Last Known Victim (23 page)

Tuesday, May 8, 2007
4:10 p.m.

P
atti had grown up in the Bywater area of the city. When she and Sammy married, they'd bought a Creole cottage not far from her childhood home.

They had lovingly restored that cottage, planning to move to a larger home when they started a family. But the babies never came, so they'd spent the rest of their marriage in their newlywed cottage.

Located just down river from the French Quarter, Bywater was a solid, middle-class neighborhood. Neither as historic nor upscale as its nearest residential neighbor, the Faubourg Marigny, it had boasted an active and committed resident community and had begun to experience a sort of renaissance—before Katrina hit.

Floodwaters had battered the neighborhood—and permanently changed its dynamic. Some residents had rebuilt. Some had sold and moved on. And some remained indecisive still, two years out. Those properties sat, cleaned, gutted and boarded over, a terrible reminder of the past.

More horrible for Patti than for most. A daily reminder of her personal loss, an a.m. and p.m. kick in the gut.

“Nice place,” Yvette said, dropping her purse on the overstuffed couch.

“Thanks.”

“Didn't you flood here?”

“We did.” Water had breached the west side of the Industrial Canal, inundating all but the properties closest to the Mississippi. Her and Sammy's cottage sat closer to the river than others in the neighborhood. “But only twelve inches. We were lucky.”

Lucky. Only twelve inches of water in her home. Only her husband murdered. Life altered forever.

“You rebuilt, anyway.”

“Where else was I going to go? My life is here.”

Yvette gazed at her, brow furrowed in thought. As if studying an alien life form.

How did you explain family, roots and history to a twenty-two-year-old who, as far as she could tell, didn't even own a pet? Instead, she asked Yvette about herself. “Why are you still here?”

She shrugged. “The French Quarter was high and dry. I was able to move up to the Hustle. I figured, why start over?”

In a way, they'd stayed for the same reason.

“I thought we should set some ground rules,” Patti said.

“Ground rules?” she repeated, arching her eyebrows. “Like what? Being in bed by ten, up by nine? No smoking?”

“This arrangement is to keep you safe. To that end, we stick together. Where you go, I go. And vice versa.”

“The bathroom?” Yvette folded her arms across her chest. “Do you watch me pee? Shower? I've never been under house arrest before.”

“You'll have your own bathroom. And your own bedroom, as well. I suggest you sleep with your door open. I also insist you keep the window locked. You do what I say. Always.”

“Isn't this going to be fun? Just like a girlfriend sleepover.”

Patti frowned at her sarcasm. “You don't seem to grasp the seriousness of this situation.”

“Oh, I grasp it all right. There's a maniac out there who's killing people. And for some reason, he's become obsessed with me. Lucky me.”

Patti cocked an eyebrow at the “Oh, well” simplicity of the response. It seemed to her that Yvette didn't have a clue how fragile life was—or how fleeting it could be.

And that death, when it came, was quite final.

She tried another approach. “This is a business arrangement. I'm paying you a lot of money to follow my rules. If you choose not to, legally I can't stop you. But I can't protect you then, either. And you'll have negated our deal. Ultimately it's your choice.”

Yvette held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded.

“Good. Your bedroom is the second room on the right. Maybe you want to get settled in?”

She said she did and started in that direction. Patti called out, stopping her. “And Yvette?” The young woman looked back at her. “No smoking in the house.”

Thursday, May 10, 2007
12:15 p.m.

S
tacy stood in the doorway of the tidy little kitchen, gazing down at what had once been a woman named Alma Maytree. A neighbor had called, worried over the incessant yapping of the woman's dog—and because they hadn't seen “Miss Alma” in several days.

Miss Alma had been eighty-two years old. A sweet old lady who had loved her baby—as she'd called her dog, Sissy—and had been kind to all her neighbors. Even the ones who didn't deserve it.

The neighbor who'd contacted the police had feared she'd had a heart attack. Or fallen and been unable to get up.

It was much worse than that.

Someone had bashed in the right side of her head. She had fallen face first onto the white tile floor, leaving quite a mess. She wore a baby-blue chenille robe and slippers. What looked like a floral nightgown peeked out from underneath. A cast-iron frying pan lay on the floor, only inches from the body.

“The old ‘iron skillet to the head' method. Works every time,” Baxter said.

Stacy glanced at him. “No question about the murder weapon, that's for certain.”

“I haven't seen one of those in ages.” Rene snapped on latex gloves. “My grandmother cooked with nothing but. Brings back memories.”

“She ever hit you in the head with one?”

He grinned. “It would explain a lot, wouldn't it? But no, she just thought about it. A lot.”

The first officer had cordoned off the area around the apartment's entrance. A dozen or so of the building's tenants clustered just beyond, staring and whispering. One of them had offered to take care of Sissy, an offer Stacy had jumped on. A couple of officers were in the process of questioning them and their neighbors.

“Any luck finding an apartment?” Rene asked, squatting down beside the victim.

Stacy followed suit. She had made the mistake of inquiring about an apartment to several of her fellow officers. Suddenly everybody knew her business.

“One I'd want to live in? Not hardly.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Hardly.”

“If you ask me—”

“I'm not.”

“—maybe you should tough it out with Malone? He's a jerk, but he's okay.”

“That makes no sense at all, you know that.”

“I'm a guy. It makes perfect sense.”

“Could we please give Miss Alma here our full attention? I think she deserves it.”

“She'd dead, Killian. I don't think she knows the difference.”

She ignored him. “Pan was definitely the weapon.” She indicated the blood, hair and other matter, probably bits of flesh and bone, clinging to its right side and bottom.

“He didn't hit her square.”

“He was taller. Right-handed, obviously.” A left-handed killer, striking from behind, would have struck the victim on the left.

“How do you figure he was taller?”

Stacy stood and crossed to the large cabinet closest to the oven. She opened it and, as she expected, found Alma Maytree's pots and pans. She selected one of a similar size to the one on the floor.

She motioned one of the crime techs over, a woman several inches shorter than she. “Stand right there.”

Stacy stood about an arm's length behind her, and swung at her head, stopping right before she made contact.

Her arm made a natural arc downward, hand tipping slightly thumb up. She repeated the motion. Each time the same part of the pan would have connected with the tech's head in about the same spot.

Stacy thanked the tech, who hadn't even flinched, and shifted her attention to the scene. Nothing was out of place except the body and frying pan. She hadn't yet searched the rest of the apartment, but from what she had seen so far, it looked to be in the same condition.

It appeared Miss Alma had been making tea. Kettle of water on the stove. Teapot and tea bags on the counter. Two cups, empty, waiting to be filled.

Two cups. Not one.

Whoever did this, Miss Alma had trusted. She had thought of her, or him, as a friend. Had invited them in. Turned her back to them. Then wham!

But why?

“Judging by the robe and slippers,” Baxter said, “I'm guessing it was either early morning or approaching bedtime.”

Stacy crossed to the trash can, lifted off its top and looked inside.

Baxter followed her, peering over her shoulder. “You can tell a lot about people by their garbage.”

And sometimes, what time of day it is.

“I mean,” Baxter went on, “who would think this sweet old lady would enjoy Cajun Fire Cracklings?”

“Where do you see Cajun Cracklings?”

“I don't. I'm just saying, who would?”

“You drove your mother crazy, didn't you?”

He grinned. “Looks to me like Miss Alma had had dinner.”

Stacy nodded. The remnants of a chicken-and-rice dinner was sitting squarely on top of the debris. “And a friend came to call.”

“Some friend,” he muttered. He crossed to the refrigerator and opened it, peering inside.

“Anything out of whack there?”

“Nope.”

Frowning, Stacy replaced the can's lid. “Remember Yvette Borger?”

“The exotic dancer who was diddling Marcus Gabrielle?”

Stacy nodded. “She lives in this building.”

“No kidding? Think there's a connection to Gabrielle here?”

“Seems unlikely, but I don't like coincidences.”

The coroner's representative arrived. He took one look at Alma Maytree and shook his head. “Kids and geriatrics. There's just something extra heinous about it. You know what I mean?”

Stacy did. Both children and the elderly were helpless to defend themselves.

He fitted on gloves and knelt by the body. “This looks pretty cut and dried,” he murmured. “But if this job's taught me anything, it's not to take things at face value.”

He carefully inspected her hands and arms. “No defensive wounds. Nails look clean.”

“How long's she been dead?”

“A couple days, give or take. I'll see if I can get any closer back at the lab, but establishing time of death this far out is far from exact.”

True. The longer a person was dead, the more difficult it was to pinpoint when they'd died.

“Do your thing,” Stacy said. “We'll look around.”

The apartment's furnishings ran toward fussy. Lots of antique lace, silk flowers and chintz. Not a pillow out of place in the living room. The bed was made. No discarded clothes on the floor, laid across a chair or hanging on a bathroom hook. The only true clutter in the entire place was on the bathroom vanity.

Lotions, creams, perfumes, lipsticks. Stacy picked up one small tub. “Age Erase—rehydrates, rejuvenates and reduces the visible signs of aging.”

“Hope springs eternal,” Baxter murmured, picking up another cream and reading the label. “Even at eighty-something.”

“Two,” Stacy offered. “I think it's sweet.”

And really sad, considering.

They returned to the kitchen. The evidence team was collecting the garbage from the can under the sink.

“Be really careful not to jostle that,” Stacy said. “The layering of the debris could help us establish TOD.”

“Gotcha, Detective.”

“How's it coming, Mitch?”

He'd already bagged her hands and feet. Next step would be loading her into a body bag and transporting her to the morgue. The process was done as cleanly as possible to avoid loss or contamination of evidence.

The man looked up. “What you see is what you get, is my guess.”

“When will we hear from you?”

“Couple days. I've got several ahead of her.” He held up a hand as if to ward off any wheedling. “I gotta have a life, my wife insists on it.”

She smiled slightly and unclipped her cell phone. “As always, we appreciate your dedication.”

She dialed Spencer's cell. “It's me,” she said when he answered. “Thought you'd want to know, I've got a stiff at Yvette Borger's apartment building.”

Thursday, May 10, 2007
1:25 p.m.

W
hen Patti's cell phone buzzed, she and Yvette were hunting down friends and coworkers of Jessica Skye. It was Spencer. “I thought you'd be interested. One of Yvette's neighbors got whacked.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Alma Maytree. Took a frying pan to the side of her head.”

Alma Maytree.
The name sounded familiar. Had Yvette mentioned her?

“When?”

“Don't know. I'm heading there now. You'll have to come out of retirement to find out.”

She shut her phone, veered into the left lane, then used the neutral-ground crossover to execute a U-turn.

“What's up?” Yvette asked.

“We're heading back to the house.”

Yvette yawned. “Why?”

“I'm dropping you off.”

That got her attention, something that had been pretty damn difficult to manage.

“And leaving me? Alone?”

“There's been a murder. I need to go to the scene. I can't bring you.”

“Isn't that against ‘the rules'?”

“I don't have a choice.” She glanced at her. “You don't have to look so damn smug.”

“Sorry. Can't help myself.”

She sounded anything but sorry, and Patti gritted her teeth. As the hours had passed with no contact from the Artist, Yvette had grown more rebellious—not that she had been particularly accommodating to begin with. She was bored. At once surly and self-righteous. Prickly. She didn't get the point of Patti's rules and never missed an opportunity to diss them.

Patti could put up with that—and a lot more—if it led to Sammy's killer.
If.

Could this dead neighbor have anything to do with her case? Alma Maytree. She wanted to ask Yvette if she knew her, but feared Yvette would put two and two together and realize the woman was dead. And Patti was uncertain how she would react. She could panic, then run.

Patti couldn't chance it. Instead, she would gather the facts, assess the situation, then decide. Could be this murder was unrelated to Yvette or the Artist.

One coincidence was tough enough to swallow. But three?

Marcus Gabrielle had been murdered. Samson had been poisoned. And now a woman named Alma Maytree was dead.

Patti made the turn onto Piety Street. Moments later, she pulled up in front of her cottage.

“I'll let myself in.” Yvette held her hand out for the key.

Patti removed her house key from the ring but didn't hand it over. “I shouldn't be gone long. Lock the door and don't let anyone in.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Patti gazed at her for a long moment. “You do understand how much danger you're in?”

“If I say yes, will you give me the key?”

When Patti glared at her, she laughed. “I'm just playing with you. Yes, I understand how much danger I'm in. And how serious this is. And how important it is to follow your rules.”

Knowing a snow job when she heard it, Patti dropped the key into her hand, then watched as Yvette jogged up the walk, unlocked the door and disappeared inside without a backward glance.

Patti sat a moment, struggling with the need to tiptoe up the walk and double-check that she had relocked the door. Or to circle the block, then peek in the windows to see what Yvette was up to.

Was this how a parent felt when faced with giving their adolescents some freedom? Anxious about them screwing up? Hopeful they wouldn't, torn between being suspicious and wanting to trust?

Yvette was an adult. She earned her living dancing in a strip club. She lived on her own. Made her own choices, day in and out. But damn, she acted like a kid. Like a silly, self-absorbed teenager.

Patti gazed at the house a moment more, then pulled away from the curb, heading toward the French Quarter.

Within minutes, she pulled up to the uniformed officer redirecting traffic at Yvette's corner. She held up her shield and he waved her through.

She parked, climbed out and strode to the building's entrance. She greeted the officer stationed there, entered and followed the crime-scene tape to the victim, who had lived on the first floor.

Patti reached the woman's apartment, signed the log and ducked under the barricade. The complex was crawling with NOPD and crime-scene techs, each focused on their job.

It never ceased to amaze her how so many people could cram into one space and carry out their individual and detailed tasks with such precision.

But they did, crime after crime.

She wound her way through them until she reached the heart of the crime scene: the victim. Spencer had already arrived. He stood beside Stacy, Baxter and Deputy Coroner Mitch Weiner. They were deep in a discussion about the Saints' picks in the recent NFL draft.

“Hello, Mitch,” she said. “Detectives.”

“We've been waiting for you,” the deputy coroner replied. “Malone figured you'd want a look before we packed her up.”

“I appreciate that.”

She studied the body, taking in the scene, the position of the victim, the frying pan.

“Done,” she said, and turned back to the group. “What've you got?”

Stacy answered first. “Blow to the head killed her. No defensive wounds. No other injuries detected.”

Mitch stepped in. “My guess is, she's been dead a few days. I'll know more after the autopsy.”

“Any suspects?”

“Not yet. The neighbors we've spoken with say she was universally liked.”

Stacy stepped in. “We believe she knew her attacker. She let him into her apartment after she had prepared for bed.”

“How do you know it's a him?” Patti asked.

“Pardon?”

“An older woman. She's in a robe. Preparing tea before bed. Would she let a man into her apartment?”

“Not just any man,” Baxter murmured. “A close relative.”

“A neighbor, maybe. A good friend. Someone very nonthreatening.”

“Police officer,” Mitch tossed in. “Priest.”

They fell silent. The coroner's reps loaded the body into a bag. After telling them he'd be in touch, Mitch left with the body.

Patti turned to Spencer and Stacy. “The question is, does this have anything to do with Yvette Borger?”

Spencer cocked an eyebrow. “Why would it?”

“Two nights ago the Artist paid a midnight visit to Yvette. He managed to enter her house, leave her a note and exit without waking her. She found the note the next morning.”

“Or so she says.”

Patti ignored Spencer's sarcasm and continued. “That same night, her neighbor's pug, Samson, was poisoned. And now Alma Maytree is dead, quite possibly killed the same night.”

“And you believe her?”

She frowned at the challenge in her nephew's voice. “I do.”

“So much so that you've taken a leave of absence from your job and, in my opinion, your senses, to help her. Have you lost your friggin' mind?”

Several people glanced their way. Patti motioned for the door. “Why don't we take this conversation outside, Detective?”

They filed out of the apartment, Stacy with them. When they'd found a quiet corner of the courtyard, Spencer faced her. “I don't give a flip if the woman's a total psycho. Except now, she's messing with someone I care about.”

“I appreciate your concern, Spencer. I love you, too. But I don't need protecting.”

“She has no proof. She manufactured the letters. Manufactured the Artist. For attention. She gets her jollies from it.”

“She didn't manufacture Alma Maytree. Didn't manufacture Samson being poisoned.”

“How do you know
she
didn't kill Alma Maytree? And poison Samson?”

“Why? What's her motive?”

“How about she's just plain crazy?”

Stacy stepped in. “Is it so far-fetched, Patti? Maybe she killed Gabrielle, too. Or had him killed? Because he stiffed her. Or because he tried to kill her. She trusted him, he betrayed her.”

“There's more,” Patti said. “Yvette came to me for help. Her friend from the Hustle, Tonya Messing—”

“Her friend?” Stacy interrupted. “They were anything but friends when I was there working undercover. Yvette called her a ‘bitch.' Her word, not mine.”

“Apparently when you and Spencer refused to help her, she turned to Tonya. Now Tonya's missing.”

“Missing?”

“Tonya had recognized our Jane Doe from the paper, as a former dancer from the Hustle. Jessica Skye. Disappeared with the storm.” She leaned forward. “She also recognized the guy sending the notes to Yvette as having been interested in Jessica.”

“And they began their own little investigation.”

“Yes. When Tonya went missing, Yvette came to me.”

“Has anyone else corroborated Skye being the Jane Doe?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Not another dancer at the club?”

When she indicated none had, the two detectives exchanged glances. Spencer spoke first. “Don't you see what's happening here? Tonya's the only one who can positively ID Skye and suddenly she's ‘missing.' When Stacy and I went to her apartment to see all of the Artist's letters, they were suddenly gone. She's pathological, Aunt Patti.”

“I agree, Captain,” Stacy said. “Aligning yourself too closely with her would be a mistake.”

Too late.

Patti gazed at the pair, torn. Spencer and Stacy were good cops. With good instincts. But she had to go with her own instincts.

“I'm not changing course. I can't. If what she said is true, the Artist is the Handyman. And she's my connection to him.”

“If,” Spencer said, voice tight.

“I took Tonya's place at the Hustle. And moved Yvette in with me. For her own protection.”

For a full three seconds, Spencer simply gaped at her. When he spoke, the words exploded from him. “That's the most lame-brained, boneheaded scheme—”

“Don't overstep your bounds, Detective. I'm still your superior officer.”

“Then act like it, for God's sake!”

Stacy laid a hand on Spencer's arm. “And you're doing all this with the chief's blessing?”

“He doesn't know anything about it. Officially, I'm on leave.”

Stacy made a sound of distress. “I beg you, reconsider. You're not thinking clearly. You're still grieving. Between that and the stress of—”

“My thinking is crystal clear. I know exactly what I'm doing.”

“Throwing away your career?” Spencer demanded. “Are you prepared for that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let me ask you, Aunt Patti, how did you get Little Miss Scamalot to accept your offer? Out of the goodness of her heart? Because she wanted to help you catch a killer?”

“Yes.”

She had hesitated before answering, a fraction of a second only, but enough to tip off Spencer. “Collaborating with Borger only two days and already lying. That's not the Patti O'Shay I know and respect.”

It had been a lie, of course. And a poor one.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me. What did you offer her?”

“Money.”

“Now, there's a surprise. How much?”

“That's between me and Yvette.”

Spencer gazed at her a long moment, jaw tight. “Then I want in,” he said. “If for no other reason than to watch your back.”

“No. Absolutely not. Jeopardizing my career is one thing, jeopardizing yours is another.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but she cut him off. “Detectives, I think you have a scene to finish processing. And I've got a leave to continue. Excuse me.”

She turned and walked away, aware of their concern, Spencer's frustration.

She didn't blame them. If either of them had made the same decisions, she would have been damn concerned indeed.