Last Known Victim (24 page)

Thursday, May 10, 2007
5:15 p.m.

Y
vette paced and checked her watch. She had hung around Patti's house all afternoon, itching to get out. She was bored. Irritated. It'd been two days and the Artist hadn't shown himself.

Maybe he had moved on? Found a new girl to go all “whack job” over. Maybe she had gotten lucky and a tree had fallen on him. Or he'd been hit by a truck.

She thought of Patti. The woman's hands had trembled when she'd handed her the check for ten grand. In that moment, Yvette had realized how important this was to her. How huge an investment.

And in that moment, guilt had plucked at her.

She had taken the money, anyway.

Her cell phone dinged, announcing the arrival of a text message.

Please Come. Tips. 6:00. R.

Yvette reread the message. She wanted to go. She didn't have to be at the Hustle until nine, which would give her plenty of time to go by Tipitina's.

If Patti could break the rules, why couldn't she?

Decision made, she checked her watch again and called a cab. Patti would be really pissed when she found out. And if she didn't get out before the woman returned, she'd stop her.

Bossy, worrywart.

The cab arrived as she was zipping her sexiest jeans. She slipped into a pair of low-heeled sandals, grabbed her purse and darted out to the cab.

A local landmark, Tipitina's had featured some big names over the years but was known mostly for showcasing local and regional music. Located in the Quarter, it had been spared the worst of Katrina's sucker punch.

The taxi dropped her in front of the club. Yvette paid the driver and headed inside. It was early for a place like Tip's, but there looked to be a fair-size crowd, anyway.

Riley spotted her the moment she walked in. His set hadn't begun yet, and he hurried over to her. “You came. This is so cool.”

“I can't stay too long. I have to work.”

“I'm just glad you're here.” He caught her hands. “I wrote a song for you.”

She felt herself flush with pleasure. “You did?”

“I wasn't going to sing it unless you came tonight.”

“I'm glad I did.”

“Me, too.” He bent and kissed her. Just the briefest of touches, his mouth to hers. She felt the contact to the tips of her toes.

“I've got to get up there. Clap for me, okay?”

He returned to the stage. She got a Coke and perched on a tall stool. His was a simple style: an acoustic guitar, a piano, Southern ballads about love and heartbreak, faith and family. He had a smoky voice, achingly accessible.

What, she wondered, was he doing managing an art gallery?

When he sang “her” song, he looked right at her. Into her. She felt hot. Light-headed and giddy. The words, the moment, wrapped around her—and she fell in love with him.

No one had ever accused her of being smart.

“Hello.”

She glanced at the woman who had come to stand beside her. She recognized her, though she wasn't sure from where. “Hi.”

“June Benson,” the woman said. “Riley's sister.”

“That's right.” Yvette smiled. “I knew I'd seen you before.” She motioned the stage. “He's good.”

“I think so, too.”

“He told me y'all are really close.”

“We are.” She paused to sip her drink. “Riley's been talking a lot about you.”

“He has?”

“Mmm.” She shifted her gaze to the stage, expression ferocious. “My brother is…impetuous. He acts before he thinks. Wears his heart on his sleeve. I wanted you to know that.”

“I don't understand what you mean.”

She returned her gaze to Yvette, looking her straight in the eyes. “He's easily hurt. That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“Why would you think I'd hurt him?”

“I know who you are. The kind of dancer you are. And that you're definitely not a ‘cocktail waitress.'”

Yvette felt as if she had been punched. “How did you—”

“Spencer Malone told me. That night at the gallery.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” The woman leaned toward her. “I love my brother and don't want to see his heart broken. That's all.”

Yvette struggled to keep how deeply June's words hurt from showing. “And a woman like me would break his heart. Is that right? Because I'm trash? A whore?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

Riley's first set ended and he bounded over. “You guys are talking. That's so great.”

“We are getting to know each other,” June murmured.

“Didn't I tell you? Isn't she the best?” He beamed at his sister, then turned to Yvette. “Did you like your song?”

She had. Liked it—and him—too much. It'd been a nice fantasy while it lasted.

“Yes,” she whispered, standing. “I've got to go. Sorry.”

She ducked past him and hurried toward the club entrance. He caught up with her.

“What gives? Did June say something to you?”

“That she didn't want you hurt.”

“She's overprotective. More like my mother than my sister sometimes.” He smiled. “She didn't mean anything by it.”

“Yes, she did. She thinks I'm a—” She bit the words back, dangerously near tears. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not ever again.

“A what? You misunderstood her, she's a really sweet—”

“I'm not who you think I am.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Your name's not Yvette Borger?”

She lifted her chin. “I'm not a cocktail waitress. I'm a stripper,” she said as harshly as she could. “At the Hustle. I do three sets a night and make damn good money. I get extra for lap dances and still more for ‘private' lap dances. That's why your sister thinks I'll hurt you. Because I'm no good.”

He didn't reply, and she wrenched her arm free. “I have to go.”

As she walked away, Yvette realized what hurt the most was that he didn't try to stop her.

But she wasn't surprised.

Thursday, May 10, 2007
9:25 p.m.

Y
vette didn't bother calling a cab. Despite the warm, humid night, she was cold. What an idiot she was. For allowing herself to be drawn into a fantasy. Her own little fairy tale, which didn't have a damn thing to do with real life.

She paused to fire up a cigarette, then continued toward the Hustle. Nobody said life was going to be fair. Nobody promised it'd be easy, that people would be nice.

“The Golden Rule is for losers. To get anywhere in this world, you've got to watch out for number one.”

Just two of the pearls her old man had doled out, particularly with a belly full of beer.

She'd remembered those nuggets of wisdom when, at sixteen, she'd hit him over the head with the coffeepot, emptied his wallet and run. It'd been the last time she'd seen him, though she had heard he'd survived. That he still worked for the Greenwood, Mississippi, post office.

She reached the Hustle and ducked inside. Dante the bouncer grinned at her. “You're late, sweet cheeks.”

“Shit happens.”

He shook his head. “Fine by me. Tell that to the Sarge. That one's strung way too tight.”

Patti. No doubt freaking out. Afraid she had lost her “deposit.”

“She can kiss my ass.”

“Can I?”

He leered at her; she flipped him the bird and made her way backstage. Patti was there, pacing. She saw Yvette and stopped, expression tight.

“Where the hell were you?”

Yvette met her gaze insolently. “I went to see a friend.”

“Without telling me. We had an agreement—”

“You broke the rules first.”

“Grow up.”

“I don't need your lectures.” Yvette turned and flounced into her dressing room.

Patti followed. “Actually, I think you do. You came to me for help, remember?”

“Don't pull that crap with me. You need me. More than I need you.”

“Are you so certain about that? I seem to remember you being pretty scared. Pretty certain that the Artist had killed your friend. Or was that another of your fabrications?”

Angry, Yvette folded her arms across her chest. “Screw off! I have a life.”

“The question is, do you want to keep it?”

She jerked her chin up. “I think he's packed up his saw and moved on.”

“What makes you think that?”

“We haven't seen or heard from him. My moving in with you spooked him.”

Patti laughed. “You think a freak who's killed some nine people is going to get spooked by me?”

“You're a cop. You carry a gun.”

“And you're an irresponsible child.”

“Screw this. And you.”

Yvette strode across to the vanity and began stuffing her things into a tote bag.

“Where do you think you're going to go?”

“Anywhere else but here. I don't need you or this crappy job.”

“Alma Maytree is dead.”

Yvette froze. She turned slowly and looked at Patti. “What did you say?”

“Alma Maytree is dead. That's where I went this afternoon. Somebody killed her.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Two nights ago or so. Bashed in the side of her head with a frying pan.”

Her father, out cold. Blood trickling from his head. Pooling on the speckled Formica floor.

She shook her head. “Why would anyone hurt Miss Alma? She was the sweetest, most gentle person. Nice to everybody.”

“This happened two nights ago, Yvette.”

For a full three seconds, she stared dumbly at Patti. Then she understood.

The Artist.

“He did this, didn't he?”

“We can't jump to conclusions. It might have nothing to do with him.”

“But you think it does?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?” she cried. “Why would he hurt her? I don't understand!”

“The same reason he poisoned Samson. To get to you.”

Yvette brought a hand to her mouth and sank to the floor. “I'm going to be sick.”

Patti snatched up the trash can and brought it to her. Yvette bent over it and retched up the horror of the past weeks, the disappointments of a lifetime, the fear that held her in its grip.

When she'd finished, Patti handed her a damp towel and a bottle of water.

“Do you get it now, Yvette? Do you see what you're dealing with? Why I set up all those stupid rules?”

Yvette thought of Miss Alma, her sweet nature, how much she had loved her yappy Pomeranian. She pictured Riley, imagined a life with someone like him. A good life. With children and a home. The fairy tale.

“I don't want to die,” she whispered.

“Then you need to do what I say. This isn't a game.”

Or she could run. Take the money and get the hell out of New Orleans.

Yvette stood, legs wobbly, and crossed to her chair. She sank onto it and reached for her handbag and cigarettes. Her hands shook so badly, she could hardly light one.

When she had, she pulled greedily on it. After a moment, calmer, she said, “This is crazy. Insane.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I shouldn't be here. I should go.”

“He hurt your friend. A sweet old lady who couldn't fight back. He poisoned a defenseless animal. Killed six other women, that we know of.”

“And your husband.”

“Yes. And my husband. Don't let him get away with it, Yvette. Help me get him.”

Yvette stared at her. The moments ticked past. The cigarette had burned down to the filter. With a yelp of pain, she stamped it out.

“Help me,” Patti said. “Please.”

Finger stinging, vision blurred by tears, Yvette said she would.

Monday, May 14, 2007
6:30 a.m.

S
tacy stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed. The Alma Maytree murder was not adding up for her. As of last evening, every tenant in the building—except Yvette Borger—had been questioned either by her, Baxter or one of the assisting officers.

No one had seen anything. No one had noticed anyone who looked like they didn't belong. Building residents uniformly agreed that people got through the locked gate by piggybacking in with someone else legitimately coming or going.

Before Miss Alma's murder no one had believed it to be a huge issue; they did now.

But why slip in, bash in an old lady's head and leave with nothing to show for it?

She'd accessed the woman's financials: a little pension plan from a lifetime at the American Can Company, social security. But no big life insurance policy for some distant relative to kill for.

And distant relatives were all she had. A great-niece in Chicago. A nephew in Birmingham. His kids.

They'd been horrified to hear of the murder.

Besides questioning Borger, she intended to query anyone she hadn't spoken to personally.

Stacy crossed to the bed and bent to kiss a still sleeping Spencer goodbye. As she did, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on top of him.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asked, his voice a sleepy drawl.

“To do a little digging into the Maytree murder.”

“Sounds boring. Stay and play with me instead.” He tightened his arms around her. “Pretty please. I'll make it worth your while.”

She knew he would. He always did. She regretfully wriggled away. “Can't. Made an appointment with Maytree's landlord.”

He propped himself up on an elbow. “All work and no play, Killian.”

“Tell me about it.” She kissed him again. “Call me later.”

When she reached the door, he called her name, stopping her. She looked back.

“I don't want you to go.”

Something in his tone and expression told her he wasn't referring to this morning's trip.

He was talking about her leaving for good.

“We'll talk later.”

“You said that a couple weeks ago.”

She had, then avoided the conversation. But so had he. Until now.

“What are you afraid of, Stacy?”

“I'm not afraid.”

“Do you want to move out?”

She gazed at him, then shook her head. “No.”

“Then don't. Stay.”

“Sometimes it's not about what you want.”

“That must be girl-speak because I don't get it.”

“Call me later. Okay?”

She ducked out of the bedroom before he could say more. What
was
she afraid of? she wondered, filling a travel mug with coffee, then heading out to her car. Being hurt? Or was it more complicated than that?

More complicated. A lot more.

Not wanting to pursue that particular train of thought, she climbed into the SUV and started it up. She had arranged to meet the landlord early, so he could let her in. She wouldn't make any friends by interrupting Monday-morning routines, but that didn't bother her.

What Patti had said kept plucking at her. That the Artist had visited Yvette the same night Alma Maytree had been murdered and Ray Wilkins and Bob Simmons's pug had been poisoned.

She had tried to broach the subject with Spencer; he'd refused to discuss it.

She intended to talk to the dog owners first. The assisting officer had interviewed them, but they'd said nothing about their dog having been poisoned. Of course, there could be a number of reasons for that, including the fact the officer hadn't had a reason to ask.

She had one now.

Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the door to apartment eight. She knocked loudly, hoping to be heard above the continual bark of a very upset dog.

Samson. Obviously recovered.

One of the men answered the door. He was medium height and trim. Dark hair threaded with gray. Dressed and pressed. She placed him somewhere between forty and fifty.

She held up her shield. “Detective Killian. NOPD. I need to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Alma Maytree. And your dog.”

The man looked over his shoulder. “Ray, get out here! Police.”

Another man stumbled out of the kitchen, coffee mug clutched in his hand and hair sticking out in six different directions. He wore rumpled shorts and a faded T-shirt. The contrast between the two was dramatic.

“Ray, this is Detective Killian,” he said. “She's here about Miss Alma. And Samson.”

“Forgive the way I look, I had a rough night.” Ray waved her inside. “You want coffee?”

“Thanks, no. I power-guzzled a cup on the way here.”

He nodded his understanding and directed them to their charmingly decorated living room. Samson trailed behind, snuffling and snorting.

Stacy sat on the velvet-covered chair; the dog flopped down at her feet.

She motioned to the animal. “He seems to have made a full recovery.”

“You know about his being poisoned?” Ray said.

“Captain O'Shay informed me.”

“Yvette's friend?” She nodded and he went on. “He's doing okay, though I wouldn't say he's fully recovered. Poor baby.”

At that, the “baby” lifted his head and looked at his master. Ray smiled and clucked at him; the animal stood, trotted over and allowed his master to scoop him up and set him on his lap. With his pushed-in face, she decided, Samson was so ugly he was cute.

“Any idea who did it?” she asked.

They shook their heads in unison. “We didn't pursue it. He pulled through and after what happened to Miss Alma—”

“We just didn't.”

“I understand you were out the night it happened.”

Bob nodded, looking miserable. “Overnight trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast casinos. Saw a show, lost a few bucks, drank too much. Typical getaway.”

“What do you do, Bob?”

“Loan officer. Gulf Coast Bank. You know, the bank that makes pigs fly.”

She smiled slightly, thinking of the local bank's very funny ads featuring pigs flying over the Superdome. She turned to his partner. “How about you, Ray?”

“I have a dog-grooming business. Ray's Perfect Pups.”

“Here in the Quarter?”

“Yes.”

Bill frowned. “May I ask why that's important?”

Before she could reply, her cell phone vibrated. She excused herself and answered. “Detective Killian.”

“Hi, Detective. This is Jamie from the lab. Got something interesting for you on the Maytree murder.”

“Shoot.”

“Guess what we found on her robe? Dog fur.”

“Not so blown away. She had a Pomeranian.”

“Goldish-orange fur. Found lots of that. This was definitely canine, but a different breed. And a different color. Black and white.”

“She spent a lot of time in the courtyard with Sissy. No doubt other animals and their owners use that courtyard.”

“The only place we found it was on her robe, in front, lapel area. Only two strands. Killer may have carried it inside with him, transferred it to the victim.”

Stacy narrowed her eyes in thought. Now, that
was
interesting. “I want to know what breed those strands are from.”

“Under way. It'll take a little time.”

“Thanks, Jamie. Keep me posted.”

She flipped her phone shut and returned to the couple. “By any chance, did Alma Maytree have a key to your apartment?”

Bob's face went slack with surprise. “Yes. She helped with Samson sometimes. When we were gone.”

“Like overnight trips to the Gulf Coast?”

“Yes, she…” His words trailed off as he filled in the blanks. She saw the moment it all made sense. “Oh, my God, you don't think…The person who poisoned Samson—”

Ray jumped in. “Killed Miss Alma?”

Stacy ignored that question, asking another of her own. “Ray, did Miss Alma bring Sissy to you for grooming?”

“She did. I groomed Sissy for free…in exchange for Miss Alma helping us out with Sam—”

His eyes welled with tears. “She was such a sweetheart, how could anyone…hurt her?”

Stacy stood. “I don't know. But I intend to find out.”

As soon as Stacy cleared Yvette's building, she dialed Patti's cell phone. The woman picked up right away.

“It's Stacy. Where are you?”

“At the house. What's up?”

“I have news. Regarding the Maytree murder. Be there in ten.”

Ten became fifteen because of a garbage truck. Patti was waiting at the door when Stacy pulled up. She hurried up the walk to meet her.

Without speaking, they went inside. Stacy followed Patti to the kitchen. There, the woman shoved a mug of coffee into her hands, then poured one for herself.

“Where's Yvette?”

“Sleeping.”

“You look like you could use some.”

“I haven't quite grasped the concept of ‘work half the night, sleep till noon.' What do you have?”

“Heard from the lab this morning. Found plenty of Sissy's fur on Miss Alma's robe. Also picked up two strands from another breed.”

“Just two?”

“On her robe. Definitely canine.”

“Killer brought it in, transferred it to the robe.”

“It's possible.”

“Anyone in the building have a pet that fits that description?”

“Don't know yet. That's the first thing I'm going to find out when I leave here. The lab's working to identify the breed.”

Before Patti could comment, Stacy went on. “Miss Alma had a key to Bob and Ray's apartment.”

“Samson's owners.”

“Yes. She helped them out when they were gone. In exchange, Ray groomed Sissy for free.”

Patti sipped her coffee, brow furrowed in thought. “Let's assume Miss Alma's murder, Samson's poisoning and the Artist's nocturnal visit are all related. Why kill the old lady and poison the dog?”

“Kill the old lady to get the key—”

“To poison the dog—”

“To keep him quiet—”

“So he can make his visit to Yvette without waking the entire apartment complex.”

“Bingo.” Stacy set her coffee cup on the counter.

“The killer knew Alma Maytree had a key to that apartment.”

“How?”

“And how did he know he could get to Samson when he did?”

“What's
she
doing here?”

Stacy turned to the kitchen doorway. Yvette stood there, looking absolutely wrecked. Stacy smiled. “Hello, Yvette.”

She didn't return the greeting. “I repeat, what's she doing here?”

“Helping,” Patti answered. “Be nice.”

Stacy fought back a grin. Patti sounded like a scolding mother.

The young woman glared. “Helping? You thought I was full of shit, remember?”

“Maybe now I think you're not as full of it as before.”

“Gee, thanks.” She shuffled to the fridge, opened it and retrieved a Coke.

Stacy turned back to Patti. “Any sign of the Artist yet?”

“No. Not since Yvette moved in here. Almost a week.”

“One big thing's changed,” Stacy said.

Patti nodded. “She's not in her apartment.”

“Exactly. I've got a plan. Yvette moves back into her apartment. With a roommate. A friend she made at the Hustle.”

Yvette popped the can's top. “I suppose you have someone in mind?”

“A cocktail waitress named Brandi.”

“No way.”

“I don't really think this is up to you.”

The younger woman jerked her chin up. “That's where you're wrong. It is most definitely up to me.”

“As I understand it,” Stacy said softly, “you're in it for the money. Throwing me into the mix doesn't change that.”

Her face flooded with angry color. “I can change my mind if I want. And I will.”

Patti stepped between them. “I agree with Yvette. Thanks for the offer, but I'm not going to jeopardize your career.”

“I appreciate your concern, but the department has no say in where I live. Or how I spend my off hours.”