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She dialed Rene. “Anything?” she asked when he answered.
“Nada.”
“She never showed at the Hustle?”
“Sorry.”
“Shit. Keep me posted.”
Frustrated, she snapped her cell phone shut, tossed it onto the couch and continued pacing. If Yvette had bolted, Stacy’s stupidity had jeopardized the investigation.
But if the Artist had gotten Yvette, Stacy’s stupidity would have jeopardized the young woman’s life.
“If you’d done something right away, when I told you about the Artist, Tonya would be alive. It’s your fault she’s dead, not mine. Your fault!”
The words hurt. And the possibility that they were even partly true was too horrible to contemplate. They’d had good reason to doubt Yvette, but that didn’t change how Stacy felt now, knowing a woman was dead.
At the tap on the door, she all but lunged for it, hoping Yvette had returned.
She hadn’t. Instead, Spencer stood on the other side, a Starbucks grande cup in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.
She swung open the door. “I hate this job.”
“I know you do.” He held out the cup. “Nothing a triple mocha with whip won’t cure.”
It hit her then, like a lightning bolt.
She loved him. She was in love with him.
He made her laugh when nothing was fu
To life.
That’s why she had been so hurt by his flippant proposal. She didn’t want “comfortable.” She didn’t want him to just settle for her because they got along well or his family loved her.
She needed him to love her back.
“You okay?” he asked. “You look fu
“I’m fine.” She took the cup. “C’mon in. Keep me from killing myself.”
He made a sympathetic noise. “She pulled the tampon routine on you. I would have reacted the same way.”
“Promise?”
“Are you kidding? Us guys are total wimps about that kind of girlie stuff.” He glanced at her. “Kitchen’s to the right?”
She said it was, then watched, amused, as he wandered that way, then starting nosing around.
She shook her head when he opened the freezer and peered inside. “Hungry, Malone? Or looking for body parts?”
“You never know.” He poked through the scant contents before selecting a carton of ice cream.
Blue Bell. Rocky Road.
“Just so you know, most women, especially right before their period, eat ice cream directly out of the carto-”
Not ice cream, she saw. Money. Lots of it.
Spencer counted it. “There’s three thousand bucks here.”
“She didn’t bolt, then. It would have been too easy to take the cash.”
He nodded, rewrapped the money and replaced it and the carton. He moved on to the cabinets. “There may be a problem with the Handyman angle and Messinger’s death.”
She waited, knowing he didn’t expect a response.
“Elizabeth Walker doesn’t think the same person performed the amputations. In fact-” He reached the sink, peeked into the cabinet below. “In her expert opinion, the Handyman’s right-handed. And Messinger’s killer was left-handed. Yvette have a car?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Antifreeze.” He held up the gallon jug. “Know anything else it’s used for?”
“Poisoning loud dogs?”
“Bingo. And remember, Samson was poisoned the same night Miss Alma was killed and Yvette had her last visit from the Artist.”
“Her supposed visit from the Artist.”
Stacy suddenly remembered her first night staying here with Yvette, pictured her using the chopsticks. “Did you say left-handed?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Yvette’s left-handed.”
“Are you certain?”
“Pretty damn.” She paused. “You know, without a search warrant, anything you find is inadmissible.”
“That’s why I’m not finding anything.” He closed the cabinet door. “Don’t say anything to Patti just yet. I’m going to do a bit of research, see what I come up with.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s about Patti. She promised Yvette fifty thousand dollars if she’d stay and help her catch the guy. Ten grand of it up front.”
A deep, angry flush crept from his neck to his hairline. “Part of Sammy’s life insurance money. A big part. Son of a bitch.”
“I’m really sorry, Spencer.”
He took two steps toward her, caught her by the upper arms and pulled her against him. “You and I,” he said, “have unfinished business. Personal business. Unfortunately it’ll have to wait.”
He kissed her, then released her. A moment later, he was gone. Leaving her with even more to stew about.
57
Thursday, May 17, 2007
1:30 a.m.
Some believed that new life could be found in the waters of baptism. That water cleansed the soul.
But water could also destroy. Overwhelm everything in its path. Leaving behind nothing but stinking, rotting waste.
It could burn. Strip flesh from bones.
Stop punishing yourself! It’s not your fault. It’s hers.
No. Please, no. She’s the one. She has to be. Pure. Sinless. My perfect muse.
Turn off the water. Step out of the shower.
A rush of cool air. Goose bumps. Shudders of relief. And agony.
She is just like the others. A cheap, faithless whore.
A sound resounded off the walls. Of despair. Hollow and hopeless. Cross to the mirror. Wipe away the fog. What do you see?
A distorted image. A stranger. A lost soul.
No! She threw your love and trust back in your face. But unlike the other whores, she had help.
Yes. Yes. Fellow betrayers. Their fault.
Punish her. Punish them. Make them all pay the price for your pain.
58
Thursday, May 17, 2007
8:35 a.m.
Spencer sat at his desk, a cup of cooling coffee in front of him. He’d drunk too many cups already, and a dull headache throbbed at the base of his skull.
He had left Stacy last night and come directly here. He spent the time since tracking down the story of Yvette Borger’s life, then had carefully fitted those pieces with the various parts of this investigative puzzle.
A picture had begun to emerge. One of a troubled young woman with many secrets.
Yvette’s real name was Carrie Sue Borger. She came from Greenwood, Mississippi, a small town in the heart of the Delta. An only child, her mother had died in a fall when Yvette was nine. The girl’s relationship with the Greenwood PD started the next year. She’d been picked up a dozen times between then and her sixteenth birthday.
At sixteen, she’d worked briefly at the local Waffle House, then disappeared, apparently having decided to leave both Greenwood and her dad behind. The really interesting part of the story came here: before she left home, she hit her father in the head with a coffeepot and left him for dead.
But Vic Borger hadn’t died. He’d called the cops on his only child but she had been long gone.
“How long’ve you been here, Slick?”
Spencer lifted his gaze to his partner. “Most of the night.”
“You look it.”
“Thanks.” Spencer cocked an eyebrow. “Three doughnuts, Pasta Man?”
“One’s for you. Heard you’d been burning the midnight oil and thought a little sustenance might be in order.”
Tony handed him a doughnut and napkin, which Spencer accepted. He took a big bite, only realizing then how hungry he was. Too bad he was eating the nutritional equivalent of crap.
Tony settled on the edge of his desk and started in on his pastry. “Heard ’bout last night,” he said, mouth full. “Borger gave Stacy the slip.”
Spencer smiled involuntarily. “Stacy’s really pissed.”
“Borger better watch out. That girl’s got a temper.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I got a positive ID on our Jane Doe.”
“Jessica Skye?”