“Captain O’Shay, could I have a word?”

The chief of police stood in her doorway. She smiled and waved him in. “Of course, Chief. The detectives and I were just finishing.”

He greeted both detectives. “How’s your dad’s retirement going, Spencer?”

“Not bored with fishing yet.”

Spencer’s dad-Patti’s brother-in-law-had been career NOPD. He’d never risen above the rank of detective, but that had been okay with him. He’d simply loved the work. He’d retired a year ago. Hurricane Katrina and Sammy’s death had been catalysts for the decision.

As the two detectives exited the office, Patti told them to keep her posted, then turned to her boss. “What can I do for you, Chief Howard?”

He ignored her question and asked one of his own. “How are you, Patti?”

Something in his tone raised her hackles. “I’m very well, thank you.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been by before this. Hell of a thing, uncovering Sammy’s badge that way.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. To finally know what went down and have a trail to follow.”

“Seems to me the trail’s led you to your guy. Congratulations.”

She frowned slightly. Chief Howard never did anything without intent. A simple “Congratulations” was anything but simple. So why was he here?

“Thank you, Chief, but I’m not certain we do.”

His eyebrows shot up. “That surprises me, Captain. I’ve reviewed the case and think it’s strong.”

“True. But until we have a legitimate tie between Franklin and one of the Handyman’s victims, it’s not ironclad.”

Chief Howard was quiet a moment. “I’m distressed to hear you say that.”

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s the way I see it.”

“Patti,” he said softly, “you have to trust the process. If he’s charged, tried and found guilty, you’ll have to accept it.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

His cell phone buzzed; he checked the display, then slipped it back into his pocket. “Perhaps this case is too close? I could turn it over to someone else? After the stress of Sammy’s death, no one would think less-”

“That’s absolutely not necessary,” she said. “I’m in charge of ISD, this case and the investigation. Franklin’s been charged and is being held on the theft and weapons charge. We have time to dig.”

“True, if you feel you have the manpower.”

Which meant he didn’t.

Wrap it up, move on.

“Give me a little more time. The forensic sculptor is working on a facial reconstruction now. It should be ready within a couple of days. We’ll publicize the image, see if anyone recognizes her.”

“Agreed. Anything else?”

He knew about the dental records. Probably the call she had gotten at Shannon’s, as well. Little slipped by Chief Howard. That’s the way he ran his department.

“We got a tip about a missing young woman. Had the forensic odontologist compare her dental records with Jane Doe’s teeth. They didn’t match.”

He nodded. Obviously this was not news. And luckily, he didn’t ask about the source of the “tip.”

“Anything else?”

“An anonymous call to me. At Shannon’s.”

“The night of the surprise party.” The chief had made a brief appearance, then left.

“Yes, the caller said we ‘had the wrong guy.’”

“And you believe this person? He presented you with proof?”

“I’m not discounting anything at this point.”

“Admirable, Captain.” He glanced at his watch, then looked at her again. “The public will be reassured to know this monster’s been caught.”

“Not if he proves to be the wrong monster.”

He frowned. “We’ll be making certain that doesn’t happen, won’t we, Captain O’Shay?”

He had officially put her on notice. The clock was ticking on this investigation. The chief wanted her to build the case against Franklin, not continue to look for suspects.

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

As he walked away, she acknowledged that for the first time in her career, she wasn’t sure she could follow a direct order.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

1:15 a.m.

The Hustle was jumping, even by Friday night standards. It was the first weekend of Jazz Fest-next to Mardi Gras, the city’s biggest tourist draw-and the tips and booze were flowing.

Yvette figured she might break her personal record, despite the fact she was jumpy, distracted and barely going through the motions.

The last two days had been the longest of her life. She had spent them looking over her shoulder, searching every shadow and thinking about Marcus’s murder.

I did it for you.

Yours always, the Artist.

After discovering the note, she had been frozen with fear. Panic had followed. She hadn’t known what to do, who to call. She had no one. No family or close friends, no husband or boyfriend.

Not the police. Not them.

She had no one to depend on but herself.

She had considered packing up, taking off. To hell with her apartment and this crummy job.

But she had run before. Once upon a time, she had lived in fear. Of her father. The street. Helplessness. Hopelessness. She’d promised herself she’d never live that way again, never run away. It’s why she had refused to evacuate for Katrina. If she stood up to that bitch, she figured she could stand up to anything.

So she’d had her locks changed. Made a couple of inquiries to alarm companies. Thought about buying a gun, then rejected the idea.

In the meantime, it had been quiet. No more anonymous notes. No more break-ins. Maybe it was over.

“Hi, Yvette,” Tonya said, poking her head into the dressing room, which was really not much more than a screened-off enclosure. “Almost time. I’ve got a note for you.” Tonya handed her the sealed envelope. “See you in six.”

Yvette opened the envelope, pulled out the note. Paper fluttered to the floor. No, she saw. Not paper. Money.

Five one hundred dollar bills.

She stared at them, heart beating heavily, then shifted her gaze to the note.

Here’s what he owed you.

A cry flew to her throat; she jumped to her feet and ran after Tonya. “Wait!” she called. “Tonya!”

The woman stopped and turned.

“Who gave you this?”

“Some guy.”

“Where? What table?”

“At the bar.”

“Show me.”

Tonya glanced at her watch and frowned. “You’re up in-”

“I know when I’m up, dammit! Point him out, it’s important!”

The woman hesitated a moment more, then motioned Yvette to follow her. They exited the backstage area and moved around the tables until they had a clear view of the bar.

She clutched Tonya’s arm. “Where is he?”

“I don’t see him…He must have gone.”

“He can’t have. Please, look again.”

She did, then shook her head. “What’s going on, Yvette?”

She shook her head, fear choking her. “He…I can’t…I…”

Tonya squeezed her hand. “I’ll get Jenny to dance for you. Go to your dressing room and calm down. I’ll be right there.”

Yvette nodded and hurried backstage. Inside the small enclosure, she stopped. The one hundred dollar bills were scattered on the floor, just where they had fallen.

Five hundred dollars. The money Marcus had owed her.

How had the Artist known? She hadn’t told anyone.

Goose bumps crawled up her arms. She moved her gaze over the small, cluttered enclosure. Had he been here?

Tonya interrupted her thoughts. “Are those one hundred dollar bills?”

Yvette met her startled gaze and nodded.

“Where did you…? Were they in that note I delivered?”

“Yes.”

“My God.”

Yvette bent and collected the bills. Her hands shook. She slipped them back into the envelope, wondering what the hell she should do now.

“You want to talk about this?”

Yvette looked at her. “What did the guy look like?”

“Average, I guess. Kind of nondescript. Harmless.”

That was only slightly reassuring. “Does he come in a lot?”