you’re definitely not a ‘cocktail waitress.’”
Yvette felt as if she had been punched. “How did you-”
“Spencer Malone told me. That night at the gallery.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” The woman leaned toward her. “I love my brother and don’t want to see his heart broken. That’s all.”
Yvette struggled to keep how deeply June’s words hurt from showing. “And a woman like me would break his heart. Is that right? Because I’m trash? A whore?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Riley’s first set ended and he bounded over. “You guys are talking. That’s so great.”
“We are getting to know each other,” June murmured.
“Didn’t I tell you? Isn’t she the best?” He beamed at his sister, then turned to Yvette. “Did you like your song?”
She had. Liked it-and him-too much. It’d been a nice fantasy while it lasted.
“Yes,” she whispered, standing. “I’ve got to go. Sorry.”
She ducked past him and hurried toward the club entrance. He caught up with her.
“What gives? Did June say something to you?”
“That she didn’t want you hurt.”
“She’s overprotective. More like my mother than my sister sometimes.” He smiled. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yes, she did. She thinks I’m a-” She bit the words back, dangerously near tears. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever again.
“A what? You misunderstood her, she’s a really sweet-”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Your name’s not Yvette Borger?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not a cocktail waitress. I’m a stripper,” she said as harshly as she could. “At the Hustle. I do three sets a night and make damn good money. I get extra for lap dances and still more for ‘private’ lap dances. That’s why your sister thinks I’ll hurt you. Because I’m no good.”
He didn’t reply, and she wrenched her arm free. “I have to go.”
As she walked away, Yvette realized what hurt the most was that he didn’t try to stop her.
But she wasn’t surprised.
48
Thursday, May 10, 2007
9:25 p.m.
Yvette didn’t bother calling a cab. Despite the warm, humid night, she was cold. What an idiot she was. For allowing herself to be drawn into a fantasy. Her own little fairy tale, which didn’t have a damn thing to do with real life.
She paused to fire up a cigarette, then continued toward the Hustle. Nobody said life was going to be fair. Nobody promised it’d be easy, that people would be nice.
“The Golden Rule is for losers. To get anywhere in this world, you’ve got to watch out for number one.”
Just two of the pearls her old man had doled out, particularly with a belly full of beer.
She’d remembered those nuggets of wisdom when, at sixteen, she’d hit him over the head with the coffeepot, emptied his wallet and run. It’d been the last time she’d seen him, though she had heard he’d survived. That he still worked for the Greenwood, Mississippi, post office.
She reached the Hustle and ducked inside. Dante the bouncer grinned at her. “You’re late, sweet cheeks.”
“Shit happens.”
He shook his head. “Fine by me. Tell that to the Sarge. That one’s strung way too tight.”
Patti. No doubt freaking out. Afraid she had lost her “deposit.”
“She can kiss my ass.”
“Can I?”
He leered at her; she flipped him the bird and made her way backstage. Patti was there, pacing. She saw Yvette and stopped, expression tight.
“Where the hell were you?”
Yvette met her gaze insolently. “I went to see a friend.”
“Without telling me. We had an agreement-”
“You broke the rules first.”
“Grow up.”
“I don’t need your lectures.” Yvette turned and flounced into her dressing room.
Patti followed. “Actually, I think you do. You came to me for help, remember?”
“Don’t pull that crap with me. You need me. More than I need you.”
“Are you so certain about that? I seem to remember you being pretty scared. Pretty certain that the Artist had killed your friend. Or was that another of your fabrications?”
Angry, Yvette folded her arms across her chest. “Screw off! I have a life.”
“The question is, do you want to keep it?”
She jerked her chin up. “I think he’s packed up his saw and moved on.”
“What makes you think that?”
“We haven’t seen or heard from him. My moving in with you spooked him.”
Patti laughed. “You think a freak who’s killed some nine people is going to get spooked by me?”
“You’re a cop. You carry a gun.”
“And you’re an irresponsible child.”
“Screw this. And you.”
Yvette strode across to the vanity and began stuffing her things into a tote bag.
“Where do you think you’re going to go?”
“Anywhere else but here. I don’t need you or this crappy job.”
“Alma Maytree is dead.”
Yvette froze. She turned slowly and looked at Patti. “What did you say?”
“Alma Maytree is dead. That’s where I went this afternoon. Somebody killed her.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Two nights ago or so. Bashed in the side of her head with a frying pan.”
Her father, out cold. Blood trickling from his head. Pooling on the speckled Formica floor.
She shook her head. “Why would anyone hurt Miss Alma? She was the sweetest, most gentle person. Nice to everybody.”
“This happened two nights ago, Yvette.”
For a full three seconds, she stared dumbly at Patti. Then she understood.
The Artist.
“He did this, didn’t he?”
“We can’t jump to conclusions. It might have nothing to
do with him.”
“But you think it does?”
“Yes.”
“But…why?” she cried. “Why would he hurt her? I don’t understand!”
“The same reason he poisoned Samson. To get to you.”
Yvette brought a hand to her mouth and sank to the floor. “I’m going to be sick.”
Patti snatched up the trash can and brought it to her. Yvette bent over it and retched up the horror of the past weeks, the disappointments of a lifetime, the fear that held her in its grip.
When she’d finished, Patti handed her a damp towel and a bottle of water.
“Do you get it now, Yvette? Do you see what you’re dealing with? Why I set up all those stupid rules?”
Yvette thought of Miss Alma, her sweet nature, how much she had loved her yappy Pomeranian. She pictured Riley, imagined a life with someone like him. A good life. With children and a home. The fairy tale.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
“Then you need to do what I say. This isn’t a game.”
Or she could run. Take the money and get the hell out of New Orleans.
Yvette stood, legs wobbly, and crossed to her chair. She sank onto it and reached for her handbag and cigarettes. Her hands shook so badly, she could hardly light one.
When she had, she pulled greedily on it. After a moment, calmer, she said, “This is crazy. Insane.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I shouldn’t be here. I should go.”
“He hurt your friend. A sweet old lady who couldn’t fight back. He poisoned a defenseless animal. Killed six other women, that we know of.”
“And your husband.”
“Yes. And my husband. Don’t let him get away with it, Yvette. Help me get him.”
Yvette stared at her. The moments ticked past. The cigarette had burned down to the filter. With a yelp of pain, she stamped it out.
“Help me,” Patti said. “Please.”
Finger stinging, vision blurred by tears, Yvette said she would.
49
Monday, May 14, 2007
6:30 a.m.
Stacy stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed. The Alma Maytree murder was not adding up for her. As of last evening, every tenant in the building-except Yvette Borger-had been questioned either by her, Baxter or one of the assisting officers.
Last Known Victim Page 21