Last Known Victim (17 page)

“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.”

Saturday, April 28, 2007
8:45 p.m.

B
y 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.”

“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.

Sunday, April 29, 2007
Noon

Y
vette 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.”