Last Known Victim (21 page)

Monday, May 7, 2007
8:45 p.m.

S
ilence. Only the wind snaking through dead branches and the crackle of debris underfoot.

A wasteland. Of death. And hopelessness.

All that effort, for what? She's not worthy.

No. It's not true. I believe in her.

That's what you said about the last one, remember? Cheap whore. She broke your heart.

Stop! It was the other one's fault. Cheap and coarse. Nosing around. Asking questions. Causing her to doubt.

You're a fool. A blind fool.

Only for love. What's more worthy than that?

Insure she loves you, then. Give her an incentive.

An incentive. Of course. That's what she needs. To remind her what's important. To whom her heart belongs.

Then she won't stray.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007
8:40 a.m.

T
ony Sciame tapped on her partially open door. “Captain?”

She waved him in. “What did you get?”

He lowered himself into the chair across from her desk. “Spoke with both those dancers from the Hustle. Neither definitively IDed Skye as being our Jane Doe. Said she ‘could' be. And ‘maybe' was. But they directed me to where she had lived.”

“Any luck?”

“Talked to the landlord. He remembered her well. Tossed all her stuff after the storm, though he was very quick to assure me he did it by the book, waited the mandated forty-five days. Even paid to store it after he re-rented her place.”

“He ever hear from her?”

“Never.”

“He ID her from the photo?”

“Another ‘not sure.'” Tony cleared his throat.

“From what he said, her stuff was pretty crappy. Could be she didn't bother retrieving any of it, just moved on.”

“And it could be she's dead.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Could be.”

“Any luck tracking down her doctor?”

“Believe it or not, yes. It was on file at the Hustle. Dr. Nathan Geist. I tried him, left a message with his nurse.”

“Contact him at home if you have to. Get back to me tonight, even if you can't reach him.”

“You got it, Captain.”

He started back out. She stopped him halfway through the door. “Detective?”

“Yeah?”

“For now, I'd like to keep this between just you and me.”

He cocked an eyebrow in question.

“In good time,” she said to his silent query. “I'm not at liberty to discuss it just yet.”

He nodded but didn't comment. As soon as he was out the door, she dialed Stacy's captain at the Sixth. “Captain Cooper,” she said when he answered. “Patti O'Shay.”

“Captain O'Shay,” he said in his deep, booming voice. “Heard you had some good news recently. Congratulations. Sammy was a hell of a guy.”

A sudden flood of tears filled her eyes, surprising her. “Yes,” she said, working to speak normally around them, “he was.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We might have a link to the Handyman case. Through the Hustle.”

“I'll be damned.”

“Going to plant one of my team down there.”
Unofficially. Her own personal investigator.

“You want the contact info?”

“It'd save me time.”

He rattled off the name of the owner and general manager and their numbers. They chatted a moment more, then said goodbye.

Five minutes later, she had spoken to the Hustle's owner. He had been none too pleased to learn his business was once again a target of police attention, but had agreed to allow undercover officers in his establishment. He had passed her to the Hustle's general manager to work out the details.

From him, she had learned that Tonya had not yet been replaced. Until that moment, anyway.

As of that moment, Patti was the Hustle's new wait staff and talent manager.

As she ended the call, her cell phone vibrated. “Captain Patti O'Shay.”

“It's me. Yvette.”

She sounded shaky. Patti frowned. “What's wrong?”

“He was here,” she said. “In my apartment. While I was sleeping!”

“How do you know he was there?”

“He left me a note. On my bathroom vanity.”

“What'd it say? Exactly.”

Patti heard the crackle of paper. “‘When will you realize you don't need anyone but me? What will it take to prove my love to you?'”

“Is that all?” Patti asked quietly.

“No, he—” Her voice cracked. “A locket. With a photo of Tonya in it.”

Patti glanced at her watch. “I'll be right there.”

Tuesday, May 8, 2007
10:30 a.m.

Y
vette grabbed her smokes, purse and keys and headed out front to wait for Patti O'Shay. That bastard had been in her home. Somehow he had gotten in. Again.

She hadn't heard a thing.

The courtyard was empty. Even old Miss Alma and her dog, Sissy, were absent. Yvette hurried through and stumbled out into the bright, clear day.

Thank God…thank God…

She breathed deeply. It smelled like the Quarter, of fresh-baked goodies, exhaust from the constant stream of vehicles passing her building, and…possibilities.

She was alive.

He could have killed her. He had been in her apartment. Perhaps had even stood beside her bed and gazed down at her as she slept.

When will you realize you don't need anyone but me?

Trembling, Yvette fumbled to get a cigarette from her pack, hands shaking so badly she dropped the pack twice. Finally she had one, lit it and inhaled deeply.

The smoke calmed her somewhat. Tonya was dead. She didn't have to see a body to know it was true. Somehow he had realized Tonya could ID him—to her or the police—and he'd killed her.

Tears burned her eyes. She had hardly known the woman. Until a few days ago, she hadn't even liked her much. But Tonya had put herself out there for her, tried to help.

She had been killed because of it.

She drew on the cigarette, her mind racing. What should she do? Stay? Or go?

Run. As fast as you can. Don't look back.

The slam of a car door drew her attention. Patti O'Shay had arrived and was crossing the street, coming toward her.

“Those things'll kill you, you know,” she said as she neared, indicating the cigarette.

Yvette blew out a stream of smoke. “Not if the Artist gets me first.”

“He won't,” Patti said simply. “I won't let him.”

Yvette wished she could believe her. She wished she had the confidence in Captain O'Shay that she'd had even twenty-four hours ago. She put out the smoke and indicated her apartment building.

“I didn't want to be up there alone.”

“I understand.”

“Did you bring the note and locket?”

She nodded and dug them out of her pocket. She held them out. Patti picked up the note first, by the edges, opened it and read. Then she reached for the necklace.

It did, indeed, hold a picture of the woman. She stared at it, frowning.

“What?” Yvette asked.

“You ever see her wear this?”

She scrunched up her face in thought. “No.”

“Do you find it at all odd that a woman would wear a locket with her own picture in it?”

Yvette stared at her, shaken. Confused. “But if he left it, doesn't that mean it's hers?”

“Could be. Don't you find it strange?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “So if it's not Tonya's, whose—”

“Let's not speculate on that right now. I need to examine your apartment.”

They entered the building and made their way to the second floor. As they neared Samson's apartment, the unit's door flew open and Ray rushed out, wild-eyed and unkempt looking. From inside came the sound of sobbing.

“Did you hear anything?” he cried.

“Ray? What's wro—”

“Did you see someone?” He grabbed her arm. “Last night? When you got home from work?”

His grip on her arm hurt, and Yvette pulled away. “I didn't work. I turned in early.”

“Somebody poisoned Samson! They fed him hamburger with antifreeze in it.”

Yvette went cold. She brought a hand to her mouth.
The Artist. Dear God.

She shook her head in denial. “But how? Samson's always inside or with you and Bob.”

“We don't know.” His voice rose. “We were out overnight. We got home and found hi…It was…horrible.”

“Are you certain he didn't just get into—”

“Antifreeze?” His voice was disbelieving. “The vet confirmed it. We've called the police, but so far no one's come.”

“I'm a police officer,” Patti said. “Maybe I can help.”

He looked at her in surprise, as if only just realizing she was standing there.

“Were your doors and windows locked?” Patti asked.

“Yes. I mean, I think so.”

“I could check them, if you'd like?”

“Thank God!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, calling out to his partner. “Bob, this is a police officer! She's going to help us!”

The other man sat slumped on the pretty chaise, his expression the picture of grief. He looked up at Patti. “Who would do such a thing? And why?” He held out a framed photograph of the pug. “Who could harm such a sweet animal?”

Yvette had always thought Samson pretty much the ugliest dog on earth. But otherwise he'd been sweet-tempered—all bark but no bite. Unlike Miss Alma's adorable Pom, who pretty much scared the crap out of her.

She swallowed hard, hurting for them. They adored Samson, treated him like their baby.

While Ray and Patti checked the windows, she went and sat by Bob, putting her arm around him. “How is he? Is he—”

“Alive?” he choked out. “Yes. But he's really sick. Dr. Morgan said it was a good thing we found him when we did—”

He began to cry again, and Yvette awkwardly patted his back. She wondered what it would be like to love someone—or something—that way. What it would be like to be loved that way.

Was that the way the Artist loved her?

A trembling sensation settled in the pit of her gut. For one dizzying moment she imagined succumbing. Allowing herself to be consumed by his terrifying brand of devotion.

Would she finally know how it felt to be loved?

Ray and Patti returned. “Windows were locked from the inside,” Patti said. “No signs of forced entry around the door. Are you certain the door was locked?”

“Yes,” Ray said emphatically.

Patti looked at the other man. When he didn't agree, Ray made a sound of disbelief. “Bob, you didn't…you and I have talked about this before!”

“I know. I'm sorry.” He wrung his hands and shifted his gaze to Patti, then Yvette, his expression pleading.

“I didn't think locking up was such a big deal. Because of the courtyard door and…and because of Samson. I figured, of all the apartments, why would someone choose to break into ours?”

“Was anything taken?” Patti asked.

“Nothing. Everything looked just as we left it except—”

“Samson,” Ray finished, flushing. “A neighbor did it. Because of the barking. We'd had complaints, but—”

“Who could be so vile?” Bob asked. “So cruel?”

The Artist. He did it to quiet Samson. To shut him up. So he could terrorize her without detection.

Yvette stood, legs rubbery. “I don't feel so good.”

She made it to her apartment before she lost it. She threw up, aware of Patti O'Shay hovering in the doorway behind her.

“Are you all right?” she asked when she had stopped.

“No.” Yvette stood, crossed to the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Then she looked at Patti. “Hell no.”

She realized she was shivering and grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door. She slipped into it, then looked at Patti. “The Artist poisoned Samson. To shut him up.”

“I think so, too.”

“I couldn't tell them.”

“No.”

“I want to sit down.”

She headed into the living room and sat on the couch. A moment later, Patti handed her a cold washcloth. “How about something to drink?”

“Coke. There's some in the fridge.”

Several moments later, Patti handed the can to her.

“You're being so nice to me,” she said.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

She shrugged and sipped the sweet drink. “Why would you be? You don't know me. I'm nobody to you.”

Patti frowned at her, as if she had said something puzzling. “You were sick. Of course I helped you.”

“Human decency demanded it?”

If she heard cynicism in her voice, Patti O'Shay didn't show it. “Yes.”

Right. Like that happened every day.
“Look, I appreciate you coming down here to help me. I really appreciate you listening and taking me seriously.”

“But?”

“But I don't need your help anymore. Samson sealed the deal.”

“What deal is that, Yvette?”

“I'm out of here. Gone. No notice to the Hustle or anybody else.”

“And you think that'll solve the problem?”

“Duh. The bastard won't be able to find me.”

“It might solve
your
problem,” she corrected. “What about the next girl?”

“I'm supposed to care about the ‘next' girl?”

“Don't you?”

At the older woman's tone, Yvette flushed. “Don't give me that goody-goody crap. Because of me, Tonya was killed. Samson was poisoned. Seems it's damn dangerous to be anywhere around me. I'd be worried if I were you.”

“I'm not scared. And I'm not going to run.”

“Big brave cop. Bully for you.”

She stood, went to her bedroom and knelt beside the bed. From underneath, she dragged a large suitcase. She opened it and inside was another, smaller one.

“Running solves nothing.”

“Says you.” She laid them side by side on the bed. “Seems to me it'll keep me alive.”

She went to her dresser, opened the top drawer and scooped out the contents.

“Do you really think you can run from him?”

“I can try.”

“He's obsessed with you. He's twisted. A true psychopath. He won't allow anyone or anything to get in the way of what he wants. Including you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Do you think a madman like this ever makes sense? Everything he's done, he's justified to himself.”

“
You're
in his way now,” she said defiantly. “Aren't you scared?”

“I'm angry. And determined to stop him from hurting you or anybody else. To bring him to justice.”

“I'm not like you,” she said. “I'm scared. And I've had enough.”

She yanked open the second dresser drawer and rifled through its contents, tossing aside all but her favorites.

“If you stay, I promise you round-the-clock protection.”

“Sure you would.”

“I'd do it myself.”

“What's in it for me besides possibly getting killed?”

“What do you want out of it?”

A new life. A way to wipe the slate clean and start over from scratch.

Instead, she said, “What can you afford?”

“How about doing it to catch a murderer? To stop this freak from hurting someone else?”

“Put my life on the line to save some stranger?”

“Basically, yes.”

“I'm outta here.”

“How does fifty thousand dollars sound?”

Yvette stopped packing. She looked at the other woman. “You have fifty thousand dollars?”

“I do. Part of an insurance payoff.”

“I'll want to see a bank statement. Current.”

“No problem.”

Yvette narrowed her eyes. “Half up front.”

“Ten percent.”

“Twenty,” she countered. “And protection—24/7.”

“You've got it.” Patti held out her hand. “Deal?”

Yvette stared at her outstretched hand. She'd get ten thousand, up front. If it got too crazy, she could take off.

Ten grand richer.

“Deal,” she said, and clasped Patti's hand. “But I have one question I need answered first.”

“Then ask it.”

“Why's it so important to you that you catch this Handyman guy?”

The woman's expression tightened, becoming fierce. “Because he killed my husband.”