Forbidden Fruit (42 page)

S
antos was not about to sit on his hands and wait—not for the Snow White Killer to completely slip through his fingers, or for somebody else to save his butt. He would like to find Robichaux and beat the truth out of him, but figured that, despite how satisfying the act would be, it really wouldn't help his cause.

His other option was Tina. What if she really was being stalked by the Snow White? Maybe this guy knew she had seen him. Maybe he wanted to tie up loose ends before blowing town. Tina had been standing near her friend Billie when she had gotten that last date. Tina had seen the guy clearly. It only followed that he had seen her, too.
If
that john was the Snow White, he would consider Tina a threat.

Santos waited until dark to head for the Quarter. He cruised the streets and clubs, checking the places hookers frequented most. All with no sign of Tina. After a couple of hours, he began to wonder if she had been scared enough to skip town, or at the least to lie low for a while.

He rejected the latter. To make any kind of money, working girls needed to be on the street, all the time. Most of them worked sick, they worked if their kids were sick, they worked if it was broiling hot or freezing cold.

No, if Tina was in town, she was on the street. He would keep looking.

After another couple hours, his diligence paid off. He caught sight of her, coming out of, ironically, Club 69. He drew his car to the curb alongside of her and rolled down the window. “Tina.”

She turned toward him, her come-hither smile twisting into a scowl when she saw it was him. “Get lost.”

She started walking again, and he inched the car forward. “I'm not getting lost, so you might as well talk to me now. It'll save us both a lot of time and hassle.”

She swore loudly, stopped and sauntered over. “What's up, honey? You need a date?”

“We need to talk.”

“Really?” She rested her forearms on the open window and bent her head toward his. She wetted her lips. “Talk about what? The condition of your dick?”

He smelled booze on her breath, strong and sickly sweet. It wasn't surprising, a lot of the girls had booze and dope habits. In their line of work, numbing their bodies and brains was not a negative.

Unfortunately, it kept a lot of them in the business. It burned them out and used them up and kept them chained to their backs.

He hated seeing her this way. He hated looking at her now but remembering the way she had been. He wasn't to blame for her life or the way it had turned out. He hadn't been able to help her.

But still, he felt, somehow, responsible.

“Don't be cute, Tina. I want to talk to you about the Snow White Killer.”

“About police business?” She arched her eyebrows. “But, Sugar, I heard you weren't a cop anymore.”

Santos gritted his teeth at her barb, but didn't bite. “Detective Jackson told me you stopped by headquarters.”

“So?”

“So, he said you were scared. He said you thought you were being stalked by the Snow White.”

She narrowed her heavily outlined eyes. “That's right. And you know what your pig-partners did about it? Nothing.” She straightened. “So, like I said before. Get lost.”

She turned and walked away. Swearing, Santos threw open his car door, hopped out and went after her. “I want to help you, Tina.”

She kept walking, just lifted her right hand into the air and flipped him off.

“I'm sorry I didn't come back for you,” he called. “Let me help you now.”

She stopped, but didn't look back at him. “You don't want to help me,” she murmured, her voice thick. “You only want to help yourself.” She cleared her throat. “You only want to get this guy, you don't give a shit about me or any of the other girls who are in danger. We're just hookers.”

He took another step forward, hand out. “That's not true, Tina. I swear to you, I do care.”

She looked over her shoulder then, meeting his eyes. Hers were soft with hurt, bright with unshed tears. “If you had cared, you would have come back for me.”

“I…couldn't. But I'm here now. I believe this sick bastard really might be following you. He thinks you're a loose end, Tina. A threat to him. If he does think that, he's going to kill you.” The blood drained from her face. Santos closed his hand over her arm. “Unless we can get him first.”

She stared at him, fear naked in her eyes. He tightened his fingers. “Help me, Tina. Help yourself.”

For one brief moment, he thought she would acquiesce. Then the fear in her eyes became fury. She reeled away from him, wrenching her arm from his grasp.

“Just leave me alone! I don't know anything.”

“Tina—” He made another grab for her; she swung at him with her purse, catching him in the shoulder. The purse flew open and its contents spilled across the sidewalk. She made a sound of frustration, bent and began retrieving her things.

He squatted beside her to help. There wasn't much—a pack of cigarettes, a half-dozen books of matches, a wad of crumpled bills, a handful of condoms.

She began scooping up the foil packets. “Go away.”

“It's not going to happen, Tina. Until you talk, I'm going to stick to you like white on rice. Why not make it easy on the both of—”

She reached to collect the last packet, and her necklace slipped out from beneath her shirt and fell away from her body.

It was a cross. Small, plain, cheap. It looked like a dozen others he had in his office desk drawer.

He covered her hand. “Where did you get that?”

She yanked her hand away and stuffed the foil packets into her purse. “They're rubbers, Officer. One hundred percent latex. A hooker's best friend, don't you know? Me and the rest of the girls, we buy 'em by the gross at the Corner Drugstore.” She pointed. “It's down that way, if you're interested.”

“Not that.” He reached out and hooked his fingers around the necklace. “This.”

“Hey! Hands off!”

She jerked backward, but he closed his fist around the cross and held tight. “Where did you get it, Tina?”

“A graduation gift,” she said sarcastically. “From my adoring mother and stepfather. Remember? I told you about them. He was a pig, just like you.”

He curled his fingers around the flimsy chain. “Stop the bullshit, Tina! Where did you get it?”

“A friend who wants to save my eternal soul. All right? Now, fuck off!”

Her eternal soul.
A chill ran up his spine. Tina knew the killer; he was certain of it. He pulled her a fraction closer. “Who is this friend?”

“You're the detective. Figure it out.”

Santos yanked the crucifix off her. She gasped and fell backward, landing on her backside on the sidewalk. “Dammit, Tina. Do you want to die? It could save your li—”

He muttered an oath. “I didn't come back for you because my mother was killed that night. Butchered, like your friend Billie. I didn't come back for you because I didn't have anywhere to go myself. Because my world had just fallen apart. This might be the same guy who killed her. And I've got to know if he is. I've got to catch him, Tina.

“Now—” he leaned toward her, hand out, seeing her surprise “—tell me where you got the goddamned necklace.”

T
ina had gotten the crucifix from a bible thumper in the Quarter, a guy who owned a small religious-supplies store on Dauphine. He was a nice guy, she had said. A bit of a fanatic, but nice. He liked all the working girls, was always preaching to them about good and evil, always quoting the scripture and trying to get them to change their wicked ways.

No way was he the guy, she had said. No possible way.

Santos thought otherwise. So did Jackson.

Obviously excited, Jackson told him to hang tight, that he would get back with him as soon as he could.

The waiting was hell. Santos paced, cursing Chop Robichaux and whoever else had set him up. He wanted to be with Jackson and the others. He wanted to be in that scumbag's apartment, he wanted to cuff him and bring him in.

Dammit, he wanted to be doing his job.

And he wanted this guy to be the one who had done his mother. He wanted to know; and he wanted the son of a bitch to fry.

Jackson called him the minute he got back to headquarters. It looked as if he was their guy, he said. They found all sorts of stuff in his store and apartment; more of the crosses, newspaper articles about the Snow White. He even had pictures of a couple of the dead girls.

The only thing they didn't have, Jackson said, was the guy himself. He traveled, his landlady said. He was sometimes gone a week, but never more. She didn't know where he had gone this time.

“Is he old enough?” Santos asked tightly, gripping the receiver so hard his fingers went numb. “Could he be the one who—” Santos's throat closed over the words and he struggled to clear it, realizing just how much he had hoped and prayed for this moment. And how much he feared it.

He had to know.

“Could he be the one who killed my mother?”

For one, agonizing moment, his partner said nothing. Santos's stomach did a nosedive. “Jackson?”

“He could be,” he said finally. “He's old enough. He's been in and out of the Quarter for years. He frequents…hookers.”

Santos let his breath out in a rush, his knees going weak.
It could be the guy. It could be him.

“Santos, buddy, don't lose it here. Just because maybe it could be the same guy, sure as hell doesn't mean it is. It's probably not.”

“I know. But for now…hell, Jackson. For now,
maybe
is enough.”

“H
ello, Liz.”

Liz looked up from her employee time cards, lined up on the bar in front of her. “Jackson,” she said, smiling, genuinely pleased to see him. “What brings you in?”

He grinned. “I was craving one of your tofu sesame salads.”

“Just what I love to hear from a customer.” She slid off the bar stool. “I'll show you to a table. Are you alone today?”

“Yup. Just little old me.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Even your pinky is big, Jackson. What were you, thirty-eight inches at birth?”

“Forty-eight.”

She laughed again and stopped beside a window table with a good view of the street. “How's this?”

“Perfect.” He took one of the chairs and motioned toward another. “Can you join me?”

She glanced back at the bar, and the stack of time cards. She had to finish them tonight for payroll tomorrow. “Just for a minute.” She grimaced and took the seat across from him. “The paperwork never ends. It's my least favorite part of the business.”

“That's the thing about life,” he murmured as the waitress approached with the menu. “You've got to take the good with the bad. I mean, look at me. I love police work. It's the criminals I can't stand.”

Liz laughed. “I suppose, compared to criminals, my time cards aren't so bad.”

Jackson didn't even glance at the menu. He ordered the salad and a glass of herbal ice tea, then turned back to Liz. “How are things?”

“Great,” she said quickly. Too quickly, she realized. And too brightly. Heat stung her cheeks and she cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I hear you got the Snow White Killer.”

“We have a suspect.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “You don't sound convinced he's the one.”

“Don't I?” Jackson shrugged. “I'm not like my hot-headed partner. I always reserve judgment until we've got all the evidence and the guy's under arrest.”

At the mention of Santos, a lump formed in her throat. “How is Santos?”

“If you've seen the paper, you know.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, fighting back the feeling of guilt that welled up inside her. She reminded herself that she hated him. She reminded herself that he could burn at the stake in Jackson Square, for all she cared. She only wished Glory could burn with him.

“Liz? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “No.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes, studying her, and heat stung her cheeks again. But this time, guilty heat. She shifted her gaze. “Is it…as bad for Santos as I've heard. I mean, is there a chance he'll…you know.”

“Get off? Be proven innocent, which he is? I sure as hell hope so.” Jackson's mouth thinned. “Somebody's setting him up. Somebody besides Chop Robichaux.”

“Besides Robichaux?” she repeated, her voice high. “But who?”

“If we knew that, we could do something. As it stands, Santos is screwed.” Jackson looked at her sharply. “You don't have any…information about this, do you, Liz?”

“Information? Me?” She shook her head, torn, her conscience tugging at her. “Why should I?” She jumped to her feet and forced an easy smile, knowing she was acting guilty as sin. “Here comes your salad, I guess I'd better get back to that nasty paperwork.”

She turned and started toward the bar, stopping when Jackson called her name. She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze, though with difficulty.

“He didn't mean to hurt you, Liz. He's a good man. And he's a…he's a great cop.”

Tears swamped her, and without another word, she turned and walked back to the bar. But once there, she couldn't focus on her calculations. She couldn't stop thinking about having seen Hope St. Germaine in the Quarter the other night, about having seen her talking with Chop Robichaux.

And she couldn't stop thinking about Santos.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, he walked into the restaurant. Her heart pounded and for one breathless moment she thought that maybe, just maybe, he had come for her.

Of course, he hadn't. He had come to see Jackson; and he looked extremely uncomfortable to be here.

He should, she thought, angry. He should feel like a total shit.

She glanced at him again, from the corners of her eyes. She saw him glance her way, grimace, then motion to the door. Jackson shook his head, and motioned to the chair across from his. Looking like a sentenced man, Santos slid into it.

A lump of emotion formed in her throat, almost suffocating her. It hurt to look at him. It hurt to want something so much, and to know she would never have it.

Why couldn't it have worked out between them? Why couldn't he have loved her? It would have made up for the past, for losing her shining future, a hundredfold. It would have made up for Glory.

For several minutes, she fiddled with the time cards, acknowledging that she would have to redo them, unable to focus on anything but Santos. She sneaked another peek at him, studying him for a moment, then averting her eyes.

He looked bad, she realized. Drawn and tired. Something in his expression made him look like a lost little boy. The way he must have looked all those years ago, after his mother's murder, when he'd had no one.

He had recently lost Lily. Now he had lost his job.

Liz swallowed hard, feeling like a heel. In a way, once again, he was that lost and alone little boy. He had no one, nothing, he could call his own.

Santos loved his job, he loved being a cop. And he was a good one. One of the best. She couldn't hurt him this way, no matter how badly he had hurt her. It was wrong. It was hateful.

And, in the long run, it would probably hurt her more than him.

She stood and nervously smoothed her hands over her skirt. Having seen Hope St. Germaine and Chop Robichaux talking together might have been a coincidence and have nothing to do with Santos. It probably was. But at least her conscience would be clear.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed to their table. They both looked up. She clasped her hands in front of her. “Hello, Santos.”

He searched her gaze. “Hello, Liz.”

He looked as if he was in agony. He hated having hurt her, she realized. He hadn't done it deliberately. The regret in his eyes was real; the sorrow there was true.

“If you want me to leave,” he said softly, “I will.”

“No, I—” she drew in another deep breath “—I need to speak to you.” She shifted her gaze to Jackson. “To both of you. May I sit down?”

They nodded. She took a seat and without preamble, launched into her story. A couple minutes later, Jackson leaned back in his chair and whistled. “Holy bad-apple, Batman.”

Santos shook his head, his expression stunned. “I told myself she couldn't be involved. Even though my gut told me otherwise, even though I kept coming back to her, to the venom in her eyes and voice the last time I saw her. But I thought I was crazy. I told myself it…couldn't be.”

“But Chop Robichaux? You can't get much lower than that dude. So how—”

“Did she hook up with him?” Santos leaned forward in his seat, obviously excited. “You can't just open the Yellow Pages and find a listing for Scumbags ‘R' Us.”

“And Robichaux wouldn't risk everything for just anybody.”

“He would for the right amount of money. I know this S.O.B. He'd do anything for money.”

“But how much would it take for him to do this?” Jackson steepled his fingers. “What do you think? Where do we go from here?”

“We get proof. We get something that ties the two of them together. We find out what was in that envelope.”

Liz watched them, listening, feeling like a third wheel. Like the outsider, the kid who hadn't been picked to play ball.
She was no longer a part of this team. She was no longer needed or wanted here.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes. She cleared her throat and stood. “I'll leave you two to…talk. I just wanted—” She bit back the words, struggling with the tears, vowing that she would not shame herself by crying.

Santos stood, too, his expression grateful. “Liz, I don't know how to thank you. I don't know what I would have done if—”

“Forget it.” She smoothed her hands over her skirt again. “Really.”

“But I don't want to forget it. I owe you for this, Liz. Big time.”

She folded her arms across her middle and shook her head. “No, Santos. You don't. I didn't do this because I…forgive you. I didn't do it to help you or because I still…love you.” Her voice thickened, and she cleared it. “I did it because it was the right thing to do. Because you're a great cop. And because I couldn't have lived with myself if I hadn't.”

Santos caught her hand. He squeezed her fingers. “Whatever your reasons, thank you, Liz. You just saved my life.”