Authors: Erica Spindler
Saturday, April 28, 2007
3:30 a.m.
T
he screech of his cell phone dragged Spencer from the depths of sleep. He fumbled for the device, managing to find it and answer without opening his eyes.
“Malone here.”
“
Detective
Malone?”
The voice on the other end was female, sounded youngâand scared. “Yeah. Who's this?”
“Yvette Borger.”
That woke him up. “Ms. Borger?” Stacy rolled onto her side and looked at him in question. “Whatâ”
“I know who killed Marcus,” she said, voice cracking. “And now he's after me.”
“Where are you?”
“Paulie's Place.”
“That little hole-in-the-wall next to the Dungeon?”
She said it was and he climbed out of bed. “Stay put. I'll be right there.”
Stacy sat up. “What's the deal?”
“She says she knows who killed Marcus. And that he's after her.”
“I'm coming along.”
“I expected you would. Gabrielle belongs to DIU.”
“Damn right. So why'd she call you?” she asked, throwing back the covers.
He stopped in the doorway to the john and grinned back at her. “Because she thinks I'm cute.”
“I don't trust her.”
“No joke,” he said, then ducked into the john to relieve himself. When he stepped out, Stacy was dressed and waiting. She took his place, reappearing moments later. He saw that she had brushed her hair.
“What did you mean by that?” she asked as they headed for the front door.
“It's obvious you don't trust her. Yvette Borger trades on her looks and sexuality. And you just don't get that.”
Stacy stopped, frowned at him. “I get that.”
“I meanâ” He opened the door for her. “It's so opposite to who you are, you're automatically suspicious.”
“She thinks you can be manipulated.”
“With her feminine wiles.”
“You're okay with that?”
They crossed the porch, heading for Spencer's car. He unlocked it and they slid inside. “I understand it.”
“So you're saying you trust her?”
He started the engine, pulled away from the curb.
“She's mostly full of shit. But it's not personal. Not for me.” He glanced at her. “She sounded genuinely scared.”
“That could be an act.”
“Then why call me?” She arched her eyebrows and he laughed. “In the middle of the night? Come on.”
“She asked if you had a girlfriend. I told her I thought so.”
“You're not certain?”
She ignored his question. “She asked if it was serious.”
He eased through a yellow light, heading down Carrollton Avenue toward the interstate. “So?”
“Soâ¦is it?”
“What do you think?”
“That's a cop-out and youâ” She shook her head and looked away. After a moment, she looked back at him. “What are we doing, Spencer?”
“Driving to the Quarter in the middle of the night to question an informant.”
“You know what I mean. What are
we
doing?”
He didn't have an answer, which, frankly, scared the crap out of him. It just seemed wrong. They had been together, exclusively, for two years, and had lived together a good part of that time.
Shouldn't he know, in either his heart or his gut, how he felt? What he wanted, long term?
“You tell me, Stacy. Where are we going?”
“I don't know,” she said softly. “I'm starting to think I really don't have a clue.”
They fell silent and remained that way for the rest of the drive. They reached Paulie's Place, located on Toulouse Street. He parked the Camaro illegally, flipped down his visor with his NOPD identification and climbed out.
They crossed the sidewalk and entered the lounge. Yvette was sitting at the bar, an untouched beer in front of her. She saw him first, then Stacy. To her credit, her expression altered only slightly.
She slid off the bar stool and stood waiting. Her gaze, he noticed, jumped around and she kept clasping and unclasping her hands.
Truth was, she looked terrified. If she was faking it, she should give up dancing and head to Hollywood.
Of course, being authentically terrified only meant she believed her own story. She could still be as nutty as a Christmas fruitcake.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Thank you forâ¦I'm sorry, I know it's late.”
“Let's go outside so we can talk.”
She didn't need to be coaxed. She dug four dollars out of her pocket, deposited it on the bar and grabbed her backpack. “Thanks, Jackie,” she called to the burly bartender.
The street outside was mostly empty. Nearly all the bars and clubs were closed, staff and patrons alike grabbing some shut-eye before the new day.
“Are you cold?” he asked her. “We could sit in the car.”
She shook her head. “I need a cigarette.”
She retrieved her pack of smokes, then fumbled to light one, her hands shaking badly.
“Allow me,” he said.
She shot him a grateful look and handed him the matches.
A moment later, the paper and tobacco caught and she inhaled deeply.
Spencer gave her a moment, then murmured, “You say you know who killed Marcus?”
“I do.” She sucked on the cigarette. “But you won't believe me.”
“Give us a try,” Stacy said softly. “You might be surprised.”
“I doubt that, but okay.” She tilted her chin up defiantly. “The Artist.”
Stacy's eyebrows shot up. “The guy you made up?”
“I told you you wouldn't believe me.”
Spencer stepped in. “Cut us some slack, Yvette. Just a couple of days ago you told us the Artist didn't exist.”
She drew on the cigarette again. “I made up his connection to Kitten, but he exists.”
“Go on.”
“I've been getting theseâ¦love notes. They're signed the Artist.”
“How many have you gotten?”
She thought a moment. “Five, including the one tonight.” She paused as if expecting a question, then went on. “I didn't think much about them untilâ¦until the day I learned about Marcus.”
She cleared her throat. “I just figured he was some lonely-hearts-club geek until the day you questioned me about Marcus. When I got home, and he'd left me a note. It was inside, tacked to the back of my kitchen door.”
“He was in your apartment?” Spencer said. “He broke in?”
“Yes.” She dropped the smoke, then ground it out with the toe of her strappy stiletto. “The note said âI did it for you.'”
“Did what?”
“Killed Marcus.”
“Did he say that? Specifically?”
“No, but what else could it be?”
Spencer glanced at Stacy. Although her expression was neutral, he knew she was having a hard time buying any of this. She wasn't alone.
“Ms. Borger,” Spencer said gently. “It could have been anything. He jacked off, took a bottle of pills, kicked his dogâ”
“No!” she said, cutting him off. “Tonight he was in the club! He had Tonya deliver this.”
She dug into her backpack and pulled out a wad of bills and a card. “It's five hundred dollars.”
When they didn't respond, she made a sound of frustration. “Marcus owed me that amount. The last time I did that side job for him, he stiffed me.”
She looked directly at Stacy for the first time. “That's what we were arguing about in the alley that night. When he tried to choke me. Look.”
She handed the note to Spencer, who read it aloud. “Here's the money he owed you.”
He handed it to Stacy. She read it and frowned. “This one isn't signed.”
“That can't be.” She took it, her expression falling. “I guess I just knewâ¦I mean, he's signed everything else the âArtist.' I swear!”
“Do you have the other notes?” Spencer asked.
“Not with me, but I saved them. They're at my apartment.”
“Let's go get them.”
None of them spoke during the short drive. When they climbed out in front of her building, Spencer saw that light glimmered ever so faintly on the horizon.
It was going to be a long damn day.
She unlocked the street entrance and they filed into the courtyard. They followed her upstairs. Two doors from hers a dog began to bark, a cross between a yap and a howl. Spencer felt sorry for the poor bastards the beast woke up.
She let them in, flipped the light switch just inside the door, but didn't make a move into the apartment.
“Yvette?” he said.
She looked at him. “Since he's been in here, it takes me a while to get up the courage toâ¦I know it's silly, butâ”
“It's not silly. We'll check it out.”
Within a couple of minutes, they had searched the small apartment and determined it empty.
“Thanks,” she said. “I had the locks changedâ¦I forgot to tell you that part. About the woman.”
“The woman?” Spencer repeated, frowning.
“Yes. I came home the other night and found a woman at my door. She claimed to be my neighbor Nancy's mother. Said the key Nancy gave her didn't work.”
“Maybe she
was
Nancy's mom?” Stacy offered.
“She wasn't. That same night, she told Nancy she was
my
mother. That's how she got inside. Nancy told her where I keep my spare key.”
Spencer frowned. “What night was this?”
“Monday. I came home early. Cramps.”
Patti's close call.
He caught Stacy looking at him quizzically, and he refocused. “Could the Artist be a woman?”
Yvette opened her mouth as if to form an automatic no, but shook her head instead. “I just assumed it was a man. I mean, it's mostly guys who, you know, hang around the Hustle and stuff. Besides, Tonya said a guy gave her the letter to give to me tonight.”
“Tonya?”
“Manages the Hustle's talent and wait staff,” Stacy offered. Then to Yvette, she said, “Why don't you get us the letters?”
“They're in the bedroom. I'll be right back.”
When she left them alone, Stacy turned to him. “What's the deal, Malone?”
“What do you mean?”
“When Yvette told you about the woman who claimed to be her mother, you got a funny look on your face.”
“Did I?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Don't give me that innocent crap. You're hiding somethiâ”
“They're gone.”
They turned. The young woman stood in the doorway, wild-eyed and pale. “They were here, I swear. He must have taken them.”
“Show us.”
She led them to her bedroom, pointed to the nightstand, its single drawer standing open. “I had them in there.”
“Are you certain you didn't move them?”
“I'm sure. They were there. All of them!”
“Tell me about Ramone,” Stacy said.
“What? Whoâ”
“Ramone?” she said again. “Marcus's partner. The one you told me about.”
When she hesitated, Stacy answered for her. “Let me guess, you made him up.”
“I didn't make this up!”
“What about the photograph Detective Malone showed you? You recognized him, didn't you?”
“Yes! I've seen him around the club. He hits on the girls. So what?”
“If that's the case, why'd you lie?”
“Because I was pissed. Because I didn't want to get involved. Because someone like me doesn't help the cops.”
“Give me a reason why we should believe you now.”
“Because it's true.” She hugged herself. “It's all true. The letters. The money. The woman breaking in.”
Her voice took on a desperate tone and she moved her gaze between them. “He killed Marcus. I know he did!”
“We're not saying he didn't,” Spencer said gently.
“We're not denying any of this is true. But we need something to work with. Some proof that what you're telling us is true.”
“Screw you.” She spit the words at them. “I should have known not to go to you for help.”