Last Known Victim

by Erica Spindler

  He didn’t respond. She crossed to the doorway, stopped and looked back at him. He sat unmoving, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past her. She wondered if he hurt at all. If he, like she, felt as if someone had reached inside her chest and now held her heart in a vice grip.

  Somehow, she thought not.

  She let out a long breath. “It might take me a couple of weeks to find a place. I’ll start looking right away.”

  30

  Saturday, April 28, 2007

  11:15 a.m.

  Yvette had provided a list of thirty addresses she had “opened” for Gabrielle since the first of the year. Luckily, she’d written down the addresses in her day-runner-a practice Gabrielle surely would not have approved of.

  There had been additional addresses the previous year, but she’d tossed her 2006 planner and without it they all ran together in her mind. Stacy had acquired a full list of all Gabrielle’s listings, but wouldn’t resort to those unless Yvette’s proved a bust.

  Rene Baxter, Stacy’s partner in this investigation, had offered to drive, and she had jumped at the offer. They had warrants for each address and an agent from Gabrielle’s office had agreed to accompany them, serving as the property owners’ representation.

  Rene was following the agent’s chamois-colored Camry. Buster, a seventy-five-pound drug-sniffing yellow Lab and his handler, Bob, were following them in the K-9 cruiser. B & B-as the two were known around the NOPD.

  They had crossed Poydras Street and were heading into what was called the Warehouse District.

  “When I was a kid, this entire area was empty warehouses. Pretty much urban blight. Now look. High-priced condos and trendy clubs.”

  And restaurants, Stacy saw. Art galleries. Very hip.

  “A condo there-” Baxter pointed to a three-story building “-can cost a half a million bucks. How screwed up is that?”

  Stacy didn’t comment and he angled her a glance. “You’re quiet today.”

  Preoccupied with the turn her life had taken this morning. “Just tired,” she fibbed.

  “Hungry?”

  She glanced at him. “Grumpy or Bashful or Doc?”

  He laughed at her reference to the Seven Dwarfs from Snow White. “I’m going to need some lunch pretty soon.”

  “We just started.”

  “Yeah, but we started really close to lunchtime.”

  She smiled. Small and wiry, not an ounce overweight, Rene Baxter was an eating machine. Where he put it, she had no clue. “Let’s do this one and another, then we’ll break.”

  “Agreed. Tacos, chicken or burgers?”

  “I’m sure Buster’d be happy with any of those, but I’m thinking tacos.”

  “Can take the girl out of Texas but can’t take Texas out of the girl.”

  “You know it, partner.”

  The Camry pulled to a stop in front of a three-story brick building. A big For Sale-Gabrielle Realty sign was propped up in the front window. Rene eased into the spot behind it, and they all climbed out.

  Buster strained slightly against his lead, obviously anxious to get started. After all, this was what he had been trained for. For Buster, this was the juice.

  You go, big boy.

  The Realtor unlocked the door and they filed in. Stacy moved her gaze over the space. It appeared to have most recently been a restaurant or club.

  Bob unleashed Buster, who began to do his thing. She watched the dog as he began his search, sniffing, totally focused. When he picked up on a scent, he would “alert.” There were two types of alerts, she had learned. The passive, in which the dog would sit, and the aggressive, where he would scratch.

  “He’s found something,” Bob said. A moment later, the animal began pawing at an air-conditioning vent.

  Obviously, Buster was a scratcher.

  Stacy and Rene hurried over. The vent was located in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The vent cover proved to be loose, and they removed it easily. Stacy eased out the air filter, which was filthy.

  “Flashlight,” Stacy said. Bob handed her one and she directed the beam around the small space. “Empty.”

  “Now,” Bob said. “But I promise you, there were drugs in there at least once.”

  “How’d you do that?” Rene asked. “How’d you know he’d found something before he did?”

  Bob laughed and scratched Buster’s head. “His breathing. It changed.”

  Stacy’s cell phone vibrated; she separated from the group and answered. It was Spencer.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey to you.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Pretty great. Buster just got excited.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Used to be a supper club. On South Peters, in the Warehouse District.”

  He was silent, and she cleared her throat. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t want you to move out.”

  She tightened her grip on the phone. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

  “I know. I just…I wanted you to know that.”

  “Thanks,” she said softly. “We’ll talk later.”

  Stacy ended the call and slipped the device back into its holster. The moment she did, it vibrated. She unclipped it and saw from the caller ID, it was Spencer again.

  “Yo,” she said.

  “What was the name of the club?”

  “Don’t know, signage is gone. Why?”

  “Curious more than anything. Ask Baxter if he knows.”

  She did. Rene looked momentarily perplexed, then grinned. “The Cosmopolitan,” he said. “Was the hot place for about a year. Sported a bar made out of ice.”

  She relayed the information; Spencer whistled. “That place belonged to Aunt Patti’s friend June. And her brother Riley. They shut it down after Katrina. Didn’t know they’d decided to sell.”

  “Bet they didn’t know their listing agent was a drug dealer. I might need to question them. Got a number?”

  He gave it to her and hung up.

  While she had been on the phone, Buster had searched the rest of the space-and come up empty.

  “Next address?” Stacy asked, eager to move on.

  Rene must have been eager as well; he agreed with no mention of tacos at all.

  Three and a half hours later, they had visited fifteen of the thirty addresses-and Buster had alerted at every one of them.

  They had Gabrielle now. He had been using his listings as drop-off and pickup points for his meth business. The storage place had been the same in every one-an air-conditioning vent.

  Rather ingenious, Stacy thought, using vacant commercial properties. A “Realtor” meets “prospective buyers.” No chance of neighbors becoming suspicious at the comings and goings of strangers.

  Just another real estate showing.

  Too bad Gabrielle was dead. She would have loved busting him.

  Too bad for Borger, too. At present she was their only link to Gabrielle’s drug trade.

  As she and Baxter wolfed down Mexican fast food, they decided to split up. He would continue on with Buster and Bob while she would start questioning property owners, mostly as a formality.

  Beginning with Patti’s friends, the Bensons. Curiously, they owned three of the properties on Yvette’s list.

  As a courtesy, she notified Patti.

  “I’ll bet they’re at the gallery,” she said. “Pieces. On Julia Street. If you don’t mind, I’ll meet you there.”

  “No problem at all. I’m leaving now.”

  Patti was waiting in her car when Stacy arrived. Stacy climbed out of her SUV and together they crossed to the gallery’s double glass doors and stepped inside.

  The current exhibition was of large, vigorously executed paintings, their subject matter highly abstracted portraits and landscapes. Like the art galleries she had visited before-and there had been many as her sister, Jane, was an artist-the interior was spare, the walls white, the floors muted. In this case, stained, scored concrete.r />
  Nothing about the interior would distract, clash or interfere with the artwork.

  June stood behind an elegant writing desk located between the two viewing rooms. She was on the phone. When she spotted them, her face lit up. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.”

  “Patti!” she cried, hurrying over. “What a surprise!”

  She hugged Patti, then turned to her with a warm smile. “Stacy, it’s good to see you again.”

  Stacy returned the smile. “Likewise.”

  The woman shifted her gaze back to Patti expectantly. “Please tell me you’ve finally decided to add some color to your walls? Something other than Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras posters?”

  “Like there’s enough for real art in my civil servant’s salary.”

  “I’d make you a deal.”

  “I’m sure you would. One I still couldn’t afford.”

  Stacy stepped in. “Actually, we’re here to question you about a couple pieces of property you and Riley have for sale. Three, to be exact.”

  Riley burst out of the back, cell phone clutched in his hand. “June! I sold that piece to-” He saw them and stopped, a huge smile spreading across his face. “Aunt Patti, what a nice surprise.”

  He kissed her cheek, then turned to Stacy and grinned. “I didn’t know you were an art lover, Stacy.”

  “I’d better be. If I wasn’t, my sister’d be pretty pissed at me.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Jane.”

  He stared at her a moment, looking stunned. “Jane Killian’s your sister?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  His face took on an expression of delight. “My God, I love her work. She’s a genius!”

  Stacy laughed. There was a time that statement would have bothered her. Her and Jane’s relationship had come a long way in the past couple of years.

  All it had taken was a maniac trying to kill Jane-and damn near succeeding.

  “I’ll tell her you said so.”

  “Does she have local representation?”

  He reminded her a bit of Buster, big and enthusiastic, nearly quivering over the possibility of a “find.”

  He caught her hand. “We’re having an opening Saturday night. I’d love it if you came.”

  “Riley!” June admonished him. “Stop flirting with her. She’s spoken for.”

  “No ring,” he teased, smile widening. “I can flirt if I want.”

  It occurred to her that this was the second time in recent days someone had made a similar comment-no ring, no commitment.

  “I apologize for my brother’s exuberance,” June said, scowling at her sibling.

  “Please, don’t apologize. He’s right. I’m not wearing a ring.”

  Patti’s mouth dropped and June looked distraught. Stacy cleared her throat. “That didn’t come out quite the way I planned. I only meant that Riley didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Thank you,” he said with exaggerated solemnity. “So, will you come Saturday?”

  “It’s Shauna’s show, isn’t it? Spencer and I will be here along with the rest of the Malone clan.”

  He sighed dramatically and released her hands. “The Malones get all the best ones. Always have.”

  “Oh, stop it,” June scolded. “Patti and Stacy are here on official business. Let them do their jobs.”

  Instead of being chastened, he looked delighted. “By all means, don’t let me stand in the way of justice.”

  Patti grabbed the opening. “You have three pieces of commercial property for sale, listed with Gabrielle Realty. Is that correct?”

  “It is,” June answered. “After Katrina, we decided to divest of some of our holdings. The businesses were all devastated by the storm. We lost tenants, had to fight with insurance companies, deal with repairs and all that entailed.”

  “We decided it wasn’t worth it,” Riley offered. “Life’s too short.”

  “Why did you choose to list with Marcus Gabrielle?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I read about his murder. It was…horrible. Shot down like that, in his own driveway.”

  She rubbed her arms. “I thought this city was over that. I thought Katrina had taught us all something.”

  Dream on. Unfortunately, the criminal element was never “changed” for long. In fact, murders were significantly up, though mostly turf wars between rival gangs.

  June sighed. “He was a good customer of ours. A true patron of the arts. When we decided to sell the properties, we chose to return the favor.”

  “I liked him,” Riley offered. “He seemed like a good guy.”

  Stacy didn’t disabuse him of the notion, though she found it almost funny. The “good guy” cheated on his wife, physically bullied his girlfriend and manufactured and distributed meth.

  Stacy stepped in. “Did he ever come in with people you’d describe as unsavory? Or whom you were surprised to see him with?”

  “No,” June replied. “He mostly came alone. Or with his wife.”

  “No one else?”

  “And once with that agent of his. What was her name?” She looked at her brother.

  “Trudy,” he answered, “short gray hair.”

  The same agent who had escorted them to the properties today.

  “What’s this all about?” June asked, as if suddenly questioning their visit and interview.

  “Just following every lead,” Stacy said smoothly.

  “Any suspects?” Riley asked.

  “We’re working on it.”

  “I’ve thought of his wife and kids so often in the past few days,” June murmured. “Such a tragedy.”

  The gallery phone jangled; Riley excused himself to answer it.

  “If you think of anything, June, please call.”

  “I will, of course.” She walked them to the gallery entrance. “We’re still on for brunch tomorrow?” she asked Patti when they reached it.

  “Absolutely. You still making eggs Sardou?”

  She said she was. From inside, Riley called for his sister. “See you Saturday,” she said, then ducked back into the gallery.

  As the late afternoon sunshine spilled over them, Patti looked at Stacy. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and Spencer.”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Are you fighting?”

  Stacy shook her head. “With all due respect, Patti, I think that’s a little personal.”

  “Not in this family.”

  She was right. There was no worry of dysfunctional secrets or deeply harbored hurts in the Malone family. They pretty much laid it all out for everyone to see.

  “We’re not fighting,” she said. “But we are talking about me getting my own place.”

  “It finally happened. We all told him it would if he didn’t commit. We warned him he’d lose you.”

  Well, that explained his proposal. Family pressure. Screws applied and turned.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Patti. He asked me to marry him. I said no.”

  The older woman looked confused. “But you and he-”

  “He doesn’t love me,” Stacy said softly. “And I want someone who does. I think I deserve that.”

  Patti’s cell phone buzzed, cutting her off. Sending Stacy an apologetic glance, she answered. “Captain O’Shay.”

  Stacy watched as Patti listened, her expression sharpening. “Thank you for letting me know. I’m coming now.”

  She snapped the phone closed and looked at Stacy. “That was Alison Mackenzie from FACES. The City Park Jane Doe’s facial reconstruction is complete.”

  31

  Saturday, April 28, 2007

  8:45 p.m.

  By the time Yvette clocked in that night, she had worked up a fierce case of righteous indignation. Of course Detectives Malone and Killian hadn’t believed her. If a teacher, nurse or librarian had presented them with the same story, they would have jumped right on it. But a stripper? Oh
no, with her they needed “proof.”

  Typical cops.

  What had she been thinking, turning to them? How could she have hoped they would protect her?

  When had the cops, or anybody else, ever protected her?

  The one calling himself the Artist had killed Marcus. He was obsessed with her, had been in her home several times. He had killed Marcus “for her.”

  If Detectives Malone and Killian wanted proof, she’d get it for them.

  She didn’t know why it was suddenly so important that they believe her, that she prove she was right, but it was.

  Tonya poked her head into Yvette’s dressing area. “Just checking on you. Everything okay?”

  Yvette smiled grimly. “I haven’t heard from him again, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “He hasn’t been in, either, but I’m on the lookout. If he shows tonight, I’ll know it.”

  “If he does, let me know right away.”

  Tonya nodded. “I was thinking, I’ve seen him in here before this. Before the storm.”

  Yvette had landed the job at the Hustle after Katrina. The Hustle was one of the first clubs to reopen-and they had needed girls. Besides, it had been a nice step up for her.

  “He liked another girl,” Tonya said.

  A lump formed in Yvette’s throat. “Who?”

  “Jessica Skye. She was real popular. Blond. Blue-eyed. Great body.”

  Yvette felt cold suddenly. She rubbed her arms. “Where’d she go?”

  “Quit. Evacuated for the storm.”

  “She ever say anything about some guy creeping her out?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Tonya started out the door, then stopped and looked back. “If he comes in tonight, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Get a look at him for sure.”

  “The thing about this guy is, he doesn’t look scary. He’s kind of dumpy. Smallish. Wears thick, clunky glasses. You know, like Clark Kent or pre-spider-bite Peter Parker.”

  Yvette nodded and thanked the woman. Alone again, she turned back to the mirror to finish applying makeup.

  Only two of the girls presently working the Hustle-Autumn and Gia-had been here before the storm.

  Yvette wondered if they would remember Jessica, and if they did, whether she had said anything about an admirer who called himself the Artist.