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 received, 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.”
He didn’t respond. She crossed to the doorway, stopped and looked back at him. He sat unmoving, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past her. She wondered if he hurt at all. If he, like she, felt as if someone had reached inside her chest and now held her heart in a vice grip.
Somehow, she thought not.
She let out a long breath. “It might take me a couple of weeks to find a place. I’ll start looking right away.”
30
Saturday, April 28, 2007
11:15 a.m.
Yvette had provided a list of thirty addresses she had “opened” for Gabrielle since the first of the year. Luckily, she’d written down the addresses in her day-runner-a practice Gabrielle surely would not have approved of.
There had been additional addresses the previous year, but she’d tossed her 2006 planner and without it they all ran together in her mind. Stacy had acquired a full list of all Gabrielle’s listings, but wouldn’t resort to those unless Yvette’s proved a bust.
Rene Baxter, Stacy’s partner in this investigation, had offered to drive, and she had jumped at the offer. They had warrants for each address and an agent from Gabrielle’s office had agreed to accompany them, serving as the property owners’ representation.
Rene was following the agent’s chamois-colored Camry. Buster, a seventy-five-pound drug-sniffing yellow Lab and his handler, Bob, were following them in the K-9 cruiser. B & B-as the two were known around the NOPD.
They had crossed Poydras Street and were heading into what was called the Warehouse District.
“When I was a kid, this entire area was empty warehouses. Pretty much urban blight. Now look. High-priced condos and trendy clubs.”
And restaurants, Stacy saw. Art galleries. Very hip.
“A condo there-” Baxter pointed to a three-story building “-can cost a half a million bucks. How screwed up is that?”
Stacy didn’t comment and he angled her a glance. “You’re quiet today.”
Preoccupied with the turn her life had taken this morning. “Just tired,” she fibbed.
“Hungry?”
She glanced at him. “Grumpy or Bashful or Doc?”
He laughed at her reference to the Seven Dwarfs from Snow White. “I’m going to need some lunch pretty soon.”
“We just started.”
“Yeah, but we started really close to lunchtime.”
She smiled. Small and wiry, not an ounce overweight, Rene Baxter was an eating machine. Where he put it, she had no clue. “Let’s do this one and another, then we’ll break.”
“Agreed. Tacos, chicken or burgers?”
“I’m sure Buster’d be happy with any of those, but I’m thinking tacos.”
“Can take the girl out of Texas but can’t take Texas out of the girl.”
“You know it, partner.”
The Camry pulled to a stop in front of a three-story brick building. A big For Sale-Gabrielle Realty sign was propped up in the front window. Rene eased into the spot behind it, and they all climbed out.
Buster strained slightly against his lead, obviously anxious to get started. After all, this was what he had been trained for. For Buster, this was the juice.
You go, big boy.
The Realtor unlocked the door and they filed in. Stacy moved her gaze over the space. It appeared to have most recently been a restaurant or club.
Bob unleashed Buster, who began to do his thing. She watched the dog as he began his search, sniffing, totally focused. When he picked up on a scent, he would “alert.” There were two types of alerts, she had learned. The passive, in which the dog would sit, and the aggressive, where he would scratch.