Last Known Victim

“Called it in. Vehicle’s registered to Benson.”

She looked at Spencer. “What’re you thinking?”

“He could be in there.”

And he might not be alone.

She ran the possibilities through her head. They were all horrific. All involved women she loved.

She glanced at the uniformed officer. “Open it up.”

“Captain O’Shay!” The call came from the incident commander. “Fire’s suppressed.”

She nodded, then turned back to the patrolman. “Search it. Keep me posted.”

She and Spencer returned to the now-smoldering gallery. She knew the drill: the fire investigator would look for the source of the fire, follow its trail and determine if it had been accidental or intentional. If the investigator determined a crime had been committed, the PD came on board.

She didn’t have a doubt which one this was.

Patti looked at Spencer. “Maybe you should sit this out?”

“Like hell.”

“We don’t know what we’ll-”

“Find?” he finished for her, voice tight. “You think I don’t know that?”

She hesitated. As his commanding officer she could order him to stay put, but he was just stubborn enough to defy her.

“Let’s do this.”

They do

Patti moved her gaze over the interior. Though the fire hadn’t consumed everything, nothing had been left untouched. Shauna’s beautiful work was ruined. Some totally destroyed, others only partially burned. None salvageable.

Was this meant to be part of her punishment? Seeing her niece’s beautiful artwork reduced to blackened rubble?

It looked as if June had been in the process of installing a new show. A number of paintings were propped against the walls, a number were hanging, and some, judging by blank wall space, appeared to have been removed.

Patti wondered if some buyers had already picked up their purchases. She hoped so.

“Captain O’Shay?” One of the firefighters stood at the burned-out doorway to the gallery’s storage area. He motioned her over. “We have a victim.”

Her chest tightened. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t have to. She could turn and walk away now, leave it for the coroner’s office.

She didn’t know if she could handle what she might find.

She glanced at Spencer. He stood frozen, his agonized gaze fixed on the blackened doorway.

She would have to handle it.

She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. She reached the fireman; he ushered her into the storeroom.

The victim lay just in side the door. Body blackened. Mummified. But still recognizable. Odd how fire could consume a body save for a random area. In this case, that area was part of his face. Riley Benson’s face.

What did this mean?

She looked at the firefighter. “Just the one?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain? You searched the rest of the gallery?”

“Yes. This one’s it.”

Spencer joined her. “Lord, God Almighty.”

She glanced at him; he had tears in his eyes. “I always thought he was a good guy.”

“If Riley was our perp-”

“Where are the women?”

Patti turned to the fire man once again. “Could he have killed himself?”

“Possible, but unlikely. Few people choose fire as a means to kill themselves. More often we see the fire used as a way to cover up a homicide.”

True. Many a criminal didn’t realize that a conventional house fire didn’t burn hot enough to incinerate a body, only about one thousand degrees. In contrast, a body was cremated at seventeen hundred degrees.

At one thousand degrees, clothing, hair and flesh burned. The skin melted, although it wasn’t uncommon for areas of soft tissue to be left intact. Autopsies could still be performed, determination of cause of death pinpointed.

She squatted near the body, examining it as best she could without touching it. “We need to know if he died in the fire or was already dead when he burned.”

The pathologist would make that determination based on whether or not he found smoke and soot in the lungs.

“Coroner’s office has been called,” Spencer said.

She saw by his expression that he was thinking the same thing as she: how Riley died made a big difference in this investigation. If he had been murdered and the fire started in an attempted cover-up, Riley hadn’t been their guy.

Then who was? And where were the women?

Back out on the street, Patti saw she’d had a call. She checked the display and frowned. She knew the number by heart.

It was her home number.

72

Saturday, May 19, 2007

1:20 p.m.

Patti left Spencer to wait at the scene for the coroner’s representative and the arson investigator. She had also left him in the dark about her mysterious call.

The Artist. Another move in his game, another punishment. Or should she say her game?

Riley was dead. That left one obvious suspect.

Yvette.

It felt wrong. Patti wanted her to be i

Patti had grown to understand her and respect her fighting spirit. She had seen through her sarcasm and anger to a young woman who had been hurt. Who needed love, to be cared for. Not in the physical sense, but in an emotional one.

Patti pulled into her driveway. That may all be true, but she had a job to do. She killed the engine, then checked her weapon. A full magazine, bullet chambered. Locked and loaded.

She opened her console, retrieved the set of handcuffs she kept there. She hooked them to her belt, then climbed out and made her way to the front door. Was Yvette watching? Would she be surprised when Patti confronted her? Would she try to play i

Or was this another nasty surprise? Her chest tightened. Another loaded cooler? Worse?

The door was locked. As stealthily as possible, she fitted the key into the lock and turned. The dead-bolt slid back. She unholstered her Glock as she eased the door open.

No nasty surprises. Yet.

Patti stepped inside, weapon out. A rustling noise came from the back of the cottage. Her heart rate increased. She firmed her grip on the Glock and made her way soundlessly forward. She knew the house like the back of her hands and avoided the creaks and groans effortlessly.

She reached the kitchen doorway and stopped, heart sinking. Up until that moment, she had held out hope that she had been wrong. That Yvette was the i

She wasn’t.

She stood at the kitchen counter, her back to the door. She wore a T-shirt and pair of sweats that Patti recognized as her own.

“Hello, Yvette.”

With a cry, the other woman spun around, soft drink slipping from her hand. It hit the floor and the cola spewed out.

“Patti! Thank God, you’re-” Her gaze went to the gun; her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“That’s my question, isn’t it? What are you doing here? In my home?”

“Trying to help. Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“I think you know.”

“No, I don’t! Have you lost your mind?”

She backed against the counter. Patti saw that she had been making a peanut butter sandwich.

“Where are they?” Patti asked.

“Who? Stacy-”

“And Shauna. My friend June.”

“Riley’s sister? How would I…I don’t know!”

“I believe you.”

At the sarcasm, Yvette held a hand out, expression pleading. “I came back to help you. To help find Stacy and Shauna. I could be in Houston by now.”

“A totally selfless act? Sounds like the Yvette Borger I know.”

Her eyes filled with tears; unaffected, Patti smiled grimly. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the Artist got you, but you escaped?”