Last Known Victim

by Erica Spindler

  “He could have, but why would-”

  Stupid. She knew why. A date-rape drug. She was an easy mark. Woman alone. Already tipsy.

  Why had she thought an art opening would be any safer than a bar?

  Riley Benson appeared in the doorway. He looked concerned. “You okay?”

  “Yes, thanks. Sorry for making such a scene.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t your fault.” He shifted his gaze to June. “Nell Nolan from the Times-Picayune is asking for you. Wants a quote.”

  “Nell Nolan? The social-scene writer?”

  “The very one. With a photographer.”

  “Can’t you-”

  “You’re much better at those sound bites than I am.” When she hesitated a moment more, he waved her on. “I’ll stay.”

  She agreed, though she didn’t look thrilled. “I’ll be back. Drink that Coke. The sugar will help.”

  “She’s sweet,” Yvette said.

  “As pie,” he responded, though something in his tone led her to believe he didn’t agree. No doubt Big Sister didn’t hesitate to break Little Brother’s balls whenever she thought he needed it.

  “I should go,” she said. “I feel fine now.”

  “Finish your drink first. Let the crowd thin a bit more.”

  So they didn’t stare at her when she left.

  Tears stung her eyes at his kindness. Silly to be affected that way, she supposed. But the truth was, people usually weren’t all that kind to her.

  “Did you like the show?”

  “What I saw of it, yes.”

  “Shauna’s a friend. I’ve known her since we were kids. She’s really talented.”

  Not knowing how to respond, she sipped her soft drink.

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a dancer.”

  “Cool.” He smiled at her and she decided he had one of the nicest smiles she’d ever seen. Really warm. Cute. He even had a dimple in his right cheek.

  “They say all the creative arts are intertwined. Writing, music, dance, visual arts.”

  “I used to love to draw.”

  “There you go.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him her “creative art” involved taking off her clothes; no sense spoiling his perfectly good theory.

  “It’s gotten quiet,” she murmured.

  “I’ll take a peek.”

  He stood, crossed to the door and looked out. He grinned back at her. “A few stragglers. Nell’s looking the other way.”

  She returned his smile and stood. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “I cabbed.”

  “Then I’ll drive you home.”

  “I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

  “It’s no trouble. After all, you nearly died in my gallery.”

  She laughed at that. “If you insist, but it’s really not-”

  “I do insist.”

  They exited the gallery back room. June stood talking with Shauna and a tall thin man who sported a goatee and a spiral-bound notebook.

  Shauna saw them, excused herself and crossed to them. She smiled at Yvette. “Are you okay?”

  Her face heated. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry for disrupting your show. I don’t know what happened.”

  The artist’s smile looked a little stiff. “It’s not your fault. Really.”

  “I like your work, by the way. It’s great.”

  “Thanks. I’m-”

  “Shauna?” June joined them. “Why don’t you see Robert to the door. He may have another question or two.”

  “Art critic for the T-P,” June said as Shauna walked away. She turned her gaze on Yvette. “You’re feeling better?”

  “She is,” Riley said, answering for her. “She doesn’t have a car, so I’m going to drive her home.”

  The woman frowned slightly. Yvette jumped in. “I don’t want to cause any more troub-”

  “It’s no trouble,” he said. “Trouble would be waiting an hour for a cab. After all, this is post-Katrina New Orleans.”

  June didn’t respond, though Yvette could tell she wasn’t happy about the turn of events. Yvette thanked her again and left with Riley.

  He led her across the street to a small, private parking lot. Using a remote, he opened the electronic gate, then led her to his vehicle, a sleek, black Infiniti sedan.

  He helped her in, then went around to the driver’s side. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Not far. Dauphine and Governor Nicholls. In the French Quarter.”

  He looked disappointed and she drew her eyebrows together. “What?”

  “I was hoping you lived clear across town.”

  Yvette steeled herself against the warmth that stole over her at his flirting and changed the subject. “Your sister didn’t want you to do this. I could tell.”

  “She’s a bit overprotective.”

  “She thinks you need to be protected from me?”

  He laughed. “You’re right. Let me amend that. She’s a bit controlling.”

  “But nice.” She leaned back in her seat. The leather was pure luxury.

  “We’re fifteen years apart. And since both our parents were dead by my sixteenth birthday, she was stuck raising me. I guess she’s earned the right to be controlling.”

  “I guess she has.”

  “You want to get something to eat?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Okay.”

  “Camellia Grill’s open late.”

  She said that sounded great and ten minutes later they were seated across from each other in a booth, hungrily considering menu choices.

  After they’d ordered, she said, “Shauna was angry at me.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “How do you know? She looked-”

  “A little pissed. She was. But not at you. Her boyfriend. The guy you were talking to when you went down.”

  “Rich?”

  “Yeah, Rich.”

  His tone made it clear he didn’t have a high opinion of the other man. They fell silent a moment. Finally Yvette cleared her throat. “He came up to me. I didn’t approach him.”

  “I know. I saw.”

  She gazed into her coffee, wondering if he had seen the way she had looked at Shauna-with yearning to have the things she had. With envy.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

  “I knew he was with her, but I let him bring me a drink and-”

  “He’s a dog, Yvette. Not a nice guy. I’ve told Shauna that. Tonight she saw it for herself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” He frowned. “You say that a lot.”

  “Don’t judge by tonight. I had reason to.”

  “I disagree.”

  She ignored that and reached for her water. “Besides, I’m sorry for her. I’ve been there. It hurts.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  They fell silent. Yvette sipped her water and Riley gazed out the window. “What was all that about? With Spencer and Stacy?”

  “Who?”

  “The detectives. Spencer Malone and Stacy Killian.”

  “You know them?”

  “Sure. They’re old friends. Well, Spencer is. He’s Shauna’s brother.”

  The “M.” Now she got it. Great.

  “How do you know them?” he asked.

  “A guy I knew was murdered. They questioned me.”

  “About the murder?” His eyebrows shot up. “They don’t think you had any-”

  “Anything to do with it?” She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I occasionally showed real estate for him. They wanted names of business partners, stuff like that.”

  “You’re talking about Marcus Gabrielle, aren’t you?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “How did you know?”

  “They questioned June and me. Gabrielle was listing some property for us. We knew him because he was one of our clients.”<
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  “Small town.”

  “And a lot smaller since the storm.”

  The waitress brought their food, big plates of greasy hash browns with onions and peppers, covered in cheese. He had two fried eggs and toast with his.

  As they dug in, he asked, “So what was the deal? At the gallery you said something about seeing the woman who broke into your apartment?”

  Yvette considered telling him she’d been confused, but decided on the truth instead.

  She trusted him, though she didn’t know why. There was just something about him that inspired it.

  She laid down her fork and leaned toward him. “A woman claiming to be my mother tricked my neighbor into giving her a key to my apartment. I caught the woman just as she was leaving, though I didn’t realize it.”

  She quickly filled in the details, then added, “She was at your gallery tonight. She hugged Spencer and Stacy.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Medium height and trim. Short reddish hair. Fiftyish.”

  He took a forkful of the potatoes, expression thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “You’re talking about Aunt Patti. You have to be.”

  “Aunt Patti?” she repeated, feeling as if she had been sucker-punched.

  “She’s not really my aunt. She and June are practically lifelong friends. She’s Spencer’s aunt and also his captain.”

  “She’s a cop?”

  He smiled at her incredulous tone. “A highly respected and, I might add, somewhat feared captain.”

  What the hell was going on? What were they up to?

  “There’s no way she broke into your apartment,” Riley added.

  “It was her, I know it.”

  He shrugged. “The Patti O’Shay I know lives and dies by the book, though I could ask June-”

  “No, don’t.” She shook her head. “In fact, forget I said anything. You’re probably right. I’d had too much wine and wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  He leaned forward. “So how are you going to find the woman who sneaked into your apartment?”

  She already had. Captain Patti O’Shay was in for a very big surprise.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “Maybe I never will and that’s okay.”

  “Be careful, Yvette. There are some crazy, dangerous people out there.”

  And their being cops made them even more dangerous.

  “I will,” she promised. “Believe me, I will.”

  35

  Sunday, May 6, 2007

  9:25 a.m.

  Yvette awakened feeling really good. Refreshed. Happy. She smiled and stretched, thinking of Riley and the weird events of the night before.

  She had invited him up. They had talked until late. Talked-and nothing else.

  He hadn’t expected sex. Hadn’t pushed or pouted when she didn’t initiate.

  Though he had kissed her when they said goodbye. It’d been long and deep-and had totally turned her on.

  She wanted to let herself like him. Wanted to trust all her first impressions of him: that he was genuine and kind, a true gentleman. That he really liked her.

  Don’t be an idiot, Yvette. Too good to be true is just that-too good to be true.

  Yvette climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. That done, she went to the kitchen for a Coke. She popped the can’s top and took a long swallow of the sweet, fizzy drink.

  Breakfast of champions. Her personal power drink.

  She saw that the message light on her cell phone was blinking, snatched up the device and checked the ID. Tonya’s number, she saw. She had called the night before. After 1:00 a.m. Yvette dialed voice mail, then punched in her password.

  “It’s me. He was here tonight. I’ve got a plan. Call me on my cell as soon as you get this. Bye.”

  Yvette deleted the message, then dialed the woman back. The call rolled into voice mail, which didn’t surprise her. Anything before noon was early for someone who worked until 2:00 a.m.

  “Hi, Tonya,” Yvette said. “Got your message. What did you do? How did he react when he learned I wasn’t there? Call me.”

  She pocketed the phone, then shuffled to the living room and plopped onto the couch. She sipped her drink, recalling what Riley had told her: The woman who had broken into her apartment was a cop. A captain.

  Captain Patti O’Shay. Spencer Malone’s aunt.

  What had she been up to? Did it have something to do with Marcus and their investigation into his drug business?

  She tried Tonya once more, unsurprised when voice mail picked up again. “I forgot to mention, I have stuff to tell you, too. I know the identity of the woman who broke into my place. She’s a cop! Call me.”

  She ended the call, thoughts returning to Riley. She really did like him. And for today, if she wanted to delude herself that he felt the same about her, she would. And have a great time doing it, too.

  She leapt to her feet, deciding to start right away.

  Yvette enjoyed her day. She shopped at the French Market, poked in and out of stores on Royal Street, enjoyed beignets and coffee at Café du Monde. All the while, she kept her cell phone close, waiting for Tonya to call and hoping Riley would.

  She was disappointed on both counts.

  She didn’t stress too much about Tonya’s lack of response. She would see her at the Hustle tonight. But she had so badly wanted Riley to call. She had thought after that kiss, he would.

  He had found out what kind of dancer she was.

  It would have been easy. A call to his friends Killian and Malone. She wouldn’t hear from him again, she realized. She might as well move on now.

  Even as she told herself it was no big deal, she acknowledged that it hurt.

  In the hopes of having time to talk to Tonya, Yvette arrived at the Hustle thirty minutes early. “Hi, Dante,” she said, greeting the bleached-blond steroid-bloated bouncer.

  “Hey, Vette.”

  “Tonya here?”

  “Haven’t seen her.”

  “Really?” She glanced at her watch. Tonya was always here by now. “That’s weird.”

  “I might’ve missed her. Check the time clock.”

  She did and discovered the other woman had not clocked in. An uneasy feeling plucked at her. Tonya had left an urgent-sounding message, asking Yvette to call her back ASAP, then disappeared. Why would she do that?

  She wouldn’t.

  Something was wrong.

  Yvette shook the thought off. Marcus’s murder and this whole Artist thing was getting to her. Causing her imagination to run wild.

  Tonya was late. It happened. She’d show. And have a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  Yvette decided she would feel pretty silly, especially if she called and left another message.

  She did, anyway. Then another and another. With each message left-and each hour that crawled past-her panic became more acute.

  At closing, Tonya was still MIA. No notice to the club that she wouldn’t be in. No claim of illness or anything else.

  She just hadn’t come in.

  Something was wrong. Something had happened to her.

  The Artist. He had been in the club the night before. Had Tonya confronted him? Followed him? Asked him about Jessica?

  What did she do now?

  Yvette realized she was trembling and hugged herself. She would wait until morning, she decided. See if Tonya called back. And if she didn’t, she would decide what to do from there.

  36

  Monday, May 7, 2007

  10:00 a.m.

  Yvette waited as long as she could before calling a cab. Tonya owned a condo near City Park on Bayou St. John, with a balcony that overlooked the waterway. Pre-Katrina the property had been way out of her league. Tonya had snapped it up post-Katrina for a fraction of its pre-storm value.

  Yvette knew all this because the woman had bragged about it at the time.

  If Tonya wasn’t there, she hadn’t a clue how she would get in.

 
Luck seemed to be on her side when the driver dropped her off; Tonya’s orange VW Beetle sat in a parking spot directly in front of the building.

  Yvette hurried to the lobby call box. She found Tonya’s name and rang for her. And got a busy signal. Relief washed over her. She had worried over nothing. Tonya would have a good explanation. She was sick, tired or both. She had decided the Hustle sucked and had taken a job elsewhere.

  Yvette was going to kick Tonya’s ass for making her worry like this.

  Yvette rang again. And again got a busy signal. As she hung up, a man and woman, in a heated discussion about someone named Tim, exited. Yvette grabbed the door a moment before it snapped shut.

  She located Tonya’s unit and knocked. When the woman didn’t answer, she knocked again.

  “Tonya, it’s me! Yvette.”

  Still no answer.

  With a glance in either direction, Yvette tried the door. It was locked. She squatted and checked under the welcome mat for a key. When that proved futile, she tried the unit next door.

  A little old man with stoop shoulders and white hair answered. Yvette decided he was ninety if he was a day.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m a friend of Tonya’s. Have you seen her?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t heard her, either. Been quiet as a mouse.” He smiled at her, though his gaze fixed on her chest. “’ Course, when I take my hearing aid out, I couldn’t hear the end of the world.”

  “She didn’t show up for work and I’m pretty worried.”

  “Did you try the door?”

  “It’s locked. But her car’s out front.”

  The wizened neighbor frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that. She could need help.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I could get you a little look-see inside,” he said proudly. “No problem.”

  “You could?” She batted her lashes at him. “That’d be swell.”

  He puffed up. “You just wait there.”

  A moment later, he reappeared with a key. “Tonya gave me a spare. To check on things when she’s gone, take deliveries, stuff like that. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  Yvette was sure, too.

  “I help several of the neighbors this way.” He shuffled across to her door. “You know, dear, this isn’t exactly legal.”