Last Known Victim (19 page)

“She's not really my aunt. She and June are practically lifelong friends. She's Spencer's aunt and also his captain.”

“She's a
cop?
”

He smiled at her incredulous tone. “A highly respected and, I might add, somewhat feared captain.”

What the hell was going on? What were they up to?

“There's no way she broke into your apartment,” Riley added.

“It was her, I know it.”

He shrugged. “The Patti O'Shay I know lives and dies by the book, though I could ask June—”

“No, don't.” She shook her head. “In fact, forget I said anything. You're probably right. I'd had too much wine and wasn't thinking clearly.”

He leaned forward. “So how are you going to find the woman who sneaked into your apartment?”

She already had. Captain Patti O'Shay was in for a very big surprise.

“I don't know,” she answered. “Maybe I never will and that's okay.”

“Be careful, Yvette. There are some crazy, dangerous people out there.”

And their being cops made them even more dangerous.

“I will,” she promised. “Believe me, I will.”

Sunday, May 6, 2007
9:25 a.m.

Y
vette awakened feeling really good. Refreshed. Happy. She smiled and stretched, thinking of Riley and the weird events of the night before.

She had invited him up. They had talked until late. Talked—and nothing else.

He hadn't expected sex. Hadn't pushed or pouted when she didn't initiate.

Though he
had
kissed her when they said goodbye. It'd been long and deep—and had totally turned her on.

She wanted to let herself like him. Wanted to trust all her first impressions of him: that he was genuine and kind, a true gentleman. That he really liked her.

Don't be an idiot, Yvette. Too good to be true is just that—too good to be true.

Yvette climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. That done, she went to the kitchen for a Coke. She popped the can's top and took a long swallow of the sweet, fizzy drink.

Breakfast of champions. Her personal power drink.

She saw that the message light on her cell phone was blinking, snatched up the device and checked the ID. Tonya's number, she saw. She had called the night before. After 1:00 a.m. Yvette dialed voice mail, then punched in her password.

“It's me. He was here tonight. I've got a plan. Call me on my cell as soon as you get this. Bye.”

Yvette deleted the message, then dialed the woman back. The call rolled into voice mail, which didn't surprise her. Anything before noon was early for someone who worked until 2:00 a.m.

“Hi, Tonya,” Yvette said. “Got your message. What did you do? How did he react when he learned I wasn't there? Call me.”

She pocketed the phone, then shuffled to the living room and plopped onto the couch. She sipped her drink, recalling what Riley had told her: The woman who had broken into her apartment was a cop. A captain.

Captain Patti O'Shay. Spencer Malone's aunt.

What had she been up to? Did it have something to do with Marcus and their investigation into his drug business?

She tried Tonya once more, unsurprised when voice mail picked up again. “I forgot to mention, I have stuff to tell you, too. I know the identity of the woman who broke into my place. She's a cop! Call me.”

She ended the call, thoughts returning to Riley. She really did like him. And for today, if she wanted to delude herself that he felt the same about her, she would. And have a great time doing it, too.

She leapt to her feet, deciding to start right away.

Yvette enjoyed her day. She shopped at the French Market, poked in and out of stores on Royal Street, enjoyed beignets and coffee at Café du Monde. All the while, she kept her cell phone close, waiting for Tonya to call and hoping Riley would.

She was disappointed on both counts.

She didn't stress too much about Tonya's lack of response. She would see her at the Hustle tonight. But she had so badly wanted Riley to call. She had thought after that kiss, he would.

He had found out what kind of dancer she was.

It would have been easy. A call to his friends Killian and Malone. She wouldn't hear from him again, she realized. She might as well move on now.

Even as she told herself it was no big deal, she acknowledged that it hurt.

In the hopes of having time to talk to Tonya, Yvette arrived at the Hustle thirty minutes early. “Hi, Dante,” she said, greeting the bleached-blond steroid-bloated bouncer.

“Hey, Vette.”

“Tonya here?”

“Haven't seen her.”

“Really?” She glanced at her watch. Tonya was always here by now. “That's weird.”

“I might've missed her. Check the time clock.”

She did and discovered the other woman had not clocked in. An uneasy feeling plucked at her. Tonya had left an urgent-sounding message, asking Yvette to call her back ASAP, then disappeared. Why would she do that?

She wouldn't.

Something was wrong.

Yvette shook the thought off. Marcus's murder and this whole Artist thing was getting to her. Causing her imagination to run wild.

Tonya was late. It happened. She'd show. And have a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Yvette decided she would feel pretty silly, especially if she called and left
another
message.

She did, anyway. Then another and another. With each message left—and each hour that crawled past—her panic became more acute.

At closing, Tonya was still MIA. No notice to the club that she wouldn't be in. No claim of illness or anything else.

She just hadn't come in.

Something was wrong. Something had happened to her.

The Artist.
He had been in the club the night before. Had Tonya confronted him? Followed him? Asked him about Jessica?

What did she do now?

Yvette realized she was trembling and hugged herself. She would wait until morning, she decided. See if Tonya called back. And if she didn't, she would decide what to do from there.

Monday, May 7, 2007
10:00 a.m.

Y
vette waited as long as she could before calling a cab. Tonya owned a condo near City Park on Bayou St. John, with a balcony that overlooked the waterway. Pre-Katrina the property had been way out of her league. Tonya had snapped it up post-Katrina for a fraction of its pre-storm value.

Yvette knew all this because the woman had bragged about it at the time.

If Tonya wasn't there, she hadn't a clue how she would get in.

Luck seemed to be on her side when the driver dropped her off; Tonya's orange VW Beetle sat in a parking spot directly in front of the building.

Yvette hurried to the lobby call box. She found Tonya's name and rang for her. And got a busy signal. Relief washed over her. She had worried over nothing. Tonya would have a good explanation. She was sick, tired or both. She had decided the Hustle sucked and had taken a job elsewhere.

Yvette was going to kick Tonya's ass for making her worry like this.

Yvette rang again. And again got a busy signal. As she hung up, a man and woman, in a heated discussion about someone named Tim, exited. Yvette grabbed the door a moment before it snapped shut.

She located Tonya's unit and knocked. When the woman didn't answer, she knocked again.

“Tonya, it's me! Yvette.”

Still no answer.

With a glance in either direction, Yvette tried the door. It was locked. She squatted and checked under the welcome mat for a key. When that proved futile, she tried the unit next door.

A little old man with stoop shoulders and white hair answered. Yvette decided he was ninety if he was a day.

“Hi,” she said. “I'm a friend of Tonya's. Have you seen her?”

He shook his head. “Haven't heard her, either. Been quiet as a mouse.” He smiled at her, though his gaze fixed on her chest. “'Course, when I take my hearing aid out, I couldn't hear the end of the world.”

“She didn't show up for work and I'm pretty worried.”

“Did you try the door?”

“It's locked. But her car's out front.”

The wizened neighbor frowned. “I don't like the sound of that. She could need help.”

“Exactly.”

“I could get you a little look-see inside,” he said proudly. “No problem.”

“You could?” She batted her lashes at him.

“That'd be swell.”

He puffed up. “You just wait there.”

A moment later, he reappeared with a key. “Tonya gave me a spare. To check on things when she's gone, take deliveries, stuff like that. I'm sure she wouldn't mind.”

Yvette was sure, too.

“I help several of the neighbors this way.” He shuffled across to her door. “You know, dear, this isn't exactly legal.”

Flatly illegal was more like it.

“But since you're so worried about her—”

She leaned toward him to offer him a better view of her cleavage. “Thank you
so
much. You're a lifesaver.”

Within moments he had the door open. “I'll wait right here,” he offered. “Keep an eye out.”

She thanked him and peaked inside the condo. “Tonya,” she called. “It's Yvette.”

She stepped inside. At first glance, nothing appeared out of place. Just the normal clutter of living. Tonya was neither a neat freak nor a slob.

Yvette called out again, cautiously making her way into the condo. She moved from living room to kitchen, from kitchen to first bedroom. Obviously a guest room. Pin-neat. Empty closet.

She made her way to the second bedroom. This one was noticeably larger than the other—and obviously occupied. Bed was unmade. Silky pajamas in a vivid coral color lay in a heap on the floor. Closet stuffed with clothes.

No blood. No body.

Thank God.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and started for the adjoining bath. The last place to search. The door was closed. With each step her heart beat faster, harder. She reached the door, grabbed the knob and twisted.

It eased open. She sucked in a sharp breath—for courage—and entered the room.

And found it empty.

Her relief was immediate and tangible, a physical wave that made her knees go weak. She crossed to the commode, lowered the lid and sank onto it, dropping her head into her hands.

Thank God…thank God.
She had been certain she would find Tonya dead, in a pool of blood. Or at least signs of a desperate struggle.

Talk about a vivid imagination. The Artist was getting to her, making her jumpy, irrational.

“Everything okay in there?” the neighbor called, sounding anxious.

“Fine,” she called back. “I'm on my way out.”

Yvette got to her feet and headed for the front door, feeling a bit ridiculous. She and Tonya would have a good laugh about this—

She stopped, realization hitting her.

Tonya was still MIA.

So, where was she?

She turned and hurried back to the bathroom. Toothbrush and paste on the counter, cosmetics strewn about. Comb. Brush. Hairspray. A travel-size jewelry case, open, earrings and bracelets spilling out. Vehicle parked out front.

She could have taken a cab, but to where? Not the airport or train station, for she hadn't packed stuff for a trip. There was no way she'd have left without makeup and jewelry.

“Miss?” The neighbor stood in the doorway, looking at her strangely. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” she answered, voice trembling. “But something is.”

“Can I help?”

Yvette giggled, the sound nervous, high-pitched. She heard how she sounded—at the very least, bubble-headed, at the worst, unhinged.

“I don't…” She clasped her hands together and met his concerned gaze. “I don't know what to do next.”