Flatly illegal was more like it.
“But since you’re so worried about her-”
She leaned toward him to offer him a better view of her cleavage. “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
Within moments he had the door open. “I’ll wait right here,” he offered. “Keep an eye out.”
She thanked him and peaked inside the condo. “Tonya,” she called. “It’s Yvette.”
She stepped inside. At first glance, nothing appeared out of place. Just the normal clutter of living. Tonya was neither a neat freak nor a slob.
Yvette called out again, cautiously making her way into the condo. She moved from living room to kitchen, from kitchen to first bedroom. Obviously a guest room. Pin-neat. Empty closet.
She made her way to the second bedroom. This one was noticeably larger than the other-and obviously occupied. Bed was unmade. Silky pajamas in a vivid coral color lay in a heap on the floor. Closet stuffed with clothes.
No blood. No body.
Thank God.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and started for the adjoining bath. The last place to search. The door was closed. With each step her heart beat faster, harder. She reached the door, grabbed the knob and twisted.
It eased open. She sucked in a sharp breath-for courage-and entered the room.
And found it empty.
Her relief was immediate and tangible, a physical wave that made her knees go weak. She crossed to the commode, lowered the lid and sank onto it, dropping her head into her hands.
Thank God…thank God. She had been certain she would find Tonya dead, in a pool of blood. Or at least signs of a desperate struggle.
Talk about a vivid imagination. The Artist was getting to her, making her jumpy, irrational.
“Everything okay in there?” the neighbor called, sounding anxious.
“Fine,” she called back. “I’m on my way out.”
Yvette got to her feet and headed for the front door, feeling a bit ridiculous. She and Tonya would have a good laugh about this-
She stopped, realization hitting her.
Tonya was still MIA.
So, where was she?
She turned and hurried back to the bathroom. Toothbrush and paste on the counter, cosmetics strewn about. Comb. Brush. Hair-spray. A travel-size jewelry case, open, earrings and bracelets spilling out. Vehicle parked out front.
She could have taken a cab, but to where? Not the airport or train station, for she hadn’t packed stuff for a trip. There was no way she’d have left without makeup and jewelry.
“Miss?” The neighbor stood in the doorway, looking at her strangely. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, voice trembling. “But something is.”
“Can I help?”
Yvette giggled, the sound nervous, high-pitched. She heard how she sounded-at the very least, bubbleheaded, at the worst, unhinged.
“I don’t…” She clasped her hands together and met his concerned gaze. “I don’t know what to do next.”
37
Monday, May 7, 2007
11:25 a.m.
The neighbor-whose name she had learned over coffee was Bill-had helped her calm down and focus. She had briefly explained the situation; he had agreed it was troubling. If she was worried about her friend, she should go to the police. He had been adamant about that. And about the fact that every hour that passed made the possibility of helping Tonya, if she was in danger, more remote.
So here she stood at the information desk at police headquarters, asking for Captain Patti O’Shay.
She had decided to approach the woman for two reasons. First, she had something to hold over the woman’s head, something to compel her to help. Second, she had told Detectives Malone and Killian about the Artist and they hadn’t believed her. She had no confidence Tonya’s disappearance would change that.
It was a bold move, she knew. And stupid, considering that all she really knew about the woman was that she had illegally entered her apartment. Who knew, perhaps she was the Artist? Captain O’Shay would not appreciate being blackmailed into helping her.
This could go badly-very. But she was willing to take the chance.
“I have information about one of her investigations,” she told the desk officer. “The Handyman murders.”
“The detectives on that case-”
“I won’t speak to anyone but her.”
The officer studied her a moment, eyes narrowed. “ID.”
Shit. She should have anticipated this. She had planned to give a false name, afraid the captain would refuse to see her.
She dug her driver’s license out of her wallet and slid it across the counter to him. He studied it a moment, then her. Finally he slid her a clipboard. “Sign in, Ms. Borger. I’ll see if she’s available.”
Fingers crossed, she waited. She fully expected to be turned away or shuffled to another officer, so when, seconds later, he directed her to the elevators, she had to work to hide her surprise.
“Third floor. Captain O’Shay will meet you there.”
Yvette followed his instructions, fighting back the nerves settled in her stomach. She was playing with potential fire here, confronting a police captain. Calling her out.
She didn’t have much choice.
The elevator doors slid open. Captain Patti O’Shay stood waiting for her. “Ms. Borger. This is unexpected.”
Yvette smiled, feigning confidence. “I’m sure it is. We need to talk. Privately.”
The older woman nodded and motioned for Yvette to follow her. They didn’t speak again until they had reached her office and she had shut the door. “Have a seat, Ms. Borger.”
Yvette did, crossing her legs. “Let’s not play around, I know what you did.”
The captain didn’t blink. “Really? And what would that be?”
“You tricked my neighbor into telling you where I keep a spare key to my apartment and you used it. I would call that illegally entering. When I caught you leaving, you used the same story. Unfortunate timing, wasn’t it? For you, anyway.”
“What do you want?”
Clever, moving the conversation forward without admitting to a thing.
“I could make a lot of trouble for you. I saw you. My neighbor Nancy saw you.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “you could. So what do you want?”
“First, I want to know why. Why my apartment? What were you looking for?”
“Information about your former roommate.”
Yvette wasn’t certain what she had expected, but it wasn’t that. “Kitten?”
“Yes. You told Detective Killian you believed she was the City Park Jane Doe. I have a special interest in that case.”
Yvette battled differing emotions-relief, anger, the desire to punish the woman for making her afraid.
“If I’d called you in for questioning-”
“You would’ve blown ‘Brandi’s’ cover.”
She inclined her head slightly “Time was of the essence.”
“Which makes it all right?”
“Hardly. Justifiable, at the time. To me.”
Typical cop. The rights of people like her were completely expendable.
“I could fry you over this. I should.”
“Have a ball.” Patti leaned slightly forward. “What you don’t seem to understand, Ms. Borger, is that I have very little to lose. So little, in fact, I’d chance it again to nail that bastard.”
Welcome to the club. She understood having nothing to lose. She had felt that way her whole life.
“You want something from me,” the woman said.
“Yes. Your help.” Captain O’Shay arched her eyebrows in question; Yvette forged ahead. “My boss from the Hustle is missing. I think she’s in trouble.”
“And you need me to…?”
“Sound the alarm. Find her. Save her.”
“Have you filed a missing-persons report?”
“No! This isn’t-” She changed t
ack. “Did Detective Malone tell you about the Artist?”
“The letter-writing stalker you made up?”
“But I didn’t make him up! He’s been writing me…stalking me. When I told that story about Kitten, he’d sent me a few notes. I just…used him in my story. But now…I’m afraid.” She paused. “I think he killed Marcus.”
“Gabrielle?”
“Yes. For me.” She explained about coming home and finding his note. “It said, ‘I did it for you.’ He didn’t sign it, but I know it was from him.”
The other woman frowned. “And you relayed this to Detectives Malone and Killian?”
“Yes. They didn’t believe me.”
“They thought you were conning them.”
“Why would I? Why create this-” She bit the words back because, of course, she had done exactly that before. To the captain’s credit, she said nothing.
“Now I think he’s killed Tonya. That’s my boss, Tonya Messinger. She was trying to help me.”
Captain O’Shay folded her hands on the desk but said nothing, her gaze fixed intently on Yvette.
“Tonya manages all the girls at the Hustle. The talent and the wait staff.” She clasped her hands together. “Like I said, she was helping me.”
“How so?”
“I told her about the Artist. His notes, how he broke into my apartment. She saw his note, the money-”
The captain cut her off. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Ms. Borger?”
So she did, sharing everything up to Tonya’s recognizing Jessica. “She remembered that the guy writing me used to like another girl-” Yvette reached into her purse, retrieved the newspaper image of Jane Doe and laid the clipping on the desk in front of her. “That girl.”
“My God,” Captain O’Shay muttered. “You know who she is?”
“Yes. But first, I want your word you’ll help me.”
“You’ve got it. Name?”
“Jessica Skye. She danced at the Hustle. Disappeared with Katrina.”
“She ever mention this Artist? Weird notes? Anything?”
Yvette shook her head. “She never said anything to Tonya. I asked the two girls who worked with Jessica, but she didn’t say anything to them, either.”
“You didn’t know Jessica?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t dance there before Katrina.”
“So you didn’t recognize her yourself?”
“No. Tonya did.”
“What about the other girls at the Hustle? Did they ID her photo?”
“They weren’t positive. But Tonya was absolutely certain it was her.”
“The same Tonya who’s missing now?”
Yvette stiffened. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not true.”
“What am I thinking, Ms. Borger?”
“That I’m full of shit. That I’m lying.”
“Are you?” she asked calmly.
“No! Tonya was going to nose around. Alert me when the Artist came around.”
“And did he?”
“Yes. The night I was at the Art Walk. She left a message on my cell phone. She wanted me to call her, she had an idea.”
“What was it?”
“Don’t know. I called her back, a bunch of times, but haven’t heard a word since.”
“Do you have the message?”
“I deleted it. I didn’t know I’d need it.” She realized her hands were sweating and rubbed them on her jeans. “She didn’t show up for work Sunday night so this morning I visited her condo.”
“And?”
Yvette swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. “Her car was there. Her stuff. But she…wasn’t.”
Captain O’Shay stood and went to stand at the single small window. She stared out several moments, expression thoughtful.
After what seemed an eternity to Yvette, she turned and faced her once more. “I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Are you scared?” When Yvette gazed blankly at her, she went on. “You come in wanting my help. For your friend. What about you? If what you’re telling me is true, a murderer has become obsessed with you.”
A murderer has become obsessed with you.
Yvette went cold. She realized she had been so consumed with finding Tonya, so worried about her, she hadn’t paused to consider just how much danger she might be in.
She could be next.
The woman was watching her intently, no doubt able to read her thoughts, the resulting fear, in her expression.
“He’s worshipping you from afar. But he’s privy to the intimate details of your life. Where you work and live. Who your friends are. Who your lover was. Probably the route you take home, your entire schedule.”
“Why are you trying to frighten me?” Yvette asked, voice shaking.
“Just spelling it out. Giving you a little wake-up call.”
Yvette stiffened her spine. “Will you help me?”
“Yes, though I need some time to think this through. To make a plan.”
“How long?”
“The end of today.”
“How do I know your plan isn’t to eliminate me as soon as I’m out of here?”
The woman smiled at that. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
“Tell me again why I should?”
“Because you don’t really have a choice, Ms. Borger. You need me.”
38
Monday, May 7, 2007
12:45 p.m.
Patti sat at her desk. What she had said to Yvette Borger had been true-the young woman needed her. But she, ISD captain and career NOPD, needed her just as much. Maybe more.
She wanted the Handyman that badly.
Not the Handyman, per se, but Sammy’s killer. So badly she could taste it.
Borger had given her no proof. Nothing but her word to go on.
She believed her. Ironically. After a lifetime of analytically weighing evidence, objectively assessing witnesses and suspects, she was throwing it all away. Putting her trust in a known liar.
That’s why Spencer hadn’t bought Yvette’s tale-she had fabricated the original story about Kitten. When Marcus Gabrielle had been killed, she had created a fictitious “business partner.” Then she had approached them with the Artist again, without witnesses or proof.
Toss in a record and an admitted dislike for cops, only an idiot would take her at her word.
Captain Patti O’Shay, at your service.
She considered going to the chief, laying it all out for him, asking him to give her a chance. But if he refused, she was screwed.
And he would refuse. Chief Howard liked Franklin. She couldn’t blame him. The guy was an ex-con; he’d been caught with the murder weapon in his possession. Unless she presented him with something really compelling, Chief Howard would not be swayed.
She had to go this one alone. That included leaving Spencer out of it.
Time to put all her ducks in a row.
First, a detective to question the two dancers who had known Jessica Skye. She had called the Hustle and obtained the necessary information from the general manager.
Standing, she crossed to her door and peered out to see who was available. As she did, Tony Sciame ambled across her line of vision, a Taco Bell bag clutched in his left hand.
“Detective Sciame, could I have a minute? Feel free to bring your lunch.”
“Sure, Captain.” He followed her into her office and plopped onto a chair. The smell of spicy meat and grease filled the air. “Mind if I eat?” he asked.
“Please do.”
She watched as he pulled out a soft taco and took a huge bite. Messy things. Beef and sauce oozed out the ends and onto his fingers. He didn’t seem to mind and took another bite, gaze on hers, waiting.
“I want you to question these two women, Gia Stiles and Autumn Wind.”
She slid the women’s data across her desk. “That’s their home information. They’re both dancers at the Hustle.
Apparently they knew a fellow dancer, Jessica Skye. I have reason to believe Ms. Skye is our City Park Jane Doe.”
Tony nodded, crumpled the now-empty taco wrapper, stuffed it into the bag, then helped himself to another.
“That it?” he asked.
“See what else you can dig up on Skye. Previous addresses. Friends. Lovers. Family members.”
He made quick work of the second taco, wiped his fingers on a napkin, then retrieved his spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and plucked a pen from the holder on her desk. He jotted down what she had said so far, then looked back up at her.
“Track down her doctor and dentist. Her dental records would be a home run. Get back to me ASAP.”
“You want me to call Spencer in on this?”
“Not necessary this time, Detective.”
He returned his gaze to hers. He had been a cop long enough to read between the lines and know something was up. And long enough to understand that if she wanted him to know what that was, she would tell him.
He stood. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You do that, Detective. And shut the door behind you, please.”
When he had, she picked up the phone and dialed the number Yvette Borger had left for her.
“Yvette,” she said when the young woman answered. “Captain O’Shay.”
“Yes?”
The word sounded breathless, hopeful.
“I’m going to help you.”
Complete silence followed. Patti frowned. “Ms. Borger? Are you still there?”
“Yes. I…I’m just surprised.”
“Surprised? Even with the threat of exposure you dangled over my head?”
“You’re a cop,” she said simply. “A captain. I figured my threat was pretty lame.”
That said a lot about her opinion of police officers.
None of it good.
“Can you get me into Tonya’s apartment?” she asked.
“I think so. The neighbor has a key. He let me in.”
“Good.” Patti glanced at her watch. “Meet me there at two.”
When Patti arrived, Yvette was waiting for her. The other woman looked nervous.
“Thanks for doing this,” Yvette said.
“I hope it turns out to be mutually beneficial.” They started toward the condo complex’s front entrance. “What can you tell me about this neighbor?”
Last Known Victim Page 17