Last Known Victim (16 page)

“Put yourself in our shoes, Ms. Borger. What would you believe?”

“Get out! If you're not going to help me, just get the hell out!”

They didn't argue or try to reason with her and a couple of minutes later they were on the street. Truth was, without more from her, there was little they could do.

“Well, that was interesting,” Stacy said. “What do you think? Is she a liar or just plain nuts?”

“Part of what she told us was true.”

She stopped and looked at him. “Which part?”

“The woman.” He unlocked the Camaro and opened the door, but didn't make a move to get in. “It was Patti.”

After dropping that bomb, he climbed into the car. Stacy followed a moment later. Once she was buckled in, she turned to him, expression incredulous. “What do you mean, it was Patti?”

“She wanted something to tie Yvette's roommate to the Jane Doe. But she couldn't blow your cover, and she refused to wait.”

“So she broke in?”

“Yes.”

Stacy was quiet a moment, as if processing the information. When she spoke, he heard the disappointment in her voice. “I can't believe you were involved in this, Spencer. If PID catches wind—”

“I didn't have any part of it. Aunt Patti didn't tell me what she was up to.”

“You guessed.”

“Yes.” He started the car and eased away from the curb. “I confronted her with it.”

Traffic was nonexistent. He had cleared the French Quarter and crossed Canal Street within a couple of minutes—a trip that could take twenty minutes when the Quarter was jamming.

They were jumping on the expressway before Stacy spoke again. “Did she find anything?”

“Name of the roommate's dentist. But before you get too excited, yes, the dentist had X-rays, and no, they didn't match our Jane Doe's.”

“She broke the law for nothing.”

“If you can call peace of mind nothing.”

“That's such crap, Spencer. And you know it.”

“She's the captain.”

“And she's losing it, dammit!”

They fell silent. “What are you going to do?” he asked finally.

“You've put me in a very awkward position.”

“I'm sorry. Considering the circumstances, I felt I had to tell you.”

“I won't lie. If I'm asked, I'll tell what I know.”

“Fair enough.” He exited onto Carrollton Avenue, heading toward the river. “But nobody's going to ask.”

Saturday, April 28, 2007
6:35 a.m.

S
tacy couldn't sleep, couldn't shut off her mind. Like a hamster on a wheel, her thoughts went round and round, replaying the events of the night, the things she had learned.

Captain Patti O'Shay had broken the law. Spencer had known she was doing it. He'd felt no remorse, then or now.

And he'd kept it from her. So effectively, she hadn't even suspected.

Stacy was uncertain which revelation had rocked her more—his secret-keeping or her total obliviousness to it.

How could she trust him? And how could a relationship flourish amid secrets and lies? A healthy relationship required total honesty, which led to complete trust.

Like the best cop partnerships. You never wondered if your partner had your back. If you wondered, you were dead.

Spencer snored softly beside her. Not an unpleasant sound. Comforting. Familiar.

She rolled onto her side and gazed at him. No wonder neither of them had a clue where they were going. How could they?

“Why're you staring at me?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“I'm not.”

He cracked them open. “Liar.”

She leaned over and kissed him. “Go back to sleep. I'm getting up.”

“Crazy woman.”

Tell me about it.

She slipped out of bed and pulled a sweatshirt on over her cotton pj's.

“Stacy?”

She stopped at the door and looked back. “Yeah?”

“Marry me.”

She stared at him, quite literally dumbstruck. Several seconds ticked by before she found her voice. “You didn't just say—”

“I did. Marry me.”

Just last night they had agreed they didn't know where their relationship was going. “You've caught me by surprise, Spencer. Why are you asking me…now?”

“Dunno. Think 'bout it, okay?”

She nodded and backed out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.

Like most girls, she had daydreamed about the day the man she loved would propose marriage. The fantasy included bended knee, candlelight, music and the promise of undying love—not to mention a ring.

Somehow “Dunno,” a sweatshirt and pj's didn't cut it.

She started the coffee and went out for the paper. The day looked to be pretty damn spectacular: blue sky, puffy clouds, low humidity. Of course, in New Orleans the weather had been known to turn on a dime.

When she returned with the paper, the coffee was already burbling its last. Spencer stood at the counter, leaning against it for support, staring at the coffeemaker.

“You're up.”

“Smelled the brew. Couldn't resist.”

She cocked an eyebrow. Interesting. Fresh-brewed coffee seemed to be able to do what his unanswered question could not—propel him out of bed.

So much for his being on pins and needles. It was only a decision about the rest of their lives.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, sweetened it, shuffled across to the table and plopped onto a chair. “What d'you have t'day?”

“Baxter and I are touring Gabrielle's listings. See if we missed anything. We're bringing a canine unit with us.”

The dogs were trained to indicate on all types of narcotics. In fact, their olfactory glands were so sensitive, they could pinpoint areas where drugs had been stored, even when they were no longer there and in amounts as miniscule as parts per billion.

“Smart.” He sipped the coffee. “Gabrielle's records offer any leads?”

“He's the one who was smart. His appointment book, PDA and computer were all clean. The lab's performing forensics on his cell phone.”

The ordinary cell phone user didn't realize that cell phones retained information even after being deleted or wiped. Mobile Electronic Forensics, which used specially designed software to retrieve stored data, was fast becoming a major player in crime investigation. Invaluable information such as contact lists, numbers called and duration of those calls, text messages sent or received, as well as pictures, movies and even customized rings tones, could all be lifted. There was even software that could read multiple languages, such as Arabic and Chinese.

“But so far,” she continued, “we've got nothing to tie him to either end of the meth process except the word of the bartender.”

“And his getting gunned down in his Uptown driveway on a school night,” he added, yawning.

“Want to go for bagels?”

“I can't believe you're thinking about food.”

“I'm hungry.”

“By any chance, do you remember dropping a bomb on me a few minutes ago? The ‘M' bomb?”

“I do. Seems to me, the bomb's in your court.”

“Don't you think we should talk about this?”

“If you want to. But in the end it's either yes or no.”

“You drive me crazy!” She folded her arms across her chest. “Flipping nuts.”

He took a sip of his coffee, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Reason enough to say yes. It's not every day you can agree to spend the rest of your life with someone who sends you off your rocker.”

That was the closest she was going to get to her romantic fantasy: being sent off a rocker instead of over the moon. Some girls had all the luck.

Something in her expression sobered him. “I am who I am, Stacy.”

And so was she.
“No,” she said softly. “I won't marry you.”

His expression didn't change. He simply nodded. “Do you want to move out?”

“Is that what this is about, Spencer? You could have just asked me to go.”

He frowned. “That's not why I asked.”

“Then why did you?” She held up a hand. “And don't tell me you don't know. I'm not accepting that.”

“We talked last night about where our relationship was going. This morning, getting married just seemed the thing to do.”

“The thing to do?”

“That it was time. You know, to—”

“Shit or get off the pot?”

“I wouldn't have put it that way, but yes.”

This proposal had just gone from bad to worse.
“Maybe I will move out.”

“Stacy, I didn't mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” She pressed her lips together a moment, using the time to focus her thoughts. “You're right, Spencer. Maybe it's time we faced the fact that this isn't going anywhere and moved on.”

He didn't respond. She crossed to the doorway, stopped and looked back at him. He sat unmoving, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past her. She wondered if he hurt at all. If he, like she, felt as if someone had reached inside her chest and now held her heart in a vice grip.

Somehow, she thought not.

She let out a long breath. “It might take me a couple of weeks to find a place. I'll start looking right away.”

Saturday, April 28, 2007
11:15 a.m.

Y
vette had provided a list of thirty addresses she had “opened” for Gabrielle since the first of the year. Luckily, she'd written down the addresses in her day-runner—a practice Gabrielle surely would not have approved of.

There had been additional addresses the previous year, but she'd tossed her 2006 planner and without it they all ran together in her mind. Stacy had acquired a full list of all Gabrielle's listings, but wouldn't resort to those unless Yvette's proved a bust.

Rene Baxter, Stacy's partner in this investigation, had offered to drive, and she had jumped at the offer. They had warrants for each address and an agent from Gabrielle's office had agreed to accompany them, serving as the property owners' representation.

Rene was following the agent's chamois-colored Camry. Buster, a seventy-five-pound drug-sniffing yellow Lab and his handler, Bob, were following them in the K-9 cruiser. B & B—as the two were known around the NOPD.

They had crossed Poydras Street and were heading into what was called the Warehouse District.

“When I was a kid, this entire area was empty warehouses. Pretty much urban blight. Now look. High-priced condos and trendy clubs.”

And restaurants, Stacy saw. Art galleries. Very hip.

“A condo there—” Baxter pointed to a three-story building “—can cost a half a million bucks. How screwed up is that?”

Stacy didn't comment and he angled her a glance. “You're quiet today.”

Preoccupied with the turn her life had taken this morning.
“Just tired,” she fibbed.

“Hungry?”

She glanced at him. “Grumpy or Bashful or Doc?”

He laughed at her reference to the Seven Dwarfs from Snow White. “I'm going to need some lunch pretty soon.”

“We just started.”

“Yeah, but we started really close to lunchtime.”

She smiled. Small and wiry, not an ounce overweight, Rene Baxter was an eating machine. Where he put it, she had no clue. “Let's do this one and another, then we'll break.”

“Agreed. Tacos, chicken or burgers?”

“I'm sure Buster'd be happy with any of those, but I'm thinking tacos.”

“Can take the girl out of Texas but can't take Texas out of the girl.”

“You know it, partner.”

The Camry pulled to a stop in front of a three-story brick building. A big For Sale—Gabrielle Realty sign was propped up in the front window. Rene eased into the spot behind it, and they all climbed out.

Buster strained slightly against his lead, obviously anxious to get started. After all, this was what he had been trained for. For Buster, this was the juice.

You go, big boy.

The Realtor unlocked the door and they filed in. Stacy moved her gaze over the space. It appeared to have most recently been a restaurant or club.

Bob unleashed Buster, who began to do his thing. She watched the dog as he began his search, sniffing, totally focused. When he picked up on a scent, he would “alert.” There were two types of alerts, she had learned. The passive, in which the dog would sit, and the aggressive, where he would scratch.

“He's found something,” Bob said. A moment later, the animal began pawing at an air-conditioning vent.

Obviously, Buster was a scratcher.

Stacy and Rene hurried over. The vent was located in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The vent cover proved to be loose, and they removed it easily. Stacy eased out the air filter, which was filthy.

“Flashlight,” Stacy said. Bob handed her one and she directed the beam around the small space. “Empty.”

“Now,” Bob said. “But I promise you, there were drugs in there at least once.”

“How'd you do that?” Rene asked. “How'd you know he'd found something before he did?”

Bob laughed and scratched Buster's head. “His breathing. It changed.”

Stacy's cell phone vibrated; she separated from the group and answered. It was Spencer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey to you.”

“How's it going?”

“Pretty great. Buster just got excited.”

“Where are you?”

“Used to be a supper club. On South Peters, in the Warehouse District.”

He was silent, and she cleared her throat. “What's up?”

“I don't want you to move out.”

She tightened her grip on the phone. “I can't talk about this right now.”

“I know. I just…I wanted you to know that.”

“Thanks,” she said softly. “We'll talk later.”

Stacy ended the call and slipped the device back into its holster. The moment she did, it vibrated. She unclipped it and saw from the caller ID, it was Spencer again.

“Yo,” she said.

“What was the name of the club?”

“Don't know, signage is gone. Why?”

“Curious more than anything. Ask Baxter if he knows.”

She did. Rene looked momentarily perplexed, then grinned. “The Cosmopolitan,” he said. “Was the hot place for about a year. Sported a bar made out of ice.”

She relayed the information; Spencer whistled. “That place belonged to Aunt Patti's friend June. And her brother Riley. They shut it down after Katrina. Didn't know they'd decided to sell.”

“Bet they didn't know their listing agent was a drug dealer. I might need to question them. Got a number?”

He gave it to her and hung up.

While she had been on the phone, Buster had searched the rest of the space—and come up empty.

“Next address?” Stacy asked, eager to move on.

Rene must have been eager as well; he agreed with no mention of tacos at all.

Three and a half hours later, they had visited fifteen of the thirty addresses—and Buster had alerted at every one of them.

They had Gabrielle now. He had been using his listings as drop-off and pickup points for his meth business. The storage place had been the same in every one—an air-conditioning vent.

Rather ingenious, Stacy thought, using vacant commercial properties. A “Realtor” meets “prospective buyers.” No chance of neighbors becoming suspicious at the comings and goings of strangers.

Just another real estate showing.

Too bad Gabrielle was dead. She would have loved busting him.

Too bad for Borger, too. At present she was their only link to Gabrielle's drug trade.

As she and Baxter wolfed down Mexican fast food, they decided to split up. He would continue on with Buster and Bob while she would start questioning property owners, mostly as a formality.

Beginning with Patti's friends, the Bensons. Curiously, they owned three of the properties on Yvette's list.

As a courtesy, she notified Patti.

“I'll bet they're at the gallery,” she said. “Pieces. On Julia Street. If you don't mind, I'll meet you there.”

“No problem at all. I'm leaving now.”

Patti was waiting in her car when Stacy arrived. Stacy climbed out of her SUV and together they crossed to the gallery's double glass doors and stepped inside.

The current exhibition was of large, vigorously executed paintings, their subject matter highly abstracted portraits and landscapes. Like the art galleries she had visited before—and there had been many as her sister, Jane, was an artist—the interior was spare, the walls white, the floors muted. In this case, stained, scored concrete.

Nothing about the interior would distract, clash or interfere with the artwork.

June stood behind an elegant writing desk located between the two viewing rooms. She was on the phone. When she spotted them, her face lit up. “I've got to go. I'll call you back.”

“Patti!” she cried, hurrying over. “What a surprise!”

She hugged Patti, then turned to her with a warm smile. “Stacy, it's good to see you again.”

Stacy returned the smile. “Likewise.”

The woman shifted her gaze back to Patti expectantly. “Please tell me you've finally decided to add some color to your walls? Something other than Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras posters?”

“Like there's enough for real art in my civil servant's salary.”

“I'd make you a deal.”

“I'm sure you would. One I still couldn't afford.”

Stacy stepped in. “Actually, we're here to question you about a couple pieces of property you and Riley have for sale. Three, to be exact.”

Riley burst out of the back, cell phone clutched in his hand. “June! I sold that piece to—” He saw them and stopped, a huge smile spreading across his face. “Aunt Patti, what a nice surprise.”

He kissed her cheek, then turned to Stacy and grinned. “I didn't know you were an art lover, Stacy.”

“I'd better be. If I wasn't, my sister'd be pretty pissed at me.”

“Your sister?”

“Jane.”

He stared at her a moment, looking stunned. “
Jane Killian's
your sister?”

“I thought you knew.”

His face took on an expression of delight. “My God, I love her work. She's a genius!”

Stacy laughed. There was a time that statement would have bothered her. Her and Jane's relationship had come a long way in the past couple of years.

All it had taken was a maniac trying to kill Jane—and damn near succeeding.

“I'll tell her you said so.”

“Does she have local representation?”

He reminded her a bit of Buster, big and enthusiastic, nearly quivering over the possibility of a “find.”

He caught her hand. “We're having an opening Saturday night. I'd love it if you came.”

“Riley!” June admonished him. “Stop flirting with her. She's spoken for.”

“No ring,” he teased, smile widening. “I can flirt if I want.”

It occurred to her that this was the second time in recent days someone had made a similar comment—
no ring, no commitment.

“I apologize for my brother's exuberance,” June said, scowling at her sibling.

“Please, don't apologize. He's right. I'm not wearing a ring.”

Patti's mouth dropped and June looked distraught. Stacy cleared her throat. “That didn't come out quite the way I planned. I only meant that Riley didn't do anything wrong.”

“Thank you,” he said with exaggerated solemnity. “So, will you come Saturday?”

“It's Shauna's show, isn't it? Spencer and I will be here along with the rest of the Malone clan.”

He sighed dramatically and released her hands. “The Malones get all the best ones. Always have.”

“Oh, stop it,” June scolded. “Patti and Stacy are here on official business. Let them do their jobs.”

Instead of being chastened, he looked delighted. “By all means, don't let me stand in the way of justice.”

Patti grabbed the opening. “You have three pieces of commercial property for sale, listed with Gabrielle Realty. Is that correct?”

“It is,” June answered. “After Katrina, we decided to divest of some of our holdings. The businesses were all devastated by the storm. We lost tenants, had to fight with insurance companies, deal with repairs and all that entailed.”

“We decided it wasn't worth it,” Riley offered.

“Life's too short.”

“Why did you choose to list with Marcus Gabrielle?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I read about his murder. It was…horrible. Shot down like that, in his own driveway.”

She rubbed her arms. “I thought this city was over that. I thought Katrina had taught us all something.”

Dream on. Unfortunately, the criminal element was never “changed” for long. In fact, murders were significantly up, though mostly turf wars between rival gangs.

June sighed. “He was a good customer of ours. A true patron of the arts. When we decided to sell the properties, we chose to return the favor.”

“I liked him,” Riley offered. “He seemed like a good guy.”

Stacy didn't disabuse him of the notion, though she found it almost funny. The “good guy” cheated on his wife, physically bullied his girlfriend and manufactured and distributed meth.

Stacy stepped in. “Did he ever come in with people you'd describe as unsavory? Or whom you were surprised to see him with?”

“No,” June replied. “He mostly came alone. Or with his wife.”