No one had seen anything. No one had noticed anyone who looked like they didn’t belong. Building residents uniformly agreed that people got through the locked gate by piggybacking in with someone else legitimately coming or going.
Before Miss Alma’s murder no one had believed it to be a huge issue; they did now.
But why slip in, bash in an old lady’s head and leave with nothing to show for it?
She’d accessed the woman’s financials: a little pension plan from a lifetime at the American Can Company, social security. But no big life insurance policy for some distant relative to kill for.
And distant relatives were all she had. A great-niece in Chicago. A nephew in Birmingham. His kids.
They’d been horrified to hear of the murder.
Besides questioning Borger, she intended to query anyone she hadn’t spoken to personally.
Stacy crossed to the bed and bent to kiss a still sleeping Spencer goodbye. As she did, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on top of him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice a sleepy drawl.
“To do a little digging into the Maytree murder.”
“Sounds boring. Stay and play with me instead.” He tightened his arms around her. “Pretty please. I’ll make it worth your while.”
She knew he would. He always did. She regretfully wriggled away. “Can’t. Made an appointment with Maytree’s landlord.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “All work and no play, Killian.”
“Tell me about it.” She kissed him again. “Call me later.”
When she reached the door, he called her name, stopping her. She looked back.
“I don’t want you to go.”
Something in his tone and expression told her he wasn’t referring to this morning’s trip.
He was talking about her leaving for good.
“We’ll talk later.”
“You said that a couple weeks ago.”
She had, then avoided the conversation. But so had he. Until now.
“What are you afraid of, Stacy?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Do you want to move out?”
She gazed at him, then shook her head. “No.”
“Then don’t. Stay.”
“Sometimes it’s not about what you want.”
“That must be girl-speak because I don’t get it.”
“Call me later. Okay?”
She ducked out of the bedroom before he could say more. What was she afraid of? she wondered, filling a travel mug with coffee, then heading out to her car. Being hurt? Or was it more complicated than that?
More complicated. A lot more.
Not wanting to pursue that particular train of thought, she climbed into the SUV and started it up. She had arranged to meet the landlord early, so he could let her in. She wouldn’t make any friends by interrupting Monday-morning routines, but that didn’t bother her.
What Patti had said kept plucking at her. That the Artist had visited Yvette the same night Alma Maytree had been murdered and Ray Wilkins and Bob Simmons’s pug had been poisoned.
She had tried to broach the subject with Spencer; he’d refused to discuss it.
She intended to talk to the dog owners first. The assisting officer had interviewed them, but they’d said nothing about their dog having been poisoned. Of course, there could be a number of reasons for that, including the fact the officer hadn’t had a reason to ask.
She had one now.
Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the door to apartment eight. She knocked loudly, hoping to be heard above the continual bark of a very upset dog.
Samson. Obviously recovered.
One of the men answered the door. He was medium height and trim. Dark hair threaded with gray. Dressed and pressed. She placed him somewhere between forty and fifty.
She held up her shield. “Detective Killian. NOPD. I need to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Alma Maytree. And your dog.”
The man looked over his shoulder. “Ray, get out here! Police.”
Another man stumbled out of the kitchen, coffee mug clutched in his hand and hair sticking out in six different directions. He wore rumpled shorts and a faded T-shirt. The contrast between the two was dramatic.
“Ray, this is Detective Killian,” he said. “She’s here about Miss Alma. And Samson.”
“Forgive the way I look, I had a rough night.” Ray waved her inside. “You want coffee?”
“Thanks, no. I power-guzzled a cup on the way here.”
He nodded his understanding and directed them to their charmingly decorated living room. Samson trailed behind, snuffling and snorting.
Stacy sat on the velvet-covered chair; the dog flopped down at her feet.
She motioned to the animal. “He seems to have made a full recovery.”
“You know about his being poisoned?” Ray said.
“Captain O’Shay informed me.”
“Yvette’s friend?” She nodded and he went on. “He’s doing okay, though I wouldn’t say he’s fully recovered. Poor baby.”
At that, the “baby” lifted his head and looked at his master. Ray smiled and clucked at him; the animal stood, trotted over and allowed his master to scoop him up and set him on his lap. With his pushed-in face, she decided, Samson was so ugly he was cute.
“Any idea who did it?” she asked.
They shook their heads in unison. “We didn’t pursue it. He pulled through and after what happened to Miss Alma-”
“We just didn’t.”
“I understand you were out the night it happened.”
Bob nodded, looking miserable. “Overnight trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast casinos. Saw a show, lost a few bucks, drank too much. Typical getaway.”
“What do you do, Bob?”
“Loan officer. Gulf Coast Bank. You know, the bank that makes pigs fly.”
She smiled slightly, thinking of the local bank’s very funny ads featuring pigs flying over the Superdome. She turned to his partner. “How about you, Ray?”
“I have a dog-grooming business. Ray’s Perfect Pups.”
“Here in the Quarter?”
“Yes.”
Bill frowned. “May I ask why that’s important?”
Before she could reply, her cell phone vibrated. She excused herself and answered. “Detective Killian.”
“Hi, Detective. This is Jamie from the lab. Got something interesting for you on the Maytree murder.”
“Shoot.”
“Guess what we found on her robe? Dog fur.”
“Not so blown away. She had a Pomeranian.”
“Goldish-orange fur. Found lots of that. This was definitely canine, but a different breed. And a different color. Black and white.”
“She spent a lot of time in the courtyard with Sissy. No doubt other animals and their owners use that courtyard.”
“The only place we found it was on her robe, in front, lapel area. Only two strands. Killer may have carried it inside with him, transferred it to the victim.”
Stacy narrowed her eyes in thought. Now, that was interesting. “I want to know what breed those strands are from.”
“Under way. It’ll take a little time.”
“Thanks, Jamie. Keep me posted.”
She flipped her phone shut and returned to the couple. “By any chance, did Alma Maytree have a key to your apartment?”
Bob’s face went slack with surprise. “Yes. She helped with Samson sometimes. When we were gone.”
“Like overnight trips to the Gulf Coast?”
“Yes, she…” His words trailed off as he filled in the blanks. She saw the moment it all made sense. “Oh, my God, you don’t think…The person who poisoned Samson-”
Ray jumped in. “Killed Miss Alma?”
Stacy ignored that question, asking another of her own. “Ray, did Miss Alma bring Sissy to you for grooming?”
“She did. I groomed Sissy for free…in exchange for M
iss Alma helping us out with Sam-”
His eyes welled with tears. “She was such a sweetheart, how could anyone…hurt her?”
Stacy stood. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
As soon as Stacy cleared Yvette’s building, she dialed Patti’s cell phone. The woman picked up right away.
“It’s Stacy. Where are you?”
“At the house. What’s up?”
“I have news. Regarding the Maytree murder. Be there in ten.”
Ten became fifteen because of a garbage truck. Patti was waiting at the door when Stacy pulled up. She hurried up the walk to meet her.
Without speaking, they went inside. Stacy followed Patti to the kitchen. There, the woman shoved a mug of coffee into her hands, then poured one for herself.
“Where’s Yvette?”
“Sleeping.”
“You look like you could use some.”
“I haven’t quite grasped the concept of ‘work half the night, sleep till noon.’ What do you have?”
“Heard from the lab this morning. Found plenty of Sissy’s fur on Miss Alma’s robe. Also picked up two strands from another breed.”
“Just two?”
“On her robe. Definitely canine.”
“Killer brought it in, transferred it to the robe.”
“It’s possible.”
“Anyone in the building have a pet that fits that description?”
“Don’t know yet. That’s the first thing I’m going to find out when I leave here. The lab’s working to identify the breed.”
Before Patti could comment, Stacy went on. “Miss Alma had a key to Bob and Ray’s apartment.”
“Samson’s owners.”
“Yes. She helped them out when they were gone. In exchange, Ray groomed Sissy for free.”
Patti sipped her coffee, brow furrowed in thought. “Let’s assume Miss Alma’s murder, Samson’s poisoning and the Artist’s nocturnal visit are all related. Why kill the old lady and poison the dog?”
“Kill the old lady to get the key-”
“To poison the dog-”
“To keep him quiet-”
“So he can make his visit to Yvette without waking the entire apartment complex.”
“Bingo.” Stacy set her coffee cup on the counter. “The killer knew Alma Maytree had a key to that apartment.”
“How?”
“And how did he know he could get to Samson when he did?”
“What’s she doing here?”
Stacy turned to the kitchen doorway. Yvette stood there, looking absolutely wrecked. Stacy smiled. “Hello, Yvette.”
She didn’t return the greeting. “I repeat, what’s she doing here?”
“Helping,” Patti answered. “Be nice.”
Stacy fought back a grin. Patti sounded like a scolding mother.
The young woman glared. “Helping? You thought I was full of shit, remember?”
“Maybe now I think you’re not as full of it as before.”
“Gee, thanks.” She shuffled to the fridge, opened it and retrieved a Coke.
Stacy turned back to Patti. “Any sign of the Artist yet?”
“No. Not since Yvette moved in here. Almost a week.”
“One big thing’s changed,” Stacy said.
Patti nodded. “She’s not in her apartment.”
“Exactly. I’ve got a plan. Yvette moves back into her apartment. With a roommate. A friend she made at the Hustle.”
Yvette popped the can’s top. “I suppose you have someone in mind?”
“A cocktail waitress named Brandi.”
“No way.”
“I don’t really think this is up to you.”
The younger woman jerked her chin up. “That’s where you’re wrong. It is most definitely up to me.”
“As I understand it,” Stacy said softly, “you’re in it for the money. Throwing me into the mix doesn’t change that.”
Her face flooded with angry color. “I can change my mind if I want. And I will.”
Patti stepped between them. “I agree with Yvette. Thanks for the offer, but I’m not going to jeopardize your career.”
“I appreciate your concern, but the department has no say in where I live. Or how I spend my off hours.”
That wasn’t quite true. NOPD officers had a code of conduct to live by, but what she was proposing was neither illegal nor would it dishonor her badge.
“I’ll have a gun,” Stacy continued. “And a badge. He won’t be able to resist paying another midnight visit. When he does, I take him down.”
“Spencer will have my hide,” Patti said.
Yvette’s jaw dropped. “You’re not actually consid-”
Stacy cut her off. “He’ll get over it. What do you think?”
“I’m thinking I’ve got to be crazy, but it just might work.”
50
Monday, May 14, 2007
5:45 p.m.
Stacy packed enough of her things to make her move-in look authentic. Making frequent trips back to the Riverbend house might arouse suspicion. The Artist could be watching Yvette’s building. Hell, he could be one of her neighbors.
She, Patti and Yvette had planned it all out. Brandi would move in tonight. Stacy had instructed Yvette to make a big deal out of it. Tell everyone that she had been staying with a friend because she was so freaked out about what happened to Miss Alma and Samson.
Tell them that’s the reason for a roommate. Introduce Brandi around. Make it look normal.
Yvette hadn’t been happy, but they hadn’t given her an option. This was the new deal. Period.
“Something you want to tell me, Killian?”
Spencer.
She looked over her shoulder at him. Dual-purpose move. This would give them a little time and space. To sort it out. Decide what they wanted.
She forced a carefree smile. “Hi, hon.”
“You never call me that.”
She didn’t. Damn. “I have news.”
His gaze slid to the suitcases. “Apparently.”
“I’ve found a temporary place to live.”
“Good thing I came home when I did.”
“I wasn’t going to leave without telling you.”
“Right.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “That’s the way it looks.”
“It’s work-related. But it’ll give us some breathing room. Test a separation.”
“Test a separation,” he repeated. “I think that’s all bullshit.”
“So we agree to disagree. Lots of couples do.”
“What’s the case?”
She hesitated. “I said work-related. Not necessarily an active case.”
“More bullshit, Stacy. What are you trying to hide?”
Trying not to rub salt in the wound. “I’m not hiding anything. Brandi’s back. She’s moving in with Yvette.”
At his shocked expression, she tipped her hands palms up. “I think there’s something there, Spencer.”
Quickly, before he could argue, she filled him in. She began with the crime lab calling, learning about the key, then how she had connected the dots and gone to Patti with her offer.
“Patti’s tossing away her career and you’re going to help? I can’t believe this.”
“There’s something there,” she said again. “And while I’m there, I can watch Patti’s back.”
“I know what’s there. A liar and a cheat. And a woman whose decisions are being motivated by grief. What’s your excuse?”
“What are you most upset about? The fact I think we need a break? Or that I’m buying into Yvette’s story?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“In your opinion.”
He left the room. She watched him go, then returned to her packing, half expecting to hear the front door slam and the Camaro roar to life.
She didn’t, and let out a shaky breath. Well, that had gone well.
Not.
She wanted to stay with him. But she wanted him to ne
ed her to stay. If he had made one real plea, shown a hint of real emotion, she would have let him know that.
But he hadn’t.
Which was symptomatic of their relationship.
She finished packing, then headed to the bathroom for her transformation. Fifteen minutes later, she went in search of Spencer. He sat on the front porch, drinking a beer.
She stepped outside. “Will you help me get my bags into the car?”
He laughed, the sound short and brutal. “Sure.”
He brought the suitcases out, loaded them into her Explorer, then shut the hatch.
“See you around, Killian.”
“Spencer, I-” She touched his arm. “I handled this badly. I’m sorry, I-”
He shook off her hand. “I have an answer to that question you asked me earlier. Truth is, I’m more upset about you helping Patti than you moving out.”
She took an involuntary step back, hurt to her core. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked quickly against them. She would not allow him to see how deeply he had cut her.
“Right. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” She went around to the driver’s side and opened the door. “I’ll make arrangements for the rest of my stuff.”
“No hurry. Whenever.”
“Great.” She climbed into the vehicle. “See you around.”
“Absolutely.”
She started the Explorer and drove off. When she reached the end of the block, she glanced in the rearview mirror. He stood in the street, watching her go, expression set. Feeling as if she had a thousand-pound weight sitting on her chest, she drove on.
Stacy made it to Patti’s without incident, her cell phone tellingly silent. She had hoped he would think about what he had said, realize he hadn’t meant it and call her back.
As it stood now, they were through.
She pulled into the drive and climbed out. Patti was waiting. She looked anxious.
“Everything all right?” Patti asked.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
The woman arched her eyebrows. “Name starts with an S-for stubborn.”
“It’s over.” She held up a hand to ward off any argument from the other woman. “He was more upset about my involvement in this than with my leaving.”
“That sounds like wounded male pride to me. I’m sure he’ll-”
Stacy cut her off. “It’s time for us to move on. And it’s been coming for a while.” She shifted the conversation to Yvette. “Is she ready?”
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