Last Known Victim

Stacy nodded. “I agree.”

“Obviously Gabrielle was using his commercial listings as pickup and drop-off points.”

“Drugs and money.”

“He used Borger as a way to cover his own ass. If there’d been a bust-”

“Or a dissatisfied customer.”

“-she would be the one in the line of fire.”

“That’s why he paid her so much. Big risks, big money. That’s the way it works.”

“What’s with this Ramone?” Captain Cooper asked. “Why didn’t we know he had a partner?”

“If he’s a real estate partner, he was totally behind the scenes. He didn’t come up in any of our searches.”

“Check him out. Could be this Ramone decided he no longer needed a partner.”

“That’s what my money’s on,” Baxter offered. “Good old-fashioned greed.”

“When that’s done, I want Borger to look through the mug books. And run a list of all Gabrielle’s listings. I want every one of them searched. Get a warrant.”

As they began to file out, Captain Cooper stopped Stacy. “And Killian, let Baxter deal with Borger. I think a man’ll have better luck with her.”

That’s just what was irritating the crap out of her.

To the sound of her partner’s snickers, she agreed.

25

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

3:40 p.m.

Halfway across the French Quarter, Yvette regretted having declined the ride home. Heat radiated off the pavement in shimmering waves; her pits were soaked and her feet blistered. The “barely there” sandals she had slipped into before the cops escorted her out of her apartment hadn’t been designed for hikes in the heat.

Damn cops. Dirty lying pigs. They’re the ones who should be dragged from their homes and interrogated. She thought of Brandi-make that Detective Killian-and felt the all-too-familiar feelings of betrayal and hurt rise up in her chest.

She forced them back, defiantly. So what? She’d hardly known the chick. No skin off her nose.

Marcus was dead.

She stopped cold, the finality of that hitting her. She struggled to breathe, the humid air suddenly suffocating.

She hadn’t loved him. Truth was, she hadn’t even liked him. He had been a cheat. And a liar. A vicious prick who had nearly strangled her to make a point.

But his murder hit too close to home.

Cool air blasted her as a couple exited a restaurant called Big Bubba’s. She stopped, looked longingly at the poster in the window-a fried shrimp po’boy and frosted mug of beer-then ducked inside.

She took a seat at the counter and ordered a half shrimp sandwich and a real Coke. Sugar. Caffeine. Calories. The real thing.

The waitress set the Coke and a straw in front of her. She peeled away the wrapper, dropped the straw into the drink and took a long sip, thoughts turning once again to Marcus.

She could play Little-Miss-I

She had suspected drugs, the obvious choice. But she hadn’t asked questions or snooped. She figured the less she knew, the better off she would be. The healthier, too.

Methamphetamine. Horrible shit. She didn’t touch the stuff. It turned people into cranked-up, paranoiac freaks.

The kind of people who dealt in things like meth wouldn’t think twice about icing a stripper to insure her silence.

Yvette noisily sucked down the last of the soft drink and ordered another. The waitress brought it and her sandwich; she dug in, thoughts racing.

Marcus still owed her five hundred bucks.

It occurred to her that she should feel bad about thinking that, but she didn’t. Marcus had brought this on himself. Not that she wished him dead, but it was hard to feel bad about the death of a really rotten human being.

Some people would think the same if she was killed.

The truth of that hit her hard. Her bite of sandwich lodged in her throat and tears filled her eyes.

What would they say? “Just another dead stripper” or “The whore had it coming”? She forced herself to swallow. Crying was for losers and babies. Hadn’t her dad told her that? As he’d belittled her to the point of tears? Every so often he would reach over and pinch her hard. “You’ll thank me someday,” he’d say. “You’ll be tough.”

She didn’t want to be this person anymore.

Why’d she lie about the Artist sending letters to Kitten? Why’d she make up that story about her roommate?

Because she had wanted to impress, to look important or smart or interesting. To be anything but what she was.

And what about the partner named Ramone? To deflect attention. To give Detective Killian another tail to chase.

She reached into her pocket for the card the handsome detective had given her. Detective Spencer Malone.

She stared at the card, his name. A guy like that would never go for a woman like her. She’d seen it in his eyes. She had flirted; he had humored her.

She had recognized Franklin. He came into the Hustle sometimes. She’d seen him trolling for hookers.

What had he done? Did it have something to do with Marcus? Drugs? Or the City Park Jane Doe?

She’d lied about that, too. Because she’d been afraid. She hadn’t wanted any part of recognizing Franklin. Getting involved was dangerous.

She always had a reason, didn’t she? Always had an excuse, a justification for her behavior, one that made it okay.

“You need anything else, darlin’?”

She blinked at the woman, then shook her head. “Just the check.”

In no time at all, Yvette was back out on the street. The sky had turned cloudy and the air had cooled slightly. Her feet still hurt, but with home just a few blocks away, she could make it.

From unbearable to simply miserable.

Yvette pushed that worry aside and darted across Ursuline Street, taking the shortest route home. Within minutes, she reached her building, unlocked the courtyard door and ducked inside. She breathed a sigh of relief-the shady courtyard felt ten degrees cooler than the street outside its walls.

She slipped out of her sandals, and the flagstone was cool and damp against the bottoms of her feet. Carrying the shoes, she limped toward the stairs.

The majority of the building’s other residents held traditional nine to five jobs. The courtyard was empty save for Miss Alma and her yippy Pomeranian, Sissy. The old saying about a dog and their owner growing to look alike proved true in this case. Both were ancient with pointy noses and bug eyes. Yvette had long suspected that Miss Alma dyed her hair to match Sissy’s ci

“Hello, Miss Alma,” she said, ignoring Sissy’s growl.

“Afternoon, dear. Sissy, shush. She does that to everyone, but she wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

Unless the flea came within range. “I know, Miss Alma. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

Yvette climbed the stairs, reached the second floor. Nancy was out watering her plants. As she passed apartment eight, the pug that lived there began to bark.

Yvette jumped, same as she always did, and shouted for him to “Shut up!”

“Hey, Yvette!” Nancy called. “Wouldn’t you just love to have that dog muzzled?”

“You know it’s true,” she answered. “Every night he barks his stupid head off when I come home, wakes everybody up. Can you believe Bob and Ray complained to me about it? Like I should change my schedule, so their monkey-faced dog doesn’t wake them up.”

“What’cha go

Yvette frowned. “What?”

“You and your mom, I hope you’re having fun.” She glanced at Yvette. “She seems nice.”

“My mother’s dead.”