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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 Cooper. 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 pla
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 have time for this.”
“You don’t have a choice, actually. Sorry.”