“Last night, middle of the night.”
“It’s the first you remember?”
“Not completely. I realized I had been in and out of consciousness. Maybe he was drugging me, I’m not certain.”
She pressed her face against her drawn-up knees, and Patti wondered if she was composing herself-or hiding a smile.
“Someone spoke to me. A woman, I think. Telling me to run. To escape.”
Patti recalled what the psychologist had said. “Children who suffer extreme trauma or abuse sometimes disassociate from their own memories. It’s a kind of breaking free. And it allows them to create another story. Become a part of a fantasy life or relationship.”
“How did you escape?”
“I was in a boarded-up room…it was completely dark. I stumbled, hurt my knee and cut myself on the broken window.”
“The boarded-up broken window?”
Yvette looked stricken. “Yes! Look-”
She peeled back a handmade bandage, revealing a nasty cut. “And here.” She carefully inched up the sweatpants. Sure enough, she had badly scraped her knee. It looked dirty.
“You should clean that,” Patti said. “It’ll get infected.”
Tears filled the young woman’s eyes. Patti’s resolve wavered. She scolded herself for it, even as she crossed to the cabinet where she kept her first aid kit.
Her aim never wavering from Yvette, she retrieved the kit, then handed it to her.
“Everything you need’s in there.”
Yvette nodded and opened the kit. Patti watched as she cleaned the wound.
“So how did you escape?”
“I figured, if the woman urged me to escape, she’d left a way for me to do it.” Yvette slathered the ointment on the cut, then covered it with a big bandage. “The door was open.”
Interesting, Patti thought, that a “woman” told her to escape. Left the door unlocked.
Patti had a pretty good idea who that woman was: Yvette herself.
“If I was guilty, why would I come here? Why would I call you?”
Patti didn’t answer.
“I’ve got my clothes, you’ll see-”
“Show me.” Patti motioned her up, then followed, gun trained on her.
Yvette had, indeed, left her clothes in a small pile on her bedroom floor. She held them up for Patti. They were rumpled and dirty. The knee of the capri pants was torn, bloodstains marred the pink stretchy T-shirt.
“See? I’m telling the truth.” She dropped them. “I can take you there. Stacy may be there. Shauna…I just ran. I was so scared.”
What if she was telling the truth?
Her cell phone vibrated. Instead of answering, she retrieved her cuffs.
“What are you-”
She snapped one around Yvette’s right wrist, then the left.
“Patti, please! I-”
“Excuse me while I take this call. O’Shay here.”
It was Spencer. “Aunt Patti, I’m with Ray Hollister. He’s confirmed that Riley was shot. Twice.”
“Self-inflicted?”
“He doesn’t think so, judging by the entry-point locations. Autopsy will confirm, but his bet is Riley was dead before the fire reached him.”
“Which would most probably mean he wasn’t our guy.”
“But he may have known who was.”
“Bingo. Let’s try to find out if he was killed at the gallery or dumped there.”
“You’ve got it.” He paused. “Where are you?”
“At my house.”
“Your house? What-”
“I’ve got to go. Keep me posted.”
“You were talking about Riley, weren’t you?”
At the choked question, Patti glanced at Yvette. She looked…devastated, as if her world had come to an end.
Patti stared at the young woman. Riley was dead, shot twice. His body had been found in the blackened rubble of the torched gallery. Three women were still unaccounted for-Shauna, Stacy and June.
Riley. The gallery.
Then Patti knew. Beyond all reason. She fought back a sound of disbelief. Of despair.
Riley had, indeed, caught on to the killer. A killer who had a connection to the missing women. To Riley and the gallery. The black-and-white shih tzu and Ray’s Perfect Pups. A killer no one would have suspected-and everyone would trust. Including her.
That killer wasn’t Yvette Borger.
It was June Benson.
73
Saturday, May 19, 2007
2:35 p.m.
Spencer swung the Camaro into Patti’s driveway and braked sharply. Leaving the car running, he leapt out and ran to the front door. Patti hadn’t sounded like herself on the phone. She’d had no reason to be home.
When that had sunk in, he’d rung her back. Several times. She hadn’t answered.
Patti had left him at the scene, told him she would get a cruiser to take her back to headquarters. So how had she ended up here?
And more important, why?
He struggled to remember what she had been doing right before she exited the scene.
Checking her cell phone.
He pounded on the door. “Aunt Patti! It’s Spencer. Open up!”
When she didn’t answer, he tried the door and found it locked, then went around back. There he found a broken window. Whoever had broken it had used it as a way to enter the house. They had cut themselves going in, he saw. Blood on the glass, the inside sill.
He tried the rear door, found it locked, then reared back and kicked it in. “Sorry, Aunt Patti,” he muttered, and slipped inside.
Little out of place. Sandwich fixings on the kitchen counter. PB & J. Half-drunk Coke. Looked like some had spilled onto the tile floor.
He made his way into the living room, then the bedroom.
There he found a pile of discarded garments. They were dirty. Bloodstained.
He stared at those stains, growing dizzy with fear. Not Aunt Patti. Dear God, not her, too. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, working to clear his head. Think it through.
Grabbing a tissue, he carefully lifted one of the garments. Capri pants. Ridiculously small. A size 0, or some such number. Aunt Patti was a trim woman, but these were tiny.
Yvette’s clothes.
They stunk. He wrinkled his nose. But of wha-
He realized then. Of mold and mildew. From water damage. The way the entire freaking city had smelled for a year. The way some parts still smel-
The lower Ninth ward. Pockets of St. Bernard. Son of a bitch.
He unholstered his cell and dialed Tony. “I know where they are,” he said when his partner answered. “Lower Ninth. Assemble a search-”
“What about the captain?”
“MIA. Either with Yvette or the Handyman.”
“That makes no damn sense.”
“Live with it. Assemble a team. Lower Ninth.”
“Wait! That’s a big place, Slick. Where do you want this team to start?”
“Where we found Messinger’s body. I’m on my way now.”
74
Saturday, May 19, 2007
2:50 p.m.
Patti pulled onto a long, gravel drive and followed its graceful curve. The setting was beautiful: gently rolling hills, vibrant green pastures, mature oak, maple and dogwood trees, lush, manicured landscaping.
Folsum. Louisiana horse country. Home to celebrity polo, thoroughbred horse farms and country homes for the wealthy.
“This isn’t it,” Yvette burst out. “It’s so not it.”
Patti ignored her, just as she had ignored her the entire hour they had been on the road. Finally the young woman had given up and dozed.
The house came into view then, a sprawling Southern country house, white with black shutters and a front porch that ran the length of the house, lined with white rocking chairs.
Visiting Mimosa, as the Bensons’ country place was named, was like taking a step back in time. To a gentle, uncomplicated era.
&nb
sp; Patti had always found this one of the most beautiful places on earth. A place where she came to refresh her soul.
Until today.
“I don’t understand why we’re here.”
Patti wasn’t sure she did, either. What she was thinking defied all logic. Defied all she knew to be true-not just with her head, but her heart as well-about her oldest and dearest friend.
“This is June’s country place,” she said softly, drawing to a stop in front of the house. “I’m checking out a hunch.”
More than a hunch. A horrible, taunting fear.
Yvette held out her arms, rattled the cuffs. “Are you going to take these things off me?”
“Not until I know I can trust you.”
“No! Plea-”
Patti opened her door and slid out. “Wait here.” Before Yvette could respond, she slammed the door and started for the house.
The gravel crunched beneath her feet. Her heart beat heavily against the wall of her chest.
This couldn’t be. June was her best friend.
To even consider this, she must be losing her mind. Sammy’s death and the stress of the storm had finally gotten to her.
Patti removed her Glock from her shoulder holster.
All roads led directly back to June. Riley. The gallery. Max. June was the last woman to disappear.
She let herself in. Moved from the foyer into the large living room. The house was perfect, as always. It smelled of flowers and lemon polish; sunlight dappled the interior in a warm, welcoming light.
June stepped through the patio door and stopped dead. She held a big basket of fresh-cut flowers. Her cheeks were pink from the warm day.
“Patti! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“For me? I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t answer your cell phone.”
“I wanted to get away…I’ve been so stressed. Overwhelmed. Riley’s been driving me absolutely bonkers…” She frowned. “Patti, why do you have your gun?”
“We thought you’d been abducted.” She took several steps toward her.
“Abducted?” June laughed. “That’s just silly.”
“You left Max home alone.”
“Never. Riley’s taking care of him, of course.”
But Riley was dead. Murdered.
June shook her head, closed the patio door and headed into the room. “How about I get us an iced tea? You don’t have to go back to the city right away, do you?”
Could she really not know?
“Patti? You’re acting strangely.”
“I need to search the property, June.”
“Search the…That’s crazy. I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s been an…incident.”
“An incident?” June repeated, looking confused. She gripped the basket’s handle. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Riley’s dead. The gallery’s-”
June shifted her gaze; her eyes widened in surprise. “You!” she cried. “Patti, watch ou-”
Patti swung around. Yvette stood in the doorway, her expression registering surprise, then horror.
Patti realized her mistake, but too late. June charged her, burying her shears in her back. Blinding pain speared through her.
She heard a scream. Yvette, she realized. She fell to her knees, then forward. Her head connected with the corner of the coffee table.
And everything went black.
75
Saturday, May 19, 2007
4:55 p.m.
Spencer fought becoming discouraged. Tony had assembled a large team, many of them off-duty and volunteering their time. They had fanned out, using the spot where Messinger’s body had been found as the epicenter.
It was hot, dirty work. The environment inside the buildings was damn near unbearable: stifling hot and airless, putrid. The thought of Stacy or Shauna trapped inside threatened to overwhelm him.
They’d been at it over an hour. Once the sun set they’d be out of luck until morning.
What if his hunch was wrong? Stacy and Shauna could be anywhere: Chalmette or lower Plaquemines. The Gulf Coast. Hell, they could be Uptown, in a high spot that had never seen one drop of flooding. He could have simply been grasping at straws.
The metro area was too big to search, even if the entire force volunteered.
“Detectives! We have something!”
The call came from a team two buildings over. “John Jr.!” Spencer shouted, already running.
Heart thundering, he reached the three-story building. It looked like the ground floor had been a corner grocery, with a couple of apartments above. Once upon a time, the owners had probably lived above the store. A neighborhood kind of place.
The officer who’d made the find motioned him over, pointed to the wall, near the door, to the Orange X.
Spencer went light-headed with fear.
Blood spatter. Definitely caused by a gunshot. He lowered his gaze. A bloody trail to the street. Then it stopped. Made by a victim being dragged to a vehicle.
Spencer was aware of John Jr. coming up behind him, out of breath. Heard his explosive expletive.
A victim. Who?
“Downstairs is clear,” the patrolman said. “There’s no way to the second level.”
Yes, there was. Metal stairs going to the second floor, one on each side of the building.
He darted for the ones on the right, John Jr. the ones on the left.
“Stacy!” he shouted, hitting the stairs. “Shauna!” The metal screamed in protest at his weight but held firm.
He shouted again. He heard his brother doing the same. Their shouts had drawn other teams within earshot.
Spencer reached the door and stopped cold. Padlocked. The lock was shiny, new.
What could be so valuable here, in this post-Katrina hell?
“They’re here!” he yelled, drawing his weapon. “Stacy, Shauna, if you can hear me, get back!”
Below him, John Jr. reached the staircase and started up. Spencer fired three shots, blowing the lock apart. He kicked in the door. Light spilled into the darkness, falling over Stacy and Shauna who were bound and gagged-but alive.
With a sound of relief, he raced into the room, his brother at his heels. He reached Stacy, removed the gag. She gasped for air, then began coughing.
“Somebody!” he shouted, working at the duct tape securing her wrists. He was aware of his brother beside him doing the same for Shauna. “We need water!”
Within moments, he was handed a bottle of cold water. He held it to her lips.
When she’d had enough of the water, he moved his hands over her face, arms, searching, desperate for reassurance. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”
“N…no-”
“Thank God…thank God…I thought I’d lost you. I-” His voice broke.
“I’ve got to-” She struggled to speak, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Got to tell you-”
“I love you, too, Stacy. I was such an idiot. I-”
She laid a finger against his lips, stopping him. “I do love you,” she croaked. “But that’s not…It’s June,” she managed. “June Benson’s the Handyman.”
76
Saturday, May 19, 2007
5:10 p.m.
Patti came to. She lay on her side on the floor. She hurt. She tried to move and moaned as pain shot through her.
“Thank God. I was afraid you were dying.”
Yvette. Patti cracked open her eyes. It took a moment for her vision to clear. When it did, she moved her gaze over the room.
A bathroom. Luxurious. Garden tub. Marble.
She settled it on Yvette. She still wore the cuffs. June had bound her ankles with duct tape. “Where…is she?”
“I don’t know.” Yvette drew in a breath; it caught on a sob. “When she stabbed you, I tried to run for help. I didn’t get far…I fell and with the cuffs-”
Couldn’t get up fast enough.
&n
bsp; “She has your gun. She said she’d shoot me.”
June. Her best friend. Trusted confidant. How could this be happening?
Patti recalled the sequence of events: turning her back to June; the scissors going into her back; the intense pain, then falling forward; not stopping herself in time and hitting her head on the coffee table; being knocked out.
“How bad am I?” she asked.
Yvette’s eyes filled with tears. “Bad, I think. The scissors, they’re still in…”
“My back?” Yvette nodded.
“How deep?”
“Pretty deep, I think.”
Patti breathed deeply against the dizziness. Obviously June hadn’t hit anything vital, but too much could go wrong if she had Yvette try to remove them.
Yvette inched toward her. “What can I do?”
Patti pressed her lips together a moment. “I’m sorry I suspected you.”
“The way I acted, like such a brat…I don’t blame you.”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I tried. There’s no way out.”
“Window?”
“Glass bricks. One door. Locked from the outside.”
“Did you try to kick it in?”
“I was afraid she’d hear me and get angry.”
And making June angry would be a bad idea. She had Patti’s Glock. And no doubt, the gun she had used to kill Riley and Messinger-and most probably Marcus Gabrielle. Patti wouldn’t doubt she had a couple of bone saws hidden on the property as well.
Yvette started to cry. “I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not going to die, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you don’t, Patti,” June said, opening the door.
Patti saw that she did, indeed, have the Glock. It had a full magazine. Bullet chambered.
“I’m sorry,” June said. “I really am. You’re my friend.”
“Your friend?” Patti repeated. “You call this friendship?”
“You got involved in my business. My private business.”
“You killed Riley!” Yvette cried. “How could you-”
“He got in my way. Starting snooping around. Letting you go was the final straw.”
“He let me go? He’s the one who-”
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