Last Known Victim

“Is that all?” Patti asked quietly.

“No, he-” Her voice cracked. “A locket. With a photo of Tonya in it.”

Patti glanced at her watch. “I’ll be right there.”

41

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

10:30 a.m.

Yvette grabbed her smokes, purse and keys and headed out front to wait for Patti O’Shay. That bastard had been in her home. Somehow he had gotten in. Again.

She hadn’t heard a thing.

The courtyard was empty. Even old Miss Alma and her dog, Sissy, were absent. Yvette hurried through and stumbled out into the bright, clear day.

Thank God…thank God…

She breathed deeply. It smelled like the Quarter, of fresh-baked goodies, exhaust from the constant stream of vehicles passing her building, and…possibilities.

She was alive.

He could have killed her. He had been in her apartment. Perhaps had even stood beside her bed and gazed down at her as she slept.

When will you realize you don’t need anyone but me?

Trembling, Yvette fumbled to get a cigarette from her pack, hands shaking so badly she dropped the pack twice. Finally she had one, lit it and inhaled deeply.

The smoke calmed her somewhat. Tonya was dead. She didn’t have to see a body to know it was true. Somehow he had realized Tonya could ID him-to her or the police-and he’d killed her.

Tears burned her eyes. She had hardly known the woman. Until a few days ago, she hadn’t even liked her much. But Tonya had put herself out there for her, tried to help.

She had been killed because of it.

She drew on the cigarette, her mind racing. What should she do? Stay? Or go?

Run. As fast as you can. Don’t look back.

The slam of a car door drew her attention. Patti O’Shay had arrived and was crossing the street, coming toward her.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know,” she said as she neared, indicating the cigarette.

Yvette blew out a stream of smoke. “Not if the Artist gets me first.”

“He won’t,” Patti said simply. “I won’t let him.”

Yvette wished she could believe her. She wished she had the confidence in Captain O’Shay that she’d had even twenty-four hours ago. She put out the smoke and indicated her apartment building.

“I didn’t want to be up there alone.”

“I understand.”

“Did you bring the note and locket?”

She nodded and dug them out of her pocket. She held them out. Patti picked up the note first, by the edges, opened it and read. Then she reached for the necklace.

It did, indeed, hold a picture of the woman. She stared at it, frowning.

“What?” Yvette asked.

“You ever see her wear this?”

She scrunched up her face in thought. “No.”

“Do you find it at all odd that a woman would wear a locket with her own picture in it?”

Yvette stared at her, shaken. Confused. “But if he left it, doesn’t that mean it’s hers?”

“Could be. Don’t you find it strange?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “So if it’s not Tonya’s, whose-”

“Let’s not speculate on that right now. I need to examine your apartment.”

They entered the building and made their way to the second floor. As they neared Samson’s apartment, the unit’s door flew open and Ray rushed out, wild-eyed and unkempt looking. From inside came the sound of sobbing.

“Did you hear anything?” he cried.

“Ray? What’s wro-”

“Did you see someone?” He grabbed her arm. “Last night? When you got home from work?”

His grip on her arm hurt, and Yvette pulled away. “I didn’t work. I turned in early.”

“Somebody poisoned Samson! They fed him hamburger with antifreeze in it.”

Yvette went cold. She brought a hand to her mouth. The Artist. Dear God.

She shook her head in denial. “But how? Samson’s always inside or with you and Bob.”

“We don’t know.” His voice rose. “We were out overnight. We got home and found hi…It was…horrible.”

“Are you certain he didn’t just get into-”

“Antifreeze?” His voice was disbelieving. “The vet confirmed it. We’ve called the police, but so far no one’s come.”

“I’m a police officer,” Patti said. “Maybe I can help.”

He looked at her in surprise, as if only just realizing she was standing there.

“Were your doors and windows locked?” Patti asked.

“Yes. I mean, I think so.”

“I could check them, if you’d like?”

“Thank God!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, calling out to his partner. “Bob, this is a police officer! She’s going to help us!”

The other man sat slumped on the pretty chaise, his expression the picture of grief. He looked up at Patti. “Who would do such a thing? And why?” He held out a framed photograph of the pug. “Who could harm such a sweet animal?”

Yvette had always thought Samson pretty much the ugliest dog on earth. But otherwise he’d been sweet-tempered-all bark but no bite. Unlike Miss Alma’s adorable Pom, who pretty much scared the crap out of her.

She swallowed hard, hurting for them. They adored Samson, treated him like their baby.

While Ray and Patti checked the windows, she went and sat by Bob, putting her arm around him. “How is he? Is he-”

“Alive?” he choked out. “Yes. But he’s really sick. Dr. Morgan said it was a good thing we found him when we did-”

He began to cry again, and Yvette awkwardly patted his back. She wondered what it would be like to love someone-or something-that way. What it would be like to be loved that way.

Was that the way the Artist loved her?

A trembling sensation settled in the pit of her gut. For one dizzying moment she imagined succumbing. Allowing herself to be consumed by his terrifying brand of devotion.

Would she finally know how it felt to be loved?

Ray and Patti returned. “Windows were locked from the inside,” Patti said. “No signs of forced entry around the door. Are you certain the door was locked?”

“Yes,” Ray said emphatically.

Patti looked at the other man. When he didn’t agree, Ray made a sound of disbelief. “Bob, you didn’t…you and I have talked about this before!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He wrung his hands and shifted his gaze to Patti, then Yvette, his expression pleading.

“I didn’t think locking up was such a big deal. Because of the courtyard door and…and because of Samson. I figured, of all the apartments, why would someone choose to break into ours?”

“Was anything taken?” Patti asked.

“Nothing. Everything looked just as we left it except-”

“Samson,” Ray finished, flushing. “A neighbor did it. Because of the barking. We’d had complaints, but-”

“Who could be so vile?” Bob asked. “So cruel?”

The Artist. He did it to quiet Samson. To shut him up. So he could terrorize her without detection.

Yvette stood, legs rubbery. “I don’t feel so good.”

She made it to her apartment before she lost it. She threw up, aware of Patti O’Shay hovering in the doorway behind her.

“Are you all right?” she asked when she had stopped.

“No.” Yvette stood, crossed to the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Then she looked at Patti. “Hell no.”

She realized she was shivering and grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door. She slipped into it, then looked at Patti. “The Artist poisoned Samson. To shut him up.”

“I think so, too.”

“I couldn’t tell them.”

“No.”

“I want to sit down.”

She headed into the living room and sat on the couch. A moment later, Patti handed her a cold washcloth. “How about something to drink?”

“Coke. There’s some in the fridge.”

Several moments later, Patti handed the can to her.

“You’re being so nice to me,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She shrugged and sipped the sweet drink. “Why would you be? You don’t know me. I’m nobody to you.”

Patti frowned at her, as if she had said something puzzling. “You were sick. Of course I helped you.”