“We decided it wasn’t worth it,” Riley offered. “Life’s too short.”
“Why did you choose to list with Marcus Gabrielle?”
She looked uncomfortable. “I read about his murder. It was…horrible. Shot down like that, in his own driveway.”
She rubbed her arms. “I thought this city was over that. I thought Katrina had taught us all something.”
Dream on. Unfortunately, the criminal element was never “changed” for long. In fact, murders were significantly up, though mostly turf wars between rival gangs.
June sighed. “He was a good customer of ours. A true patron of the arts. When we decided to sell the properties, we chose to return the favor.”
“I liked him,” Riley offered. “He seemed like a good guy.”
Stacy didn’t disabuse him of the notion, though she found it almost funny. The “good guy” cheated on his wife, physically bullied his girlfriend and manufactured and distributed meth.
Stacy stepped in. “Did he ever come in with people you’d describe as unsavory? Or whom you were surprised to see him with?”
“No,” June replied. “He mostly came alone. Or with his wife.”
“No one else?”
“And once with that agent of his. What was her name?” She looked at her brother.
“Trudy,” he answered, “short gray hair.”
The same agent who had escorted them to the properties today.
“What’s this all about?” June asked, as if suddenly questioning their visit and interview.
“Just following every lead,” Stacy said smoothly.
“Any suspects?” Riley asked.
“We’re working on it.”
“I’ve thought of his wife and kids so often in the past few days,” June murmured. “Such a tragedy.”
The gallery phone jangled; Riley excused himself to answer it.
“If you think of anything, June, please call.”
“I will, of course.” She walked them to the gallery entrance. “We’re still on for brunch tomorrow?” she asked Patti when they reached it.
“Absolutely. You still making eggs Sardou?”
She said she was. From inside, Riley called for his sister. “See you Saturday,” she said, then ducked back into the gallery.
As the late afternoon sunshine spilled over them, Patti looked at Stacy. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Spencer.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Are you fighting?”
Stacy shook her head. “With all due respect, Patti, I think that’s a little personal.”
“Not in this family.”
She was right. There was no worry of dysfunctional secrets or deeply harbored hurts in the Malone family. They pretty much laid it all out for everyone to see.
“We’re not fighting,” she said. “But we are talking about me getting my own place.”
“It finally happened. We all told him it would if he didn’t commit. We warned him he’d lose you.”
Well, that explained his proposal. Family pressure. Screws applied and turned.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Patti. He asked me to marry him. I said no.”
The older woman looked confused. “But you and he-”
“He doesn’t love me,” Stacy said softly. “And I want someone who does. I think I deserve that.”
Patti’s cell phone buzzed, cutting her off. Sending Stacy an apologetic glance, she answered. “Captain O’Shay.”
Stacy watched as Patti listened, her expression sharpening. “Thank you for letting me know. I’m coming now.”
She snapped the phone closed and looked at Stacy. “That was Alison Mackenzie from FACES. The City Park Jane Doe’s facial reconstruction is complete.”
31
Saturday, April 28, 2007
8:45 p.m.
By the time Yvette clocked in that night, she had worked up a fierce case of righteous indignation. Of course Detectives Malone and Killian hadn’t believed her. If a teacher, nurse or librarian had presented them with the same story, they would have jumped right on it. But a stripper? Oh no, with her they needed “proof.”
Typical cops.
What had she been thinking, turning to them? How could she have hoped they would protect her?
When had the cops, or anybody else, ever protected her?
The one calling himself the Artist had killed Marcus. He was obsessed with her, had been in her home several times. He had killed Marcus “for her.”
If Detectives Malone and Killian wanted proof, she’d get it for them.
She didn’t know why it was suddenly so important that they believe her, that she prove she was right, but it was.
Tonya poked her head into Yvette’s dressing area. “Just checking on you. Everything okay?”
Yvette smiled grimly. “I haven’t heard from him again, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“He hasn’t been in, either, but I’m on the lookout. If he shows tonight, I’ll know it.”
“If he does, let me know right away.”
Tonya nodded. “I was thinking, I’ve seen him in here before this. Before the storm.”
Yvette had landed the job at the Hustle after Katrina. The Hustle was one of the first clubs to reopen-and they had needed girls. Besides, it had been a nice step up for her.
“He liked another girl,” Tonya said.
A lump formed in Yvette’s throat. “Who?”
“Jessica Skye. She was real popular. Blond. Blue-eyed. Great body.”
Yvette felt cold suddenly. She rubbed her arms. “Where’d she go?”
“Quit. Evacuated for the storm.”
“She ever say anything about some guy creeping her out?”
“Not a thing.”
Tonya started out the door, then stopped and looked back. “If he comes in tonight, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Get a look at him for sure.”
“The thing about this guy is, he doesn’t look scary. He’s kind of dumpy. Smallish. Wears thick, clunky glasses. You know, like Clark Kent or pre-spider-bite Peter Parker.”
Yvette nodded and thanked the woman. Alone again, she turned back to the mirror to finish applying makeup.
Only two of the girls presently working the Hustle-Autumn and Gia-had been here before the storm.
Yvette wondered if they would remember Jessica, and if they did, whether she had said anything about an admirer who called himself the Artist.
Both of the other women were working tonight, so she planned to speak to them before their shifts ended.
The rest of the evening crawled by. Yvette now understood what it meant to be on pins and needles. She felt as if her every nerve was on the alert, waiting for Tonya to signal that “he” was here. As she danced, her thoughts were consumed with him. Was he watching her? Planning his next move? Sensing her fear, getting off on it?
Tonya’s signal never came. A part of her had been relieved, another part frustrated. She wanted to see him for herself, look into his eyes and know what she was dealing with.
Tonight she would have to content herself with talking to Gia and Autumn. She caught Gia first, sitting at the bar after closing.
Yvette took the stool next to hers. “Hi, Gia.”
“Hey, Vette,” the woman responded, her voice a soft, deep drawl. “You had a good night?”
“Not my best, but decent. How about you?”
“Same. Beats the hell out of what I’d make at Dillard’s,” she said, referring to a local department store chain.
“Got a question about a girl who danced here before Katrina. Jessica Skye. You remember her?”
“Sure, Jess was a sweetie.”
“You ever hear from her?”
“Nope. She left for the storm. That’s the last I heard from her.” She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Why?”
“I’m getting letters from this dude who calls himself the Artist. Tonya’s thinking he used to request Jessica a lot.”