“Ready. But not happy.”
“Tough shit.”
“She’s really young,” Patti said softly. “She hasn’t had an easy life.”
“You actually like her?”
“I understand her.”
At the sound of a door slamming, they turned. Yvette stalked into the foyer, lugging a suitcase.
She dropped it with a thud at Stacy’s feet. “I’m not doing this again. I’m returning to my apartment and that’s where I’m going to stay.”
Stacy rolled her eyes. Arrogance was unattractive enough when it was attached to true talent or brilliance. Attached to childishness, it was just plain irritating. When would Yvette realize this was as much to save her as to catch Sammy’s killer?
“Play nice,” Patti said. “I’ll see you at the Hustle tomorrow night.”
“Whatever.”
She strode to the SUV, leaving the suitcase for Stacy to bring. Stacy gritted her teeth. If the Artist showed, maybe she should let him scare the crap out of the little witch.
After telling Patti goodbye, she headed to the Explorer, then climbed into the driver’s seat.
“What about my suitcase?” Yvette said.
“Your arms aren’t broken.”
The younger woman glared at her. Stacy smiled. “It’s not my stuff, I don’t care if we leave it behind.”
With a huff, Yvette threw open the door and went to retrieve her case. After she had stowed it in back, she climbed back in, steaming.
Stacy glanced at Yvette. “You just can’t see that we’re inconveniencing ourselves for you?”
“Whatever.” She slammed her car door. “NOPD must not pay much. This is a pretty crappy ride.”
“I have other priorities.”
“Like what?”
“Saving for the future, for one.” Yvette didn’t respond and Stacy added, “You probably think that’s pretty boring.”
“Actually, I don’t.” She looked at her. “What does your boyfriend think about this?”
Stacy pulled away from the curb, heading back into the French Quarter. “My boyfriend?”
“Detective Malone. I know you live with him.”
“So?”
“So what does he think about you moving in with me?”
“He’s not happy. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Be careful or he’ll find someone who does make him happy.”
“Relationships aren’t so black and white.”
She smiled snidely. “That’s what girls like you tell themselves.”
“Really? And girls like you think a real relationship is a lap dance and a really good tip.”
“Screw you.”
They didn’t speak again until they had entered her apartment building’s courtyard. Then they made a lot of commotion, lugging Brandi’s suitcases, giggling like girlfriends on a new adventure. Along the way, Yvette introduced “Brandi” to a half-dozen neighbors, repeating the roommate story with the ease of an accomplished actress-or liar.
Once inside the apartment, both dropped all pretense of friendliness. “I’ll take your bedroom,” Stacy said.
“I don’t think so. That’s my bed and I’m sleeping in it.”
“If your Artist pal decides to visit tonight, he’ll creep into your bedroom. Not the guest room. Which sort of defeats the purpose of my being here, now, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I’m not changing the sheets,” Yvette snapped, dragging her bag to the second bedroom. “You want clean sheets, you do it yourself.”
Stacy had wanted them. After making up the bed and partially unpacking, she met Yvette in the kitchen. They decided on Chinese takeout for dinner. After it was delivered, they ate it with chopsticks in front of the TV, then both turned in for the night-all without exchanging anything but the most basic niceties. “Pass the rice” and “Could you turn up the volume” had been the conversational highlights of the evening.
Yvette’s bed was comfortable, the apartment quiet. Still, Stacy couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, thoughts racing. She longed to call Spencer. Just to hear his voice. In the hopes that he longed to hear hers, too.
From the front of the apartment came the sound of a door opening. A telltale click, a gentle whoosh.
Stacy retrieved her Glock and cleared the bed without making a sound. Weapon out, she inched her way down the hall. She checked Yvette’s room first.
Her bed was empty.
Firming her grip on the Glock, she started forward, pausing every couple of steps to listen. Silence.
The kitchen was empty. But not the front room.
Yvette. Standing at the open door, smoking.
“What are you doing?”
The younger woman jumped, startled, then spun around. “You scared the shit out of me!”
Stacy lowered her weapon. “Nice mouth.”
“Fuck off. Better?”
“I suggest you close the door. That isn’t safe.”
“I wanted a smoke.”
“Then do it at a window.”
She scowled, bent and put the cigarette out in a large potted palm. “You’re so bossy.”
“It’s my job. It’ll help keep you alive.”
She stepped inside, closed and locked the door. “How’d you know I was up?”
“I heard you.” At her surprised expression, Stacy added, “Also part of my job.”
She decided not to share that she’d been unable to sleep. Let the woman think she had a super-spidey sense of hearing.
“Mind if I get a glass of milk?”
“Help yourself. But give it the sniff test first.”
“Thanks.” Stacy headed to the kitchen; Yvette followed. She laid her weapon on the counter, opened the refrigerator and took out the carton.
After checking the date, she sniffed. Confident it hadn’t soured, she poured herself a cup, then warmed it in the microwave.
“You don’t put anything in it?”
She shook her head. “My mother used to give me warm milk when-”
“When what?”
When she couldn’t sleep. When she couldn’t get the sound of Jane’s screams out of her head.
“At night sometimes. Heating the milk brings out the natural sugar in it, so it tastes sweet. You should try it.”
Yvette poured a cup, heated it and sipped. She made a face. “It’s okay. Needs some Hershey’s. Or whiskey.”
Stacy laughed. “That’s one way to get to sleep.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep sometimes? When you were a kid?”
“My sister Jane was in a really horrible accident and almost died. She was with me. I was older, I felt responsible.”
Yvette took another sip. “What kind of an accident?”
“Hit by a boater while swimming. The prop-” She bit the words “chewed up her face and nearly decapitated her” back. “She’s good now. Really good.”
“You’re close?”
“Very.”
“I don’t have any family.”
“None?”
It seemed to Stacy she hesitated slightly before saying no. Could be “no family” was more a statement of principle than fact.
“Sorry I scared you earlier. Cops move quietly.”
“S’okay. I shouldn’t have opened the door like that. I guess that was stupid.”
Stacy curled her hands around the warm mug. “Can I ask you a question?”
Yvette shrugged. “I guess.”
“Why are you doing this? Hanging around, maybe putting yourself in danger. You could have taken off.”
“Patti’s paying me.”
She said it so casually, as if it was totally no big deal. “Obviously you think that’s okay?”
“Obviously you don’t. I’m not ashamed.”
“Maybe you should be?”
Yvette flushed, but not with embarrassment, Stacy suspected. With anger. “Screw the goody-goody crap. I’m putting my life on the line to help her. Besides, the money was her idea, not mine
.”
“You could have refused it.”
“Why would I have done that?”
“Because the Handyman murdered her husband. She’s grieving. It makes her vulnerable.”
“To people like me.”
“Yes.”
“From where I’m standing, people like you are a lot more dangerous. At least I’m honest about my motives.”
“This is stupid.” Stacy dumped the last of her milk in the sink. “I’m going to bed.”
She didn’t get far. “Why’re you really here?” Yvette called. “Afraid I’m going to run off with her ten grand?”
The amount knocked the wind out of Stacy. “She’s paying you ten thousand dollars?”
“Fifty. Ten’s the deposit.”
Stacy gazed at the young woman, her dislike of her so strong she felt ill. “That money’s part of her husband’s life insurance payoff.”
“And it’s hers to spend as she chooses.”
Stacy shook her head. “You make me sick.”
Yvette stiffened. “I’m being paid for performing a service. She made the offer, I took it.”
“Performing a service. That’s what you do, right? It’s at the heart of all your relationships, your every move. I was going to apologize for what I said about life being all about money for you. Now I see just how accurate that comment was.”
51
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
8:05 a.m.
Patti worked to shake out the mental cobwebs. She sat at her kitchen table, cup of coffee and the Times-Picayune on the table in front of her.
Still no Artist. Not at Yvette’s apartment, not at the Hustle. She was beginning to think Yvette was right: he had gotten spooked and had taken off.
Her cell phone vibrated. She saw from the display that it was Stacy. “What’s up?” she answered.
“The brat refuses to get up.”
“Did you try shooting her in the butt?”
“Very funny. Should I douse her with a glass of cold water? I’ve got to head in.”
Patti dragged a hand through her hair. “Leave her. I’ll clean up and head over there and collect Sleeping Beauty.”
“Wrong story. This one’s more like Beauty and the Beast. Guess who’s the Beast?”
Patti laughed. “All quiet last night?”
“Yes. You?”
“No Artist.”
“Thoughts?”
“It’s too early to think, I’ll check in later.”
Patti hung up. Yvette had grown more difficult to manage by the day. She believed the Artist had lost interest. No longer afraid, the young woman was all attitude and no gratitude.
If Patti didn’t want this guy so desperately, she’d cut Yvette loose. She had lied to her chief and the men and women under her command. She had alienated Spencer and now driven a wedge between him and Stacy. And for what?
Her cell phone went off again, but this time it wasn’t Stacy. It was June.
“I’m at your front door,” she said. “I come bearing gifts.”
“I’ll be right there.”
A moment later, she swung open the door. June held a napkin-covered basket. “I went crazy baking. Save me from myself?”
“You’re an angel of mercy, you know that?”
She stepped aside so her friend could enter. “Why didn’t you ring the bell?”
“I was afraid you might be sleeping. I know your new hours are…different.”
Patti cut her an amused glance. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“Spencer.”
Big surprise. “Come on, I’ve got coffee.”
June followed her to the kitchen. Patti got out plates and napkins, filled a mug for June and freshened her own.
Muffins, Patti saw as they sat down. Big, fat banana-nut muffins.
Heaven on earth.
June made pretty much the best muffins on the planet. They were so good, for a time she had considered marketing them. She could have been the Mrs. Fields of muffins. But then the low-carb craze had come along, and she’d abandoned the idea.
“So what Spencer told me is true.”
Patti dug in. “What’d he tell you?”
“That you asked for a leave of absence to try to track down Sammy’s killer yourself. That you’ve lost hold of your senses. That you’ve now involved Stacy in it. He’s quite worried.”
“And he called you and asked if you would try to talk some sense into me.”
“Pretty much. What’s going on?”
“I haven’t lost my mind, if you’re worried.”
June smiled and peeled away a muffin’s paper liner. “Prove it.”
“Yes, I’ve taken a leave of absence. I don’t think that in itself is so shocking. As for tracking down Sammy’s killer, I’ve had doubts about Franklin. The department does not. While I’m footloose and fancy free, I thought I’d investigate a few leads.”
“Now, venturing into the ‘lost it’ category. That’s not who Patti O’Shay is.”
Patti looked away, then back. “I’m not so certain I know who Patti O’Shay is anymore.”
“It’s natural for you to feel this way.” June reached across the table and covered Patti’s hand with her own. “After what you’ve been through.”
“Now, I’ve inserted a wedge between Spencer and Stacy.”
“He said she moved out. That they were through.”
Patti nodded. “How’d he sound?”
“Miserable.” June took a sip of her coffee. “Personally, I say good for her. It’s about time.”
“How can you say that?”
“Has he not been stringing her along? Taking her for granted? Men wield all the power in relationships. Seems like she’s taking some back.” She reached for her muffin. “Again, I say good for her.”
June had said things like that before. Patti felt bad for her. Several failed romances and a short, disastrous marriage had left her wary of men, cynical about relationships and the balance of power between the sexes.
Patti’s experience had been so different-mutual respect, give and take, collaboration.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost their mind,” June continued. “Riley seems to have taken leave of his senses as well.”
“How so?”
“He’s besotted with that dancer. Yvette-”
“Borger?”
She nodded. “He does this, gets all head-over-heels stupid about some woman, then when it doesn’t work out, he mopes around for weeks. Then suddenly-”
“-is head-over-heels over another one?”
“Exactly.” June sighed. “She came to see him play the other night.”
“What night?”
“Last Thursday.”
The night she disappeared. So that’s where she’d gone.
“Why does he keep falling for women like her?”
“What do you mean, women like her?”
“You know what I mean. Strippers, party girls. Why can’t he fall for someone like Shauna?”
“Yvette’s okay,” Patti said, realizing she was defending the woman to yet another person in her life, this time her oldest friend. “She hasn’t had it easy.”
“Who has?” June shot back. “You didn’t see me drop out, resort to drugs or turning tricks.”
Patti stiffened, offended. “As far as either of us know, she has turned to neither drugs nor prostitution.”
“Lap dancing is-”
“A way for a young, uneducated woman to make a good living. Not all of us have a fat inheritance to fall back on. I respect her for doing as well as she has.”
June flushed. Patti squeezed her hand. “We can agree to disagree. Right?”
“Sure. I-” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. I sounded just awful then, didn’t I? Like one of those snobs Mother used to play bridge with. Always looking down their noses at somebody. I guess the Good Lord knew what He was doing when He didn’t give me children.”
“That’s just nonsense. You hav
e Riley. You’ve been watching out for him most of his life. And he’s turned out wonderfully.”
Patti was shocked to see June’s eyes fill with tears. “I’ve screwed him up. Made him too dependent. Emasculated him.”
“Emasculated? June, that’s just not true. You’ve been a wonderful sister.”
“I worry about him. About the way he sometimes broods. He’ll withdraw from me, become almost secreti-” She bit the thought back. “He’ll be fine.”
“Exactly. He’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.” June caught her hand again, holding it tightly. “You’re my best friend, Patti.”
“You’re my best friend, too. Twenty years now.”
“We were such babies when we met.”
Patti laughed. “You were such a baby. Remember, I’ve got ten years on you.”
June didn’t smile. “I don’t know if I could have managed all the curves and bumps without you. And I mean that.”
Tears stung Patti’s eyes. “Now you’re just getting maudlin. And you’re making me that way, too.”
June released her hand, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “Must be premenopausal.”
“Been there, done that, it sucked.” Patti’s cell phone vibrated. She saw that it was headquarters, sent June an apologetic glance and picked up. “Captain O’Shay.”
“Patti, it’s Tony. Thought you’d want in on this. Looks like we have another Handyman victim.”
52
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
9:20 a.m.
The lower Ninth ward had been one of the hardest hit by Katrina. Water had topped the levees in some areas by more than twelve feet. Rebuilding here had been at best sporadic. The current population of this parish stood at about twenty-five percent its pre-hurricane population. It was a tragic wasteland-but a smart place to dump a body.
Patti picked her way around the piles of building debris, slick from the previous night’s rain. She ducked under the scene tape, aware of the crime techs arriving behind her. The press wouldn’t be far behind once word leaked that the Handyman had struck again.
Spencer and Tony stood beside the badly decomposed victim. They looked her way as Patti approached. Spencer didn’t smile.
“Hey, Captain,” Tony said, holding out a jar of Vicks VapoRub.
Last Known Victim Page 23