Last Known Victim

by Erica Spindler

“I’m visiting Yvette,” she said. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “It’s that stupid Samson. He barks at everything.” She paused, frowning. “You’re a friend of Yvette’s?”

  By her expression Patti could tell the woman didn’t think she looked like a friend of Yvette’s.

  “I like to think of myself as her friend.” Patti smiled. “Actually, I’m her mother. I’m here for the week.”

  She held her breath. Claiming to be such a high-profile relation was risky.

  “Fun,” the neighbor said. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “It was a last-minute decision.”

  “I see the resemblance. I’m Nancy.”

  “Hi, Nancy. I’ll take that as a big compliment. I forgot where she said she hid the key. Do you know?”

  “In the planter. The one with the cherubs.”

  “Thanks!” She headed that way and looked back. Nancy still stood at her door, watching her. Patti found the key, waved goodbye and let herself into the apartment.

  Inside, she paused to let out a pent-up breath. Too close for comfort. Way too close.

  She flipped on the light-just in case the neighbor was still watching-then went in search of the boxes of Kitten Sweet’s things.

  Patti found them easily, just where Stacy said they would be, packed and stacked in the back bedroom. She began with the top box, methodically and carefully picking through it, then moved on to the second. The first two boxes held nothing but clothes and shoes. Patti had never seen so many halter tops and miniskirts in one place.

  The third storage box contained letters, paperwork and photographs. Patti flipped through the photos. She recognized Sweet from her mug shot. Ditto for Borger. No one else jumped out.

  She moved on to the paperwork. Letters from her family. Bills. Credit offers. Nothing that fit Stacy’s description of the notes from the Artist.

  Then she hit pay dirt. A manila envelope filled with Sweet’s medical information, going back several years. Patti sifted through. Results of a pap smear from the woman’s gynecologist. A local guy. A plastic surgeon’s “paid-in-full” receipt for breast augmentation. A bill from a local dentist.

  Bingo. If he had X-rays of Sweet’s teeth, they could compare them to Jane Doe’s.

  She slipped the bill into her pocket, resealed the box and stood. She made certain the boxes looked just as she had found them, then turned off the lights and hurried out the front door.

  As she turned to relock, Samson began barking. But not at her, she saw as she glanced that way.

  Borger. Damn.

  The woman saw her. “Hi,” Patti called, waving.

  She turned her attention to the door, pretending to be struggling with the lock, but actually relocking it.

  “Can I help you?” Yvette asked. The young woman looked ill. Since she hadn’t been due home for a couple of hours, Patti figured she had clocked out sick.

  “I’m Nancy’s mom,” she said, praying Nancy didn’t hear the commotion and take a peak out her door. “I’m here for the week. The key she gave me isn’t working.”

  “I’m Yvette. That’s my apartment. Nancy lives next door.”

  Patti pretended to be horrified. “Oh, my God…I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “No problem. If you don’t mind…I’m not feeling so well.”

  “Sure.” She backed away from the door. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Yvette unlocked her door. “Really, I…excuse me.”

  She ducked inside. Patti waited a moment, then turned and headed for the stairs. This time as she passed number eight, the dog didn’t bark, a fact she gave thanks for. Maybe the beast could tell the difference between “coming” and “going.”

  She reached the stairs and descended, thoughts turning to what she had done. What she had taken wasn’t evidence. Yvette Borger wasn’t a suspect in the investigation. The only thing she had jeopardized was her job.

  She would deal with PID and the chief if Kitten Sweet IDed as their Jane Doe.

  Truth was, her job didn’t mean that much to her. Not anymore.

  She cleared the courtyard and exited the building. There she stopped dead.

  Spencer stood beside his Camaro, parked at the curb, leaning against the passenger side door. He grinned at her. “You’re getting predictable, Patti O’Shay.”

  She couldn’t help herself and smiled. “What tipped you?”

  “Your ‘We’ll go from there.’ Captain Patti O’Shay always knows how she wants to proceed. She always has a plan.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Does Stacy know?”

  “Not unless she guessed. I suggest we keep it that way. How’d it go?”

  “Except for a close call with Borger, great.”

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  “Up the block. In a tow zone.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  She agreed and they climbed in. He had pulled away from the curb before she glanced his way. “Hit the mother lode. Got the name and number of Sweet’s dentist.”

  “Praying for X-rays?”

  “And that his office was on high ground and the records survived the hurricane.”

  He pulled up alongside her vehicle. “Who’s the coroner’s forensic odontologist? Baker?”

  “Last I checked.” She opened the car door, stepped out and glanced back. “I want you out of this. I’ll take it from here.” He opened his mouth as if to argue; she held up a hand, cutting him off. “If anyone’s getting burned, it’s me.”

  He gazed at her a long moment, then nodded. “By the way, I have orders to make certain you’re at Shannon’s Tavern tomorrow night at seven. Sharp.”

  “John Jr.?”

  “Who else? Planning a family thing for the opening of Shauna’s one-person exhibit.”

  She nodded, but he stopped her before she could close the door. “Yo, Aunt Patti? Should I be worried about you?”

  “In what way?”

  “You’re acting out of character. Scary out of character.”

  “If you’re asking if I’m cracking up, I’m not. My priorities have changed, Spencer. They’ve changed big-time.”

  21

  Tuesday, April 24, 2007

  6:50 p.m.

  Patti reached Shannon’s just before seven. It’d been a good day. She had contacted Kitten Sweet’s dentist; Dr. Thomas Mancuso did, indeed, have her dental X-rays. Within an hour of contacting him, she had a subpoena duces tecum, since privacy laws prevented him from just handing them over. By mid-afternoon, he had personally delivered them to her; she, in turn, had handed them to the coroner.

  Word that a suspect in Sammy’s murder had been apprehended had jackrabbited through the department. The stream of well-wishers had been almost constant and there had been a celebratory air to the day.

  The toll of Katrina on the NOPD had been huge. The men and women of the force clearly considered the apprehension of Sammy’s killer a personal victory. A step forward toward the future and away from the devastation wrought by the storm.

  Patti parked her Camry and climbed out. Judging by the number of vehicles in the lot, the popular tavern looked particularly busy for a Tuesday night. She saw Spencer’s Camaro and Quentin and Anna’s minivan.

  She wasn’t the first to arrive.

  Patti crossed to the tavern’s front entrance and stepped inside. A round of applause stopped her in her tracks. She stood in the doorway, caught totally by surprise. A moment later, she was surrounded by well-wishers.

  “Congratulations!”

  “Way to go, Captain!”

  “We got him, Patti. Justice served!”

  A beer was shoved into her hand, the first of many. June and Riley Benson were there. June hugged her, tears in her eyes. Riley kissed her cheek and congratulated her. Spencer strolled over, a shit-eating grin spread across his face. Stacy was with him, John Jr. and Quentin trailing behind.

  Spencer laughed. “Gotcha, Aunt Patti.”

 
; “I ought to decommission you.”

  “The chief’s here, take it up with him.”

  As the time passed, the celebration grew louder. The entire Malone clan had turned out, all with their various mates. Patti finally had the occasion to meet Shauna’s boyfriend, whom the family had described as tall, dark and sullen.

  An apt description, Patti decided. He’d obviously bought into the whole “tortured artist” thing. But she could see why Shauna was attracted to him-he was incredibly handsome.

  It was nearly eight o’clock before she finally had a chance to corner Spencer alone. She filled him in on the events of the day. “I think we have him,” she said. “I had my doubts, you know that, but it’s starting to feel right.”

  He hugged her. “You bet your ass it feels right. This SOB is going down. With everything we’ve got, linking him to the victim will be icing on the cake.”

  The crowd, most of whom were now two and a half sheets to the wind, began chanting “Song, song!” urging Riley to sing.

  In his younger days, Riley had kept them all entertained by writing and singing silly songs about their lives that were a cross between satire, poetry and stand-up comedy.

  He strummed his guitar.

  “Bad guys beware, Patti O’Shay is there.

  She won’t sleep, she won’t rest,

  She’ll arrest your butt when you least expect.”

  The crowd began to howl and he segued into a rendition of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  That song led to several more. Patti made her way to the bar-this time for a cup of Shannon’s strong coffee-aware of the assembled revelers’ reaction to Riley. Tall, with a mop of curly hair and a boyish smile, Riley had charisma. Women flocked to him. Yet, he wasn’t so good-looking that guys resented him. Patti continued to be surprised he was unattached.

  Shauna joined her as Riley exited the small stage. Her niece had inherited the Malone family’s dark hair and light eyes, though, like her mother, she was petite.

  “What a waste of talent,” Shauna said. “He could have been big.”

  Patti smiled at her niece. “Said he didn’t have the drive.”

  “That makes sense. I mean, why should he?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugged. “What does he need drive for? He’s got the big-time silver spoon, instead.”

  “Do I hear a trace of bitterness?”

  “Not at all. ‘No drive’ is just a nice way of saying he’s too lazy, or too spoiled, to go for it.”

  Her words surprised Patti. Shauna and Riley had been really good friends.

  “I still adore him,” Shauna went on, as if reading her mind. “I’m thrilled to have signed with him. It’s just…The waste of talent breaks my heart. And it’s partly June’s fault.”

  “June’s fault? Riley is the one who refuses to grow up. She’d love for him to start standing on his own two-”

  “Feet? Get real, Aunt Patti. She can’t bear the thought of letting him go. Every time he’s taken a real step toward making it on his own, she reels him back in. Her latest was buying the gallery.”

  “Obviously you’ve only heard his side of the story,” Patti said, defending her friend. “I’ve been listening to June’s side since their parents died eleven years ago. If he’s spoiled, it’s his parents who did it.”

  Shauna’s boyfriend interrupted them. He looped an arm around her shoulders. “Ready to go, babe?”

  “Rich, have you met my aunt?”

  His gaze slid to her along with an easy smile that didn’t feel quite genuine. “Yeah, earlier. Congrats again.”

  “Thank you.”

  He returned his attention to Shauna. “What do you say? Ready?”

  “Not quite.”

  “That’s cool. Do you mind catching a ride? I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

  Shauna flushed, though with embarrassment or anger, Patti wasn’t certain. “No problem, you go.”

  They watched him walk away, then Shauna turned to her. “Don’t start. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Maybe you should pay attention?”

  “With all due respect, I’ll tell you what I’ve told the rest of the family. Butt out.”

  Spencer and Quentin angled in. “Better than eat shit and die,” Spencer said. “Though, man, is that guy a jerk.”

  Before the youngest Malone could respond, Shannon called, “Patti, my darlin’, telephone!”

  She made her way around the bar and took the receiver. “Patti O’Shay.”

  “Captain Patti O’Shay?”

  She frowned. “Yes.”

  “Sammy O’Shay’s widow?”

  “Yes,” she said, a prickly sensation at the back of her neck.

  “FYI, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Franklin. He’s not your guy.”

  The line went dead. She stood, holding the receiver to her ear, heart thundering, feeling as if a glass of cold water had just been tossed in her face.

  She must have looked it, too, because Spencer and Quentin had come around the bar. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked.

  She quickly told them, then turned back to Shannon. “Do you have Caller ID?” When he said he didn’t, she tried another avenue. “Dial star 69.”

  He did, and she motioned to Spencer. “Run a check on this number-504-555- 0314.”

  “Calling it in,” he said, and crossed to the entryway for quiet. Several moments later, he returned. “Pay phone. Canal Street, downtown.”

  “Send a cruiser.”

  “Already done.”

  “It could have been anybody,” Quentin said. “Someone with an ax to grind against you.”

  “Or a crank,” Spencer offered. “That we’ve arrested someone has been all over the news. This is somebody’s idea of a sick joke.”

  “Not just anybody,” she said. “Yes, the arrest was in the news. But the suspect’s name wasn’t mentioned.”

  “It was a friend of Franklin’s. Trying to plant the seed of doubt.”

  “How did he know where to find me tonight?”

  They fell silent at that, and she moved her gaze between them. She saw the moment their only remaining option became clear to them.

  “Another cop,” Quentin said. “It’s got to be. Who’ve you pissed off, Aunt Patti?”

  22

  Wednesday, April 25, 2007

  1:30 a.m.

  Spencer eased to a stop in front of the Garden District mansion. Tony had already arrived, as had the coroner’s representative. The first officers had cordoned off the scene.

  A smattering of residents stood on their porches gawking, probably shaking in their Cole Haans and Manolo Blahniks, Spencer thought, as they acknowledged the horrible truth: money might be able to buy you a flood-free home in a ritzy neighborhood, but longevity was another story. When fate called, there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

  Tonight that call had come in the form of a bullet.

  Spencer signed in, then ducked under the police line. Tony caught sight of him and ambled over. “Took you long enough, Slick.”

  “Kiss mine, Pasta Man.” He motioned toward the victim. “What’s his story?”

  “One bullet to the back of his head as he was climbing out of his car.”

  “Poor bastard.”

  “Not any poor bastard,” Tony said. “Marcus Gabrielle.”

  It took a moment for the name to register. When it did Spencer whistled. “Stacy’s undercover suspect. She’s going to be really pissed.”

  “So’s her boss. Goodbye investigation.”

  “Think it’s related to his extracurricular activities? Maybe somebody in his chain got wind of the investigation.”

  “It’d be my guess. Getting whacked is a consequence of being a bad boy.”

  Spencer moved his gaze slowly over the area, then crossed to Gabrielle. Other than the victim sprawled in a bloody mess on the driveway, nothing looked out of order.<
br />
  He squatted beside the man, who lay on his back beside his vehicle, the center of his face blown away. The driver’s-side door stood open; his car keys were still clenched in his right hand.

  “Wallet missing?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  Spencer saw the gleam of gold at his wrist. After fitting on gloves, he eased aside the victim’s bloodstained shirt cuff to get a look at it. A Rolex. With diamonds.

  “A kick-ass piece of bling.”

  Tony indicated his left hand. “Check out the ring. This was no robbery.”

  What it looked like was an execution.

  “Wife saw him last. Around 9:45.” Tony scratched his head. “She could be the shooter, though she was pretty hysterical. Seemed legit.”

  “Somebody’s with her now?”

  “A neighbor and a uniform.”

  Spencer nodded. “You’re sure he was getting out of the car? Look at the way his body landed. His left hand was on the handle, keys in his right. He opens the door, somebody from the street comes up to him, nails him from behind.”

  Tony nodded. “If he’d been climbing out of the car, he would have twisted the other way, fallen on his face.”

  Spencer stood, stepped around the body to inspect the inside of the vehicle. “If the wife had been welcoming him home with a bullet, seems she’d have gotten him front on. Brains would be splattered behind him, not in front.”

  “Brains have a way of doing that.”

  “You know it, Pasta Man.”

  “Rules out the wife being the shooter. Unless she was hiding in the bushes waiting for him, which would mean leaving the kids alone inside.”

  Spencer pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. “Shall we question the grieving widow?”

  “We shall,” Tony intoned. “After you, Slick.”

  They found the woman in the front parlor; she was a trim blond sporting a huge diamond. Spencer placed her age somewhere between late twenties and early thirties.

  “Mrs. Gabrielle,” he said gently. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  She nodded, looking a hairbreadth from falling apart. “This is our neighbor, Joe Williams.”

  The man stood and shook both their hands. Spencer always found it interesting the way people fell back on social niceties, even at a time like this.