Last Known Victim

“Go on.”

“I’ve been getting these…love notes. They’re signed the Artist.”

“How many have you gotten?”

She thought a moment. “Five, including the one tonight.” She paused as if expecting a question, then went on. “I didn’t think much about them until…until the day I learned about Marcus.”

She cleared her throat. “I just figured he was some lonely-hearts-club geek until the day you questioned me about Marcus. When I got home, and he’d left me a note. It was inside, tacked to the back of my kitchen door.”

“He was in your apartment?” Spencer said. “He broke in?”

“Yes.” She dropped the smoke, then ground it out with the toe of her strappy stiletto. “The note said ‘I did it for you.’”

“Did what?”

“Killed Marcus.”

“Did he say that? Specifically?”

“No, but what else could it be?”

Spencer glanced at Stacy. Although her expression was neutral, he knew she was having a hard time buying any of this. She wasn’t alone.

“Ms. Borger,” Spencer said gently. “It could have been anything. He jacked off, took a bottle of pills, kicked his dog-”

“No!” she said, cutting him off. “Tonight he was in the club! He had Tonya deliver this.”

She dug into her backpack and pulled out a wad of bills and a card. “It’s five hundred dollars.”

When they didn’t respond, she made a sound of frustration. “Marcus owed me that amount. The last time I did that side job for him, he stiffed me.”

She looked directly at Stacy for the first time. “That’s what we were arguing about in the alley that night. When he tried to choke me. Look.”

She handed the note to Spencer, who read it aloud. “Here’s the money he owed you.”

He handed it to Stacy. She read it and frowned. “This one isn’t signed.”

“That can’t be.” She took it, her expression falling. “I guess I just knew…I mean, he’s signed everything else the ‘Artist.’ I swear!”

“Do you have the other notes?” Spencer asked.

“Not with me, but I saved them. They’re at my apartment.”

“Let’s go get them.”

None of them spoke during the short drive. When they climbed out in front of her building, Spencer saw that light glimmered ever so faintly on the horizon.

It was going to be a long damn day.

She unlocked the street entrance and they filed into the courtyard. They followed her upstairs. Two doors from hers a dog began to bark, a cross between a yap and a howl. Spencer felt sorry for the poor bastards the beast woke up.

She let them in, flipped the light switch just inside the door, but didn’t make a move into the apartment.

“Yvette?” he said.

She looked at him. “Since he’s been in here, it takes me a while to get up the courage to…I know it’s silly, but-”

“It’s not silly. We’ll check it out.”

Within a couple of minutes, they had searched the small apartment and determined it empty.

“Thanks,” she said. “I had the locks changed…I forgot to tell you that part. About the woman.”

“The woman?” Spencer repeated, frowning.

“Yes. I came home the other night and found a woman at my door. She claimed to be my neighbor Nancy’s mother. Said the key Nancy gave her didn’t work.”

“Maybe she was Nancy’s mom?” Stacy offered.

“She wasn’t. That same night, she told Nancy she was my mother. That’s how she got inside. Nancy told her where I keep my spare key.”

Spencer frowned. “What night was this?”

“Monday. I came home early. Cramps.”

Patti’s close call.

He caught Stacy looking at him quizzically, and he refocused. “Could the Artist be a woman?”

Yvette opened her mouth as if to form an automatic no, but shook her head instead. “I just assumed it was a man. I mean, it’s mostly guys who, you know, hang around the Hustle and stuff. Besides, Tonya said a guy gave her the letter to give to me tonight.”

“Tonya?”

“Manages the Hustle’s talent and wait staff,” Stacy offered. Then to Yvette, she said, “Why don’t you get us the letters?”

“They’re in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.”

When she left them alone, Stacy turned to him. “What’s the deal, Malone?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Yvette told you about the woman who claimed to be her mother, you got a fu

“Did I?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that i

“They’re gone.”

They turned. The young woman stood in the doorway, wild-eyed and pale. “They were here, I swear. He must have taken them.”

“Show us.”

She led them to her bedroom, pointed to the nightstand, its single drawer standing open. “I had them in there.”

“Are you certain you didn’t move them?”

“I’m sure. They were there. All of them!”

“Tell me about Ramone,” Stacy said.

“What? Who-”

“Ramone?” she said again. “Marcus’s partner. The one you told me about.”

When she hesitated, Stacy answered for her. “Let me guess, you made him up.”

“I didn’t make this up!”

“What about the photograph Detective Malone showed you? You recognized him, didn’t you?”

“Yes! I’ve seen him around the club. He hits on the girls. So what?”

“If that’s the case, why’d you lie?”

“Because I was pissed. Because I didn’t want to get involved. Because someone like me doesn’t help the cops.”

“Give me a reason why we should believe you now.”

“Because it’s true.” She hugged herself. “It’s all true. The letters. The money. The woman breaking in.”

Her voice took on a desperate tone and she moved her gaze between them. “He killed Marcus. I know he did!”

“We’re not saying he didn’t,” Spencer said gently. “We’re not denying any of this is true. But we need something to work with. Some proof that what you’re telling us is true.”

“Screw you.” She spit the words at them. “I should have known not to go to you for help.”

“Put yourself in our shoes, Ms. Borger. What would you believe?”

“Get out! If you’re not going to help me, just get the hell out!”

They didn’t argue or try to reason with her and a couple of minutes later they were on the street. Truth was, without more from her, there was little they could do.

“Well, that was interesting,” Stacy said. “What do you think? Is she a liar or just plain nuts?”

“Part of what she told us was true.”

She stopped and looked at him. “Which part?”

“The woman.” He unlocked the Camaro and opened the door, but didn’t make a move to get in. “It was Patti.”

After dropping that bomb, he climbed into the car. Stacy followed a moment later. Once she was buckled in, she turned to him, expression incredulous. “What do you mean, it was Patti?”

“She wanted something to tie Yvette’s roommate to the Jane Doe. But she couldn’t blow your cover, and she refused to wait.”

“So she broke in?”

“Yes.”

Stacy was quiet a moment, as if processing the information. When she spoke, he heard the disappointment in her voice. “I can’t believe you were involved in this, Spencer. If PID catches wind-”

“I didn’t have any part of it. Aunt Patti didn’t tell me what she was up to.”

“You guessed.”

“Yes.” He started the car and eased away from the curb. “I confronted her with it.”

Traffic was nonexistent. He had cleared the French Quarter and crossed Canal Street within a couple of minutes-a trip that could take twenty minutes when the Quarter was jamming.

They were jumping on the expressway before Stacy spoke again. “Did she find anything?”

“Name of the roommate’s dentist. But before you get too excited, yes, the dentist had X-rays, and no, they didn’t match our Jane Doe’s.”

“She broke the law for nothing.”

“If you can call peace of mind nothing.”

“That’s such crap, Spencer. And you know it.”

“She’s the captain.”

“And she’s losing it, dammit!”

They fell silent. “What are you going to do?” he asked finally.