She’d survived because she was a fighter. And a realist. Tonight she’d made five hundred bucks. She’d make that tomorrow as well, maybe a little more.
So what if she had to grind herself against some guy’s crotch or shake her tits for a bunch of horny strangers? She pulled down six-plus figures a year, much of it tax free-and the only investment she’d had to make was in her double-Ds.
Where else could a twenty-two-year-old with no skills, training or education make that kind of cash?
Nowhere. That was a fact. One she had learned the hard way.
Yvette sipped her chocolate, thoughts turning to Marcus. To his absence tonight. She frowned as she realized she had grown to expect him to be there each night. That she counted on it.
Not emotionally. She’d been kicked in the teeth enough times to have finally cured herself of falling for every guy who acted like he cared. Cured herself of stupidly trusting anyone who held out their hand in friendship.
She didn’t love Marcus. She wasn’t so stupid as that. Not only was he married, but he was beyond her. Too educated. Too rich. Too connected. The best she could hope for from Marcus was a good time and a lot of cash.
Yvette curled her fingers around the warm mug. Unlike most of the girls, she didn’t blow her money. Not up her nose or on things like jewelry and clothes. With the help of a broker, she’d invested it. She had money invested in the market and a good, old-fashioned savings account.
She wasn’t going to let anyone or anything beat her down-not Marcus, a hurricane named Katrina or life itself. She’d been down that road with her daddy-and had vowed never again.
The memory came upon her so suddenly it took her breath. Blood. A growing pool of it. The sound of terror. Of hopelessness.
No! She wouldn’t allow herself to go there. That belonged to another part of her life. To another person.
She meant to move forward. Only forward. Save enough to go to school. Buy a little house somewhere. Get a dog.
Have a happy life.
Her thoughts drifted to tonight’s creepy note. From the freak who called himself the “Artist.” It hadn’t been the first note she had received from him. Nor had it been the first time a “fan” had written, professing their undying love and devotion. The job drew freaks, perverts and lonely guys in search of “true” love.
She set down her hot chocolate and reached for her backpack. She dug inside and pulled out the three notes.
She had received the first a week ago. Yvette opened it and reread the short, cryptic message.
I think you’re the one. I can’t be certain… am afraid to hope… I just pray I have finally found you, my sweet muse.
Yours, the Artist
It had been written on unlined journal paper. Or perhaps paper taken from a sketch tablet. The handwriting was spidery, in pencil. “Old person” handwriting.
The second had been delivered three days ago.
Tell me, do you long for love? True, undying and eternal love? For “the one” who will never leave you? I think you do. And it makes me love you all the more.
Yours, the Artist
She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. It was as if he had peeked inside her. It was what she had always wanted-undying and eternal love, someone who would love her forever, never leave her.
She shifted her attention to tonight’s message. It had been written on a lovely sheet of Crane’s stationery. In black ink. The envelope had been fixed with a wax seal. A blood-red A.
As I watched you last night, I realized you are, indeed, the one I’ve been waiting for. It has seemed ages since I’ve felt this rush, this wellspring of creativity…Of raw emotion.
Just know this, sweet muse, I love you. And someday…some perfect day, we will be together. Forever.
Yours, the Artist
When would he make his next move? she wondered. Would he find the courage to approach her? To ante up for a “private performance”?
The prickly sense of unease surprised her. She tossed the note aside. Just another creep, she told herself firmly. One she would take more seriously if he’d bothered to tuck a twenty dollar bill into the envelope.
After all, “true love” didn’t come free.
No, he wouldn’t be approaching her for a private show. Freaks like him liked it better from a distance. They liked it cerebral. And when they got off, it was alone with their perverted thoughts.
10
Saturday, April 21, 2007
7:56 a.m.
The jangle of the phone dragged Spencer out of a deep sleep. He managed to reach it and bring the receiver to his ear without opening his eyes. “Yo.”
“Wake up, Detective. I found something.”
He cracked open his eyes. Squinting against the light, he looked at the clock. Not quite eight.
“Aunt Patti?”
“It’s Captain O’Shay this morning. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
She hung up before Spencer could reply. Obviously she knew him well enough to anticipate his attempt to wheedle a few more minutes out of her.
Spencer tossed down the phone and climbed out of bed.
“Bad news?” Stacy asked sleepily.
“Aunt Patti. She’s on her way over.”
Stacy murmured something that sounded like “Be careful,” then burrowed deeper into her pillow. Spencer bent and kissed her, then headed for the shower.
Captain Patti O’Shay was nothing if not punctual. Exactly twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of his house and tooted her horn. He stumbled out, “to-go” mug clutched in his hand.
After fastening his safety belt, he turned to her. “Want to tell me where we’re going?”
She pulled away from the curb. “Quentin and Anna’s.”
His brother and sister-in-law’s? Now she had his full attention. “I take it this isn’t a social call?”
“Going through the Handyman files, I found something we missed last time. In one of the photos. See for yourself.” She indicated the file folder lying on the dash.
He opened it. The folder contained photographs of the refrigerator where the hands had been discovered. She had circled something in the first photo, a small item affixed to the freezer door, nearly under the handle.
It’d been easy to miss because of its size, the location and because the duct tape that had been used to secure the unit half covered it.
“I made a blowup,” Patti said without taking her eyes from the road.
He thumbed to the next photo. A promotional magnet, he saw. One for a suspense novel by local author Anna North.
His sister-in-law.
“Holy shit.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Anna’s not going to like this.”
An understatement, he knew. The only child of celebrities, Anna had been kidnapped as a child, her pinkie severed and sent to her family as a warning. She had escaped, but the ordeal had left her, understandably, traumatized. Not until she had become another maniac’s target had she been able to conquer her fears.
That’s how she had met Quentin; he had been the detective assigned to her case. They now lived with their young son in Mandeville, a bedroom community located across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans.
“We shouldn’t have missed this,” he said.
“No, we shouldn’t have.”
The months immediately following Katrina had been nightmarish; they’d been overwhelmed, stretched to near breaking. It had made them sloppy, a fact neither was proud of.
“Do they know we’re coming?”
“I spoke with Quentin.”