Last Known Victim

by Erica Spindler

  “Not with me. I don’t like to bring personal stuff to work.”

  That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

  Stacy rummaged in her purse for the “tip” and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “Here. Sorry about that.”

  Yvette stared at the bill. “Twenty bucks is all? From those rich guys? Keep it, you earned it.”

  Stacy frowned. “I helped you because you’re my friend, Yvette. And because it was the right thing to do. Not because I expected to be paid.”

  The younger woman gazed at her a moment, as though trying to decide if she was for real. Then she smiled. “Keep it, anyway. You’ve got a kid to take care of.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” She stuffed the bill into her pocket. “Sorry if I was critical of Marcus. I guess I just don’t get it.”

  She let the comment hang between them for several moments, offering Yvette a chance to explain. When she didn’t, Stacy went on. “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Let’s not talk about Marcus. Okay?”

  “Sure. Sorry.”

  They fell silent a moment, then Stacy snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot! I saw you today. In the Quarter. I started across the street to say hello, but you got into a car before I could.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “You sure? I was almost posi-”

  “I said it wasn’t me.”

  Stacy backed off. “Sure. Okay.” She laughed. “I should’ve known. This chick was dressed like somebody’s mama. Real frumpy.”

  “Not my style.”

  “Exactly.”

  Yvette finished her cocoa. “Ready for another? Or just a shot of schnapps?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got to drive, remember?”

  “You could sleep over?” She took in Stacy’s expression and laughed. “I’m not gay. It just gets a little lonely around here. In the morning, we could go to the Coffeepot for brunch. They make the best Lost Bread in the city.”

  Lost Bread, Stacy had learned after moving down here, was New Orleans’ version of French toast-made with day-old French bread. “I can’t. I wish I could, but-”

  “Because of Sandi,” she said, disappointment clear in her voice.

  “My mother’s watching her, but I need to be there when she wakes up.”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “I know! How about we meet for brunch tomorrow? Sandi’s spending the day with her dad.”

  Yvette agreed, and a short time later, Stacy climbed into her Explorer. No sooner had she slammed the door behind her than her cell phone buzzed. It was Dan, one of the surveillance team.

  “I appreciate you wrapping that up,” he said. “I’ve been in this friggin’ van so long, my ass’s asleep. And the guys send their thanks for recruiting us for Sunday duty. We were hoping to spend the day in here, on top of each other.”

  “World’s smallest violin. I tell you what, seeing it’s so late, I’ll dewire myself. I promise to be really careful with your little toys.”

  “Your generosity overwhelms.”

  She laughed. “See you tomorrow, at one.”

  “One last thing, Killian. Your ex’s name is Barney? Real smooth.”

  “At one,” she repeated, and hung up to the sound of laughter.

  18

  Sunday, April 22, 2007

  1:05 p.m.

  When Stacy arrived, Yvette was already at a table in the light-dappled courtyard, sipping coffee and reading the Times-Picayune.

  “Hey,” Stacy said as she reached the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not. I came early.”

  Stacy sat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fried this morning.”

  Yvette folded the section of the paper she’d been reading and laid it on top of the rest, which was at her feet. “I’m used to it.”

  “Just wait until you’re thirty. How’s your neck?”

  “Sore. It hurts to swallow.” She had draped a floral-print silk scarf around her neck to hide the bruises. “I got one of the girls to switch tonight for tomorrow night. I just don’t feel up to dancing, you know?”

  Stacy murmured that she did, and they fell silent.

  The guys in the van would be happy to hear they had a twenty-four-hour reprieve. Yahoo. She, on the other hand, would prefer to keep the investigation moving forward.

  The waitress took their orders-they both decided on the Lost Bread-filled their coffee cups, then left them alone.

  “Have you…thought any more about what happened last night?”

  “Should I have?”

  Stacy shrugged and added cream to her coffee. “Thought you might like to talk. Sometimes it makes it better.”

  “I pushed his buttons. He snapped. I won’t do it again.”

  She sipped the coffee, working to maintain a “girlfriends” kind of tone, chatty and intimate. “What do you know about his other life?”

  Yvette narrowed her eyes. “Other life?”

  “Away from the Hustle. You know.”

  “Actually, I snooped a bit.” She leaned across the table, expression mischievous. “Borrowed a car and followed him.”

  Stacy’s heart beat a little faster. She hoped the transmitter was working. “Really? What did you find out?”

  “His wife is one of those uptight country-club types. The kind who think they’re too good for the rest of the world. Especially types like me.”

  Stacy heard a note of little girl hurt in Yvette’s voice, one she would vehemently deny. Obviously Yvette had been on the receiving end of that kind of thinking more than once.

  “If she was so great, why would he need you?”

  “Exactly!” Yvette beamed at her. “That’s part of what set Marcus off last night. I threatened to tell her about us and to go to the-”

  She bit the last back, though Stacy had a good idea she had been about to say “police.”

  She tried a gentle nudge. “Go to who?”

  “The press if I had to.”

  “Maybe his wife holds the purse strings and that’s why he stays with her.”

  Yvette shook her head. “I don’t think so. He reps commercial property. Does real well. Besides, I don’t really care if he stays with her or not. I just want to be paid what I’m owed.”

  Before Stacy could counter with another question, Yvette pointed to the paper. “I was reading about that body they found in City Park. They think that guy got her. The one who chops off his victims’ hands.”

  “I heard about that. So creepy.”

  “I’ve got a theory on that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Know how they’ve never found any of his other victims? And how there’s been no high-profile thing about girls going missing?” Yvette leaned forward. “They’re working girls.”

  “You mean prostitutes.”

  “And girls like me.”

  “Could be he traveled around and that’s why no other victims have turned up or been reported missing.”

  “Uh-uh.” The waitress arrived with their French toast. Yvette dug in immediately, eating as if starved. Stacy followed more slowly, preparing how to steer the conversation back to Gabrielle.

  “I’ve thought a lot about this,” Yvette continued. “Nobody cares much about working girls. A lot of ’em either don’t have families or their families don’t know where they are.”

  It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a serial killer had targeted prostitutes. But she couldn’t tell her that.

  Instead she nodded. “True.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “I might know who that girl is. Or was.” She lowered her voice even more. “My old roommate.”

  When she’d arranged this brunch, Stacy hadn’t expected to get information about the Handyman. She imagined the expressions of the guys in the van. “How do you figure?”

  “They think this girl was killed right before Katrina struck. That’s when Kitten disappeared.”

  “So did about a million
other New Orleanians.” That number wasn’t an exaggeration, and it represented eighty percent of the metro area’s 1.3 million residents.

  “But she never came back. Left all her stuff.”

  “I don’t know, Yvette. Lots of folks did that.”

  Yvette looked irritated. “I’ve got a strong feeling about this, Brandi. I mean, we were both going to wait out the storm. We stocked up on water and junk food, then she disappears.”

  Yvette glanced over her shoulder, then back at Stacy. “I think he calls himself ‘the Artist.’”

  Now she had her. Stacy leaned forward. “Why?”

  “She had this weird stalker. Sent her notes all the time. Called himself ‘the Artist.’ Real creepy dude.”

  “Did he threaten her?”

  “She felt threatened. That’s pretty much the same thing.”

  Not to the police. An overt threat always beat out an implied one. “Go to the cops. Tell them what you know and let them handle it.”

  “Right,” she said sarcastically, “go to the cops. My good friends in blue.”

  “They’re not all bad.”

  Yvette eyed her suspiciously. “They are if you’re me. The cops and I have a history. None of it good.”

  She had a record. Solicitation. Resisting arrest. Possession.

  And all that after her eighteenth birthday. Her run-ins with the law had started well before that.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “But she was your friend. If he killed her…wouldn’t you want him caught?” Stacy leaned forward. “Besides, if he’s not caught, he might kill someone else.”

  “You tell ’em, then. I’ll deny it all.”

  Arguing the point would do nothing but lose her Yvette’s trust. So, she approached from another angle. “You still have her stuff?”

  “Boxed up in the apartment. It’s a real pain in the ass, too. She’s not paying any rent and it’s taking up half the second bedroom.”

  “Maybe you could go through it. See if there’s an address or phone number, someone you could contact. At least then you’d know if she was okay.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” She scraped the last piece of her toast through the well of syrup on her plate, then stuck the dripping bite in her mouth.

  As if on cue, the waitress brought the check. Yvette grabbed it. “I’ve got it.”

  “You don’t have-”

  “You came to my rescue big-time last night. How ’bout we call us square now?”

  Stacy agreed, and minutes later they exited the restaurant. The day was bright and warm, the humidity blessedly low. They stopped at the corner of St. Peter and Royal Street.

  “My car’s this way,” Stacy said, pointing in the direction of Canal Street.

  “I’m heading the other. Thanks for meeting me, it was fun.”

  “It was.” Stacy smiled, started across the street, then stopped and looked back. “What was her name? Your roommate?”

  “Kitten Sweet.”

  Kitten Sweet? Good God.

  “You know, she probably ran off with some guy who offered her a ride out of town and didn’t even think twice about leaving me behind and alone. Bitch is probably living someplace like Cleveland right now. I don’t even know why I worried.” With that, Yvette turned and headed down the street.

  But Yvette had worried, Stacy could tell. For all her toughness, Stacy could see that the roommate’s desertion had hurt.

  Yvette Borger had been let down many times, and no matter what she told herself, it still hurt.

  Kitten Sweet. Could she be dead? Could she be the woman found in City Park?

  It seemed a bit of a long shot. Except for the stalker.

  Her cell phone jangled. As expected, it was the surveillance team. “Hello, boys,” she said. “You got all that?”

  “Not a lot on our guy, but the lagniappe could be good.”

  Lagniappe was local vernacular for “A little something extra.” It certainly worked in this case.

  “Get me a transcript. I’ll take it over to Captain O’Shay myself.” She ended that call and dialed Spencer.

  “Where are you?” she asked when he answered.

  “Headquarters. Nothing like Sunday afternoon in the trenches.”

  “How about Aunt Patti?”

  “She’s on her way in.”

  “Stay put. I might have something on your City Park Jane Doe. I need to be de-wired first, then I’m on my way.”

  19

  Sunday, April 22, 2007

  3:35 p.m.

  Patti couldn’t stay still. First Franklin, now a possible ID of their Jane Doe. It was almost too good to be true. If the ID came through and they found a link between the woman and Franklin, she would have Sammy’s killer. No doubts.

  “How long’s it been?” she asked Spencer.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “What’s taking-”

  “So long?” Stacy finished for her, hurrying into the office. “Have you tried navigating French Quarter traffic lately?”

  “What do you have?” Patti asked.

  She moved her gaze between her and Spencer. “Kitten Sweet. Working girl.”

  “Where’d you get the tip?”

  “My undercover assignment. Said her roommate disappeared right before Katrina hit.”

  Stacy held up a hand, as if anticipating their reactions. “I know, it’s a stretch. But Borger seemed adamant. And here’s the kicker. She says Kitten was being stalked by some dude who called himself ‘the Artist.’ He sent her notes. She felt threatened.”

  “You were wired?”

  “Of course. Dan’s getting us a transcript.” She moved her gaze between the two once more. “I suggested she go to the police. She refused. Not a lot of love lost there.”

  Spencer looked at Patti. “Can’t call her in for questioning, it’ll blow Stacy’s cover.”

  Patti nodded. “We could pull her in for questioning on another matter. Bring her in on some bogus charge.”

  “Go fishing. Plant the idea of a trade. Something she might give up to get off the hook.”

  “And if she lawyers up, we’re not only out of luck, we’re in deep shit. Public Integrity Division sits around waiting for stuff like this to fall into their laps. Justifies their existence.”

  “She still has the roommate’s stuff,” Stacy offered. “I could nose around. It won’t be quick, but since she’s discussed Kitten’s disappearance with me already, I can follow up.”

  Spencer grinned. “Pretend to be an amateur detective. Now, there’s a stretch.”

  They’d met when Stacy had inserted herself, then a student at the University of New Orleans, into one of Spencer’s homicide investigations.

  “Bite me, Malone.” She turned back to Patti. “There might be something in Sweet’s things that’ll help ID her. Even if only her real name.”

  “What?” Spencer said, his tone dry. “You don’t think Kitten Sweet’s her real name?”

  Patti ignored their bantering, thoughts racing. There was no way she could sit and wait for Stacy to find the opportunity to poke around. She intended to find out if Kitten Sweet was the break they’d been waiting for. If she had to do it without the sanction of the NOPD, so be it.

  “Run it through the computer,” Patti said. “See what you get. We’ll go from there.”

  20

  Monday, April 23, 2007

  11:45 p.m.

  The computer offered little. Kitten Sweet had been arrested several times, charged with solicitation, resisting arrest, and drunk and disorderly conduct. The woman’s real name was Diana Burke, her last address listed Yvette Borger’s Governor Nicholls Street apartment.

  Although her records hadn’t provided much information, they had confirmed Sweet could be their Jane Doe. She fit the physical profile: white, five foot four, twenty-one years old.

  That was enough to convince Patti to move forward-with a plan that didn’t include waiting for S
tacy to finesse out answers. She wanted answers now.

  The sooner they could link Franklin to the victim, the sooner they could tie this up. The tighter the knot, the stronger the case.

  She wanted Franklin to fry. And she was willing to do whatever was necessary to make that happen.

  Straight-arrow O’Shay could be bent.

  She hadn’t shared her thoughts with Spencer or Stacy. She didn’t want them involved. She was the superior officer. She was acting alone. If the Public Integrity Division caught wind of this, she would go down.

  But only her. That’s the way she intended to keep it.

  Patti parked her vehicle on Barracks Street, just down the block from Yvette Borger’s apartment building. Yvette was working. She intended to slip in, do a bit of recon and slip back out. With any luck, she would find something the lab could use to tie Sweet to their Jane Doe.

  She exited her vehicle and started toward the building. The door would be locked. Hopefully it wouldn’t give her too much trouble.

  In upholding the law, cops learned a lot about breaking it. Truth was, cops knew how to break the law better than most criminals. Because they had seen it all, what worked and what didn’t. Of course, cops used that inside knowledge to catch the lawbreakers.

  Except in certain, highly specialized situations.

  Like this one.

  She retrieved a small tool kit from her pocket, inserted a pippin file into the lock and manipulated it until a distinct click signaled success. She slipped the file back into the kit, the kit into her pocket.

  Yvette lived in unit twelve. Patti scanned the building’s setup-a central staircase on both sides of the courtyard, even numbers on her right, odds on her left. The door she had entered through appeared to be the only exit, as well.

  She took the stairs to the second floor. She moved quickly and silently. Unfortunately not silently enough for the dog in number eight. He began to bark furiously.

  A moment later, light spilled out of the unit immediately in front of her. A woman poked her head out. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” Patti responded.

  The woman’s gaze shifted, looking past her. Obviously wondering who she was here to see. And how she had gotten in.