Страница 59 из 73
Patti lifted her gaze to the ceiling, swallowing hard. Spencer had been right about Yvette being alive. Maybe he was right about all of it-Yvette Borger was not only a liar and scam artist, but a murderer as well.
The judge would approve the warrant. They already “unofficially” knew of one suspicious item they’d find: the gallon of antifreeze. A car-rental receipt for the weekend Tonya disappeared would be a home run. A gun. Bloodstained garments.
“Aunt Patti?” She looked up. Spencer had poked his head into the interview room. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He frowned. “It’s been a half an hour.”
“I didn’t know I was on the clock.”
“The request is on the way to Judge Boudreaux.”
“He’s good about acting quickly. Let me know when you have it.”
“You want in?”
“Don’t think so. Spencer?” When he met her eyes, she said, “You were right. About Sammy. I didn’t want to let go. I still don’t.”
He came to her side, laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I know.”
Tears swamped her. Fighting them, she covered his hand with hers. “And Spencer?”
He met her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
60
Thursday, May 17, 2007
1:10 p.m.
Yvette paced her living room, emotions swinging between fury and terror. They were trying to pin Miss Alma’s murder on her. As if she could ever hurt that sweet old lady. And Tonya. The only person willing to help her.
It was bullshit! Absolute bullshit. They were questioning her? Suspecting her? While a maniac roamed free?
They’d found out about Carrie Sue.
She stopped pacing, brought a hand to her throat, feeling like she might throw up. Carrie Sue had been a pathetic victim. The day she walked away from Greenwood, Carrie Sue had died-and Yvette had been born.
The kitchen floor. The pool of blood.
Yvette breathed deeply through her nose, struggling against the nausea. She would not be sick. Her father had deserved what he got. Hell, he’d deserved worse.
But Miss Alma had never hurt anybody.
Outside her door sat a cop. For her own “protection.” Right. More like, to make certain she didn’t bolt for real this time.
Cops were all alike. She’d been stupid to trust Patti O’Shay. Stupid to think the woman would actually follow through on her promises.
Patti had never meant to protect Yvette. That had been a sham. She had used Yvette as bait to catch her husband’s killer. Now they were trying to pin these murders on her. Or at least creating a big umbrella of suspicion over her. But why?
Patti O’Shay had what she needed. And now she wanted out of paying Yvette the money she had promised her.
Was that what this was all about? Money?
She should have run. She could still. Take the ten grand and run like hell. Away from New Orleans. Make a new life somewhere else.
Riley.
She thought of the night before, how magical and perfect it had been. He had taken her to the gallery. To the show they had been unpacking in the back room. Big, bold paintings. Organic and blatantly sexual.
Riley had wanted her to see them because they reminded him of her.
Swept away with emotion, they had made love, surrounded by the exquisite works of art. They had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, only to awake and make love again.
She had finally met a man she could love and one she believed could love her. And now this. It wasn’t fair.
“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it, girl.”
She brought her hands to her ears, trying to shut out her father’s voice. To get him out of her head. To stop his pounding and pounding at her.
“Ms. Borger? Police!”
She dropped her hand and swung toward her door. The cop stationed out front. “Yes?”
“People here to see you.”
Yvette went to the door and opened it. Stacy and a man she didn’t recognize stood there, two uniformed officers behind them.
“Hello, Yvette,” Stacy said.
“My good friend Brandi,” she said sarcastically. “What a surprise.”
“Thanks for making me look like a jerk last night.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mine, too. Now.” Stacy shoved a piece of paper into her hands. “Search warrant.”
Yvette looked at it, stu
“A judge granted us the right to search your apartment.”
“Why? For what?”
“Evidence in the murders of Alma Maytree and Tonya Messinger.”
“That’s crazy!”
“The law requires that you or your legal representative be on the premises for the search.”
“Legal representative?”
“Lawyer.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then you may wait here or follow us. It’s your choice. Either way, we’ll present you with a list of everything we take.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You may have one, of course. Call one. But we have the right to search your property now, lawyer present or not.”
So Yvette trailed them around the apartment, biting back sounds of distress as they went through her things. Touching, examining. Sometimes quietly discussing an item between themselves.
Yvette hugged herself, feeling violated. Sick to her stomach. She wondered if she would ever feel comfortable in her home again.
They had begun with the living room, then went on to the bedrooms and bath. Digging through her vanity drawers, they found her contraceptive jelly and a clutch of condoms. Young Officer Guidry glanced at her from the corners of his eyes; she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.
She could imagine what he thought of her. What he thought she was.
Whore. Hooker.
He could think what he wanted; she knew better.
Stacy and her cop crew saved the kitchen for last. It wasn’t until they entered the room that she remembered her cache of tip money. Heart in her throat, she watched as they began to search the refrigerator, then freezer.
They checked each carton, container and box. What, she wondered, a bubble of hysteria rising up in her, were they looking for? Tonya’s hand?
She held her breath as Stacy removed the Rocky Road carton, opened it and retrieved the plastic bag of cash. Light-headed, Yvette watched Stacy unwrap, then count it.
The police could call it evidence and confiscate it.
Goodbye three thousand bucks.
Stacy glanced at her in question.
“My tip money,” she whispered.
Stacy nodded and folded the aluminum foil around the cash, then tucked it back into the Rocky Road carton. “You might want to rethink the hiding place. It’s not as clever as you imagine.”
Finished with the freezer, they moved on to the sink area. Stacy knelt in front of the cabinet below and began shuffling through the bottles, jugs and cans of cleaning supplies.
Again, it looked as if she was searching for something specific.
Stacy pulled out a gallon jug. Yvette didn’t recognize it and frowned. “What is that?”
“You don’t know? It’s antifreeze.”
“That’s not mine.”
“Then what’s it doing here?”
“I don’t know! I don’t even know what antifreeze is.”
“Then it’s not a problem.”
“But-”
She brought a hand to her head, dizzy.
“Are you all right?” Officer Guidry asked.
“I need to…I’m going to go sit down.”
He followed her into the living room. She sank onto the couch and dropped her head into her hands.
“Can I get you something?” he asked.
She shook her head, thoughts racing. Antifreeze? How had it ended up in her cabinet? And why were the cops interested-
Samson. “The vet said he was poisoned. Antifreeze.”
“We’re done.”
She looked up, vision blurry. Stacy held out a sheet of paper. “That’s a list of everything we took. I need you to check the list, then sign it. I’ll leave you a signed copy, as well, to share with your lawyer.”
Lawyer?