Last Known Victim

I did it for you.

He had killed Marcus because Marcus had hurt her. The realizations rushed over her in a sickening wave. She had to run. Go, now. Before it was too late.

She scrambled to her feet and immediately sank back to the cot, light-headed. Legs rubbery. She breathed deeply, waiting for the dizziness to pass. She was hungry, she realized. Thirsty. What time was it? How long had she been unconscious?

Not out the entire time. In and out. She remembered voices. Whose? A woman’s? Urging her to run.

He’s going to kill you. Run. Quickly.

Panic rose up in her. She fought it back. She had to keep her wits about her. People would be looking for her. The police. Patti would realize the Artist had nabbed her and would-

But would she?

She disappeared after being questioned by the police. They would see her tip money was gone, see the note she left for her landlord.

Guilty. It all made her look guilty.

Riley would have sounded the alarm. But would it do any good? Would they simply think she had pla

She was in trouble. Deep trouble.

Yvette brought her hands to her head. The woman had urged her to escape.

There must be a way out of this place.

She stood again, this time slowly. Though her legs were still rubbery, she inched cautiously forward, hands out in search of a door or window.

A way out.

She made it to a wall. The surface felt rough, rotten in places, fuzzy in others. She frowned at that. Fuzzy?

She felt her way along it, throat and eyes burning. She came to what she realized was a window. Broken. Boarded over. From the outside.

She felt around it, pressing against the unyielding boards. Her right arm snagged on glass and she jerked back, crying out in pain. She brought a hand to the stinging spot and found it wet and sticky.

Yvette breathed against a wave of dizziness. The blood pounded crazily in her head. She couldn’t stop now.

Yvette moved on, straining to see more than a foot in front of her. She stumbled and righted herself, once, then again, the second time landing on her hands and knees. Into something rank.

Something dead.

She sprang to her feet, stomach rising to her throat. She scrubbed her hands against her capris, the sickening smell filling her head.

Get out. She had to get out.

She heard the faint sound of voices. A car door slamming. The Artist? Or a savior?

She moved blindly forward.

Dear God, help me. Deliver me. I’ll change, I promise.

It was the same prayer she had whispered during Katrina. He had answered it then, but would He now?

Her hand landed on what felt like a paneled door. Quickly, heart racing, she felt her way to where the knob would be. Finding it, she closed her fingers over it and twisted.

The door opened.

Fresh air rushed over her. The soft glow of the moon. Crying out with relief, the sound of voices growing closer, she darted through the door-and stopped, grasping the metal rail that had kept her from falling.

She stood on a fire escape, several stories up. It swayed dangerously with the breeze and her weight.

Where was she?

She looked out over the moonlit landscape. A wasteland. Piles of rubble. An occasional building, boarded over. Broken. Cars discarded, pushed aside with the rest of the trash.

Like a nightmare world. Post-nuclear.

What had happened between being grabbed in the alley and waking up here?

No. There were trees. Overgrown vegetation.

Not a bomb. The storm. She must be in the lower Ninth ward. Or St. Bernard.

Voices. A voice calling softly to her.

Or was that the wind?

Biting back sobs of fear, Yvette eased forward, finding the first step. She grasped the rusty handrails, found the next and the next. With each step, the metal groaned a protest and she felt certain that any moment it would crumble beneath her feet.

But it didn’t. Her feet found solid ground. Heart in her throat, she ran.

69

Saturday, May 19, 2007

7:00 a.m.

Patti stood in the doorway to her office, a cup of coffee in each hand. She gazed at Spencer, sitting at her desk, surrounded by case files. Staring into space. Expression lost.

He was thinking about Stacy, she knew. He loved his sister, but at that moment his heart was aching for Stacy.

“She’s going to be okay.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “She’s a fighter.”

“Yes. A good cop, trained to defend herself.” She entered the office, handed him the coffee. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not sleeping until I have Stacy and my sister back.”

“Let’s get them back then.”

They had pulled every file remotely co

They were several hours into them with nothing but the same old questions.

“The day before Katrina hits,” Patti began, “the Handyman kills Jessica Skye, a dancer at the Hustle. He dumps her body in a shallow grave in City Park.”

Spencer took over. “He also kills Sammy. Shoots him with his own weapon. Tosses his badge in the grave with Skye, then discards his gun in the same general area.”

“Sammy’s body is found uptown. His cruiser located nearby,” Patti continues.

“A present-day dancer from the Hustle claims she’s being stalked by somebody calling himself the Artist. She comes to us for help. Claims the club’s talent manager not only recognized our Jane Doe as Jessica Skye-”

“Which proved true.”

“-but insisted the creepy dude sending her notes used to send notes to Skye as well.”

“At the same time, she tells us the manager is missing. She fears the Artist may have killed her. She has no proof to support the claims.”

“But the manager turns up dead, right hand severed.”

“In addition, the dancer’s elderly neighbor is murdered. The same night another neighbor’s dog is poisoned. Dancer claims the Artist visited her that night.”

“You come on board,” Spencer went on, “and all communication from the Artist stops. Dancer disappears and he reappears.”

“Bent on punishing me.”

“To that end, Shauna and Stacy go missing. And Tonya’s hand is delivered to your front door. So,” he finished, “is it Borger?”

Patti swore softly, frustrated. Stymied. Circumstantial evidence suggested it was. But her gut, the instinct she had built her career on, said Yvette had been telling the truth.

Problem was, she no longer trusted her gut.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You think she may be i

“I don’t know,” she said again.

“We’ve got plenty of circumstantial evidence against her.”

“But no physical.”

He thumbed through the Maytree file, then stopped and looked back up at Patti. “What kind of dog?”

“Pardon?”

“The two strands on the victim’s robe. The lab was supposed to identify the breed.” He flipped through the pages. “I don’t see a report. Looks like they never got back to us.”

Patti got to her feet, looking excited. “What about the dog groomer’s business? Anyone ever run a client list?”

She saw by his expression that he followed her thought-maybe there was a co

“Doesn’t look like it was done.”

“McBreakfast.”

Quentin and John Jr. stood in the doorway, one carrying take-out bags from McDonald’s, the other a beverage tray.

Spencer’s stomach growled loudly. Patti smiled. “Apparently just in time.”

The brothers dropped the bags on the desk and pulled up chairs. They all helped themselves to an Egg McMuffin.