Last Known Victim

Stacy stood about an arm’s length behind her, and swung at her head, stopping right before she made contact.

Her arm made a natural arc downward, hand tipping slightly thumb up. She repeated the motion. Each time the same part of the pan would have co

Stacy thanked the tech, who hadn’t even flinched, and shifted her attention to the scene. Nothing was out of place except the body and frying pan. She hadn’t yet searched the rest of the apartment, but from what she had seen so far, it looked to be in the same condition.

It appeared Miss Alma had been making tea. Kettle of water on the stove. Teapot and tea bags on the counter. Two cups, empty, waiting to be filled.

Two cups. Not one.

Whoever did this, Miss Alma had trusted. She had thought of her, or him, as a friend. Had invited them in. Turned her back to them. Then wham!

But why?

“Judging by the robe and slippers,” Baxter said, “I’m guessing it was either early morning or approaching bedtime.”

Stacy crossed to the trash can, lifted off its top and looked inside.

Baxter followed her, peering over her shoulder. “You can tell a lot about people by their garbage.”

And sometimes, what time of day it is.

“I mean,” Baxter went on, “who would think this sweet old lady would enjoy Cajun Fire Cracklings?”

“Where do you see Cajun Cracklings?”

“I don’t. I’m just saying, who would?”

“You drove your mother crazy, didn’t you?”

He gri

Stacy nodded. The remnants of a chicken-and-rice di

“Some friend,” he muttered. He crossed to the refrigerator and opened it, peering inside.

“Anything out of whack there?”

“Nope.”

Frowning, Stacy replaced the can’s lid. “Remember Yvette Borger?”

“The exotic dancer who was diddling Marcus Gabrielle?”

Stacy nodded. “She lives in this building.”

“No kidding? Think there’s a co

“Seems unlikely, but I don’t like coincidences.”

The coroner’s representative arrived. He took one look at Alma Maytree and shook his head. “Kids and geriatrics. There’s just something extra heinous about it. You know what I mean?”

Stacy did. Both children and the elderly were helpless to defend themselves.

He fitted on gloves and knelt by the body. “This looks pretty cut and dried,” he murmured. “But if this job’s taught me anything, it’s not to take things at face value.”

He carefully inspected her hands and arms. “No defensive wounds. Nails look clean.”

“How long’s she been dead?”

“A couple days, give or take. I’ll see if I can get any closer back at the lab, but establishing time of death this far out is far from exact.”

True. The longer a person was dead, the more difficult it was to pinpoint when they’d died.

“Do your thing,” Stacy said. “We’ll look around.”

The apartment’s furnishings ran toward fussy. Lots of antique lace, silk flowers and chintz. Not a pillow out of place in the living room. The bed was made. No discarded clothes on the floor, laid across a chair or hanging on a bathroom hook. The only true clutter in the entire place was on the bathroom vanity.

Lotions, creams, perfumes, lipsticks. Stacy picked up one small tub. “Age Erase-rehydrates, rejuvenates and reduces the visible signs of aging.”

“Hope springs eternal,” Baxter murmured, picking up another cream and reading the label. “Even at eighty-something.”

“Two,” Stacy offered. “I think it’s sweet.”

And really sad, considering.

They returned to the kitchen. The evidence team was collecting the garbage from the can under the sink.

“Be really careful not to jostle that,” Stacy said. “The layering of the debris could help us establish TOD.”

“Gotcha, Detective.”

“How’s it coming, Mitch?”

He’d already bagged her hands and feet. Next step would be loading her into a body bag and transporting her to the morgue. The process was done as cleanly as possible to avoid loss or contamination of evidence.

The man looked up. “What you see is what you get, is my guess.”

“When will we hear from you?”

“Couple days. I’ve got several ahead of her.” He held up a hand as if to ward off any wheedling. “I gotta have a life, my wife insists on it.”

She smiled slightly and unclipped her cell phone. “As always, we appreciate your dedication.”

She dialed Spencer’s cell. “It’s me,” she said when he answered. “Thought you’d want to know, I’ve got a stiff at Yvette Borger’s apartment building.”

46

Thursday, May 10, 2007

1:25 p.m.

When Patti’s cell phone buzzed, she and Yvette were hunting down friends and coworkers of Jessica Skye. It was Spencer. “I thought you’d be interested. One of Yvette’s neighbors got whacked.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Alma Maytree. Took a frying pan to the side of her head.”

Alma Maytree. The name sounded familiar. Had Yvette mentioned her?

“When?”

“Don’t know. I’m heading there now. You’ll have to come out of retirement to find out.”

She shut her phone, veered into the left lane, then used the neutral-ground crossover to execute a U-turn.

“What’s up?” Yvette asked.

“We’re heading back to the house.”

Yvette yawned. “Why?”

“I’m dropping you off.”

That got her attention, something that had been pretty damn difficult to manage.

“And leaving me? Alone?”

“There’s been a murder. I need to go to the scene. I can’t bring you.”

“Isn’t that against ‘the rules’?”

“I don’t have a choice.” She glanced at her. “You don’t have to look so damn smug.”

“Sorry. Can’t help myself.”

She sounded anything but sorry, and Patti gritted her teeth. As the hours had passed with no contact from the Artist, Yvette had grown more rebellious-not that she had been particularly accommodating to begin with. She was bored. At once surly and self-righteous. Prickly. She didn’t get the point of Patti’s rules and never missed an opportunity to diss them.

Patti could put up with that-and a lot more-if it led to Sammy’s killer. If.

Could this dead neighbor have anything to do with her case? Alma Maytree. She wanted to ask Yvette if she knew her, but feared Yvette would put two and two together and realize the woman was dead. And Patti was uncertain how she would react. She could panic, then run.

Patti couldn’t chance it. Instead, she would gather the facts, assess the situation, then decide. Could be this murder was unrelated to Yvette or the Artist.

One coincidence was tough enough to swallow. But three?

Marcus Gabrielle had been murdered. Samson had been poisoned. And now a woman named Alma Maytree was dead.

Patti made the turn onto Piety Street. Moments later, she pulled up in front of her cottage.

“I’ll let myself in.” Yvette held her hand out for the key.

Patti removed her house key from the ring but didn’t hand it over. “I shouldn’t be gone long. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Patti gazed at her for a long moment. “You do understand how much danger you’re in?”

“If I say yes, will you give me the key?”

When Patti glared at her, she laughed. “I’m just playing with you. Yes, I understand how much danger I’m in. And how serious this is. And how important it is to follow your rules.”

Knowing a snow job when she heard it, Patti dropped the key into her hand, then watched as Yvette jogged up the walk, unlocked the door and disappeared inside without a backward glance.

Patti sat a moment, struggling with the need to tiptoe up the walk and double-check that she had relocked the door. Or to circle the block, then peek in the windows to see what Yvette was up to.