Last Known Victim (14 page)

Wednesday, April 25, 2007
4:45 p.m.

P
atti looked at the forensic odontologist's report, bitterly disappointed. The dental records proved that Kitten Sweet was
not
their Jane Doe.

It changed nothing. Franklin was still in jail, charged with theft and felony possession of a firearm. He wasn't going anywhere.

But it left them with nothing—no new angle to investigate, nothing new to tie Franklin to Sammy's murder and the Handyman victims.

She had broken the law, the very thing she had sworn to uphold. She had involved one of her detectives, put both their careers on the line. And for what?

“You've got the wrong guy.”

She had managed to put that call out of her mind, managed to convince herself it'd been some crank. Somebody with an ax to grind with her, which wasn't such a far-fetched concept.

Chief Howard had appointed her to the post-Katrina tribunal to judge officers who had gone AWOL during and after the storm. When an officer took an oath, it was to serve the public, no matter what. Some of the stories had broken her heart, but where did you draw the line? “Protect and Serve” meant just that, even when it was
really
inconvenient.

Patti picked up the list of names she'd assembled and scanned them. The officers ranged from first-year rookies to veterans with twenty-five years under their belt. She read through the names, able to picture each and every one. Could one of them be this angry at her?

What happened if she assumed the caller's claim was legit? They had the wrong guy. Just as Franklin claimed, he had found the gun in City Park. It fit. Sammy stumbles upon the Handyman and his victim. The Handyman manages to get Sammy's gun, kills him with it, dumps both victims in the park, then disposes of the weapon as quickly as possible.

Right there at the park.

So who made the call?

Someone who'd known about the gathering at Shannon's. A cop? Someone connected to a cop or the force?

“You don't look happy.”

Patti glanced up. Spencer stood in her office doorway. “I'm not. Take a look.”

She slid the report across the desk. He strode over, picked it up and scanned the information.

Tony ambled into the office. “Who died?”

Spencer handed him the findings. Tony read it, then handed it back. “So much for that anonymous tip.”

Patti worked to keep her disappointment from showing. Spencer had lied to his partner about how they'd gotten Kitten Sweet's name as the possible Jane Doe. She hadn't asked him to, but hated that she had put him in the position of having to choose between them.

“Did the search of Franklin's apartment turn up anything?” she asked.

“More stolen merch,” Spencer replied. “And a truly amazing collection of adult magazines. Nothing bizarre, just straight nudie shots.”

“Checked the freezer,” Tony offered. “Hamburger meat and Eskimo Pies, no hands or other body parts. No saws, clippers or anything else that could be used to sever a human hand.”

“What about a computer?”

“Nope. The answering machine was clear and his only mail was a stack of bills and advertising circulars. Can you believe somebody was offering him a MasterCard? Go figure.”

Dammit.
She stood and crossed to her single window. She gazed out at the brilliant spring day. “Franklin's not our guy.”

“With all due respect, Captain,” Tony said, “he had the gun. He placed himself at the scene.”

She turned and faced them. “Placing himself at the scene is circumstantial.”

Spencer and Tony exchanged glances. Spencer spoke first. “The old rule of thumb about somebody who looks guilty, being guilty, usually proves true. It certainly fits in this case. The gun is strong physical evidence connecting him to the grave and the victims in it. The man is a convicted rapist. He's also a thief and a liar.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I have to be sure. One hundred percent positive.”

“What can we do?”

“Find me a victim. If I can link Franklin to just one of the Handyman victims, even a weak link, I'll be satisfied.”

“Captain O'Shay, could I have a word?”

The chief of police stood in her doorway. She smiled and waved him in. “Of course, Chief. The detectives and I were just finishing.”

He greeted both detectives. “How's your dad's retirement going, Spencer?”

“Not bored with fishing yet.”

Spencer's dad—Patti's brother-in-law—had been career NOPD. He'd never risen above the rank of detective, but that had been okay with him. He'd simply loved the work. He'd retired a year ago. Hurricane Katrina and Sammy's death had been catalysts for the decision.

As the two detectives exited the office, Patti told them to keep her posted, then turned to her boss. “What can I do for you, Chief Howard?”

He ignored her question and asked one of his own. “How are you, Patti?”

Something in his tone raised her hackles. “I'm very well, thank you.”

“I'm sorry I haven't been by before this. Hell of a thing, uncovering Sammy's badge that way.”

“To tell you the truth, I'm relieved. To finally know what went down and have a trail to follow.”

“Seems to me the trail's led you to your guy. Congratulations.”

She frowned slightly. Chief Howard never did anything without intent. A simple “Congratulations” was anything but simple. So why was he here?

“Thank you, Chief, but I'm not certain we do.”

His eyebrows shot up. “That surprises me, Captain. I've reviewed the case and think it's strong.”

“True. But until we have a legitimate tie between Franklin and one of the Handyman's victims, it's not ironclad.”

Chief Howard was quiet a moment. “I'm distressed to hear you say that.”

“I'm sorry, sir. That's the way I see it.”

“Patti,” he said softly, “you have to trust the process. If he's charged, tried and found guilty, you'll have to accept it.”

“I don't know if I can do that.”

His cell phone buzzed; he checked the display, then slipped it back into his pocket. “Perhaps this case is too close? I could turn it over to someone else? After the stress of Sammy's death, no one would think less—”

“That's absolutely not necessary,” she said. “I'm in charge of ISD, this case and the investigation. Franklin's been charged and is being held on the theft and weapons charge. We have time to dig.”

“True, if you feel you have the manpower.”

Which meant he didn't.

Wrap it up, move on.

“Give me a little more time. The forensic sculptor is working on a facial reconstruction now. It should be ready within a couple of days. We'll publicize the image, see if anyone recognizes her.”

“Agreed. Anything else?”

He knew about the dental records. Probably the call she had gotten at Shannon's, as well. Little slipped by Chief Howard. That's the way he ran his department.

“We got a tip about a missing young woman. Had the forensic odontologist compare her dental records with Jane Doe's teeth. They didn't match.”

He nodded. Obviously this was not news. And luckily, he didn't ask about the source of the “tip.”

“Anything else?”

“An anonymous call to me. At Shannon's.”

“The night of the surprise party.” The chief had made a brief appearance, then left.

“Yes, the caller said we ‘had the wrong guy.'”

“And you believe this person? He presented you with proof?”

“I'm not discounting anything at this point.”

“Admirable, Captain.” He glanced at his watch, then looked at her again. “The public will be reassured to know this monster's been caught.”

“Not if he proves to be the wrong monster.”

He frowned. “We'll be making certain that doesn't happen, won't we, Captain O'Shay?”

He had officially put her on notice. The clock was ticking on this investigation. The chief wanted her to build the case against Franklin, not continue to look for suspects.

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

As he walked away, she acknowledged that for the first time in her career, she wasn't sure she could follow a direct order.

Saturday, April 28, 2007
1:15 a.m.

T
he Hustle was jumping, even by Friday night standards. It was the first weekend of Jazz Fest—next to Mardi Gras, the city's biggest tourist draw—and the tips and booze were flowing.

Yvette figured she might break her personal record, despite the fact she was jumpy, distracted and barely going through the motions.

The last two days had been the longest of her life. She had spent them looking over her shoulder, searching every shadow and thinking about Marcus's murder.

I did it for you.

Yours always, the Artist.

After discovering the note, she had been frozen with fear. Panic had followed. She hadn't known what to do, who to call. She had no one. No family or close friends, no husband or boyfriend.

Not the police. Not them.

She had no one to depend on but herself.

She had considered packing up, taking off. To hell with her apartment and this crummy job.

But she had run before. Once upon a time, she had lived in fear. Of her father. The street. Helplessness. Hopelessness. She'd promised herself she'd never live that way again, never run away. It's why she had refused to evacuate for Katrina. If she stood up to that bitch, she figured she could stand up to anything.

So she'd had her locks changed. Made a couple of inquiries to alarm companies. Thought about buying a gun, then rejected the idea.

In the meantime, it had been quiet. No more anonymous notes. No more break-ins. Maybe it was over.

“Hi, Yvette,” Tonya said, poking her head into the dressing room, which was really not much more than a screened-off enclosure. “Almost time. I've got a note for you.” Tonya handed her the sealed envelope. “See you in six.”

Yvette opened the envelope, pulled out the note. Paper fluttered to the floor. No, she saw. Not paper. Money.

Five one hundred dollar bills.

She stared at them, heart beating heavily, then shifted her gaze to the note.

Here's what he owed you.

A cry flew to her throat; she jumped to her feet and ran after Tonya. “Wait!” she called. “Tonya!”

The woman stopped and turned.

“Who gave you this?”

“Some guy.”

“Where? What table?”

“At the bar.”

“Show me.”

Tonya glanced at her watch and frowned. “You're up in—”

“I know when I'm up, dammit! Point him out, it's important!”

The woman hesitated a moment more, then motioned Yvette to follow her. They exited the backstage area and moved around the tables until they had a clear view of the bar.

She clutched Tonya's arm. “Where is he?”

“I don't see him…He must have gone.”

“He can't have. Please, look again.”

She did, then shook her head. “What's going on, Yvette?”

She shook her head, fear choking her. “He…I can't…I…”

Tonya squeezed her hand. “I'll get Jenny to dance for you. Go to your dressing room and calm down. I'll be right there.”

Yvette nodded and hurried backstage. Inside the small enclosure, she stopped. The one hundred dollar bills were scattered on the floor, just where they had fallen.

Five hundred dollars. The money Marcus had owed her.

How had the Artist known? She hadn't told anyone.

Goose bumps crawled up her arms. She moved her gaze over the small, cluttered enclosure. Had he been here?

Tonya interrupted her thoughts. “Are those one hundred dollar bills?”

Yvette met her startled gaze and nodded.

“Where did you…? Were they in that note I delivered?”

“Yes.”

“My God.”

Yvette bent and collected the bills. Her hands shook. She slipped them back into the envelope, wondering what the hell she should do now.

“You want to talk about this?”

Yvette looked at her. “What did the guy look like?”

“Average, I guess. Kind of nondescript. Harmless.”

That was only slightly reassuring. “Does he come in a lot?”

Tonya furrowed her brow. “I know I've seen him before. But always at the bar. He's the kind of guy you just don't…notice.”

The woman paused. “Do you think…surely you don't think he's…dangerous?”

Yvette bit her lip, and Tonya caught her breath. “Tell me what's going on. Start at the beginning.”

So Yvette did, beginning with the first note he'd sent her, sharing how a woman had deceived a neighbor into giving her a key. “I thought he was harmless, just another one of those guys. You know, the really sad, lonely ones.”

“Go on.”

“Then Marcus was killed.” Tonya wasn't surprised at the news. The police had questioned all the employees of the Hustle about Marcus and his associates. “Apparently he was into some pretty serious shit.”

“Meth manufacture and distribution.”

Yvette widened her eyes. “How did you—”

“Know? Honey, I know everything that goes on around here. If not immediately, soon after.”

“So you knew Brandi was a cop?”

“Not at first. Knew something wasn't right about that one. Also knew she was Ted's ‘hire.' I stayed after him until he told me what was going on. Stupid shit.”

When Marcus had turned up dead, Ted had lost his leverage with the cops and was now in jail.

“Tonya, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, hon.”

“Do you believe in God?”

The woman screwed up her face in thought. “Don't know. I guess so. Why?”

“I never thought much about it, but after Katrina, I figured there was a God and that He wanted me to live.”

Yvette realized she had closed her hand around the bills, crumpling them, and eased her grip. “I thought it was a good thing, like I was going to do something big or…important. Really turn it around and be somebody. But now—”

She cleared her throat, forced out the thought that had been nagging at her since she realized the Artist had killed Marcus. “What if He wanted me to live for this? As a catalyst for Marcus getting whacked? Or to make me a victim instead of someone who's a better person?”

For a long moment, Tonya was quiet. “I don't think it works that way. And you know what, if it did, He'd be a pretty crappy God.”

If Tonya had been a priest or a preacher, the thought might be comforting. But coming from a broken-down, hard-drinking ex-exotic dancer, Yvette wasn't reassured at all.