Last Known Victim

by Erica Spindler

  “Lives in the unit next to Tonya. When she didn’t respond to my knocking, I tried his door.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bill. I don’t know his last name.”

  “Know anything else about him? Could he be involved in her disappearance?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s really old.”

  Patti didn’t have much confidence in Yvette’s assessment. After all, at Yvette’s age, “really old” was a lot younger than at hers.

  “He’s got a thing for boobs,” she went on. “I don’t think he ever took his eyes off mine.”

  Patti nearly choked on a laugh. She had to hand it to the other woman, she didn’t mince words.

  They made their way into the building and to Bill’s condo. He answered their ring and Patti saw right away she hadn’t given Yvette’s observational skills enough credit. The man was ninety if he was a day.

  He smiled at Yvette. “You came back to see me. And brought a friend. How nice.”

  “Captain O’Shay,” Patti said, displaying her shield. “I’m helping Ms. Borger out with her situation.”

  “Bill Young.”

  “Good to meet you, Bill. I understand you let Ms. Borger into her friend’s apartment this morning.”

  “I did. Tonya gave me a spare key for deliveries and such.”

  This definitely fell under the “and such” category.

  “Ms. Borger is concerned about her friend. I thought I’d take a look around.”

  If he found her request unusual, he didn’t show it. “Hold on, I’ll get the key.”

  After he unlocked the condo for them, Patti found the interior to be just as Yvette had described, lived-in but orderly. Nothing jumped out as out of sync.

  Until she reached the kitchen. A pink jeweled heart key ring lay on the counter by the phone. Patti picked it up.

  “Do you recognize this as hers?”

  Yvette frowned. “No. But it could be. She really likes pink.”

  Patti thumbed through the keys. There were six of them. Several looked like run-of-the-mill house keys, and one was a new-fangled key fob, complete with remote lock buttons and a pop-out key.

  Very nifty.

  She looked at Yvette. “What kind of vehicle does your friend drive?”

  “Orange VW Beetle. It’s out front.”

  Patti turned over the fob; the blue-and-white VW logo jumped out at her. She held it up for Yvette to see.

  “Maybe those are her spare keys?” she said, tone hopeful.

  “Maybe. But most people have spare keys, not rings. Also, most cars come with one remote locking device, not two.”

  Patti returned her attention to the surroundings, scanning the countertops, dining table and chairs. She went to the pantry and peeked inside, then pulled out any drawers big enough to hold a woman’s handbag.

  No handbag.

  Interesting. The woman took her purse but left her keys.

  “What are you thinking?” Yvette asked.

  Patti shook her head and crossed to the woman’s message machine. The message light blinked; she hit Play. Yvette’s voice filled the quiet.

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

  The machine beeped; the next message played. Again it was Yvette’s voice she heard. “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.”

  Several more followed and with each Yvette’s voice became noticeably more worried. The last was followed by a half dozen hang-ups, then the machine clicked off.

  Patti looked at Yvette. The younger woman tilted up her chin. “I told you I called her.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Pen in hand, she scrolled through the numbers. All but one were the same. She jotted it down, then motioned to Yvette. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s take a look at her car.”

  They did, though nothing new and amazing jumped out at them. Patti returned the keys, relocked the woman’s door and thanked Bill. He looked disappointed when they refused tea, but still promised to let Yvette know if he saw Tonya-or anybody suspicious hanging around her condo.

  “What next?” Yvette asked when they had exited the building.

  “I’m going to dig a bit. I need you to sit tight.”

  “For how long?”

  “Don’t know,” she replied. “Not long. Where’s your car?”

  She indicated a pink Cadillac, circa 1970s. Patti looked at her, eyebrow cocked. “That’s not a car, it’s a boat. A big, pink boat.”

  Yvette laughed. “I borrowed it from Miss Alma. She lives in my building. She was a Mary Kay cosmetics super sales person or something in 1974. It’s her pride and joy.”

  “And she let you borrow it?”

  “Promised I’d pick up dog biscuits for her Pomeranian, Sissy. Sissy is the one thing she loves more than the car.”

  Patti sort of understood that. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, promise.” She started for her own vehicle, then stopped and looked back. “Don’t hesitate to call, no matter the time of day…or night. And don’t take any chances. If you’re right about this Artist guy, you’re in a very dangerous position.”

  39

  Monday, May 7, 2007

  8:45 p.m.

  Silence. Only the wind snaking through dead branches and the crackle of debris underfoot.

  A wasteland. Of death. And hopelessness.

  All that effort, for what? She’s not worthy.

  No. It’s not true. I believe in her.

  That’s what you said about the last one, remember? Cheap whore. She broke your heart.

  Stop! It was the other one’s fault. Cheap and coarse. Nosing around. Asking questions. Causing her to doubt.

  You’re a fool. A blind fool.

  Only for love. What’s more worthy than that?

  Insure she loves you, then. Give her an incentive.

  An incentive. Of course. That’s what she needs. To remind her what’s important. To whom her heart belongs.

  Then she won’t stray.

  40

  Tuesday, May 8, 2007

  8:40 a.m.

  Tony Sciame tapped on her partially open door. “Captain?”

  She waved him in. “What did you get?”

  He lowered himself into the chair across from her desk. “Spoke with both those dancers from the Hustle. Neither definitively IDed Skye as being our Jane Doe. Said she ‘could’ be. And ‘maybe’ was. But they directed me to where she had lived.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Talked to the landlord. He remembered her well. Tossed all her stuff after the storm, though he was very quick to assure me he did it by the book, waited the mandated forty-five days. Even paid to store it after he re-rented her place.”

  “He ever hear from her?”

  “Never.”

  “He ID her from the photo?”

  “Another ‘not sure.’” Tony cleared his throat. “From what he said, her stuff was pretty crappy. Could be she didn’t bother retrieving any of it, just moved on.”

  “And it could be she’s dead.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Could be.”

  “Any luck tracking down her doctor?”

  “Believe it or not, yes. It was on file at the Hustle. Dr. Nathan Geist. I tried him, left a message with his nurse.”

  “Contact him at home if you have to. Get back to me tonight, even if you can’t reach him.”

  “You got it, Captain.”

  He started back out. She stopped him halfway through the door. “Detective?”

  “Yeah?”

  “For now, I’d like to keep this between just you and me.”

  He cocked an eyebrow in question.

  “In good time,” she said to his silent query. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it just yet.”

  He nodded but didn’t comment. As soon as he was out the door
, she dialed Stacy’s captain at the Sixth. “Captain Cooper,” she said when he answered. “Patti O’Shay.”

  “Captain O’Shay,” he said in his deep, booming voice. “Heard you had some good news recently. Congratulations. Sammy was a hell of a guy.”

  A sudden flood of tears filled her eyes, surprising her. “Yes,” she said, working to speak normally around them, “he was.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We might have a link to the Handyman case. Through the Hustle.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Going to plant one of my team down there.” Unofficially. Her own personal investigator.

  “You want the contact info?”

  “It’d save me time.”

  He rattled off the name of the owner and general manager and their numbers. They chatted a moment more, then said goodbye.

  Five minutes later, she had spoken to the Hustle’s owner. He had been none too pleased to learn his business was once again a target of police attention, but had agreed to allow undercover officers in his establishment. He had passed her to the Hustle’s general manager to work out the details.

  From him, she had learned that Tonya had not yet been replaced. Until that moment, anyway.

  As of that moment, Patti was the Hustle’s new wait staff and talent manager.

  As she ended the call, her cell phone vibrated. “Captain Patti O’Shay.”

  “It’s me. Yvette.”

  She sounded shaky. Patti frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “He was here,” she said. “In my apartment. While I was sleeping!”

  “How do you know he was there?”

  “He left me a note. On my bathroom vanity.”

  “What’d it say? Exactly.”

  Patti heard the crackle of paper. “‘When will you realize you don’t need anyone but me? What will it take to prove my love to you?’”

  “Is that all?” Patti asked quietly.

  “No, he-” Her voice cracked. “A locket. With a photo of Tonya in it.”

  Patti glanced at her watch. “I’ll be right there.”

  41

  Tuesday, May 8, 2007

  10:30 a.m.

  Yvette grabbed her smokes, purse and keys and headed out front to wait for Patti O’Shay. That bastard had been in her home. Somehow he had gotten in. Again.

  She hadn’t heard a thing.

  The courtyard was empty. Even old Miss Alma and her dog, Sissy, were absent. Yvette hurried through and stumbled out into the bright, clear day.

  Thank God…thank God…

  She breathed deeply. It smelled like the Quarter, of fresh-baked goodies, exhaust from the constant stream of vehicles passing her building, and…possibilities.

  She was alive.

  He could have killed her. He had been in her apartment. Perhaps had even stood beside her bed and gazed down at her as she slept.

  When will you realize you don’t need anyone but me?

  Trembling, Yvette fumbled to get a cigarette from her pack, hands shaking so badly she dropped the pack twice. Finally she had one, lit it and inhaled deeply.

  The smoke calmed her somewhat. Tonya was dead. She didn’t have to see a body to know it was true. Somehow he had realized Tonya could ID him-to her or the police-and he’d killed her.

  Tears burned her eyes. She had hardly known the woman. Until a few days ago, she hadn’t even liked her much. But Tonya had put herself out there for her, tried to help.

  She had been killed because of it.

  She drew on the cigarette, her mind racing. What should she do? Stay? Or go?

  Run. As fast as you can. Don’t look back.

  The slam of a car door drew her attention. Patti O’Shay had arrived and was crossing the street, coming toward her.

  “Those things’ll kill you, you know,” she said as she neared, indicating the cigarette.

  Yvette blew out a stream of smoke. “Not if the Artist gets me first.”

  “He won’t,” Patti said simply. “I won’t let him.”

  Yvette wished she could believe her. She wished she had the confidence in Captain O’Shay that she’d had even twenty-four hours ago. She put out the smoke and indicated her apartment building.

  “I didn’t want to be up there alone.”

  “I understand.”

  “Did you bring the note and locket?”

  She nodded and dug them out of her pocket. She held them out. Patti picked up the note first, by the edges, opened it and read. Then she reached for the necklace.

  It did, indeed, hold a picture of the woman. She stared at it, frowning.

  “What?” Yvette asked.

  “You ever see her wear this?”

  She scrunched up her face in thought. “No.”

  “Do you find it at all odd that a woman would wear a locket with her own picture in it?”

  Yvette stared at her, shaken. Confused. “But if he left it, doesn’t that mean it’s hers?”

  “Could be. Don’t you find it strange?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “So if it’s not Tonya’s, whose-”

  “Let’s not speculate on that right now. I need to examine your apartment.”

  They entered the building and made their way to the second floor. As they neared Samson’s apartment, the unit’s door flew open and Ray rushed out, wild-eyed and unkempt looking. From inside came the sound of sobbing.

  “Did you hear anything?” he cried.

  “Ray? What’s wro-”

  “Did you see someone?” He grabbed her arm. “Last night? When you got home from work?”

  His grip on her arm hurt, and Yvette pulled away. “I didn’t work. I turned in early.”

  “Somebody poisoned Samson! They fed him hamburger with antifreeze in it.”

  Yvette went cold. She brought a hand to her mouth. The Artist. Dear God.

  She shook her head in denial. “But how? Samson’s always inside or with you and Bob.”

  “We don’t know.” His voice rose. “We were out overnight. We got home and found hi…It was…horrible.”

  “Are you certain he didn’t just get into-”

  “Antifreeze?” His voice was disbelieving. “The vet confirmed it. We’ve called the police, but so far no one’s come.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Patti said. “Maybe I can help.”

  He looked at her in surprise, as if only just realizing she was standing there.

  “Were your doors and windows locked?” Patti asked.

  “Yes. I mean, I think so.”

  “I could check them, if you’d like?”

  “Thank God!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, calling out to his partner. “Bob, this is a police officer! She’s going to help us!”

  The other man sat slumped on the pretty chaise, his expression the picture of grief. He looked up at Patti. “Who would do such a thing? And why?” He held out a framed photograph of the pug. “Who could harm such a sweet animal?”

  Yvette had always thought Samson pretty much the ugliest dog on earth. But otherwise he’d been sweet-tempered-all bark but no bite. Unlike Miss Alma’s adorable Pom, who pretty much scared the crap out of her.

  She swallowed hard, hurting for them. They adored Samson, treated him like their baby.

  While Ray and Patti checked the windows, she went and sat by Bob, putting her arm around him. “How is he? Is he-”

  “Alive?” he choked out. “Yes. But he’s really sick. Dr. Morgan said it was a good thing we found him when we did-”

  He began to cry again, and Yvette awkwardly patted his back. She wondered what it would be like to love someone-or something-that way. What it would be like to be loved that way.

  Was that the way the Artist loved her?

  A trembling sensation settled in the pit of her gut. For one dizzying moment she imagined succumbing. Allowing herself to be consumed by his terrifying brand of devotion.

  Would she finally know how it felt to be loved?

  Ray a
nd Patti returned. “Windows were locked from the inside,” Patti said. “No signs of forced entry around the door. Are you certain the door was locked?”

  “Yes,” Ray said emphatically.

  Patti looked at the other man. When he didn’t agree, Ray made a sound of disbelief. “Bob, you didn’t…you and I have talked about this before!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He wrung his hands and shifted his gaze to Patti, then Yvette, his expression pleading.

  “I didn’t think locking up was such a big deal. Because of the courtyard door and…and because of Samson. I figured, of all the apartments, why would someone choose to break into ours?”

  “Was anything taken?” Patti asked.

  “Nothing. Everything looked just as we left it except-”

  “Samson,” Ray finished, flushing. “A neighbor did it. Because of the barking. We’d had complaints, but-”

  “Who could be so vile?” Bob asked. “So cruel?”

  The Artist. He did it to quiet Samson. To shut him up. So he could terrorize her without detection.

  Yvette stood, legs rubbery. “I don’t feel so good.”

  She made it to her apartment before she lost it. She threw up, aware of Patti O’Shay hovering in the doorway behind her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked when she had stopped.

  “No.” Yvette stood, crossed to the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Then she looked at Patti. “Hell no.”

  She realized she was shivering and grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door. She slipped into it, then looked at Patti. “The Artist poisoned Samson. To shut him up.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “I couldn’t tell them.”

  “No.”

  “I want to sit down.”

  She headed into the living room and sat on the couch. A moment later, Patti handed her a cold washcloth. “How about something to drink?”

  “Coke. There’s some in the fridge.”

  Several moments later, Patti handed the can to her.

  “You’re being so nice to me,” she said.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She shrugged and sipped the sweet drink. “Why would you be? You don’t know me. I’m nobody to you.”

  Patti frowned at her, as if she had said something puzzling. “You were sick. Of course I helped you.”