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Once inside the apartment, both dropped all pretense of friendliness. “I’ll take your bedroom,” Stacy said.
“I don’t think so. That’s my bed and I’m sleeping in it.”
“If your Artist pal decides to visit tonight, he’ll creep into your bedroom. Not the guest room. Which sort of defeats the purpose of my being here, now, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I’m not changing the sheets,” Yvette snapped, dragging her bag to the second bedroom. “You want clean sheets, you do it yourself.”
Stacy had wanted them. After making up the bed and partially unpacking, she met Yvette in the kitchen. They decided on Chinese takeout for di
Yvette’s bed was comfortable, the apartment quiet. Still, Stacy couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, thoughts racing. She longed to call Spencer. Just to hear his voice. In the hopes that he longed to hear hers, too.
From the front of the apartment came the sound of a door opening. A telltale click, a gentle whoosh.
Stacy retrieved her Glock and cleared the bed without making a sound. Weapon out, she inched her way down the hall. She checked Yvette’s room first.
Her bed was empty.
Firming her grip on the Glock, she started forward, pausing every couple of steps to listen. Silence.
The kitchen was empty. But not the front room.
Yvette. Standing at the open door, smoking.
“What are you doing?”
The younger woman jumped, startled, then spun around. “You scared the shit out of me!”
Stacy lowered her weapon. “Nice mouth.”
“Fuck off. Better?”
“I suggest you close the door. That isn’t safe.”
“I wanted a smoke.”
“Then do it at a window.”
She scowled, bent and put the cigarette out in a large potted palm. “You’re so bossy.”
“It’s my job. It’ll help keep you alive.”
She stepped inside, closed and locked the door. “How’d you know I was up?”
“I heard you.” At her surprised expression, Stacy added, “Also part of my job.”
She decided not to share that she’d been unable to sleep. Let the woman think she had a super-spidey sense of hearing.
“Mind if I get a glass of milk?”
“Help yourself. But give it the sniff test first.”
“Thanks.” Stacy headed to the kitchen; Yvette followed. She laid her weapon on the counter, opened the refrigerator and took out the carton.
After checking the date, she sniffed. Confident it hadn’t soured, she poured herself a cup, then warmed it in the microwave.
“You don’t put anything in it?”
She shook her head. “My mother used to give me warm milk when-”
“When what?”
When she couldn’t sleep. When she couldn’t get the sound of Jane’s screams out of her head.
“At night sometimes. Heating the milk brings out the natural sugar in it, so it tastes sweet. You should try it.”
Yvette poured a cup, heated it and sipped. She made a face. “It’s okay. Needs some Hershey’s. Or whiskey.”
Stacy laughed. “That’s one way to get to sleep.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep sometimes? When you were a kid?”
“My sister Jane was in a really horrible accident and almost died. She was with me. I was older, I felt responsible.”
Yvette took another sip. “What kind of an accident?”
“Hit by a boater while swimming. The prop-” She bit the words “chewed up her face and nearly decapitated her” back. “She’s good now. Really good.”
“You’re close?”
“Very.”
“I don’t have any family.”
“None?”
It seemed to Stacy she hesitated slightly before saying no. Could be “no family” was more a statement of principle than fact.
“Sorry I scared you earlier. Cops move quietly.”
“S’okay. I shouldn’t have opened the door like that. I guess that was stupid.”
Stacy curled her hands around the warm mug. “Can I ask you a question?”
Yvette shrugged. “I guess.”
“Why are you doing this? Hanging around, maybe putting yourself in danger. You could have taken off.”
“Patti’s paying me.”
She said it so casually, as if it was totally no big deal. “Obviously you think that’s okay?”
“Obviously you don’t. I’m not ashamed.”
“Maybe you should be?”
Yvette flushed, but not with embarrassment, Stacy suspected. With anger. “Screw the goody-goody crap. I’m putting my life on the line to help her. Besides, the money was her idea, not mine.”
“You could have refused it.”
“Why would I have done that?”
“Because the Handyman murdered her husband. She’s grieving. It makes her vulnerable.”
“To people like me.”
“Yes.”
“From where I’m standing, people like you are a lot more dangerous. At least I’m honest about my motives.”
“This is stupid.” Stacy dumped the last of her milk in the sink. “I’m going to bed.”
She didn’t get far. “Why’re you really here?” Yvette called. “Afraid I’m going to run off with her ten grand?”
The amount knocked the wind out of Stacy. “She’s paying you ten thousand dollars?”
“Fifty. Ten’s the deposit.”
Stacy gazed at the young woman, her dislike of her so strong she felt ill. “That money’s part of her husband’s life insurance payoff.”
“And it’s hers to spend as she chooses.”
Stacy shook her head. “You make me sick.”
Yvette stiffened. “I’m being paid for performing a service. She made the offer, I took it.”
“Performing a service. That’s what you do, right? It’s at the heart of all your relationships, your every move. I was going to apologize for what I said about life being all about money for you. Now I see just how accurate that comment was.”
51
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
8:05 a.m.
Patti worked to shake out the mental cobwebs. She sat at her kitchen table, cup of coffee and the Times-Picayune on the table in front of her.
Still no Artist. Not at Yvette’s apartment, not at the Hustle. She was begi
Her cell phone vibrated. She saw from the display that it was Stacy. “What’s up?” she answered.
“The brat refuses to get up.”
“Did you try shooting her in the butt?”
“Very fu
Patti dragged a hand through her hair. “Leave her. I’ll clean up and head over there and collect Sleeping Beauty.”
“Wrong story. This one’s more like Beauty and the Beast. Guess who’s the Beast?”
Patti laughed. “All quiet last night?”
“Yes. You?”
“No Artist.”
“Thoughts?”
“It’s too early to think, I’ll check in later.”
Patti hung up. Yvette had grown more difficult to manage by the day. She believed the Artist had lost interest. No longer afraid, the young woman was all attitude and no gratitude.
If Patti didn’t want this guy so desperately, she’d cut Yvette loose. She had lied to her chief and the men and women under her command. She had alienated Spencer and now driven a wedge between him and Stacy. And for what?
Her cell phone went off again, but this time it wasn’t Stacy. It was June.
“I’m at your front door,” she said. “I come bearing gifts.”
“I’ll be right there.”
A moment later, she swung open the door. June held a napkin-covered basket. “I went crazy baking. Save me from myself?”
“You’re an angel of mercy, you know that?”
She stepped aside so her friend could enter. “Why didn’t you ring the bell?”
“I was afraid you might be sleeping. I know your new hours are…different.”
Patti cut her an amused glance. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“Spencer.”
Big surprise. “Come on, I’ve got coffee.”