Last Known Victim

“And babies.”

At what must have been his horrified expression, Quentin laughed. “What’s the deal, little brother? You have commitment issues?”

“He’s scared,” A

“I agree,” Patti said. “She’s a good cop, too.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Thanks for bringing this up, Quentin. I owe you.”

He gri

11

Saturday, April 21, 2007

1:00 p.m.

The Bon Temps Café served traditional Cajun-Creole fare, like jambalaya, crawfish etouffée and stuffed crabs. It was one of the many shiny new places that had opened post-the-Big-One, and although the food was excellent, Patti missed the slightly derelict atmosphere of the places that had been lost. What was it about ancient wiring and cracked lathe-and-plaster walls that she had found so appealing?

She took a table by the front windows so she could watch for her friend June Benson.

She and June had been friends for twenty years. They’d met in a support group for childless women who had either lost babies or were unable to conceive. Their situations had been similar-both had tragically miscarried and were then unable to conceive-and they had bonded despite the decade difference in their ages and their backgrounds.

Patti came from a hard-scrabble, working-class family of Irish immigrants. June’s family could be described as New Orleans royalty. Descended from the original American planters to settle in “Nouvelle Orléans,” the Benson family still owned the Garden District mansion built in 1856 by planter Jonathan Benson, still ruled Comus, the most elite and secretive of the Mardi Gras krewes, and served on the boards of the city’s most high-profile philanthropic organizations.

Yet over the years the friendship had blossomed, then matured, carrying over to their extended families as well. The two families had shared in each other’s celebrations of joy, times of grief-and everything in between.

After Sammy’s murder, Patti had turned to June more than anyone else for comfort and support. June understood her completely. She had listened. Just listened. She hadn’t tried to make it better, for nothing could have. Nor had the depths of Patti’s despair frightened her.

Patti ordered an iced tea, then glanced at her watch, surprised at June’s tardiness. Usually it was Patti rushing in, June already half finished with her tea.

At the blare of a horn, she looked up to see her friend dashing across St. Peter Street, forcing a cab driver to brake. June waved apologetically at the driver, reached the sidewalk, then ducked into the restaurant.

A moment later, she hurried to the table. “Sorry I’m late.” She slid into the chair across the table from Patti. “Max got out and I had to chase him down. Then I couldn’t find the key to my Club thingie.”

Her auto anti-theft device. June only misplaced the key about once a week.

She waved to the waitress, who hurried over. She ordered herself an iced tea and the bread basket, then went on. “Max was almost to St. Charles Avenue before I got him.”

A waiter brought a basket of fresh, hot French bread and whipped butter.

June tended toward extremes. She was either pin neat or totally disheveled. The picture of composure, or completely frazzled. She loved food and loathed exercise; fifty percent of the time she was on a diet, the other fifty on a binge.

Clearly today was a frazzled, flushed, binge day.

“And how did Max, the marvelous salt-and-pepper shih tzu, get out?” Patti asked as she watched the brunette slather butter on a piece of the bread.

“One guess.”

“Riley,” she said, referring to June’s happy-go-lucky, much younger brother.

“Bingo. Left the door ajar.” June laughed. “I swear, he’s the least organized, most scattered-”

“Delightful, darling-”

“-mess of a young man. What was Mother thinking, having another child so late in life! Now I’m stuck with him.”

Patti gri

June laughed about it now. How she had resented him. How jealous she had been of the attention her parents had lavished on him.

She had gone off to university and come home one Christmas break only to fall in love with the curly-haired, bright-eyed four-year-old.

“When is he going to grow up?” June asked, buttering another piece of bread. “He’s twenty-seven.”

“Maybe never. If you keep babying him.”

“I do not baby him.”

Their eyes met and they both laughed. “Okay, so I baby him a little.”

Patti understood. She tended to exercise her maternal instincts on her nieces and nephews. For June it was more extreme. She had no one but Riley. Her parents were dead, her marriage had fallen apart early on.

“How’s the gallery doing?” Patti asked, referring to Pieces, the Warehouse District art gallery June had opened in the fall and which Riley helped her run.

“It’s going well, actually. Riley’s recruited several really talented local artists, and we made enough last month to pay the bills and our salaries.”

Without dipping into investments and trust funds. Neither June nor Riley had to worry about money, but June was too good a businesswoman not to.

“Can you keep a secret?” June asked, eyes twinkling. “Riley convinced Shauna to come on board.”

Shauna was the baby of the Malone brood, but instead of joining the NOPD, she’d become an artist. And a damn good one at that.

“She asked him to keep it quiet until she notified her present representation, then she’s going to tell the family herself.”

It was so like June to share the news, anyway, then expect Patti to do what she couldn’t.

“It must have taken some coaxing,” Patti murmured as the waitress approached. “She was happy where she was.”

The server took their order-a seafood salad for June and etouffée for Patti-then June went on, “You know Riley. Offered to take ten percent less commission for the first year. Plus, he appealed to their friendship.”

Shauna and Riley were close in age, knew each other and had similar interests: art, music, dancing, good food. They had hung out together as teenagers and had remained good friends all these years. Shauna had even had a crush on the slightly older, good-looking Riley at one time.

June sighed. “I always wished they’d get together. They’d make a handsome couple.”

“They still might. After all, they’re both still single.” Patti leaned forward. “Although I hear she’s dating someone. An artist she met at an opening at the Contemporary Arts Center.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I haven’t met him.”

June cocked an eyebrow. “Somebody did. And they’re not thrilled.”

“Colleen. Said he was moody and controlling.”

“But we both know your sister can be a bit overprotective of her children.”

“True.” Patti changed the subject. “I have news. About Sammy.”

June laid down her butter knife. “You have a suspect.”

“Yes. And no.” She cleared her throat. “Do you remember the killer the newspapers called the Handyman?”

“Vaguely. You never caught him.”

Although June stated it as a simple fact, it stung like an admonition. “We didn’t have much to go on,” she said. “We do now.”

For a moment, June stared at her. Then she shook her head. “But what does this have to do with Sammy? I thought the Handyman killed women?”

Patti explained about the find in City Park. “Sammy’s badge was in the grave.”

June gasped. “That can’t…My God, Patti…this means-”