Last Known Victim (5 page)

Friday, April 20, 2007
9:00 p.m.

W
hen Stacy entered the Bourbon Street Hustle, Baxter was already in place. Their gazes met briefly as she approached the bar, then he returned his attention to mixing drinks. She shifted her gaze to the bartender working with him.

Ted Parrish, their informant.
Tall, with long black hair and a goatee. He looked jumpy. It could be the position he was in—or he was cranked on his own product.

“I'm Brandi,” she said, slipping into her persona.

“The new girl.”

“See Tonya,” he said tightly, drawing a draft. “She's backstage. She'll tell you what you need to know.”

Tonya Messinger, “talent” manager.
“How do I get back there?”

“Right side of the stage. Dressing rooms and everything are there.”

“Thanks!” she called, and headed in that direction, swinging her ass as she wound her way through tables and around groups of men clustered together. A guy with an awe-inspiring beer belly and a ruddy face made a grab for her. She shimmied away, teasingly wagging a finger at him. She figured her first choice of response—breaking his arm—might blow her cover.

Stacy had familiarized herself with the club's layout through photos. She now studied the interior, looking for details she might need later. The three-tier stage was the main attraction. The first tier was the largest and round, the other two basically “wings” jutting off the sides. Tables circled the stage; the ones closest to the stage were VIP tables.

The owners had done their best to conceal the club's rough edges and give the place an upscale feel: sophisticated, subdued lighting; white tablecloths on the tables; a flickering candle on each; velvet drapes around the stage.

The long bar occupied the far wall directly across from the stage, affording those who preferred a little distance a full view of the show.

As she understood it, there were a number of semi-private and private areas for personal “performances.” Call her suspicious but she'd wager tonight's tips that more than lap dancing went on in those rooms, most of it left of the law.

As she reached the backstage entrance, the house lights dimmed, a strobe light started and pulsating music filled the club. A young woman strode out wearing sequins, feathers and scraps of fabric that would fit in the palms of her hands.

Yvette Borger. The girlfriend.

Twenty-two years old. Petite, with long, inky-black hair. Great body. Breasts too big for her petite frame.

Party pillows, Stacy thought in the slang tossed around the department. Made her own Victoria's Secret enhancement seem pretty lame.

Stacy watched her a moment, then ducked through the stage door.

She caught sight of Tonya right away, recognizing her from her photograph. She stood in the wings, watching Yvette's performance.

Stacy crossed to her. “Tonya?”

“Yes?” the woman responded.

“I'm Brandi. The new girl.”

Tonya Messinger looked like she had been around the block a few times—and like someone you didn't want to cross. Stacy judged her age to be fifty, though her estimate could be off. Tobacco, alcohol and hard living all took their toll.

“You're late.”

“Am I? I thought—”

The woman cut her off. “If your shift starts at nine, I want you here at eight-forty-five. You'll be punched in and at your station by start time. No excuses.”

She eyed her, and Stacy had the feeling that in those few moments Tonya had calculated her age, weight and bust size.

“Sure you don't want to dance? We could use another girl and the tips are a lot better.”

The Wonderbra wasn't quite that wonderful.

“Dancing's not my thing. I'm not very good at it.”

Tonya laughed, the sound deep and raspy from a lifetime of smoking. “Honey, dancing's not what you need to succeed out there. Trust me, you've got the talent. Add some attitude and you'd be good to go.”

Stacy pretended to be flattered. “Wow, thanks. I'll think about it.”

“Do that. In the meantime, let's get you out on the floor.”

While they headed back out front, Tonya gave her directions. “My job is to keep the girls in line. There's no drug use on my watch. No freebies for any reason. No catfights unless it's part of the show. That includes the wait staff.”

She looked meaningfully at her, and Stacy nodded that she understood.

“Your job is twofold. Push the drinks. Try to up-sell with call brands. Buy me a drink is code for ‘Let's party.' The girls make their money from tips—if you step on their toes, you'll regret it.

“Some of the girls drink, some don't. Whether they do or not, if the patron offers to buy a drink, he's charged. The girls will let you know ahead of time what they're drinking. Some like tonic water, some a soft drink or juice. If a patron pays for a cocktail, he wants to see her drinking it.

“Patrons will ask you to deliver messages, tips and little gifts. If you screw with that, you'll be sorry.

“In that vein,” the older woman went on, “flirt. Be sexy. But if a patron comes on to you, you decline. Your job is pushing drinks, period. Got all that?”

Stacy said she did, and the next few hours passed in a blur of pats on her behind, suggestive comments and leering looks. Not that all the club's patrons were lecherous jerks. She had a table of folks visiting from Indiana. They'd never seen “anything like this before” and had stared, open-mouthed and slightly embarrassed. She'd also served a table of LSU guys—she'd carded them—who had been very respectful. Although it had been a breath of fresh air, being treated like someone's mother hadn't done much for her ego.

Waldon had arrived and sat at a table in her station. He seemed to be enjoying this assignment way too much, and when he leered at her, she “accidentally” spilled part of a drink on him to cool him off.

In that time, their suspect hadn't shown and the closest she'd gotten to Yvette was when the dancer came over to “party with” the LSU boys.

They hadn't had much money, and she had moved on.

Stacy finally got her opportunity late in the evening. Tonya gave her a note to deliver backstage to Yvette.

Stacy found her in her dressing area, reapplying her makeup. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the vanity.

Stacy tapped on the door. “Tonya asked me to bring you this.”

Yvette stared at the note, a frown wrinkling her brow.

Stacy watched her. “Is something wrong?”

Yvette tossed the note on the vanity top, her expression dismissive. “Just some freak. I get a lot of that.”

“I'll bet. I mean, you're really good.”

“You think so?”

The eagerness in her voice revealed just how young she was. Stacy lowered her voice so she wouldn't be heard by the others. “You've got the best act, hands down.”

“What's your name?”

“Brandi.”

“How do you like the job so far?”

Stacy shrugged. “It's okay. Tips have been pretty good.”

“You want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Stay on Tonya's good side, 'cause she can be a real bitch. Play the game. It doesn't mean jack and you'll make lots more money.”

“The game?”

“Yeah, you know. Play to the guys. Give 'em what they want.” Yvette took a drag on her cigarette, then tamped it out. “Ted's a dog. He'll want to do you, so watch yourself. He'll offer crank, pills, booze…just stay clear.”

“Sounds like you've got it all figured out.”

“I've got to watch out for my own ass, you know? I'm not going to be in this dump forever. I've got plans.”

Stacy wanted to ask what they were, wanted to ask if she had a special “guy.” But she knew better. This had been a good first meeting. If she pushed too hard, too fast, the other woman would shut down.

“Well, thanks,” she said, taking a step back. “I've got to get back out there.”

Hours later, Stacy finished her shift and headed home. Marcus never appeared, and she hoped he hadn't been tipped or gotten spooked. By the end of the night Yvette had seemed annoyed, and Stacy wondered if it was because of the boyfriend's absence.

It'd been interesting watching the girls work. The way they turned it on and off. When performing for a customer, it was as if no one existed but him. The minute they walked away, it was all about the next guy.

It seemed like such a lie.

Or was it? The guys knew, right? They couldn't really think these girls were all turned on? It was just one big, hot fantasy.

Was that what guys wanted? Stacy wondered. A big, hot fantasy? Was that what Spencer wanted?

What
did
he want? They'd moved in together almost by accident. Because of Katrina. Because she'd needed a place to live and he'd had one.

And she had stayed. By a mutual, unspoken agreement. It'd been two years and she would have to say their feelings for each other had neither progressed nor deteriorated.

Inert.
Is that how she would describe their relationship? She hoped not because thinking of it that way made her feel uncomfortable—and a bit ridiculous, as well.

How else should she describe it? They'd moved in together “almost by accident.” They had stayed together by an “unspoken agreement.”

He hadn't brought up marriage. He hadn't said he loved her.

And neither had she.

She stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him sleep. She had showered, washing away the stink of cigarettes and the layers of makeup, and changed into an oversize T-shirt. Was she waiting for Spencer to take the lead? she wondered. Did she want him to?

She wanted marriage, children. A normal life. Those longings had prompted her to try leaving police work behind, to try a fresh start in a brand-new city.

Instead, she'd gotten pulled back into police work—and she'd met Spencer. Become involved with him—and ended up in this almost-by-accident, unspoken-agreement relationship.

But how could she have a normal life when the future was so uncertain? Look at Sammy: wrong place, wrong time, and now Patti was a widow. Neither she nor Spencer were cut out to be anything but the cops they were. Was it fair to want children, to offer them such an uncertain future?

Stacy slipped into bed beside Spencer.

“How'd it go?” he mumbled.

“Okay. Suspect never showed.”

He muttered something she couldn't make out.

She propped herself up on an elbow. “Malone, you ever pay for a lap dance?”

That woke him up. He rolled onto his side and looked at her. “Excuse me?”

“You ever go to those places, like the Hustle?”

“Have I ever?”

He looked a bit like someone who'd been awakened by an electrical shock.

“Yes,” she said. “Have you ever? Just curious.”

“Yeah, I've been in those places, hooted it up with the other guys. But paying some woman to grind herself against me…It's just not my thing.”

“Is it the ‘paying' part? The ‘some woman' part…or—”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Or what? The ‘a sexy woman all over me' part? Give me a break, Stacy. I've got wood just talking about it.”

She smiled. “I think I can help with that.”

“That so?”

“Mmm.” She sat up, pulled off the T-shirt and tossed it on the floor. “I'm feeling generous tonight. I'm thinking I might just give you one for free.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007
3:30 a.m.

Y
vette sat curled up on the couch of her tiny French Quarter apartment. She had showered, washed her hair and scrubbed her face clean. She wore cotton pj's and SpongeBob SquarePants slippers. She'd made herself a cup of hot chocolate, homemade with milk and Hershey's syrup—not that powdered crap. She knew she looked more the part of naive teenager than cynical stripper who'd seen it all—and then some.

Yvette had long since given up feeling embarrassed or ashamed over what she did for a living. What she had said to that new waitress, Brandi, had been the truth. She had no one to watch out for her—but her. She never had, even as a kid.

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.

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.

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.

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.