She swung open the door. “I hate this job.”
“I know you do.” He held out the cup. “Nothing a triple mocha with whip won’t cure.”
It hit her then, like a lightning bolt.
She loved him. She was in love with him.
He made her laugh when nothing was funny. Made her smile when smiling was the last thing on her mind. And he made her feel connected. To the job. This city.
To life.
That’s why she had been so hurt by his flippant proposal. She didn’t want “comfortable.” She didn’t want him to just settle for her because they got along well or his family loved her.
She needed him to love her back.
“You okay?” he asked. “You look funny suddenly.”
“I’m fine.” She took the cup. “C’mon in. Keep me from killing myself.”
He made a sympathetic noise. “She pulled the tampon routine on you. I would have reacted the same way.”
“Promise?”
“Are you kidding? Us guys are total wimps about that kind of girlie stuff.” He glanced at her. “Kitchen’s to the right?”
She said it was, then watched, amused, as he wandered that way, then starting nosing around.
She shook her head when he opened the freezer and peered inside. “Hungry, Malone? Or looking for body parts?”
“You never know.” He poked through the scant contents before selecting a carton of ice cream.
Blue Bell. Rocky Road.
“Just so you know, most women, especially right before their period, eat ice cream directly out of the carto-”
Not ice cream, she saw. Money. Lots of it.
Spencer counted it. “There’s three thousand bucks here.”
“She didn’t bolt, then. It would have been too easy to take the cash.”
He nodded, rewrapped the money and replaced it and the carton. He moved on to the cabinets. “There may be a problem with the Handyman angle and Messinger’s death.”
She waited, knowing he didn’t expect a response.
“Elizabeth Walker doesn’t think the same person performed the amputations. In fact-” He reached the sink, peeked into the cabinet below. “In her expert opinion, the Handyman’s right-handed. And Messinger’s killer was left-handed. Yvette have a car?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Antifreeze.” He held up the gallon jug. “Know anything else it’s used for?”
“Poisoning loud dogs?”
“Bingo. And remember, Samson was poisoned the same night Miss Alma was killed and Yvette had her last visit from the Artist.”
“Her supposed visit from the Artist.”
Stacy suddenly remembered her first night staying here with Yvette, pictured her using the chopsticks. “Did you say left-handed?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Yvette’s left-handed.”
“Are you certain?”
“Pretty damn.” She paused. “You know, without a search warrant, anything you find is inadmissible.”
“That’s why I’m not finding anything.” He closed the cabinet door. “Don’t say anything to Patti just yet. I’m going to do a bit of research, see what I come up with.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s about Patti. She promised Yvette fifty thousand dollars if she’d stay and help her catch the guy. Ten grand of it up front.”
A deep, angry flush crept from his neck to his hairline. “Part of Sammy’s life insurance money. A big part. Son of a bitch.”
“I’m really sorry, Spencer.”
He took two steps toward her, caught her by the upper arms and pulled her against him. “You and I,” he said, “have unfinished business. Personal business. Unfortunately it’ll have to wait.”
He kissed her, then released her. A moment later, he was gone. Leaving her with even more to stew about.
57
Thursday, May 17, 2007
1:30 a.m.
Some believed that new life could be found in the waters of baptism. That water cleansed the soul.
But water could also destroy. Overwhelm everything in its path. Leaving behind nothing but stinking, rotting waste.
It could burn. Strip flesh from bones.
Stop punishing yourself! It’s not your fault. It’s hers.
No. Please, no. She’s the one. She has to be. Pure. Sinless. My perfect muse.
Turn off the water. Step out of the shower.
A rush of cool air. Goose bumps. Shudders of relief. And agony.
She is just like the others. A cheap, faithless whore.
A sound resounded off the walls. Of despair. Hollow and hopeless. Cross to the mirror. Wipe away the fog. What do you see?
A distorted image. A stranger. A lost soul.
No! She threw your love and trust back in your face. But unlike the other whores, she had help.
Yes. Yes. Fellow betrayers. Their fault.
Punish her. Punish them. Make them all pay the price for your pain.
58
Thursday, May 17, 2007
8:35 a.m.
Spencer sat at his desk, a cup of cooling coffee in front of him. He’d drunk too many cups already, and a dull headache throbbed at the base of his skull.
He had left Stacy last night and come directly here. He spent the time since tracking down the story of Yvette Borger’s life, then had carefully fitted those pieces with the various parts of this investigative puzzle.
A picture had begun to emerge. One of a troubled young woman with many secrets.
Yvette’s real name was Carrie Sue Borger. She came from Greenwood, Mississippi, a small town in the heart of the Delta. An only child, her mother had died in a fall when Yvette was nine. The girl’s relationship with the Greenwood PD started the next year. She’d been picked up a dozen times between then and her sixteenth birthday.
At sixteen, she’d worked briefly at the local Waffle House, then disappeared, apparently having decided to leave both Greenwood and her dad behind. The really interesting part of the story came here: before she left home, she hit her father in the head with a coffeepot and left him for dead.
But Vic Borger hadn’t died. He’d called the cops on his only child but she had been long gone.
“How long’ve you been here, Slick?”
Spencer lifted his gaze to his partner. “Most of the night.”
“You look it.”
“Thanks.” Spencer cocked an eyebrow. “Three doughnuts, Pasta Man?”
“One’s for you. Heard you’d been burning the midnight oil and thought a little sustenance might be in order.”
Tony handed him a doughnut and napkin, which Spencer accepted. He took a big bite, only realizing then how hungry he was. Too bad he was eating the nutritional equivalent of crap.
Tony settled on the edge of his desk and started in on his pastry. “Heard ’bout last night,” he said, mouth full. “Borger gave Stacy the slip.”
Spencer smiled involuntarily. “Stacy’s really pissed.”
“Borger better watch out. That girl’s got a temper.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I got a positive ID on our Jane Doe.”
“Jessica Skye?”
His friend polished off the first doughnut, started on the second and nodded.
“I’ll be damned. Who from?”
“Her mother. IDed her from the photo of the facial reconstruction. Daphne PD said it seemed legit. Woman broke down sobbing.”
He popped the last bite into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “We’re working on securing dental records now, just to be certain.”
What did that bring to the party? Did it give weight to Yvette’s claims? Or make her look more guilty?
“A couple of the dancers from the Hustle recognized Franklin. He was a regular before the storm. Since Katrina he’s been in a few times.”
Another thing Yvette had lied about. And a solid connection between Franklin and a known Handyman victim.
“Patti know
any of this yet?”
“Just found out myself.” He dusted his fingers on a napkin, then tossed it in the trash. “Got one more thing. One of Messinger’s neighbors saw her drive off with a woman that Sunday. A woman with long, dark hair.”
Spencer saw by Tony’s expression that he was thinking the same thing: Yvette had long, dark hair.
“She’s certain it was that Sunday?”
“Absolutely. She was returning from mass, thought about the fact Messinger never went to church. Said a little prayer for her eternal soul.”
“Thoughtful. What kind of car?”
“Couldn’t recall. A sedan. Nondescript.”
“A dark-haired woman. The witness give you anything more than that?”
“This witness was no spring chicken. Personally, I think we’re lucky she gave us that much. I’m not certain which was worse, her memory or her eyesight. She agreed to come in for a photo lineup. I suggest we see what we get and use her as a last resort or icing on the cake.”
Spencer pushed away from the desk and stood. “It’s meeting time.”
Tony followed him to his feet. “I prefer Miller time.”
“We’re going to need a beer after the captain hears everything I’ve got to say.”
They found Patti in her office, on the phone. She waved them in. “Stay put. If Borger shows, call me and bring her downtown.”
She ended the call and looked at them. “I’ve got a unit outside Yvette’s building. Frankly it doesn’t look good. She’s been gone more than twelve hours. She skipped out on Stacy around 6:00 p.m. and no one’s heard a word from her since. What do you have?”
Tony began. He filled her in on the positive ID and the witness who claimed to have seen Tonya drive off with a dark-haired woman.
“In addition, two of the Hustle’s dancers called Franklin a prestorm regular.”
Spencer took over. “That’s very good news, Captain. A known victim with a substantiated connection to Franklin.”
“Franklin can’t be our man now. While he’s been locked up, the Handyman gave us an eighth victim. Tonya Messinger.”
“Maybe not.” Spencer cleared his throat. “Based on her preliminary comparisons of the original samples to Messinger, Elizabeth Walker believes this latest victim is the work of a different killer.”
Patti folded her hands on the desk in front of her. It was the only outward sign that his words had affected her.
He went on, explaining about the amateurishness of the amputation and finishing with the anthropologist’s opinion that the first killer was right-handed, the second left-handed.
“Why am I just hearing about this?” She moved her gaze between him and Tony.
Spencer spoke up. “I didn’t want to sound the alarm. Once alerted, you would have had to act on the news. Besides, it was Dr. Walker’s preliminary conclusion and isn’t definitive.”
“Exactly, Detective. Anything else you need to tell me?”
He cleared his throat for the second time, a fact that didn’t escape her. “Something’s not right about Yvette Borger’s story. There’re things that just don’t add up for me.”
“This is the same tune you’ve been playing, Detective. If you don’t have anything new-”
“I think I do. Hear me out.”
She sat back. “Go on.”
“The minute you got on board with Yvette, all communication from the Artist stopped. Have you asked yourself why?”
He didn’t expect her to answer and went on. “Because she couldn’t fabricate anymore. With your and Stacy’s 24/7 protection, she was never alone.”
He leaned forward. “She has no real proof of his existence. The person who positively IDed Jessica Skye and could supposedly ID the Artist is dead. The murderer attempted to make it appear like the Handyman had struck again, however our bone expert doubts the authenticity of that.
“I did a little research,” he continued. “Yvette Borger’s real name is Carrie Sue Borger. She’s from Greenwood, Mississippi, dropped out of high school at sixteen after being in and out of trouble for a couple years, then skipped town.
“Not a new story, but hers has a twist. Before she left, she bashed in her old man’s head, then left him for dead. With a coffeepot. In the kitchen.”
“Sounds like a game of Clue,” Tony interjected. “Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the candlestick.”
Spencer sent the other man an impatient glance. “If you remember, Alma Maytree’s killer whacked her in the head with an iron skillet.”
Tony stepped in again. “And as I mentioned earlier, we have a witness who claims that on the last day of her life, Tonya Messinger drove off with a woman with long, dark hair.”
“What exactly are you proposing?” Patti asked, looking directly at Spencer.
“That Ben Franklin is, in fact, the Handyman killer. Sammy caught him in the act, and he shot him dead. And Yvette Borger is a pathological liar and a murderer.”
“And Marcus Gabrielle?”
“Killed because of his drug connections.”
“And her motive for all this?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “For attention. To get away with taking out Tonya. Because she’s crazy.”
“She had opportunity,” Tony added. “She had means.”
“And everything you have is circumstantial or speculative.”
“Not quite all. Antifreeze.”
“Excuse me?”
“Under Yvette’s kitchen sink. The neighbor’s dog-”
“Samson.”
“-was poisoned with antifreeze. Yvette doesn’t own a car and I can’t imagine a reason to have a gallon of it under her sink.”
For several moments, Patti was silent. Spencer sensed her struggle to come to grips with what he was saying. She didn’t want it to be true.
When she finally spoke, her voice betrayed none of that conflict. “Interesting theory, Detective. I have several problems with it. The first, currently Yvette is missing. She could have bolted. Or for all we know, the Handyman has her.”
“She sneaked out to meet a guy.”
“You hope.”
“She didn’t bolt. Not without her $3, 000 cash-stash.”
“First antifreeze, now a stash? Detective, am I to assume you performed an unauthorized search on Ms. Borger’s apartment?”
“Stacy was looking for a snack. Yvette had the cash tucked in an ice cream carton.”
Tony looked at him. “What kind?”
“Rocky Road. Blue Bell.”
He nodded. “Good choice.”
Patti scowled. “Has it occurred to either of you cowboys that the guy she went to meet was her admirer the Artist? Aka, the Handyman?”
“And has it occurred to you, Aunt Patti, that her admirer is a figment of her twisted psyche?”
“Why are you so intent on discounting her?”
“Why are you so intent on not?”
They stared at one another. “Tony,” Patti said after a moment, not breaking eye contact, “would you give us a minute alone?”
“No problem, Captain.” He heaved himself out of the chair and ambled for the door.
When it clicked shut behind his partner, Spencer leaned toward her. “Why can’t you accept that Franklin really may have killed Sammy? Why can’t you just accept it and let go?”
“I just…can’t.”
“You know what I think, Aunt Patti? That if you accept that Franklin killed him, you’ve got to move on. You’ve got to let go of Sammy.”
She looked as if he had stuck a knife in her heart. He went on, anyway. “This whole thing with Yvette was a way of keeping him in your life. At the forefront of your every action. You were even willing to throw away your career and nest egg to do it.”
Her lips trembled. Tears pooled in her eyes but didn’t spill over. It broke his heart. “I loved him, too,” he said softly. “We all did.”
“But he wasn’t your whole life.”
“He wasn’t yours, eithe
r.” At her expression, he said it again. “He wasn’t, Aunt Patti.”
Her desk phone jangled, interrupting the moment. She answered, voice thick. “Captain O’Shay.” She listened a moment, eyebrows furrowing. “When?”
After another moment of silence, she nodded. “Have them set her up in an interview room. I’m on my way there.”
She hung up, looked at him. “You were right. Yvette Borger’s very much alive. She’s been picked up. They’re bringing her in.”
“Request permission to question her.”
“Granted. But I get first crack at her.”
59
Thursday, May 17, 2007
9:50 a.m.
Patti entered the interview room. She had let Yvette wait and worry, using the minutes to compose herself. To prepare her words. School her demeanor.
Now, she realized, she shouldn’t have bothered. She was about to toss her calculated approach right out the window.
“Hello, Yvette.”
The young woman turned to face her. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?” Patti crossed to the table and took the seat directly across from Yvette.
“Sneaking out that way.”
“I worried you were dead. That the Artist had gotten you.”
She shifted slightly in her seat. “He didn’t.”
“Quite obviously.” Patti cocked her head, studying the young woman. “What was so important that you were willing to risk your life for it?”
“I was meeting someone.”
Just as Stacy and Spencer had concluded. “I thought you were a smart girl. I see I was wrong.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Really? There’s a madman after you and you’re sneaking out to meet some guy-”
“Not ‘some’ guy. Someone special.”
“Let me guess,” Patti said. “Riley Benson.”
Her mouth dropped with surprise and Patti smiled, though without pleasure. “That’s who you gave me the slip for last time. June told me.”
Yvette met her gaze, as if in challenge. “Did she tell you she doesn’t think I’m good enough for him? She told me.”
“This isn’t about June. Or Riley. You’re not a teenager. And this isn’t playtime.”
Last Known Victim Page 26