The Dollmaker

Dave’s old partner had once warned him about Jubal’s temper. They’d stopped in for a beer after their watch one night and the surly bartender had copped an attitude from the get-go. Back in the day, Dave hadn’t been one to turn the other cheek.

“Man, let it go,” Titus had said in a nervous whisper. “You don’t want to tangle with that S.O.B. Once he start in whaling on you, he like a big ’ol loggerhead. He ain’t gonna let you go till it thunders. Or till you dead.”

It was good advice. Too bad Dave hadn’t had the sense to heed it.

He and Jubal played the staring game for several more seconds, then, with a hardening of his features, the older man ambled down to Dave’s end of the bar.

“Jubal.” Dave greeted him warily, mindful of the nightstick and brass knuckles the bartender kept under the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Dave Creasy. Been a while since I saw your ugly mug in here. Kinda thought you might be dead.”

Kinda hoped was the inference. “I bought a place in St. Mary Parish awhile back.”

“Same difference, you ask me.” Jubal got down a glass and a bottle of whiskey. “The usual?”

“Nah, I’m on the wagon these days.”

“Since when?”

Eight months, four days, nine hours and counting. “Since the last time I got thrown in jail for disorderly conduct.”

Jubal’s gold tooth flashed in the light from the Abita Purple Haze sign over the bar.

Dave touched the area over his left eye. His memories of that night had faded, but the scar hadn’t. It had taken him two days to get out of the drunk tank, another five before he’d stumbled into the nearest emergency room with a raging fever. The infection had laid him flat for nearly two weeks, and by the time he got out of the hospital, fifteen pounds lighter, a jagged scar was the least of his worries.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eye,” the young intern had scolded him. “However, at the moment, I’m more concerned about your liver. You have what is known as alcohol hepatitis, which can be treated but only if alcohol consumption is stopped. Otherwise, this condition is likely to cause cirrhosis, Mr. Creasy,” he’d stated bluntly. “If you don’t stop drinking, there’s a good chance you won’t make it to your fortieth birthday.”

Dave wasn’t particularly worried about dying, but he would prefer not to go out the way his old man had. So he’d stopped drinking…again, started going back to AA, and he’d moved down to Morgan City to work part-time for his uncle while reopening Creasy Investigations. Marsilius had found him a little house on the bayou where he could live and set up shop until he was able to afford office space in town. The only problem with that arrangement was that his uncle now considered it his moral duty to keep Dave on the straight and narrow.

As if testing Dave’s resolve, Jubal poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s and slid the tumbler across the bar. “First one’s on the house. For old times’ sake.”

“No thanks, but I’ll take a cup of that coffee I smell brewing.”

“Suit yourself.” Jubal filled a cup and passed it to Dave. “If you’re not drinking, what brings you in here?”

“I’m meeting someone.” Dave lifted the cup and took a sip of the strong chicory blend. The coffee was hot. It scalded his tongue and he swore as the front door swung open. And in walked Angelette Lapierre.

She stood in the doorway taking stock of the room just as she always did. That was Dave’s first memory of her, the way she’d planted herself on the threshold of the captain’s office, her gaze sweeping the room as the group of homicide detectives huddled over a map had looked up with a collective indrawn breath.

Dave had been married back then and in love with his wife, but he couldn’t help noticing Angelette. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, she’d had that dog-in-heat quality that drew men to her side and made any woman unfortunate enough to be in the same room dislike her on sight.

Dave had tried to ignore her, but later in the crowded squad room, he’d glanced up to find her watching him, and her slow smile had sent a shiver down his backbone. Something that might have been a warning glinted in her sultry eyes that day, and Dave would later wish that he’d taken heed of it.

But instead, he’d told himself there was no harm in looking. What Claire didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Claire.

Dave winced at the memory. He didn’t want to think about her at that moment. He didn’t want to think about her ever. She was a part of his past. One of the ghosts that came out to haunt him on rainy summer nights.

But he couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes briefly as an image of his ex-wife appeared in his head. She wasn’t as curvy or as beautiful as Angelette, but her appeal was far more dangerous because she was the kind of woman you could never get out of your system. No matter how much you drank.

As if she was reading his mind, Angelette’s expression hardened. Her gaze seemed to pierce right through him, and then she blinked and the daggers were gone. The familiar smile flashed, dazzled, even as her chin lifted in defiance.

Same old Angelette.

She wore a blue dress, transparent from where she stood in the doorway. Jubal leaned an elbow on the bar and swore under his breath. Together he and Dave watched her walk with fluid grace to the stool next to Dave’s, a whiff of something seductive preceding her.

Still smiling, she placed her purse on the bar and crossed her legs, letting that blue dress skate up her slender thighs.

“I don’t want no trouble,” Jubal warned.

She tossed back her dark hair and laughed. “I don’t want any trouble, either.”

“You start throwing beer bottles like you did last time, I’m calling the law on both of you.”

“I am the law, remember?” She laughed again, but her amusement didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just relax, okay? Dave and I kissed and made up a long time ago. Didn’t we, Dave?”

“If you say so.” He was all for letting bygones be bygones, but when Angelette leaned over to brush her lips against his, he couldn’t help tensing.

Her gaze lit on the scar above his eye. “Wow. Did I do that?”

“Better than a tattoo.”

“Speaking of tattoos…I got myself a new one. Remind me to show it to you sometime.”

Dave let that one go. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, as Marsilius frequently pointed out, but he’d learned his lesson with Angelette.

Not getting the response she wanted, she turned to Jubal. “Double whiskey.”

There was something about Angelette that Dave hadn’t remembered from before. She’d always had an edge. Had always been able to give as good as she got. An ambitious female detective had to know how to handle herself in a man’s world. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t her years as a cop that had given her face a brittle veneer. It was selling out. Being on the take for too long had chipped away at her sensuality and left in its wake something hard and unpleasant and faintly decadent.

Dave cradled his cup, gratified to note that his hands no longer trembled. He hadn’t felt this steady in years. “So how did the anger management classes go?” He knew the question was likely to set her off. Angelette didn’t like being called on her bullshit—by him or by the judge who’d ordered her into the classes—but Dave couldn’t resist goading her a little.

She surprised him. Instead of rising to the bait, she gave an airy wave with one hand as she lifted her drink with the other. “Oh, I finished up months ago. You’re looking at the new and improved Angelette. What do you think?”

“Not bad.”

One brow lifted as her eyes seemed to challenge him. Not bad? There was a time when you couldn’t keep your hands off me, you bastard. “You’re not faring too badly yourself. You’ve put on a little weight, but it suits you. I was never all that partial to scrawny guys. A girl has to have something to hang on to, right, Jubal?” She gave the bartender a wink.

The older man glared at her with open suspicion. “You want another drink?”

“Oui, bien sûr.” She waited for him to pour the whiskey, then picked up her glass. “Let’s move over to a booth.” She slid off the stool, and as she turned, her full breasts brushed up against Dave’s arm for a split second before she moved away.

He got up and, taking his coffee with him, followed her to a back booth. By the time he sat down, she’d already finished her second drink.

“Maybe you ought to ease up on the hooch.”

“What is that? A friendly piece of advice from one drunk to another?” Her face was flushed and her voice sounded strained as she folded her arms on the table.

Something was wrong. Dave could feel it. Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. Instead, she watched the steam rising from his cup that drifted up between them.

“What did you want to see me about?”

Her gaze darted to the front door, and Dave noticed that she’d chosen a booth where they both had a view of the entrance. He’d taught her that. The things she’d taught him didn’t come in so handy these days.

“I’m seeing someone. I wanted you to hear it from me first.” She ran a fingernail around the rim of her empty glass and Dave could tell she wanted another drink. He knew that feeling, that hunger. It was like a needy old friend you could never get rid of.

He waited for a moment, thinking he might feel a twinge of regret at her news, but no. Not even a flicker of relief. He just didn’t care anymore. “Is it serious?”

“Who knows?” Angelette shook out a cigarette and lit up. The smoke mingled with the steam from his coffee, softening her features and making her face seem almost vulnerable, but Dave knew better than to believe in a mirage. “We’re taking things slow for now. Something you and I should have done, I guess.” She propped an elbow on the table, letting the Camel smolder between her fingers. “Never was anything slow about you, Dave.”

“Most men wouldn’t take that as a compliment.”

“But you’re not most men, now are you?” She gave him a dark smile. “We both liked it fast, didn’t we? And often.”

Her lowered voice conjured images best left in the past. Seedy motel rooms. The hood of his car. A deserted road with the smell of the river drifting in through the open windows.

“We were good for a while, baby. You can’t deny that.” She reached for his hand, but Dave pulled his away.

“Tell me about your new guy. Anyone I know?”

“It’s Lee Elliot.”

Dave was caught off guard by the name. The conservative Orleans Parish district attorney hardly seemed suited to Angelette’s free spirit, but then Elliot came from old money and that would most definitely appeal to her.

“Are you impressed?”

“Have to say that I am. Does he know about the payoffs?”

“I’m clean these days, Dave. I swear. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just keep your mouth shut about the past. I kind of like the idea of a stable relationship for a change and I don’t want you ruining this for me.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Besides, I don’t exactly operate in Elliot’s circle.”

“No, but Claire’s sister does.”

“I don’t talk to Claire’s family. You know that.”

“I thought things might be different now.”

“You mean because I’m not seeing you anymore?”

Angelette took a quick drag on her cigarette. “I did wonder.”

“Claire and I are over,” Dave said slowly. “We’ve been over for a long time. You know she’s remarried.” And wasn’t it pretty damn remarkable how he was able to say it without punching a wall or shattering a window?

But the outbursts of temper and the drunken brawls were behind him. Dave had accepted his life for the way it was, and he’d finally figured out there was no profit in dwelling on what he’d lost.

He could almost hear his AA sponsor coaxing him: Say it with me, Dave. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

A nice sentiment, but it didn’t mean shit when you were lying facedown in a gutter.

“You said there were two reasons why you wanted to see me. What’s the other?”

Angelette’s gaze flashed to the door again. Dave wondered if she was expecting someone. Her nerves were right beneath the surface and he couldn’t help wondering why. “This conversation is going to stay between us, right?”

“Sure.”

She waited a moment longer, then slid the empty glass aside. “Have you been following the Losier case?”

“The murdered Tulane student? Hard not to. Her picture’s been plastered all over the news for weeks.” Nina Losier’s girl-next-door looks had captured the public’s attention, but after nearly a month with no arrests and nothing new to report, media interest was starting to wane. A sure sign the investigation was going nowhere. Dave had learned that lesson the hard way.

Angelette blew a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “The father is looking to hire a P.I. I told him about you.”

“Since when does NOPD recommend a private dick for an active investigation?”

“Since it’s not my case.” She grinned, but her eyes were sober as she gazed across the table at him. “Let’s just say the official investigation has run into some problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“There’s a lot about this case that hasn’t been released to the public. Nina Losier was from a wealthy family in Baton Rouge. Her father has a lot of political clout and NOPD has been pressured to keep certain aspects of the investigation out of the news.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that when Nina wasn’t in class, she sometimes danced at a strip club on Bourbon Street. The Gold Medallion.” Angelette paused. “That’s where Renee Savaria worked, isn’t it?”

Dave suddenly realized how badly he wanted a drink. It hit him like that sometimes. Everything would be going along fine, and then bam. A face, a memory…even a name could smash his control all to hell.

The Savaria homicide was the last case he’d worked before his resignation. He’d been knee-deep in the investigation when his daughter went missing. Snatched in broad daylight as she rode her new bicycle up and down the sidewalk in front of their home.

Images were already flashing in Dave’s head. The kind of visions that had made him reach for a bottle—or his gun—on more sleepless nights than he cared to remember.

Ruby had been seven when she was taken. Just seven years old.

“If Nina Losier comes from the kind of background you say she does, how’d she end up stripping on Bourbon Street?”

“You make it sound like she was an anomaly, but rich girls slumming to embarrass their powerful daddies is nothing new in this town.”

“What about leads?”

“One dead end after another, just like the Savaria case. I remember how frustrated you were back then. You told me once it was like beating your head against a stone wall. Then all of a sudden you turned up a new lead. You thought you were getting close to a breakthrough when Ruby went missing. Maybe you were getting a little too close.”

For a moment Dave felt as if the air had been squeezed from his lungs. He’d never told anyone about those phone calls, not even Angelette. She couldn’t know about the missing page from the dead woman’s diary, either. No one knew about that except Dave and Renee Savaria’s murderer.

He’d destroyed evidence in a homicide investigation in order to save his daughter’s life, but Ruby hadn’t been returned as promised. Instead, her trail had grown cold while Dave collaborated with a killer.

A muscle in his jaw began to throb. Seven years and the guilt was still as fresh and deep as the day he’d answered Claire’s frantic phone call.

Angelette’s eyes searched his face. “I always wondered if there was a link between Renee Savaria’s murder and Ruby’s kidnapping. I think you did, too.”

Dave looked down at his hands. They weren’t trembling, but his fingers had curled so tight, his knuckles whitened. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. It’s all in the past.”

“A guy like you lives in the past.”

“Not anymore.”

“I call bullshit on that.”

Dave shrugged.

“After you left, the active investigations on your desk fell through the cracks. Nobody wanted to get tainted by your bad karma. So the Savaria case has been sitting in the cold case files all this time, and the way I see it, that old unfinished business has been eating away at you for too damn long. Maybe it’s time for a little closure.”

Dave wanted to believe it was as simple as that, but Angelette never did anything without demanding something in return. “What are you really after, Angie?”

“Nothing. I owe you one, that’s all.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?”

She looked hurt. “Hey, I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t exactly conducted myself like a Girl Scout in the past, but I’m still a cop and, believe it or not, I’d like to see justice done. Renee Savaria and Nina Losier got in over their heads at that club. Drugs, prostitution…God knows what else. But that doesn’t mean they deserved what happened to them. And your little girl sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

Angelette leaned toward him. “What if I tell you I can put a copy of the case file in your hands? Would you be willing to at least take a look?”

“You sure you want to risk your career over this one?”

“You let me worry about my career. I know what I’m doing. You game or not?”

“I’ll take a look at what you’ve got, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Fair enough. You don’t like what you see, you walk away and that’s that. We don’t mention it again.” She gathered up her purse and stood. “Give me a call when you decide something. Or better yet, drop by the Monteleone on Saturday night. Graydon Losier is making an appearance at Lee’s fund-raiser. I’ll see that you get an introduction.”

She started toward the door, then turned back. “One other thing I forgot to mention.” She leaned over the table to slowly grind out her cigarette. “I’ve been hearing some talk around town. Claire and Alex Girard…they’ve split up. Not that you give a shit about your ex-wife, right, Dave?”

Two

The Dollmaker had been working steadily ever since he returned home from New Orleans a few hours ago, but he wasn’t happy with his progress. For one thing, the smile was all wrong. The shape of the jaw, the angle of the nose…everything about her eluded him tonight.

His hand tightened on the knife, but instead of slicing away the offending features as he usually did, he took a step back from his work and drew a calming breath. He was letting anger and fear interfere with his concentration, and for him that could be a very dangerous thing. He needed to get his emotions under control before he did something rash. Something he might live to regret.

He sucked in more air, but the breathing exercises weren’t working this time. The voice inside his head kept needling him.

She’s gone, you fool! And it’s all your fault. You lost her!

“I didn’t lose her,” he muttered. “She was taken.”

Because you were so careless!

He couldn’t deny that. Leaving her alone had been imprudent, to say the least, but he’d been called away on an emergency and hadn’t taken the time to lock her up before he rushed out. When he came home hours later, she was missing.

Snatched in broad daylight from her home.

A part of him wanted to appreciate the irony even as his conscience continued to berate him. He’d flown under the radar of the local authorities and even the FBI for so long, he’d become too complacent, even a bit reckless at times. It had all been so easy until now, and he wondered if he should regard this as a test. How he conducted himself could be crucial.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I know where she is. I’ll get her back.”

By this time tomorrow she would be home where she belonged. In the meantime, he had plenty to do to keep busy.

With an effort, he relaxed his grip on the knife. Everything would be okay if he just kept his cool. After all, there was no way now that she could be traced back to him. He’d seen to that. And even if someone came sniffing around, he wouldn’t draw attention. He’d learned at an early age the advantage of maintaining a low profile. Nothing in his appearance or lifestyle would ever arouse suspicion. He even wore contacts in addition to his glasses to subdue the color of his blue eyes so they wouldn’t be remembered. He was the very epitome of decorum.

Everything was fine. The party would go off without a hitch. All he had to do was close his eyes and remember Maddy’s face.

If only it were that simple. But even with the old photograph he’d squirreled away years ago, he’d always had a difficult time reconstructing her winsome features.

Not that he wasn’t talented enough. He was quite gifted, in fact, and he’d learned from a master. But for the Maddy doll and for the others in his private collection, each and every detail had to be perfect. Such precision could be maddening without a live model, but he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. For Maddy’s sake, he had to keep trying. He owed her that much.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the shivering to pass, and then, wielding the sculptor’s knife as precisely as a scalpel, he set to work remolding the delicate features one sliver at a time until the lovely little face seemed to take on a life of its own.

“You’re in there,” he whispered. “I can feel you….”

He kept at it for a long time, refusing to stop even when his fingers became so cramped that every stroke of the blade was agony. Clay molds and sketches cluttered the studio, and as the evening hours turned into early morning, the disorder subtly wore on his nerves. Even the orchid he’d placed on the corner of his worktable drooped from neglect, and that wasn’t like him.

Ever since the doll had been stolen, his regimen had been severely disrupted. Normally he nurtured his orchids just as he pampered himself. He was accustomed to showering several times a day when his schedule permitted, and he kept his clothes pristine, his hair trimmed just so. He strove for nothing less than perfection in his personal appearance and in his surroundings. But until he had her back—one way or another—he wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep, much less indulge himself in his time-consuming routine.

He stepped away from his workbench and studied the doll’s features yet again. Better. Almost there…but not quite…

Something was missing.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung on the wall across the room, and froze, arrested as he always was by the sight of his own reflection. The man who stared back at him still seemed a stranger. Brownish-blond curls. Blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. A rather weak jawline, but the mouth was good and the complexion was to die for. Not a single blemish or mole to mar his smooth skin. No morning shadow, either. He almost looked airbrushed.

But his new glasses would take some getting used to. They gave him a bookish air that wasn’t to his liking, but for now the look suited his purposes.

Unable to resist, he walked over to the mirror for a closer scrutiny. Turning first one way then the other, he frowned. His nose was still not right, but the cartilage was too weak for another surgery. He supposed he would have to make do with what he had.

He removed his glasses because his eyes looked bluer without them, and when he smiled a certain way, his dimples flashed sweetly. He’d practiced that smile for years.

Yes, when he smiled in just that way, he could almost catch a glimpse of her….

“You’re in there,” he whispered to his reflection. “I can feel you.”

He lifted the blade to his face, the compulsion to peel away the flesh until he found what he needed almost irresistible. After all, he was no stranger to the knife. His body had been carved and mutilated so badly that his distaste for his own appearance sometimes forced him to use a sponge and gloves to clean himself in the shower. But no matter how often he washed, he couldn’t scrub away the scars. He couldn’t rinse away the memories.