“I’m not discounting anything at this point.”
“Admirable, Captain.” He glanced at his watch, then looked at her again. “The public will be reassured to know this monster’s been caught.”
“Not if he proves to be the wrong monster.”
He frowned. “We’ll be making certain that doesn’t happen, won’t we, Captain O’Shay?”
He had officially put her on notice. The clock was ticking on this investigation. The chief wanted her to build the case against Franklin, not continue to look for suspects.
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
As he walked away, she acknowledged that for the first time in her career, she wasn’t sure she could follow a direct order.
27
Saturday, April 28, 2007
1:15 a.m.
The Hustle was jumping, even by Friday night standards. It was the first weekend of Jazz Fest-next to Mardi Gras, the city’s biggest tourist draw-and the tips and booze were flowing.
Yvette figured she might break her personal record, despite the fact she was jumpy, distracted and barely going through the motions.
The last two days had been the longest of her life. She had spent them looking over her shoulder, searching every shadow and thinking about Marcus’s murder.
I did it for you.
Yours always, the Artist.
After discovering the note, she had been frozen with fear. Panic had followed. She hadn’t known what to do, who to call. She had no one. No family or close friends, no husband or boyfriend.
Not the police. Not them.
She had no one to depend on but herself.
She had considered packing up, taking off. To hell with her apartment and this crummy job.
But she had run before. Once upon a time, she had lived in fear. Of her father. The street. Helplessness. Hopelessness. She’d promised herself she’d never live that way again, never run away. It’s why she had refused to evacuate for Katrina. If she stood up to that bitch, she figured she could stand up to anything.
So she’d had her locks changed. Made a couple of inquiries to alarm companies. Thought about buying a gun, then rejected the idea.
In the meantime, it had been quiet. No more anonymous notes. No more break-ins. Maybe it was over.
“Hi, Yvette,” Tonya said, poking her head into the dressing room, which was really not much more than a screened-off enclosure. “Almost time. I’ve got a note for you.” Tonya handed her the sealed envelope. “See you in six.”
Yvette opened the envelope, pulled out the note. Paper fluttered to the floor. No, she saw. Not paper. Money.
Five one hundred dollar bills.
She stared at them, heart beating heavily, then shifted her gaze to the note.
Here’s what he owed you.
A cry flew to her throat; she jumped to her feet and ran after Tonya. “Wait!” she called. “Tonya!”
The woman stopped and turned.
“Who gave you this?”
“Some guy.”
“Where? What table?”
“At the bar.”
“Show me.”
Tonya glanced at her watch and frowned. “You’re up in-”
“I know when I’m up, dammit! Point him out, it’s important!”
The woman hesitated a moment more, then motioned Yvette to follow her. They exited the backstage area and moved around the tables until they had a clear view of the bar.
She clutched Tonya’s arm. “Where is he?”
“I don’t see him…He must have gone.”
“He can’t have. Please, look again.”
She did, then shook her head. “What’s going on, Yvette?”
She shook her head, fear choking her. “He…I can’t…I…”
Tonya squeezed her hand. “I’ll get Jenny to dance for you. Go to your dressing room and calm down. I’ll be right there.”
Yvette nodded and hurried backstage. Inside the small enclosure, she stopped. The one hundred dollar bills were scattered on the floor, just where they had fallen.
Five hundred dollars. The money Marcus had owed her.
How had the Artist known? She hadn’t told anyone.
Goose bumps crawled up her arms. She moved her gaze over the small, cluttered enclosure. Had he been here?
Tonya interrupted her thoughts. “Are those one hundred dollar bills?”
Yvette met her startled gaze and nodded.
“Where did you…? Were they in that note I delivered?”
“Yes.”
“My God.”
Yvette bent and collected the bills. Her hands shook. She slipped them back into the envelope, wondering what the hell she should do now.
“You want to talk about this?”
Yvette looked at her. “What did the guy look like?”
“Average, I guess. Kind of nondescript. Harmless.”
That was only slightly reassuring. “Does he come in a lot?”
Tonya furrowed her brow. “I know I’ve seen him before. But always at the bar. He’s the kind of guy you just don’t…notice.”
The woman paused. “Do you think…surely you don’t think he’s…dangerous?”
Yvette bit her lip, and Tonya caught her breath. “Tell me what’s going on. Start at the beginning.”
So Yvette did, beginning with the first note he’d sent her, sharing how a woman had deceived a neighbor into giving her a key. “I thought he was harmless, just another one of those guys. You know, the really sad, lonely ones.”
“Go on.”
“Then Marcus was killed.” Tonya wasn’t surprised at the news. The police had questioned all the employees of the Hustle about Marcus and his associates. “Apparently he was into some pretty serious shit.”
“Meth manufacture and distribution.”
Yvette widened her eyes. “How did you-”
“Know? Honey, I know everything that goes on around here. If not immediately, soon after.”
“So you knew Brandi was a cop?”
“Not at first. Knew something wasn’t right about that one. Also knew she was Ted’s ‘hire.’ I stayed after him until he told me what was going on. Stupid shit.”
When Marcus had turned up dead, Ted had lost his leverage with the cops and was now in jail.
“Tonya, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, hon.”
“Do you believe in God?”
The woman screwed up her face in thought. “Don’t know. I guess so. Why?”
“I never thought much about it, but after Katrina, I figured there was a God and that He wanted me to live.”
Yvette realized she had closed her hand around the bills, crumpling them, and eased her grip. “I thought it was a good thing, like I was going to do something big or…important. Really turn it around and be somebody. But now-”
She cleared her throat, forced out the thought that had been nagging at her since she realized the Artist had killed Marcus. “What if He wanted me to live for this? As a catalyst for Marcus getting whacked? Or to make me a victim instead of someone who’s a better person?”
For a long moment, Tonya was quiet. “I don’t think it works that way. And you know what, if it did, He’d be a pretty crappy God.”
If Tonya had been a priest or a preacher, the thought might be comforting. But coming from a broken-down, hard-drinking ex-exotic dancer, Yvette wasn’t reassured at all.
28
Saturday, April 28, 2007
3:30 a.m.
The screech of his cell phone dragged Spencer from the depths of sleep. He fumbled for the device, managing to find it and answer without opening his eyes.
“Malone here.”
“Detective Malone?”
The voice on the other end was female, sounded young-and scared. “Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Yvette Borger.”
That woke him up. “Ms. Borger?” Stacy rolled onto her side and looked at him in question. “What-”
“I know who killed Marcus,” she said, voice cracking. “And now he’s after me.”