If he found her request unusual, he didn’t show it. “Hold on, I’ll get the key.”

After he unlocked the condo for them, Patti found the interior to be just as Yvette had described, lived-in but orderly. Nothing jumped out as out of sync.

Until she reached the kitchen. A pink jeweled heart key ring lay on the counter by the phone. Patti picked it up.

“Do you recognize this as hers?”

Yvette frowned. “No. But it could be. She really likes pink.”

Patti thumbed through the keys. There were six of them. Several looked like run-of-the-mill house keys, and one was a new-fangled key fob, complete with remote lock buttons and a pop-out key.

Very nifty.

She looked at Yvette. “What kind of vehicle does your friend drive?”

“Orange VW Beetle. It’s out front.”

Patti turned over the fob; the blue-and-white VW logo jumped out at her. She held it up for Yvette to see.

“Maybe those are her spare keys?” she said, tone hopeful.

“Maybe. But most people have spare keys, not rings. Also, most cars come with one remote locking device, not two.”

Patti returned her attention to the surroundings, scanning the countertops, dining table and chairs. She went to the pantry and peeked inside, then pulled out any drawers big enough to hold a woman’s handbag.

No handbag.

Interesting. The woman took her purse but left her keys.

“What are you thinking?” Yvette asked.

Patti shook her head and crossed to the woman’s message machine. The message light blinked; she hit Play. Yvette’s voice filled the quiet.

“Got your message. What did you do? How did he react when he learned I wasn’t there? Call me.”

The machine beeped; the next message played. Again it was Yvette’s voice she heard. “I forgot to mention, I have stuff to tell you, too. I know the identity of the woman who broke into my place. She’s a cop! Call me.”

Several more followed and with each Yvette’s voice became noticeably more worried. The last was followed by a half dozen hang-ups, then the machine clicked off.

Patti looked at Yvette. The younger woman tilted up her chin. “I told you I called her.”

“Yes, you did.”

Pen in hand, she scrolled through the numbers. All but one were the same. She jotted it down, then motioned to Yvette. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s take a look at her car.”

They did, though nothing new and amazing jumped out at them. Patti returned the keys, relocked the woman’s door and thanked Bill. He looked disappointed when they refused tea, but still promised to let Yvette know if he saw Tonya-or anybody suspicious hanging around her condo.

“What next?” Yvette asked when they had exited the building.

“I’m going to dig a bit. I need you to sit tight.”

“For how long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied. “Not long. Where’s your car?”

She indicated a pink Cadillac, circa 1970s. Patti looked at her, eyebrow cocked. “That’s not a car, it’s a boat. A big, pink boat.”

Yvette laughed. “I borrowed it from Miss Alma. She lives in my building. She was a Mary Kay cosmetics super sales person or something in 1974. It’s her pride and joy.”

“And she let you borrow it?”

“Promised I’d pick up dog biscuits for her Pomeranian, Sissy. Sissy is the one thing she loves more than the car.”

Patti sort of understood that. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, promise.” She started for her own vehicle, then stopped and looked back. “Don’t hesitate to call, no matter the time of day…or night. And don’t take any chances. If you’re right about this Artist guy, you’re in a very dangerous position.”

39

Monday, May 7, 2007

8:45 p.m.

Silence. Only the wind snaking through dead branches and the crackle of debris underfoot.

A wasteland. Of death. And hopelessness.

All that effort, for what? She’s not worthy.

No. It’s not true. I believe in her.

That’s what you said about the last one, remember? Cheap whore. She broke your heart.

Stop! It was the other one’s fault. Cheap and coarse. Nosing around. Asking questions. Causing her to doubt.

You’re a fool. A blind fool.

Only for love. What’s more worthy than that?

Insure she loves you, then. Give her an incentive.

An incentive. Of course. That’s what she needs. To remind her what’s important. To whom her heart belongs.

Then she won’t stray.

40

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

8:40 a.m.

Tony Sciame tapped on her partially open door. “Captain?”

She waved him in. “What did you get?”

He lowered himself into the chair across from her desk. “Spoke with both those dancers from the Hustle. Neither definitively IDed Skye as being our Jane Doe. Said she ‘could’ be. And ‘maybe’ was. But they directed me to where she had lived.”

“Any luck?”

“Talked to the landlord. He remembered her well. Tossed all her stuff after the storm, though he was very quick to assure me he did it by the book, waited the mandated forty-five days. Even paid to store it after he re-rented her place.”

“He ever hear from her?”

“Never.”

“He ID her from the photo?”

“Another ‘not sure.’” Tony cleared his throat. “From what he said, her stuff was pretty crappy. Could be she didn’t bother retrieving any of it, just moved on.”

“And it could be she’s dead.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Could be.”

“Any luck tracking down her doctor?”

“Believe it or not, yes. It was on file at the Hustle. Dr. Nathan Geist. I tried him, left a message with his nurse.”

“Contact him at home if you have to. Get back to me tonight, even if you can’t reach him.”

“You got it, Captain.”

He started back out. She stopped him halfway through the door. “Detective?”

“Yeah?”

“For now, I’d like to keep this between just you and me.”

He cocked an eyebrow in question.

“In good time,” she said to his silent query. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it just yet.”

He nodded but didn’t comment. As soon as he was out the door, she dialed Stacy’s captain at the Sixth. “Captain Cooper,” she said when he answered. “Patti O’Shay.”

“Captain O’Shay,” he said in his deep, booming voice. “Heard you had some good news recently. Congratulations. Sammy was a hell of a guy.”

A sudden flood of tears filled her eyes, surprising her. “Yes,” she said, working to speak normally around them, “he was.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We might have a link to the Handyman case. Through the Hustle.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Going to plant one of my team down there.” Unofficially. Her own personal investigator.

“You want the contact info?”

“It’d save me time.”

He rattled off the name of the owner and general manager and their numbers. They chatted a moment more, then said goodbye.

Five minutes later, she had spoken to the Hustle’s owner. He had been none too pleased to learn his business was once again a target of police attention, but had agreed to allow undercover officers in his establishment. He had passed her to the Hustle’s general manager to work out the details.

From him, she had learned that Tonya had not yet been replaced. Until that moment, anyway.

As of that moment, Patti was the Hustle’s new wait staff and talent manager.

As she ended the call, her cell phone vibrated. “Captain Patti O’Shay.”

“It’s me. Yvette.”

She sounded shaky. Patti frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“He was here,” she said. “In my apartment. While I was sleeping!”

“How do you know he was there?”

“He left me a note. On my bathroom vanity.”

“What’d it say? Exactly.”

Patti heard the crackle of paper. “‘When will you realize you don’t need anyone but me? What will it take to prove my love to you?’”