“The kids are with my wife,” the man said. “Next door.” He sat back down. “Took them the back way so they wouldn’t-”
See their daddy’s brains splattered all over the driveway. Good choice.
Spencer thanked him, then turned back to the wife. “When did you last see your husband?”
“Sometime after nine but before ten. We had just gotten the children down.”
“Can you be more specific about the time?”
She shredded the damp tissue she clutched in her hands. “It’s a struggle to get them into bed…I know we should start at eight-thirty, but it’s always nine.”
Her tone had become at once defensive and pleading, as if she had to justify her parenting to him.
Tony stepped in. “I know just what you mean. I raised four of ’em. The weirdest thing about our empty nest is how quiet it is at 9:00 p.m.”
“Go on,” Spencer urged gently.
She looked gratefully at Tony. “It was nine-thirty, I think. Maybe even a little after.”
“What happened then?”
“I said good night and told him to be-” Her voice cracked and her lips began to tremble.
“What, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“I told him to be careful.”
“He was going out.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She lowered her eyes, looking uncomfortable.
One moment passed, then another. Spencer tried again. “Your husband went out a lot at night, didn’t he?”
She nodded, still not meeting his eyes.
“Do you know where he went?” When she didn’t answer, he asked again. “Do you, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“He was a good husband!” she cried. “A good father and provider! So what if he visited those clubs? It was business! The clients liked them. They wanted-”
She broke down sobbing. The neighbor glared at them, then awkwardly patted her back. Tony handed her the tissue box. She took it, whispering “Thanks.”
“Your husband was a Realtor?” Spencer asked when she had composed herself again.
“Yes.”
“Did he have any other business dealings that you know of?”
She lifted her gaze. “I don’t understand.”
“Did he have another source of income?”
She frowned, glanced at the neighbor, then back at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you have full access to your finances, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“Of course! I’m his-” Her face flooded with angry color. “Why are you asking about this? My husband’s been killed. You should be asking…trying to find the animal who…who shot my husband!”
“We are,” Tony said softly, “trust me, Mrs. Gabrielle. Do you know anyone who might have wished your husband harm?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Any business dealings gone bad? Fights with clients? Anything like that?”
“No.” Her voice rose. “No.”
Spencer shifted focus. “How did you discover that your husband had been shot?”
“Joe called. Told me the interior lights in Marcus’s car were on. I knew that…couldn’t be…so I-”
Went out to investigate. And found her husband in a pool of blood.
Spencer turned to the neighbor. “What time was that, Mr. Williams? When you noticed the lights?”
“Maybe 12:30, 12:45. Something like that.”
“You usually up so late?”
He frowned slightly. “Not usually. I had horrible heartburn. I ate fried oysters. I love them, but they don’t love me.” He shifted his gaze between the detectives, working, Spencer thought, a bit too hard to appear innocent. “Went to the kitchen to get an antacid…saw the lights and called over.”
“What happened next?”
“I heard Kim screaming and ran out to see what was wrong.”
Spencer closed his notebook and stood. Tony followed him to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Gabrielle. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!” She stood, swaying slightly on her feet. “What do I do now? I mean…what’s next?”
Despite the fact that she was better off without her scumbag husband, she didn’t know that and he felt sorry for her. “We’ll contact you as soon as we know more. You’ll be the first to hear. And I’m really sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
They exited the home. While they had been inside, the crime-scene crew had arrived. The van’s powerful scene lights lit up the area as if it were lunchtime. Presently the photographers were doing their thing.
Tony looked at him. “What do you think, Slick? Could she have pulled the trigger?”
“Anything’s possible at this point, but I don’t think so. From the way she reacted, she suspected the business her husband was up to at the Hustle was of the monkey variety. But she had chosen to look the other way.”
“Because he was a good husband and provider.”
“Bingo.”
“What about his second career as drug kingpin?”
“Alleged drug kingpin,” Spencer said dryly. “Clueless.”
“I feel bad for her,” Tony muttered. “Life’s gonna suck big-time for a while.”
Spencer glanced at his watch, thinking of Stacy. Her gig at the Hustle should have ended thirty minutes ago. She would want to be here.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed hers.
She answered right away. “Stacy Killian.”
“It’s me,” he said. “Where are you?”
“St. Charles, crossing Poydras. Why?”
“You’re going to want to make a stop on the way home.”
“From the tone of your voice, I’m not picking up doughnuts.”
“Gabrielle’s dead,” he said. “Shot to death in his driveway. We’re at the scene.”
“I’m on my way.”
23
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
2:35 a.m.
Stacy stopped in front of Gabrielle’s home, put the SUV into Park and climbed out. The crime-scene van was in place, scene lights turning night to day. She spotted the coroner’s wagon and wondered which pathologist had pulled the lucky number tonight.
After signing the log, she ducked under the crime-scene tape and headed for Spencer and Tony.
Tony caught sight of her first. “Yo, Stacy. That’s a new look for you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. You like it?”
“If I say yes, promise not to tell Betty?”
“Hell no, dirty old man.”
He laughed. Spencer turned and smiled at her. “Killian.”
Even though they made no secret of the fact that they were lovers and lived together, on the job they never acted like anything but colleagues and fellow detectives.
“Malone,” she said, stopping beside them, “thanks for the heads-up.” She shifted her attention to Gabrielle. Deputy Coroner Mitch Weiner, it seemed, had pulled the lucky number. He was squatted beside Gabrielle, examining the body.
“What’s it looking like?” she asked.
Weiner glanced up. “Looks like a single shot. Back of the head.”
“Robbery wasn’t a motive,” Spencer said. “Wallet and bling are still on him.”
“More like an execution,” Tony murmured.
“If Gabrielle was what he seemed to be, a successful, straight-arrow businessman, I might consider this a ‘blood in’ kill.”
For several of the most notorious local gangs, the price to join was a kill. Just a random act of murder. Picking off someone like Gabrielle-wealthy, white, male-would earn the shooter extra glory.
“But knowing what I do about Gabrielle’s unsavory sideline, my guess here is drug-related homicide.”
Stacy nodded and flipped open her cell phone. “Has my captain been informed yet?”
“Not from us.”
Knowing he would not want to wait until morning to hear the news, she dialed his cell. He answered, sounding grumpy.
Stacy enjoyed working for Captain Coo
per. He had worked his way up from a childhood in the Desire Housing Project. He was smart, fair but tough. Being a minority himself, he understood how tough a fight it was to overcome prejudice and earn equal respect in the world. Cooper had let her know from day one that he judged her on the quality of her work-and nothing else.
“It’s Killian.”
“Good news or bad?”
“Gabrielle’s dead. Shot execution-style at his home. I’m at the scene.”
“Son of a bitch. How’d you-”
“ISD notified me.”
“Malone?”
“And Sciame. You want me to contact Baxter and Waldon?”
“Don’t bother, there’s nothing they can do tonight. We’ll meet first thing, figure out where we go from here.”
“Borger might know something.”
“I want her brought in for questioning. Have a couple of uniforms drag her down to headquarters tomorrow morning.”
“Requesting permission to conduct the interview.”
“Granted. Operation’s blown now.” He coughed, the sound thick. “Tell Malone and Sciame we want in on every step of the investigation.”
“You got it, Captain. Sorry I woke you.”
“If you hadn’t, I’d have kicked your ass.”
He hung up; she closed her phone and turned to Spencer and Tony. “Captain Cooper wants full inclusion.”
“No problem.”
“I’m going to question Borger in the morning. I’m assuming you want in?”
“Absolutely.”
“If anything else comes up tonight, let me know. I’m going to catch some shut-eye.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
She and Spencer fell into step together. They didn’t speak or touch as they made their way to the street where her SUV was parked. She unlocked the door, climbed in and looked up at him. “I’ll see you at home.”
“I shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“Good. I’ll wait up.”
Hand on the open door, he leaned toward her. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
She frowned at the seriousness of his tone. “Sure. Anything.”
“I’m just wondering, with Gabrielle dead and the investigation blown…does this mean no more lap dances?”
24
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
9:20 a.m.
As planned, Stacy sent two uniforms to pick up Yvette and bring her in. The young woman hadn’t been at all happy about it and had made a scene. Enough of one, in fact, that they’d had to cuff her to get her into the cruiser.
Stacy wondered if Yvette would recognize her right off or if it would take a moment or two. Either way, she figured it’d be ugly.
She took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped into the interrogation room. At the sound, Yvette stopping pacing and swung to face her.
“Hello, Yvette,” she said.
The young woman’s expression transformed from angry to confused. “Brandi?”
“Detective Killian. Stacy Killian.”
Confusion was replaced by understanding. “A cop? This is just wonderful. Fucking great.”
“I’m sorry, Yvette. I was just doing my job.”
“Right. Go to hell.”
“Why don’t you sit down? I have some bad news for you.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
“Fine.” Stacy crossed to the table, pulled out a chair and sat, facing the other woman. “Marcus Gabrielle is dead. He was shot last night outside his home.”
Yvette blinked three times, her expression almost comically blank. “I don’t under…Are you saying-”
“He was murdered. Getting into his car. Timing suggests he was on his way to see you at the Hustle.”
Stacy could see she was digesting the information, sorting through her feelings, struggling to focus on what Stacy wanted from her. Yvette Borger was a smart girl; she would quickly focus on her own survival.
It didn’t take more than a few moments. She crossed to the table, sat and faced Stacy. “I didn’t have anything to do with Marcus getting killed. I couldn’t have, I was at the Hustle. Just like you were.”
“You were his girlfriend.”
“So? I didn’t want him dead.”
“Not even after he tried to kill you?”
“I’d pissed him off. He was angry. We don’t know that he meant to-” Her expression shifted to one of realization. “You were undercover because of Marcus.”
“Yes.”
“And Saturday night someone on your team alerted you that he was in the alley.”
“Yes.”
“You get off lying to people?”
“I may have saved your life.” Stacy leaned toward her. “Do you know what Marcus was into?”
“Yeah. Strippers and real estate.”
“He manufactured and distributed meth. You helped him.”
Something flickered behind her eyes. “You’re crazy.”
“Really? What were you doing for him on Saturday, April 21?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He picked you up on the corner of North Peters and Conti Street. I saw you. You were dressed like a frump. Remember?”
When she still didn’t respond, Stacy tapped the file folder she had laid on the table in front of her. “Marcus was up to his ass in some very bad shit. You were an accomplice. I was undercover at the Hustle to get to know you, Yvette. Not Marcus.”
It bordered the truth, not that she would feel guilty if it had been an outright lie. Yvette had aligned herself with a criminal; she had done it for profit. Peel away all the “poor kid” crap and those were the facts, the hard truth.
“I had nothing to do with that!” Yvette said. “I just opened up properties for him. That’s all.”
“You made deliveries?”
“No. I met clients, opened doors and waited.”
“For what?”
“To lock up again.”
Stacy frowned. “What were they doing there? Picking something up? Or delivering?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Marcus paid me to do a job, I didn’t ask any questions.”
“How much did he pay you?”
She hesitated. “Five hundred dollars.”
“Every Saturday?”
“Not always Saturday. Some Sundays. Weekdays, too.”
“To lock and unlock a door? That’s it?” When she nodded, Stacy cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “And you had no idea what these people you met were doing?”
“None.”
“And you never snooped?”
“Never.”
“I’m sure you’ll understand why I find that hard to swallow.”
“That’s your problem, isn’t it?”
“No, Yvette, I think it’s yours.”
“You’re really good at what you do, you know? I thought you were my friend.”
Stacy ignored the quiver of hurt in the other woman’s voice. Yvette Borger, she decided, was an accomplished actress. “You go to the same properties all the time? Or different ones?”
“Different ones, though I saw a couple of the places several times.”
“What about the people you met?”
“Repeats. Every week or two. Can I go now?”
“How long did you perform this service for him?”
She thought a moment. “Six months, give or take.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“You wanting a kickback?”
“I like you, Yvette. I do. I hate that I had to deceive you, but it was my job. If you help me, I’ll help you. Tell me everything you know about Marcus’s drug business and I’ll do what I can to keep you from being charged.”
“This is such bullshit!”
“We’ll want you to look at mug shots, see if you can pick anybody out.” Stacy ignored the way Yvette glowered at her. “And if we need it, we’ll expect your help revisiting the properties.”
“I don’t ha
ve time for this.”
“You don’t have a choice, actually. Sorry.”
Of course, she wasn’t sorry at all. An angry flush flooded Yvette’s face. As she opened her mouth, as if to retort, Spencer poked his head into the room.
“This a good time?”
Stacy waved him in. They had discussed this beforehand. She would question the stripper about Marcus, then Spencer would step in and question her about her roommate. Patti would watch from the viewing room down the hall.
“I’m Detective Malone,” he said to Yvette, taking a seat across from her. “How are you today?”
“Confused,” she answered, angry sarcasm gone, replaced by a little-girl-lost, damsel-in-distress quiver that set Stacy’s teeth on edge. “I have no idea why I’m here.”
“Didn’t Detective Killian tell you about Marcus Gabrielle’s murder?”
“Yes. But like I told her, I had nothing to do with that. How could I have? I was dancing last night.”
Yvette’s whole demeanor had changed. Her face had become soft and trusting, her eyes luminescent pools of innocence. She actually batted her eyelashes at him.
Stacy wanted to puke, not so much irritated by Yvette’s attempt to influence Spencer with her feminine wiles as by Spencer’s obvious reaction to them. This young woman knew how to use the gifts God had given her.
Men could be so stupid.
“He was your boyfriend, was he not?”
“A good customer. He liked me, tipped me very well.”
“You saw him outside the Hustle?”
“Occasionally. He paid me to help him with his real estate business. I opened up properties, things like that.”
Things like that, indeed. Stacy stood. “It looks like you have things under control, Detective Malone. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee.”
Stacy exited the interview room and went to join Patti. The older woman sat alone in the viewing room.
“She’s good,” Patti said, not taking her eyes from the monitor.
“Tell me about it.”
Patti chuckled. “He’s only human. And a male one at that.”
Before Stacy could respond, Spencer began. “I understand from Detective Killian that you may have some information for us about a murder.”
“I already told you, I was dancing last night. The first I heard about Marcus-”
Last Known Victim Page 10
