“Next step, Captain?”
“We identify this victim. Then we link her to Franklin. Run a missing-persons search for anyone who fits this Jane Doe’s description.”
He arched his eyebrows. “A missing-persons search? From around the time of Katrina?”
It sounded like a sick joke. Eighty percent of the city had either evacuated or gone missing. At one point after the storm, the official “missing” toll had been over eleven thousand.
There were still people who couldn’t be accounted for.
“Get the skull over to Mackenzie. Tell her it’s a priority.”
“You going to clear that with the brass?”
“This comes under ISD’s jurisdiction and I’m ISD, Detective.”
He didn’t respond and she went on. “Fill Detective Sciame in. Tell him his weekend is ending early.”
“And Franklin?”
“For now, we hold Mr. Franklin on unlawful possession of a firearm by a felon and possession of stolen goods.”
15
Saturday, April 21, 2007
6:15 p.m.
The duplex occupied an overgrown lot on the deathly quiet Mid-city street. The double row of multifamily residences stood vacant, boarded over, FEMA’s bright orange X a shot of startling color on each entryway-like door decorations from hell.
Before Katrina the rentals had housed low income families, hard-partying singles and those preferring to keep a low profile.
And one of those had been someone special. With special secrets. Secrets housed inside those walls.
My pretties. Mine. Gone now. Being kept by strangers. It’s almost more than I can bear.
Yours to lose. Your fault. You left them behind.
Here! In our safe house. Stored as best as-
In a freezer? A monster storm on the way? You never even checked on them.
How could I? No one expected what happened. After the storm, the city was impassable, all routes in closed. Later, it wasn’t safe. I could have been found out.
If you had cared enough, you would have found a way. Stop whining and start a new collection.
It’s not a collection! You know nothing of inspiration. Of beauty. From the hands and heart flow eternal truth and beauty.
And from both spew ugliness and betrayal.
Stop it. Please. I can’t take your bullying anymore.
Make it right, then. Do what you need to do to make it right.
16
Sunday, April 22, 2007
1:15 a.m.
Yvette worked to calm herself. She vibrated with anger. And with outrage.
Nobody gave her the run-around. Nobody stiffed her. Not even Marcus, the self-proclaimed owner of the universe.
She lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily, knowing the nicotine would calm her. She had played his blasted game, met his clients at the half dozen properties, let them in and waited for them to do their thing.
Whatever that was. Certainly not viewing commercial properties, though she didn’t know squat about real estate.
But when it had come time to pay her, he had squeezed her ass and told her to be patient.
Bastard had promised her five hundred bucks. Just like the other times.
Then he came in tonight, with a group of his highfalutin cronies, and pretended she didn’t exist.
Prick. He had sat back and laughed while one of the guys in his group tried to grab her tits. Big yuck.
Maybe what she needed was a little insurance policy. Before today, she had figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She had been a good girl, doing just as Marcus instructed, not particularly interested in the people she let into the properties or why they were there.
She’d wanted the money. That’s what she had focused on.
No more. Next time she-
“Hey, Yvette.”
She jerked around. Brandi stood in the doorway
“Got a special request. Table twelve.” She held it out. “He sent a note.”
Marcus. Time to send him a message.
“Tell him to go fuck himself.”
Brandi made a sound of surprise. “But-”
“You heard me.”
For a long moment, the other woman was silent. She still held out the note. “What if he complains to Tonya? She won’t like this, Yvette.”
“Know what? She can go fu-” Yvette bit the words off and yanked the piece of paper from Brandi’s hand. She fumbled around the cluttered vanity top for a pen and came up with a red lip liner instead.
Smiling to herself, she scrawled Go Fuck Yourself! in red across the note.
“Here-” she shoved it at Brandi “-there’s my answer.”
“You’re sure?” She nodded and the waitress backed toward the door. There she stopped. “Do you know him or something?”
“Or something.” Yvette took a deep drag on the smoke. “Give him that. Now.”
The waitress looked like she wanted to say more, to question her or argue, but simply left the dressing room.
Yvette waited for the fireworks to begin. Tonya ripping her a new one while she lectured about what was and wasn’t acceptable. Marcus finding his way back here and slapping her around. Or another note delivered by Brandi, this one with a warning.
They didn’t come. And when she went out for her last dance of the evening, she saw that Marcus had left.
Take that, chicken shit. Weasel.
The end of the night finally came and she clocked out. Tips had sucked, though she wasn’t surprised. Most nights she enjoyed the game, was an active participant in it, but tonight she had simply been going through the motions.
And who was turned on by that?
She called “Good night” to her colleagues at the bar having a last drink, and let herself out the back door of the locked club.
Yvette walked home nearly every night, though she lived on the other side of the Quarter. She took the busiest route, often stopping at the Dungeon, a place open from midnight to 6:00 a.m. Sometimes one of the other girls accompanied her; once in a while she caught a lift home.
Truth was, living and working in the French Quarter eliminated the need for a car. Everything she needed was within walking distance.
She peeked out into the deserted alley. The door would automatically lock behind her, so before she shut it, she always checked the alley. With the exception of a few places, most notably Rampart Street near Armstrong Park, the Quarter was safe. At least for those who followed the basic rules of safety, like keeping to well-lit or busy streets.
This portion of the alley did not meet that criteria; however, twenty feet forward and a right turn did. The worst she’d encountered was the street person who occasionally made himself a home in a cardboard box near the Dumpster.
Antisocial and focused on their own survival, most of the homeless kept to themselves. This one broke the mold. One night he had trailed her home, hissing at her and making lewd comments. Finally she had thrown an empty beer bottle at him and he had taken off.
That was the thing about the Quarter. There wasn’t a kind of freak that wasn’t represented: men who dressed as women, women who dressed as men, horny bums, Goths, vamps, retards and all manner of delusional schizoids, most of them harmless.
She stepped into the alley. The door snapped shut behind her, the light dying with it.
“Hello, Yvette. I was waiting for you.”
Marcus. She stopped and turned, searching the darkness. He stepped out of the shadows near the alley opening, blocking her exit.
“Have a good night?”
She hid her fear and tilted up her chin. “What do you care?”
He crossed to her. She saw that his eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. He stroked her cheek. “Don’t ever do that to me again. You won’t like what happens.”
She knocked his hand away, furious. “Go back to your frigid country-club wife. Let her get you off!”
He leaned closer, voice low and deliberate. “Don’t push me, Yvette. I ow
n you.”
Fear warred with fury. And pride. Nobody owned her. Her life, her terms.
She stiffened. “I want my money, Marcus. I want my five hundred bucks!”
He slid his left hand into her hair. The other went to her throat. “Is that what it’s all about for you? The money?” He curled his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back. “Is it, sweetheart?”
Her eyes watered. It felt as if he was going to tear her hair out by the roots. If she struggled, he would. She didn’t doubt that for a second.
“You promised,” she whispered.
“You’ll get it when I say. And until then, you’ll do whatever I say. Got that?”
She said she did and he released her. She stumbled backward, hand going to her stinging scalp.
Bastard! She couldn’t let him get away with it. She wouldn’t.
“Maybe I should pay a little visit to the cops?” she shouted after him. “For that matter, your wife, too. I’m sure she’d be really interested in our little arrange-”
He was on her so quickly, she didn’t have time to protect herself. The force of his body propelled her backward, against the damp brick wall. His hands went to her throat.
“Try it, bitch, and I’ll cut out your heart.”
He deepened the pressure. Yvette brought her hands to his, struggling to breathe. Dots of light danced before her eyes. Panicked, she wondered if he was going to kill her.
The door to the club opened; light spilled into the darkness. “Yvette? Are you there?”
Brandi! Thank God!
Unable to call out, she struggled against Marcus’s grip. He released her and stepped back. “See you later, sweetheart,” he said, then turned and walked away.
Yvette sank to her knees, sputtering and gasping for air.
A moment later Brandi was kneeling beside her, arm around her shoulders. “My God, are you okay?”
Yvette struggled to speak. She realized she was trembling. Her teeth began to chatter.
Brandi rubbed her back. “Was that the guy from tonight? The one you wouldn’t dance for?”
Yvette nodded. “I thought he…was going…to kill me.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
Brandi started to stand; Yvette caught her arm, stopping her. “Don’t,” she croaked. “It’ll only make things…worse.”
“How can it be worse? He tried to kill you!”
“Just help me up. I’m okay.”
Brandi hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. Unsteady on her feet, she took a deep, calming breath, acknowledging she was happy to be alive.
She sent a small smile to Brandi. “Thanks. If you hadn’t…”
She let the thought trail off. Brandi jumped in quickly. “How about I give you a ride home?”
“I don’t live that far. I can-”
“Walk? Get real. What if that creep is waiting for you?”
She had a point. And the truth was, at this moment she felt neither steady nor brave.
She and Brandi walked to the lot where Brandi had parked her car, a battered SUV. They climbed in and Yvette sagged back against the seat, exhausted.
“Where to?”
She gave directions, then closed her eyes. What had she been thinking? Challenging Marcus that way? Threatening him with the cops? Threatening to go to his wife?
“Right turn?”
She cracked open her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
Several directions later, Brandi pulled the vehicle to a stop. “Here we are,” she said.
Yvette grabbed the door handle, then hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be alone. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.
“Anytime. If you change your mind about the cops-”
“I won’t.” Yvette opened the vehicle door, climbed halfway out, then glanced back. “I really appreciate…you know.”
“No problem.” Brandi smiled. “I’ll watch to make sure you get in.”
Yvette hesitated again, thinking of her dark, empty apartment.
“You sure you’re okay?”
She forced a breezy smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. See you around.”
She slipped out of the vehicle and darted for the door.
17
Sunday, April 22, 2007
3:10 a.m.
Stacy watched Yvette dart toward the courtyard door. When she reached it, she stopped. But instead of stepping inside, she turned and jogged back to the SUV.
Stacy lowered the window. “What’s up?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Are you kidding? I’m starving.”
“Want to come in? I have to eat, too. We might as well do it together.”
Yvette worked hard to be tough, to act like it all rolled off her, but Stacy saw she was shaken.
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Where can I park?”
Yvette indicated a “residents only” spot and watched as Stacy eased into it, then climbed out. Together they crossed to the building, a crumbling stucco-and-brick three-story, whose ironwork balconies reflected its Spanish influence. Yvette unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
Like most of the old buildings in the French Quarter, this one was built around a shady, central courtyard. In the days before air-conditioning, the courtyards served as cool city oases. They still did, only now as a place to escape the paved world beyond.
Each apartment opened out to the courtyard, the units accessed from shared staircases and covered walkways.
Yvette lived on the second floor. They made their way up the stairs and down the covered walkway. Stacy noted how quietly Yvette moved, as if doing her best not to disturb her sleeping neighbors. As they passed one of the units a dog began to bark.
A big one, judging by the size of its bark. Yvette winced; Stacy guessed this wasn’t the first time she had awakened the beast. And most probably, the neighbors as well.
They reached Yvette’s apartment-number twelve-and she let them in. Simultaneously she flipped on the lights and kicked off her shoes.
French Quarter living did not come cheap, even for a small place like this one. Stacy had learned that right away. Throw in the great courtyard and she’d bet Yvette paid twelve to fifteen hundred bucks a month.
Stacy moved her gaze over the room’s interior. Charming and traditional. Lots of soft colors and fabrics, accented with feminine touches and the occasional startlingly modern painting or print.
“You’ve got a great place,” she said, and crossed to study a large, crudely painted representation of a fairy. “This is wonderful. A little scary, but wonderful.”
“I think so, too.” Yvette came up beside her. “It’s a local artist named Wren. I own another by him. It’s in the bedroom. Come on, kitchen’s this way.”
Between the two rooms, Stacy noticed several more paintings. They didn’t seem to be linked stylistically, so she asked Yvette what had drawn her to them.
“Don’t know. They’re all by local artists. Some I buy right out of studios here in the Quarter, some from galleries. A few from hawkers on Jackson Square.”
She crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. “What do you want to eat?”
“What do you have?”
“Leftover pizza. Eggs. Milk.” She slid open the crisper and made a face. “Something fuzzy.”
She closed the fridge and crossed to a long, narrow cabinet. She peered inside. “Chocolate chip cookies-Famous Amos. Cereal. Popcorn.”
She looked over her shoulder at Stacy. “I’m thinking popcorn and cocoa.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Minutes later they were curled up on the couch, a giant bowl of popcorn between them and hands curled around the mugs of warm cocoa.
Stacy took a sip, then coughed. “Some strong cocoa.”
“Added a little zip. Peppermint schnapps. The alcohol kills the effect of the caffeine. Do you like it?”
Stacy said she did and sipped again, glancing at the other woman. She saw several deep purple marks spotting her neck. “You’re bruis
ing.”
“I am?” Yvette brought a hand to her throat. “How bad?”
Stacy fumbled in her purse and pulled out a compact with a mirror. She handed it to Yvette. “Take a look.”
She did, silently. A moment later, she snapped the compact shut and handed it back.
“He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”
Instead of answering, she said, “He’s not that bad.”
“After what he did, I can’t believe you’re saying that. He’s a pig.”
“I egged him on. He’s been good to me-”
“I see that.”
“He’s never done anything like that before.”
“And if you’re a good girl he won’t again?” She shook her head. “A guy like that-”
“What do you know about Marcus?”
“He’s married, for one. He was wearing a ring.”
“Don’t be stupid. Most of the guys I meet are. At least he doesn’t pretend by taking it off.”
“He put his hands on you. If I hadn’t come looking for-”
“Why did you come looking for me?”
Because the surveillance team saw Gabrielle enter the alley and warned her.
“One of your tips,” she said instead. “You know those funny radio guys who were in, slamming back Jell-O shots-”
“Walton and Johnson?”
“Yeah. They left you a tip, but I forgot to give it to you and…I thought I’d catch you leaving.”
“An angel of mercy and honest.” She reached for a handful of popcorn. “What the hell are you doing working at the Hustle?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“The money.”
“Ditto.”
Yvette frowned, as if she didn’t totally buy it, and Stacy leaned forward. “I was married for twelve years. Got hitched right out of high school. I didn’t go to college, never worked. Barney wanted me home. Then the bastard up and leaves me with a bunch of debt and a kid to support.”
“You have a kid?”
Shit. Now she had a kid. “A girl. She’s eight.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sandi.” Brandi and Sandi. Jeez.
But Yvette thought it was cute. “Do you have a picture?”
Last Known Victim Page 7
