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Grabbing a tissue, he carefully lifted one of the garments. Capri pants. Ridiculously small. A size 0, or some such number. Aunt Patti was a trim woman, but these were tiny.
Yvette’s clothes.
They stunk. He wrinkled his nose. But of wha-
He realized then. Of mold and mildew. From water damage. The way the entire freaking city had smelled for a year. The way some parts still smel-
The lower Ninth ward. Pockets of St. Bernard. Son of a bitch.
He unholstered his cell and dialed Tony. “I know where they are,” he said when his partner answered. “Lower Ninth. Assemble a search-”
“What about the captain?”
“MIA. Either with Yvette or the Handyman.”
“That makes no damn sense.”
“Live with it. Assemble a team. Lower Ninth.”
“Wait! That’s a big place, Slick. Where do you want this team to start?”
“Where we found Messinger’s body. I’m on my way now.”
74
Saturday, May 19, 2007
2:50 p.m.
Patti pulled onto a long, gravel drive and followed its graceful curve. The setting was beautiful: gently rolling hills, vibrant green pastures, mature oak, maple and dogwood trees, lush, manicured landscaping.
Folsum. Louisiana horse country. Home to celebrity polo, thoroughbred horse farms and country homes for the wealthy.
“This isn’t it,” Yvette burst out. “It’s so not it.”
Patti ignored her, just as she had ignored her the entire hour they had been on the road. Finally the young woman had given up and dozed.
The house came into view then, a sprawling Southern country house, white with black shutters and a front porch that ran the length of the house, lined with white rocking chairs.
Visiting Mimosa, as the Bensons’ country place was named, was like taking a step back in time. To a gentle, uncomplicated era.
Patti had always found this one of the most beautiful places on earth. A place where she came to refresh her soul.
Until today.
“I don’t understand why we’re here.”
Patti wasn’t sure she did, either. What she was thinking defied all logic. Defied all she knew to be true-not just with her head, but her heart as well-about her oldest and dearest friend.
“This is June’s country place,” she said softly, drawing to a stop in front of the house. “I’m checking out a hunch.”
More than a hunch. A horrible, taunting fear.
Yvette held out her arms, rattled the cuffs. “Are you going to take these things off me?”
“Not until I know I can trust you.”
“No! Plea-”
Patti opened her door and slid out. “Wait here.” Before Yvette could respond, she slammed the door and started for the house.
The gravel crunched beneath her feet. Her heart beat heavily against the wall of her chest.
This couldn’t be. June was her best friend.
To even consider this, she must be losing her mind. Sammy’s death and the stress of the storm had finally gotten to her.
Patti removed her Glock from her shoulder holster.
All roads led directly back to June. Riley. The gallery. Max. June was the last woman to disappear.
She let herself in. Moved from the foyer into the large living room. The house was perfect, as always. It smelled of flowers and lemon polish; sunlight dappled the interior in a warm, welcoming light.
June stepped through the patio door and stopped dead. She held a big basket of fresh-cut flowers. Her cheeks were pink from the warm day.
“Patti! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“For me? I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t answer your cell phone.”
“I wanted to get away…I’ve been so stressed. Overwhelmed. Riley’s been driving me absolutely bonkers…” She frowned. “Patti, why do you have your gun?”
“We thought you’d been abducted.” She took several steps toward her.
“Abducted?” June laughed. “That’s just silly.”
“You left Max home alone.”
“Never. Riley’s taking care of him, of course.”
But Riley was dead. Murdered.
June shook her head, closed the patio door and headed into the room. “How about I get us an iced tea? You don’t have to go back to the city right away, do you?”
Could she really not know?
“Patti? You’re acting strangely.”
“I need to search the property, June.”
“Search the…That’s crazy. I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s been an…incident.”
“An incident?” June repeated, looking confused. She gripped the basket’s handle. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Riley’s dead. The gallery’s-”
June shifted her gaze; her eyes widened in surprise. “You!” she cried. “Patti, watch ou-”
Patti swung around. Yvette stood in the doorway, her expression registering surprise, then horror.
Patti realized her mistake, but too late. June charged her, burying her shears in her back. Blinding pain speared through her.
She heard a scream. Yvette, she realized. She fell to her knees, then forward. Her head co
And everything went black.
75
Saturday, May 19, 2007
4:55 p.m.
Spencer fought becoming discouraged. Tony had assembled a large team, many of them off-duty and volunteering their time. They had fa
It was hot, dirty work. The environment inside the buildings was damn near unbearable: stifling hot and airless, putrid. The thought of Stacy or Shauna trapped inside threatened to overwhelm him.
They’d been at it over an hour. Once the sun set they’d be out of luck until morning.
What if his hunch was wrong? Stacy and Shauna could be anywhere: Chalmette or lower Plaquemines. The Gulf Coast. Hell, they could be Uptown, in a high spot that had never seen one drop of flooding. He could have simply been grasping at straws.
The metro area was too big to search, even if the entire force volunteered.
“Detectives! We have something!”
The call came from a team two buildings over. “John Jr.!” Spencer shouted, already ru
Heart thundering, he reached the three-story building. It looked like the ground floor had been a corner grocery, with a couple of apartments above. Once upon a time, the owners had probably lived above the store. A neighborhood kind of place.
The officer who’d made the find motioned him over, pointed to the wall, near the door, to the Orange X.
Spencer went light-headed with fear.
Blood spatter. Definitely caused by a gunshot. He lowered his gaze. A bloody trail to the street. Then it stopped. Made by a victim being dragged to a vehicle.
Spencer was aware of John Jr. coming up behind him, out of breath. Heard his explosive expletive.
A victim. Who?
“Downstairs is clear,” the patrolman said. “There’s no way to the second level.”
Yes, there was. Metal stairs going to the second floor, one on each side of the building.
He darted for the ones on the right, John Jr. the ones on the left.
“Stacy!” he shouted, hitting the stairs. “Shauna!” The metal screamed in protest at his weight but held firm.
He shouted again. He heard his brother doing the same. Their shouts had drawn other teams within earshot.
Spencer reached the door and stopped cold. Padlocked. The lock was shiny, new.
What could be so valuable here, in this post-Katrina hell?
“They’re here!” he yelled, drawing his weapon. “Stacy, Shauna, if you can hear me, get back!”
Below him, John Jr. reached the staircase and started up. Spencer fired three shots, blowing the lock apart. He kicked in the door. Light spilled into the darkness, falling over Stacy and Shauna who were bound and gagged-but alive.
With a sound of relief, he raced into the room, his brother at his heels. He reached Stacy, removed the gag. She gasped for air, then began coughing.