Last Known Victim

“Don’t pull that crap with me. You need me. More than I need you.”

“Are you so certain about that? I seem to remember you being pretty scared. Pretty certain that the Artist had killed your friend. Or was that another of your fabrications?”

Angry, Yvette folded her arms across her chest. “Screw off! I have a life.”

“The question is, do you want to keep it?”

She jerked her chin up. “I think he’s packed up his saw and moved on.”

“What makes you think that?”

“We haven’t seen or heard from him. My moving in with you spooked him.”

Patti laughed. “You think a freak who’s killed some nine people is going to get spooked by me?”

“You’re a cop. You carry a gun.”

“And you’re an irresponsible child.”

“Screw this. And you.”

Yvette strode across to the vanity and began stuffing her things into a tote bag.

“Where do you think you’re going to go?”

“Anywhere else but here. I don’t need you or this crappy job.”

“Alma Maytree is dead.”

Yvette froze. She turned slowly and looked at Patti. “What did you say?”

“Alma Maytree is dead. That’s where I went this afternoon. Somebody killed her.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Two nights ago or so. Bashed in the side of her head with a frying pan.”

Her father, out cold. Blood trickling from his head. Pooling on the speckled Formica floor.

She shook her head. “Why would anyone hurt Miss Alma? She was the sweetest, most gentle person. Nice to everybody.”

“This happened two nights ago, Yvette.”

For a full three seconds, she stared dumbly at Patti. Then she understood.

The Artist.

“He did this, didn’t he?”

“We can’t jump to conclusions. It might have nothing to do with him.”

“But you think it does?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?” she cried. “Why would he hurt her? I don’t understand!”

“The same reason he poisoned Samson. To get to you.”

Yvette brought a hand to her mouth and sank to the floor. “I’m going to be sick.”

Patti snatched up the trash can and brought it to her. Yvette bent over it and retched up the horror of the past weeks, the disappointments of a lifetime, the fear that held her in its grip.

When she’d finished, Patti handed her a damp towel and a bottle of water.

“Do you get it now, Yvette? Do you see what you’re dealing with? Why I set up all those stupid rules?”

Yvette thought of Miss Alma, her sweet nature, how much she had loved her yappy Pomeranian. She pictured Riley, imagined a life with someone like him. A good life. With children and a home. The fairy tale.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered.

“Then you need to do what I say. This isn’t a game.”

Or she could run. Take the money and get the hell out of New Orleans.

Yvette stood, legs wobbly, and crossed to her chair. She sank onto it and reached for her handbag and cigarettes. Her hands shook so badly, she could hardly light one.

When she had, she pulled greedily on it. After a moment, calmer, she said, “This is crazy. Insane.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I shouldn’t be here. I should go.”

“He hurt your friend. A sweet old lady who couldn’t fight back. He poisoned a defenseless animal. Killed six other women, that we know of.”

“And your husband.”

“Yes. And my husband. Don’t let him get away with it, Yvette. Help me get him.”

Yvette stared at her. The moments ticked past. The cigarette had burned down to the filter. With a yelp of pain, she stamped it out.

“Help me,” Patti said. “Please.”

Finger stinging, vision blurred by tears, Yvette said she would.

49

Monday, May 14, 2007

6:30 a.m.

Stacy stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed. The Alma Maytree murder was not adding up for her. As of last evening, every tenant in the building-except Yvette Borger-had been questioned either by her, Baxter or one of the assisting officers.

No one had seen anything. No one had noticed anyone who looked like they didn’t belong. Building residents uniformly agreed that people got through the locked gate by piggybacking in with someone else legitimately coming or going.

Before Miss Alma’s murder no one had believed it to be a huge issue; they did now.

But why slip in, bash in an old lady’s head and leave with nothing to show for it?

She’d accessed the woman’s financials: a little pension plan from a lifetime at the American Can Company, social security. But no big life insurance policy for some distant relative to kill for.

And distant relatives were all she had. A great-niece in Chicago. A nephew in Birmingham. His kids.

They’d been horrified to hear of the murder.

Besides questioning Borger, she intended to query anyone she hadn’t spoken to personally.

Stacy crossed to the bed and bent to kiss a still sleeping Spencer goodbye. As she did, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on top of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice a sleepy drawl.

“To do a little digging into the Maytree murder.”

“Sounds boring. Stay and play with me instead.” He tightened his arms around her. “Pretty please. I’ll make it worth your while.”

She knew he would. He always did. She regretfully wriggled away. “Can’t. Made an appointment with Maytree’s landlord.”

He propped himself up on an elbow. “All work and no play, Killian.”

“Tell me about it.” She kissed him again. “Call me later.”

When she reached the door, he called her name, stopping her. She looked back.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Something in his tone and expression told her he wasn’t referring to this morning’s trip.

He was talking about her leaving for good.

“We’ll talk later.”

“You said that a couple weeks ago.”

She had, then avoided the conversation. But so had he. Until now.

“What are you afraid of, Stacy?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Do you want to move out?”

She gazed at him, then shook her head. “No.”

“Then don’t. Stay.”

“Sometimes it’s not about what you want.”

“That must be girl-speak because I don’t get it.”

“Call me later. Okay?”

She ducked out of the bedroom before he could say more. What was she afraid of? she wondered, filling a travel mug with coffee, then heading out to her car. Being hurt? Or was it more complicated than that?

More complicated. A lot more.

Not wanting to pursue that particular train of thought, she climbed into the SUV and started it up. She had arranged to meet the landlord early, so he could let her in. She wouldn’t make any friends by interrupting Monday-morning routines, but that didn’t bother her.

What Patti had said kept plucking at her. That the Artist had visited Yvette the same night Alma Maytree had been murdered and Ray Wilkins and Bob Simmons’s pug had been poisoned.

She had tried to broach the subject with Spencer; he’d refused to discuss it.

She intended to talk to the dog owners first. The assisting officer had interviewed them, but they’d said nothing about their dog having been poisoned. Of course, there could be a number of reasons for that, including the fact the officer hadn’t had a reason to ask.

She had one now.

Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the door to apartment eight. She knocked loudly, hoping to be heard above the continual bark of a very upset dog.

Samson. Obviously recovered.

One of the men answered the door. He was medium height and trim. Dark hair threaded with gray. Dressed and pressed. She placed him somewhere between forty and fifty.

She held up her shield. “Detective Killian. NOPD. I need to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Alma Maytree. And your dog.”

The man looked over his shoulder. “Ray, get out here! Police.”

Another man stumbled out of the kitchen, coffee mug clutched in his hand and hair sticking out in six different directions. He wore rumpled shorts and a faded T-shirt. The contrast between the two was dramatic.