Tonya furrowed her brow. “I know I’ve seen him before. But always at the bar. He’s the kind of guy you just don’t…notice.”

The woman paused. “Do you think…surely you don’t think he’s…dangerous?”

Yvette bit her lip, and Tonya caught her breath. “Tell me what’s going on. Start at the beginning.”

So Yvette did, beginning with the first note he’d sent her, sharing how a woman had deceived a neighbor into giving her a key. “I thought he was harmless, just another one of those guys. You know, the really sad, lonely ones.”

“Go on.”

“Then Marcus was killed.” Tonya wasn’t surprised at the news. The police had questioned all the employees of the Hustle about Marcus and his associates. “Apparently he was into some pretty serious shit.”

“Meth manufacture and distribution.”

Yvette widened her eyes. “How did you-”

“Know? Honey, I know everything that goes on around here. If not immediately, soon after.”

“So you knew Brandi was a cop?”

“Not at first. Knew something wasn’t right about that one. Also knew she was Ted’s ‘hire.’ I stayed after him until he told me what was going on. Stupid shit.”

When Marcus had turned up dead, Ted had lost his leverage with the cops and was now in jail.

“Tonya, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, hon.”

“Do you believe in God?”

The woman screwed up her face in thought. “Don’t know. I guess so. Why?”

“I never thought much about it, but after Katrina, I figured there was a God and that He wanted me to live.”

Yvette realized she had closed her hand around the bills, crumpling them, and eased her grip. “I thought it was a good thing, like I was going to do something big or…important. Really turn it around and be somebody. But now-”

She cleared her throat, forced out the thought that had been nagging at her since she realized the Artist had killed Marcus. “What if He wanted me to live for this? As a catalyst for Marcus getting whacked? Or to make me a victim instead of someone who’s a better person?”

For a long moment, Tonya was quiet. “I don’t think it works that way. And you know what, if it did, He’d be a pretty crappy God.”

If Tonya had been a priest or a preacher, the thought might be comforting. But coming from a broken-down, hard-drinking ex-exotic dancer, Yvette wasn’t reassured at all.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

3:30 a.m.

The 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 young-and scared. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Yvette Borger.”

That woke him up. “Ms. Borger?” Stacy rolled onto her side and looked at him in question. “What-”

“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 mean-” 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?”

“So…is it?”

“What do you think?”

“That’s a cop-out and you-” 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 for…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.”