“Tonya said that?”
Yvette nodded. “I wondered if he sent her the same kind of letters.”
“She never mentioned it to me. We didn’t have that kind of relationship.”
“She never said anything about being stalked, creeped out or anything?”
“Sorry.”
“She have a boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of. Hard to do what we do and have a real relationship.” Gia took a last drag on her smoke, then drained her cocktail. “I’m beat. See you tomorrow.”
As she stood to go, Yvette touched her arm. “Autumn still around?”
“She took off already.” The woman frowned slightly, then leaned her head toward Yvette’s. “Word of advice?”
Yvette turned slightly and met her eyes. She nodded.
“I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her. She’s in it for Tonya. Always.”
Long after the other woman walked away, Yvette sat at the bar, nursing her drink, the things Gia had said ringing in her head.
I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her. Hard to do what we do and have a real relationship.
And not just a romantic one but any relationship. She didn’t have any friends. Not real friends, anyway. The kind you trusted and turned to for understanding and support. No family. No boyfriend.
She thought of Marcus and wanted to laugh. There’d been no affection there, no respect. The attraction for her had been money, for him sex. Or something like it.
The guys she met were either already in a relationship and looking for some action on the side, or were freaks, like her buddy the Artist.
And if a regular Joe stumbled in here, he wouldn’t want someone like her.
What’s your girlfriend do? She’s a dancer down at the Hustle.
And if the guy was proud of that-or worse, turned on by it-he was a creep. If he approved of what she did because of the money, he was a pimp and a creep.
Problem was, for a woman who made a living shaking her tits and ass, she had some pretty conservative ideas about love.
But maybe they all did. They operated outside the mainstream but longed to live-and love-inside it.
Tonya took the stool next to hers. “You talked to Gia.”
It wasn’t a question. Yvette answered, anyway. “She remembered Jessica, but Jessica never mentioned the Artist or receiving any creepy letters.”
“What about Autumn?”
“I missed her.”
“She’s dancing tomorrow night.” Tonya stood. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift home.”
Yvette hesitated.
I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her.
She opened her mouth to ask why the woman was being so nice to her, then shut it, question unspoken. Fact was, she needed someone to trust-and nobody else was available.
32
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Noon
Yvette hadn’t slept well. She had tossed and turned, troubled by nightmares of faceless women running for their lives. In each dream, when they’d had nowhere left to run, Yvette had realized she was the woman. And that she was going to die.
Thunder rumbled in the dark sky outside her kitchen window. It had been raining since long before daybreak. The weather certainly wasn’t lightening her mood.
The front intercom sounded. Yvette answered.
“It’s Tonya.” The woman’s voice shook. “Can I come up?”
“I’ll buzz you in.”
The woman was winded and wet when she reached Yvette’s apartment. She clutched part of a newspaper to her chest. “You have anything to drink?”
“Juice or cof-”
“Something stronger. Bloody Mary?”
“No tomato juice. Screwdriver?”
Tonya collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Make it strong.”
Yvette did, quickly adding vodka to a glass of orange juice. She set it on the table in front of Tonya, then took a seat across from her.
The woman picked up the glass, gulped down half the drink, then carefully laid the newspaper on the table, facing Yvette.
It was the Metro Section. Yvette looked at the newspaper, no clue as to what Tonya wanted her to see.
Tonya reached across the table and tapped the paper. “That’s her. Jessica, the girl I told you about.”
Yvette stared at the image. Not a photograph. A police artist’s rendering, in clay. She scanned the paragraph that described the woman. The police were trying to identify the “Jane Doe” and asking the public for help.
Yvette dragged her gaze from the image to look at Tonya once more. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m so freaked out.”
“But that means she’s-”
“Dead.” Tonya drained the drink. She held up the empty glass. “Mind if I refill?”
She told her to help herself, though it seemed obvious the one she had just guzzled hadn’t been her first. Did she always drink like this, or was she that rattled?
Tonya mixed the drink, then looked back at Yvette. “And not just dead, murdered. Otherwise they wouldn’t be trying to ID her.”
Yvette stared at her a moment, the reason Tonya had rushed over here sinking in. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You don’t think he…that the Artist killed her, do you?”
“Maybe. He liked her. She disappeared. And you think he killed Marcus.”
Yvette felt ill. “You’re sure it’s her?”
Tonya nodded. “Read the description. It fits her to a T. Age, height-”
“But lots of women-”
“No. Read that again. Jessica had really crooked teeth. She hardly ever smiled because of them. They make a point of mentioning them.”
Tonya sipped the drink, expression intent. “She was beautiful except for those teeth. She talked about getting braces but was afraid they’d turn the guys off.”
Yvette pushed the paper away, unable to look at the representation a moment longer. She realized she was shaking. And that she was scared.
“What do we do now? Go to the police?” Even as she asked the question, she wondered if Tonya’s word would be enough to convince them.
The other woman’s response seemed to echo her thoughts. “We need proof that the creep writing you those letters was also writing Jess.”
“How do we do that?”
“You talk to Autumn tonight, and I’ll do a little snooping.”
33
Saturday, May 5, 2007
8:25 p.m.
It’d been a quiet week. Blessedly so. No notes or packages from the Artist. No mysterious women claiming to be somebody’s mother stealing keys or breaking in.
Yvette wondered if the reconstruction in the paper had scared him off. If he had, indeed, murdered Jessica Skye, maybe knowing she had been found and that the police were investigating had made him decide to take off.
She hadn’t exactly lowered her guard, but she had relaxed it.
She’d spoken to Autumn. The dancer remembered Jess, but like Gia, didn’t recall her saying she had a freaky fan or that she was feeling threatened or uncomfortable about anything.
Autumn hadn’t heard from the other dancer since Katrina, but figured she’d blown out of town as Katrina blew in. Like just about everyone else in the Big Easy.
Yvette had shown her the likeness from the newspaper, but Autumn had been less certain it was Jessica. The description fit, but she remembered Jess being much prettier.
Yvette had vowed to put all thoughts of the Artist aside for the evening. She had taken a day shift so she could have the night off. It was the last Art Walk of the season, when the galleries throughout the art district coordinated their show openings, serving wine and cheese to art lovers who strolled from one exhibit to the next.
Yvette loved Art Walks. She loved the diversity of the crowd, from the young and old, rich and poor, traditional to pretty damn whacked-and everything in between. The only common thread between them, an appreciation for the arts.