Last Known Victim

37

Monday, May 7, 2007

11:25 a.m.

The neighbor-whose name she had learned over coffee was Bill-had helped her calm down and focus. She had briefly explained the situation; he had agreed it was troubling. If she was worried about her friend, she should go to the police. He had been adamant about that. And about the fact that every hour that passed made the possibility of helping Tonya, if she was in danger, more remote.

So here she stood at the information desk at police headquarters, asking for Captain Patti O’Shay.

She had decided to approach the woman for two reasons. First, she had something to hold over the woman’s head, something to compel her to help. Second, she had told Detectives Malone and Killian about the Artist and they hadn’t believed her. She had no confidence Tonya’s disappearance would change that.

It was a bold move, she knew. And stupid, considering that all she really knew about the woman was that she had illegally entered her apartment. Who knew, perhaps she was the Artist? Captain O’Shay would not appreciate being blackmailed into helping her.

This could go badly-very. But she was willing to take the chance.

“I have information about one of her investigations,” she told the desk officer. “The Handyman murders.”

“The detectives on that case-”

“I won’t speak to anyone but her.”

The officer studied her a moment, eyes narrowed. “ID.”

Shit. She should have anticipated this. She had pla

She dug her driver’s license out of her wallet and slid it across the counter to him. He studied it a moment, then her. Finally he slid her a clipboard. “Sign in, Ms. Borger. I’ll see if she’s available.”

Fingers crossed, she waited. She fully expected to be turned away or shuffled to another officer, so when, seconds later, he directed her to the elevators, she had to work to hide her surprise.

“Third floor. Captain O’Shay will meet you there.”

Yvette followed his instructions, fighting back the nerves settled in her stomach. She was playing with potential fire here, confronting a police captain. Calling her out.

She didn’t have much choice.

The elevator doors slid open. Captain Patti O’Shay stood waiting for her. “Ms. Borger. This is unexpected.”

Yvette smiled, feigning confidence. “I’m sure it is. We need to talk. Privately.”

The older woman nodded and motioned for Yvette to follow her. They didn’t speak again until they had reached her office and she had shut the door. “Have a seat, Ms. Borger.”

Yvette did, crossing her legs. “Let’s not play around, I know what you did.”

The captain didn’t blink. “Really? And what would that be?”

“You tricked my neighbor into telling you where I keep a spare key to my apartment and you used it. I would call that illegally entering. When I caught you leaving, you used the same story. Unfortunate timing, wasn’t it? For you, anyway.”

“What do you want?”

Clever, moving the conversation forward without admitting to a thing.

“I could make a lot of trouble for you. I saw you. My neighbor Nancy saw you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “you could. So what do you want?”

“First, I want to know why. Why my apartment? What were you looking for?”

“Information about your former roommate.”

Yvette wasn’t certain what she had expected, but it wasn’t that. “Kitten?”

“Yes. You told Detective Killian you believed she was the City Park Jane Doe. I have a special interest in that case.”

Yvette battled differing emotions-relief, anger, the desire to punish the woman for making her afraid.

“If I’d called you in for questioning-”

“You would’ve blown ‘Brandi’s’ cover.”

She inclined her head slightly “Time was of the essence.”

“Which makes it all right?”

“Hardly. Justifiable, at the time. To me.”

Typical cop. The rights of people like her were completely expendable.

“I could fry you over this. I should.”

“Have a ball.” Patti leaned slightly forward. “What you don’t seem to understand, Ms. Borger, is that I have very little to lose. So little, in fact, I’d chance it again to nail that bastard.”

Welcome to the club. She understood having nothing to lose. She had felt that way her whole life.

“You want something from me,” the woman said.

“Yes. Your help.” Captain O’Shay arched her eyebrows in question; Yvette forged ahead. “My boss from the Hustle is missing. I think she’s in trouble.”

“And you need me to…?”

“Sound the alarm. Find her. Save her.”

“Have you filed a missing-persons report?”

“No! This isn’t-” She changed tack. “Did Detective Malone tell you about the Artist?”

“The letter-writing stalker you made up?”

“But I didn’t make him up! He’s been writing me…stalking me. When I told that story about Kitten, he’d sent me a few notes. I just…used him in my story. But now…I’m afraid.” She paused. “I think he killed Marcus.”

“Gabrielle?”

“Yes. For me.” She explained about coming home and finding his note. “It said, ‘I did it for you.’ He didn’t sign it, but I know it was from him.”

The other woman frowned. “And you relayed this to Detectives Malone and Killian?”

“Yes. They didn’t believe me.”

“They thought you were co

“Why would I? Why create this-” She bit the words back because, of course, she had done exactly that before. To the captain’s credit, she said nothing.

“Now I think he’s killed Tonya. That’s my boss, Tonya Messinger. She was trying to help me.”

Captain O’Shay folded her hands on the desk but said nothing, her gaze fixed intently on Yvette.

“Tonya manages all the girls at the Hustle. The talent and the wait staff.” She clasped her hands together. “Like I said, she was helping me.”

“How so?”

“I told her about the Artist. His notes, how he broke into my apartment. She saw his note, the money-”

The captain cut her off. “Perhaps you should start at the begi

So she did, sharing everything up to Tonya’s recognizing Jessica. “She remembered that the guy writing me used to like another girl-” Yvette reached into her purse, retrieved the newspaper image of Jane Doe and laid the clipping on the desk in front of her. “That girl.”

“My God,” Captain O’Shay muttered. “You know who she is?”

“Yes. But first, I want your word you’ll help me.”

“You’ve got it. Name?”

“Jessica Skye. She danced at the Hustle. Disappeared with Katrina.”

“She ever mention this Artist? Weird notes? Anything?”

Yvette shook her head. “She never said anything to Tonya. I asked the two girls who worked with Jessica, but she didn’t say anything to them, either.”

“You didn’t know Jessica?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t dance there before Katrina.”

“So you didn’t recognize her yourself?”

“No. Tonya did.”

“What about the other girls at the Hustle? Did they ID her photo?”

“They weren’t positive. But Tonya was absolutely certain it was her.”

“The same Tonya who’s missing now?”

Yvette stiffened. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not true.”

“What am I thinking, Ms. Borger?”

“That I’m full of shit. That I’m lying.”

“Are you?” she asked calmly.

“No! Tonya was going to nose around. Alert me when the Artist came around.”

“And did he?”

“Yes. The night I was at the Art Walk. She left a message on my cell phone. She wanted me to call her, she had an idea.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t know. I called her back, a bunch of times, but haven’t heard a word since.”

“Do you have the message?”

“I deleted it. I didn’t know I’d need it.” She realized her hands were sweating and rubbed them on her jeans. “She didn’t show up for work Sunday night so this morning I visited her condo.”