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5
Friday, April 20, 2007
3:00 p.m.
Patti held the badge in her gloved hands. They trembled slightly. Her chest hurt, as if she had been struck. The cool breeze rustled the leaves in the maple tree; one of the crime-scene techs shifted uncomfortably. Otherwise all were silent. Waiting. Giving her time.
She lifted her gaze, moved it around the circle. She saw sympathy. Shock and sadness.
And anger.
A cop had been killed. One of their own.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Patti,” Spencer said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m not,” she said, voice clear and strong. “He’s already gone. This gives me an opportunity to nail the bastard who took him.”
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That this changes everything. That it blows the ‘killed by looters’ theory to hell.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe. Sammy stumbled upon the killer, most likely in the act or its aftermath. It got him killed.”
“That’s one explanation.”
“You have another?”
“She could have killed him.”
“Not likely.”
“But possible.”
She made a sound of frustration. “Anything’s possible.”
“The badge,” Spencer continued, “could have ended up in the grave by-”
“Accident? Comeon, Detective. It was found under her remains, not mixed in the debris around the grave. My guess is, the son of a bitch tossed Sammy’s badge into the hole, then dumped the body on top.”
“It could have gone down that way. No doubt. But I don’t think we should close the door on other options.”
“Other options?” she repeated, suddenly angry. The group went stone silent. “What are they? Right now, I have this. And I mean to pursue it.”
6
Friday, April 20, 2007
7:10 p.m.
Much later, Patti sat at her desk. The department around her was mostly silent. Unless neck-deep in an investigation, NOPD detectives worked eight to five, so most of ISD had left for the day. The detectives all carried cell phones or pagers and understood that they were essentially on call 24/7.
She had no intention of packing up for the night-or the weekend. Finally she had a lead in Sammy’s murder.
The two years that had passed hadn’t dimmed her grief. People kept telling her “It’ll get better” and “You’ll move on.”
But she knew better. Until she got justice for Sammy, she couldn’t begin to let go.
Of her grief. Or her anger.
Her marriage and the NOPD had been her whole life. She felt as if she’d lost both. The department had let her down. Sammy had devoted his life to the NOPD. But when he’d been killed in the line of duty, their attempts at justice had been laughable. Their focus had been on the hurricane and their own future. The case had been closed. They’d moved on.
She hadn’t moved on. And she wouldn’t.
Now she had something.
Though, she had to admit she was having trouble wrapping her head around this. Sammy’s badge found in a shallow grave in City Park, along with the skeletal remains of a young woman?
A young woman whose right hand had been severed.
She’d requested all the Handyman files. They contained damn little, considering this bastard had killed at least six women.
And a cop, she thought. Her husband.
She had promised herself she would bring his killer to justice. Until today, that promise had seemed damn near impossible to keep.
She needed that victim IDed. She needed something, some bit of evidence to link an individual to the case. She wouldn’t rest until she found it.
“Aunt Patti?”
Spencer stood in her office doorway; she motioned him in, forcing a relaxed smile. “Ready for the weekend?” she asked him.
“Always.” He crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite her desk. Although he smiled, she saw his concern. “Big day.”
“Very.”
“You’re okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“Have you eaten?”
She smiled at that. “I will. I promise.”
He frowned and moved his gaze over her desk. “The Handyman files? Until we hear back from the coroner’s offi-”
“I know. But I want to go over it all myself. Make certain nothing is missed.”
“Tony and I are on this. Nothing’s going to be missed.”
“This is about me, not about you. Or my confidence in you.”
He sat silently a moment, then leaned forward. “It’s not going to get solved tonight. Nothing will be served by you staying here all night.”
“It’s what-” She glanced at her wall clock. “Just after seven. Hardly cause for concern.”
“I’m worried about you, that’s all.”
“A waste of energy, I promise. Go home. Take Stacy out for di
That made him smile. He came around the desk, bent and kissed her cheek. “I’ll do that.”
He crossed to the door, stopped and looked back at her. “You’ll be leaving behind me, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Her smiled faded as he walked out the door.
God forgive her. It’d been a small lie. One meant to reassure.
She intended to sit here until she knew everything in these files by heart.
7
Friday, April 20, 2007
7:55 p.m.
Spencer let himself into his Riverbend cottage. He’d bought his Camaro from John Jr.-older brother number one-when John had gotten married, and this house from Quentin-older brother number two-when he’d gotten hitched. Since he was brother number three in the Malone lineup, he supposed it was his turn to “pass along.”
Which was too bad. His brothers had damn good taste-he would miss the largesse.
He’d certainly been glad to have this place. Located at the Uptown bend of the Mississippi River, the Riverbend area had been among the twenty percent of the city left high and dry after Katrina.
He’d been host to a dozen family members after the storm. And to Stacy Killian, his girlfriend and fellow NOPD detective, whose City Park double had taken on four feet of water.
Stacy was the only one still with him.
Spencer stepped inside. “I’m home,” he called.
“Back here.”
He followed the sound of her voice and found her in front of the bathroom mirror, applying makeup. She wore a pair of snug-fitting, low-riding jeans and a small stretchy top that exposed a nearly indecent expanse of her flat belly.
“Looking good, Killian.”
She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled. He saw that she had lined her eyes with a deep smoky color. “Glad you like.”
“Oh, yeah. Not your usual look, but I could grow accustomed.” He crooked his finger. “Come on over here and I’ll show you.”
She sauntered over and slid her arms around him. He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Never mind that I’m not going to let you out of the bedroom in that get-up, but…damn.”
“Sorry, stud.” She rubbed herself against him, teasing. “It’s for my new job.”
He cocked an eyebrow, playing along. “New job? You’ve left DIU? Quit the force to move on?” Not so outrageous, considering when he met her she’d quit the Dallas force and moved to New Orleans to go to graduate school. And study English lit.
That hadn’t lasted a semester.
Truth was, you either were a cop or you weren’t-it wasn’t something you could just give up. Like smoking. Or the bottle. There wasn’t a twelve-step program for reformed cops.
Though most days, he thought there should be.
“Mmm,” she said. “Moving on to the Bourbon Street Hustle.”
The Hustle billed itself as a “gentleman’s club.” Skanky titty bar was a better description, one that catered to tourists, bikers and those who couldn’t afford upscale clubs like Rick’s Cabaret or Temptations.
Just a few years ago, Bourbon Street had been dotted with places like the Hustle, but those had become fewer as the high-end, luxurious clubs had appeared on the New Orleans scene. Folks who wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like the Hustle felt comfortable frequenting this new breed of club.