“But?”

“Facts are coming to light that throw suspicion on not just her story, but on her as well. She may be a murderer. Now she’s missing.”

“What are you asking me, Patti?”

“If she’s lying, why? Why come to me with this fantastic story? Did I want to believe her so badly, I looked past the holes in the story? Or was she so convincing because she actually believes her version of events?”

For a long moment the psychologist was silent, lost in thought. “It’s interesting to me,” she said finally, “that this Artist is sending ‘love’ notes. Ones that profess his undying and eternal devotion.

“From what you’ve told me, it sounds as if this young woman had a pretty horrific childhood. One that included trauma, her mother’s sudden, violent death, and abuse at the hands of her father. Most probably, she received little love or loving attention.”

“Except for her mother, maybe.”

“Who died.”

Eternal, undying love. Of course.

Dr. Lucia continued. “Could she be creating this fantastical story? Absolutely. Children who suffer extreme trauma or abuse sometimes disassociate from their own memories. It’s a kind of breaking free. And it allows them to create another story, to become a part of another life or relationship.”

Patti’s cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the display, saw it was Spencer, but didn’t answer. “You’re talking about multiple personality disorder?”

“That disorder has been renamed, more appropriately, disassociative identity disorder. DID for short. Sometimes, in extreme cases, different personalities develop to take over the painful memories. These alter identities can vary in age and gender. Whatever abuse occurred happened to that other person, not them. There are many documented cases of DID.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

Dr. Lucia smiled. “But sometimes the person simply detaches. In doing so, they are free to embroil themselves in another’s life-or tragedy. In a fantastical way.”

“Can you give me an example?”

She nodded. “There was a highly publicized case a year or two ago. A man confessed to a notorious and unsolved child killing. He claimed to ‘have been with her’ when she died.

“It was a complete fantasy. The man was actually many states away at the time, but had emotionally invested himself so deeply in the case, he believed it to be true.”

“So in this woman’s case, she could have so invested herself in the Handyman case, she created her own version of it?”

Her cell went off again. Again she ignored it.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I received this just a little while ago.” Patti held out the Artist’s note. “What do you make of it?”

The doctor took it, scanned its simple message, then looked back up at her. “You believed her. Supported her. Then you didn’t. You betrayed her. ‘Interfered’ in her fantasy.”

“And now she’s angry. She wants to punish me.”

“Yes, that could be. Remember, however, we’re speculating here.”

Patti leaned forward. “One last question, Dr. Gonzales. Could she have become so involved in her fantasy that she began…making it real?”

“It’s already real to her, Captain.”

“Let me rephrase that. Could she begin…playing other roles in the fantasy?”

“Are you asking me if she could take the next step? Take the story from the world of fantasy to the real world? For example, actually kill someone?”

“I am asking that, yes.”

“The human mind is capable of creating anything that can be imagined.”

“You mean, she could create a role and become it? Like she’s playing several parts in a play?”

“Yes.” Dr. Lucia smiled. “That said, however, it would be a big step.”

Patti’s cell vibrated a third time. When she saw that it was again Spencer, she excused herself to answer. “Captain O’Shay.”

“Where are you?”

“On four.”

“You better get down here. We’re going for a ride.”

Something in his tone made her blood run cold. “What’s going on?”

“Meet me at the elevators on one. I’ll tell you then.”

64

Friday, May 18, 2007

11:00 a.m.

Spencer was waiting at the first-floor elevators. “Fill me in,” she said as they fell into step together.

“Rich Ruston. I called him back. He claims Shauna’s missing.”

“Missing? What does that mean? Packed up and gone, or-”

“MIA. Said all her stuff was there. Guy was rattled. I told him I’d meet him at her apartment.”

Shauna rented half an old Uptown Camelback, a variation on the traditional New Orleans-style shotgun.

They exited the building. Patti squinted against the brilliant May sun; in unison, they reached for their sunglasses.

“He said Shauna didn’t return his calls, so he went to check on her and she was gone.”

“What about her car?”

“Parked in the drive.”

Patti thought of Tonya Messinger. The scenarios were uncomfortably similar. She shook the thought off. “It’s probably nothing,” she said.

“That’s what I told him.”

Now you begin to regret your interference.

On the drive, Patti filled him in on her conversation with Dr. Lucia.

When she finished, Spencer whistled. “So, you’re saying that Yvette could be punishing you for interfering with her fantasy?”

“According to Dr. Gonzales, it’s possible.” He turned onto Shauna’s street, and Patti experienced an overwhelming feeling of dread. “She also said, ‘The human mind is capable of creating anything that can be imagined.’”

“That won’t help me sleep at night.”

“Tell me about it.”

Rich Ruston was waiting on the small front porch. His self-confident air gone, he looked pale and shaken.

“Thanks for calling us, Rich,” Patti said when they reached the porch. “Tell me what you told Spencer.”

“When Shauna didn’t return my calls, I came to check on her.”

“You have a key?”

“Yes. But I rang the bell first, then knocked. When she didn’t answer, I let myself in.”

“How many times did you call?”

“At least a dozen.”

“Her cell phone-”

“And home. Left messages on both.”

Patti thought of Tonya, of Yvette’s many calls to her. She cleared her throat. “When did this begin?”

“Last night. We-” He bit back whatever he had been about to say.

Patti frowned. “You what?”

“We had a fight. I stormed out.”

“What was the fight about?” Spencer asked.

The man looked uncomfortable. “Her working so much. She accused me of being jealous of her success.”

“Are you?”

“No! Just…it seemed like her painting was getting all her attention and I…We fought about it.”

“You ‘stormed’ out, then had a change of heart and called her?”

“Yes. At first I just figured she was still mad at me. Then I started to worry. Shauna’s not the type…you know, to keep a mad on.”

She wasn’t. She also wasn’t the type to try to punish or scare someone who had hurt her.

“Let’s take a look around.”

He unlocked the apartment; they asked him to wait for them on the porch. “Shauna,” Spencer called, stepping inside. “It’s me. And Aunt Patti.”

Habit from years of on-the-job entering, Patti thought. Announce yourself. Head off ugly surprises.

Shauna didn’t respond, which wasn’t unexpected. As they made their way deeper into the apartment, Patti noted the “frozen moment” condition of the apartment, especially in the studio. Shauna had left her paintbrushes soaking in turpentine, her palette uncovered. On her worktable lay her iPod, headphones and a half-drunk mochassippi, a local coffeehouse chain’s signature drink. She had removed her painting smock and tossed it over the back of a chair.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickling, Patti looked at Spencer. He, too, gazed at the revealing tableau.

“It’s like she was working and stopped suddenly.”

“To answer the door.”

“Or run a quick errand.”