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“Talked to Elizabeth Walker. She’s on her way. Asked her to call me when she was close. I’ll meet her at the morgue. The techs are finishing processing the scene now. They’re giving this top priority.”
“Good. Anything else?”
They shook their heads, and she led them into the living room. There, they found Yvette huddled in a corner on her couch.
“Hello, Yvette,” Spencer said. She didn’t reply and he introduced Tony. “This is Detective Sciame.”
She flicked her gaze over him, then went back to staring at the wall.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer went on. “I know she was your friend.”
“I told you,” she said, meeting his eyes, tone accusing. “You didn’t believe me.”
“No,” he admitted, “I didn’t. But I do now.”
“You called me a liar, Detective.”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry so doesn’t cover it.”
“I understand. I need your help, anyway.”
“Fine.” She drew her knees tighter to her chest. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything about the Artist.”
“You mean all the stuff I already told you and you didn’t believe?”
“Pretty much.”
She looked frustrated but did as he asked. Everything she told him, he had heard before. It began when she received a love note from someone calling himself the Artist. She received four in all, one containing five hundred dollars-the exact amount of money Marcus owed her.
“Tonya delivered the note. She saw the money and I confided what was going on. She recognized Jessica from the picture in the paper and also remembered that some guy had sent similar notes to her.”
Patti stepped in. “Tonya was already missing when I came on board. Judging by what we saw today, she was most probably already dead.”
Yvette brought her hands to her face. He saw that they trembled. “It’s my fault,” she said. “She tried to help me. Now she’s dead.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t kill her.”
“I wish I could believe…if she hadn’t agreed to help me-”
“But she did,” Patti said firmly. “Let’s not let this bastard get away with it.”
“When’s the last time you heard from the Artist?”
“Tuesday the eighth I woke up and found a note he’d left.”
“In your apartment?”
“Yes. And a locket.”
“A locket?” he repeated, frowning.
“Tonya’s. Her picture was in it.”
“Just hers?”
“Yes.”
Spencer and Tony exchanged glances.
“I know that’s weird, but maybe she broke up with some guy, got rid of his picture, but kept the necklace.”
Spencer frowned slightly and looked at Patti. “Tuesday the eighth. Wasn’t that the date you began your leave?”
She said it was, and he turned back to Yvette. “And you haven’t seen or heard from him since?”
Patti answered for her. “No. Not here or through the club. I have the locket and note.”
“I don’t feel so good,” Yvette said, jumping to her feet.
They watched her hurry from the room. Spencer glanced at Patti, saw her concern. “She okay?” he asked.
“She does that a lot. It’s starting to worry me.”
“What about security tapes from the Hustle?” Tony looked from Patti to Spencer. “Could be our guy’s pictured-”
“Already been down that road,” Patti said. “They flip ’em every thirty-six hours. Besides, Tonya was the only one who knew what this guy looked like.”
“And she’s dead.”
“What’s our next move?” Tony asked.
“Twenty-four-hour protection for Yvette,” Patti answered. “We get Captain Cooper’s okay to make Stacy’s living arrangement here official. Get a team to Messinger’s condo. I want it searched, pull out all the bells and whistles. We also need a positive ID on Messinger. See who you can find. Family, boyfriend-”
“Borger.”
“Too involved.”
“She might have a record,” Tony offered. “That’d put her prints on file.”
“Check it out, ASAP. If so, talk to Hollister. See if he can get a couple good prints from her.”
Spencer looked at Tony, who gri
She glowered at them. “What?”
“Kinda bossy for a person on leave-”
“-a person who’s too stressed-”
“-dare we say overwhelmed-”
“-to perform her duties.”
“Can it, clowns. Captain Patti O’Shay is officially back in the saddle.”
54
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
2:00 p.m.
Spencer stood in the doorway to Patti’s office, watching her. With a series of phone calls, she had spoken to the chief and was officially back in charge of ISD, had arranged round-the-clock protection for Yvette, gotten Stacy “officially” installed as Yvette’s roommate and ordered an investigative team, which included Tony, to Messinger’s condo.
She was, quite simply, amazing.
“Glad to be back under your command,” he said. “Even if I’m pissed at you.”
“Sorry, but I had to play it the way I did.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“I’d trust you with my life. But I won’t jeopardize your career.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
She smiled slightly. “And that, Detective, is bullshit. I’m your immediate ranking officer and your aunt. I would never take advantage of my position that way.”
“I’m still pissed.”
“I can live with that.”
His cell phone went off, keeping him from retorting. “Detective Malone.”
“It’s Elizabeth Walker. I’m thirty minutes out.”
“Great, I’ll meet you at the morgue.”
The morgue had not been built with comfort in mind. No warm, fuzzies here. Just stainless-steel tables and work stations, cold tile floors and refrigerated cadaver drawers.
The job brought Spencer here way more than he liked. Frankly, even after all these years on the force, the place still gave him the creeps.
He and Elizabeth arrived at the same time. “Thanks for dropping everything and coming in,” Spencer said, falling into step with her. “We’ve waited a long time for another crack at this guy.”
“Fill me in.”
“Woman. Dead four or five days. Shot. Right hand MIA.”
They entered the building and crossed to the attendant. Though the woman recognized them, she asked for ID.
“Here to examine the Jane Doe brought in today,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Lower Ninth ward.”
She nodded. “Sign in. I’ll tell Chris you’re on your way.”
In his twenties, Chris was tall, thin and pale. His communication skills ranked up there with those of a rock, and Spencer decided he spent way too much time with dead people.
“She’s right here.”
The process was extremely efficient. Chris rolled the examining table into the refrigerated room where the bodies were stored on stainless-steel, racked trays. The trays rested on rollers and the shelving was totally adjustable, which allowed the bodies to be stacked, basically, one on top of another.
As they watched, Chris raised the table until it was the same height as the fourth shelf, then rolled the tray out onto it.
On the tray lay Jane Doe’s remains, zipped nice and neat into a black body bag.
“Where do you want her?”
“Under the lights, please,” Elizabeth answered.
She snapped on gloves, crossed to the table and adjusted the surgical lamp. “Before I left, I took a minute to review my findings on the City Park Jane Doe and the original samples. I brought my notes and photos. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
She unzipped the bag. Her expression didn’t change; her attention went immediately to the amputation site.
He left her to work and wandered over to where Chris sat inputting data in a computer. “Kind of quiet down here.”
“Deadly dull,” he shot back, snickering at his own joke.
Autopsy room humor.
“Detective?” Elizabeth motioned him over. “You’re not going to like me very much. But there’s a good chance this is the work of a different killer.”
He had called her for confirmation, thought they would get it and move forward with the investigation. Instead, he was left feeling as if the rug had been yanked from under his feet-again.