Last Known Victim

Was this how a parent felt when faced with giving their adolescents some freedom? Anxious about them screwing up? Hopeful they wouldn’t, torn between being suspicious and wanting to trust?

Yvette was an adult. She earned her living dancing in a strip club. She lived on her own. Made her own choices, day in and out. But damn, she acted like a kid. Like a silly, self-absorbed teenager.

Patti gazed at the house a moment more, then pulled away from the curb, heading toward the French Quarter.

Within minutes, she pulled up to the uniformed officer redirecting traffic at Yvette’s corner. She held up her shield and he waved her through.

She parked, climbed out and strode to the building’s entrance. She greeted the officer stationed there, entered and followed the crime-scene tape to the victim, who had lived on the first floor.

Patti reached the woman’s apartment, signed the log and ducked under the barricade. The complex was crawling with NOPD and crime-scene techs, each focused on their job.

It never ceased to amaze her how so many people could cram into one space and carry out their individual and detailed tasks with such precision.

But they did, crime after crime.

She wound her way through them until she reached the heart of the crime scene: the victim. Spencer had already arrived. He stood beside Stacy, Baxter and Deputy Coroner Mitch Weiner. They were deep in a discussion about the Saints’ picks in the recent NFL draft.

“Hello, Mitch,” she said. “Detectives.”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the deputy coroner replied. “Malone figured you’d want a look before we packed her up.”

“I appreciate that.”

She studied the body, taking in the scene, the position of the victim, the frying pan.

“Done,” she said, and turned back to the group. “What’ve you got?”

Stacy answered first. “Blow to the head killed her. No defensive wounds. No other injuries detected.”

Mitch stepped in. “My guess is, she’s been dead a few days. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Any suspects?”

“Not yet. The neighbors we’ve spoken with say she was universally liked.”

Stacy stepped in. “We believe she knew her attacker. She let him into her apartment after she had prepared for bed.”

“How do you know it’s a him?” Patti asked.

“Pardon?”

“An older woman. She’s in a robe. Preparing tea before bed. Would she let a man into her apartment?”

“Not just any man,” Baxter murmured. “A close relative.”

“A neighbor, maybe. A good friend. Someone very nonthreatening.”

“Police officer,” Mitch tossed in. “Priest.”

They fell silent. The coroner’s reps loaded the body into a bag. After telling them he’d be in touch, Mitch left with the body.

Patti turned to Spencer and Stacy. “The question is, does this have anything to do with Yvette Borger?”

Spencer cocked an eyebrow. “Why would it?”

“Two nights ago the Artist paid a midnight visit to Yvette. He managed to enter her house, leave her a note and exit without waking her. She found the note the next morning.”

“Or so she says.”

Patti ignored Spencer’s sarcasm and continued. “That same night, her neighbor’s pug, Samson, was poisoned. And now Alma Maytree is dead, quite possibly killed the same night.”

“And you believe her?”

She frowned at the challenge in her nephew’s voice. “I do.”

“So much so that you’ve taken a leave of absence from your job and, in my opinion, your senses, to help her. Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”

Several people glanced their way. Patti motioned for the door. “Why don’t we take this conversation outside, Detective?”

They filed out of the apartment, Stacy with them. When they’d found a quiet corner of the courtyard, Spencer faced her. “I don’t give a flip if the woman’s a total psycho. Except now, she’s messing with someone I care about.”

“I appreciate your concern, Spencer. I love you, too. But I don’t need protecting.”

“She has no proof. She manufactured the letters. Manufactured the Artist. For attention. She gets her jollies from it.”

“She didn’t manufacture Alma Maytree. Didn’t manufacture Samson being poisoned.”

“How do you know she didn’t kill Alma Maytree? And poison Samson?”

“Why? What’s her motive?”

“How about she’s just plain crazy?”

Stacy stepped in. “Is it so far-fetched, Patti? Maybe she killed Gabrielle, too. Or had him killed? Because he stiffed her. Or because he tried to kill her. She trusted him, he betrayed her.”

“There’s more,” Patti said. “Yvette came to me for help. Her friend from the Hustle, Tonya Messing-”

“Her friend?” Stacy interrupted. “They were anything but friends when I was there working undercover. Yvette called her a ‘bitch.’ Her word, not mine.”

“Apparently when you and Spencer refused to help her, she turned to Tonya. Now Tonya’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“Tonya had recognized our Jane Doe from the paper, as a former dancer from the Hustle. Jessica Skye. Disappeared with the storm.” She leaned forward. “She also recognized the guy sending the notes to Yvette as having been interested in Jessica.”

“And they began their own little investigation.”

“Yes. When Tonya went missing, Yvette came to me.”

“Has anyone else corroborated Skye being the Jane Doe?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Not another dancer at the club?”

When she indicated none had, the two detectives exchanged glances. Spencer spoke first. “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Tonya’s the only one who can positively ID Skye and suddenly she’s ‘missing.’ When Stacy and I went to her apartment to see all of the Artist’s letters, they were suddenly gone. She’s pathological, Aunt Patti.”

“I agree, Captain,” Stacy said. “Aligning yourself too closely with her would be a mistake.”

Too late.

Patti gazed at the pair, torn. Spencer and Stacy were good cops. With good instincts. But she had to go with her own instincts.

“I’m not changing course. I can’t. If what she said is true, the Artist is the Handyman. And she’s my co

“If,” Spencer said, voice tight.

“I took Tonya’s place at the Hustle. And moved Yvette in with me. For her own protection.”

For a full three seconds, Spencer simply gaped at her. When he spoke, the words exploded from him. “That’s the most lame-brained, boneheaded scheme-”

“Don’t overstep your bounds, Detective. I’m still your superior officer.”

“Then act like it, for God’s sake!”

Stacy laid a hand on Spencer’s arm. “And you’re doing all this with the chief’s blessing?”

“He doesn’t know anything about it. Officially, I’m on leave.”

Stacy made a sound of distress. “I beg you, reconsider. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re still grieving. Between that and the stress of-”

“My thinking is crystal clear. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Throwing away your career?” Spencer demanded. “Are you prepared for that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let me ask you, Aunt Patti, how did you get Little Miss Scamalot to accept your offer? Out of the goodness of her heart? Because she wanted to help you catch a killer?”

“Yes.”

She had hesitated before answering, a fraction of a second only, but enough to tip off Spencer. “Collaborating with Borger only two days and already lying. That’s not the Patti O’Shay I know and respect.”

It had been a lie, of course. And a poor one.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me. What did you offer her?”

“Money.”

“Now, there’s a surprise. How much?”

“That’s between me and Yvette.”

Spencer gazed at her a long moment, jaw tight. “Then I want in,” he said. “If for no other reason than to watch your back.”

“No. Absolutely not. Jeopardizing my career is one thing, jeopardizing yours is another.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but she cut him off. “Detectives, I think you have a scene to finish processing. And I’ve got a leave to continue. Excuse me.”