Authors: Erica Spindler
Thursday, May 17, 2007
9:50 a.m.
P
atti entered the interview room. She had let Yvette wait and worry, using the minutes to compose herself. To prepare her words. School her demeanor.
Now, she realized, she shouldn't have bothered. She was about to toss her calculated approach right out the window.
“Hello, Yvette.”
The young woman turned to face her. “I'm sorry,” she said.
“For what?” Patti crossed to the table and took the seat directly across from Yvette.
“Sneaking out that way.”
“I worried you were dead. That the Artist had gotten you.”
She shifted slightly in her seat. “He didn't.”
“Quite obviously.” Patti cocked her head, studying the young woman. “What was so important that you were willing to risk your life for it?”
“I was meeting someone.”
Just as Stacy and Spencer had concluded.
“I thought you were a smart girl. I see I was wrong.”
“I'm not stupid.”
“Really? There's a madman after you and you're sneaking out to meet some guyâ”
“Not âsome' guy. Someone special.”
“Let me guess,” Patti said. “Riley Benson.”
Her mouth dropped with surprise and Patti smiled, though without pleasure. “That's who you gave me the slip for last time. June told me.”
Yvette met her gaze, as if in challenge. “Did she tell you she doesn't think I'm good enough for him? She told me.”
“This isn't about June. Or Riley. You're not a teenager. And this isn't playtime.”
“I know it's serious. It's justâ”
“Your friend is dead. You could be next.”
“Stop trying to scare me.”
“You need to be scared. Maybe you'll use some of those smarts you insist God gave you.”
Yvette fisted her fingers. “Why do you have to ruin everything!”
“I'm not your parent. Grow up.”
“No, you're my employer, aren't you? But just because you paid me to hang around doesn't mean you own me.”
Patti leaned forward, surprised at the force of her own anger. It took all her control to keep her tone even, her voice low and clear. “Why
aren't
you scared, Yvette?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“You're not acting like you believe your own story.”
“That's just dumb.”
“Alma Maytree was hit in the head with a frying pan.”
“So?”
“You hit your father in the head with a coffeepot. Didn't youâ¦Carrie Sue?”
Yvette went white. “You know about that?”
“We know.”
“I didn't kill him.”
“But you wanted to.”
That came from Spencer, who had entered the room, Tony with him. Yvette looked at them, expression registering surprise, then fear.
“That's not true.”
“Your father thought it was.”
“My old man's a son of a bitch whoâ”
“Deserved to die?” Spencer asked.
“Who can go straight to hell,” she finished.
“Maybe he has. He's dead, did you know?”
She hadn't known, Patti saw by Yvette's expression. She also saw that the girl wasn't upset by the news.
“What does
he
have to do with anything?”
“That Sunday you say you couldn't reach Tonya, a neighbor saw her drive off with a woman with long, dark hair.”
“What?”
Spencer repeated himself, then asked, “Where were you that Sunday?”
“I called her several times. Patti heard the calls.” She looked at Patti. “Right?”
“I did. But you made those calls from a mobile phone.”
“So? What difference does that⦔
She let the words trail off. Getting it, Patti saw by her expression. Cell calls could be made from anywhere. Even from beside the very person you were dialing. Even when that person was dead.
Of course, cell phone records couldn't pinpoint exact location but they could verify vicinity by establishing which towers the calls travelled through.
“I repeat,” Spencer said, “that Sunday, where were you?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “In the morning I hung out around the apartment. Then I went to the Quarter. Spent the afternoon shopping.”
“Did you meet anyone?”
“No.”
“Run into a friend? Stop into a shop where they know you?”
“No.”
“How about at your apartment? Did you speak with any of your neighbors?”
She shook her head, expression stricken.
“Is there
anyone
who can verify your story?”
“I don't thinkâ¦I was alone. All day.”
“What about the night Miss Alma was killed and Samson poisoned? Monday, May 7.”
“I have most Mondays off. I was home. I went to bed early. Slept all night.”
“That's it?”
She looked pleadingly at Patti. “The Artist broke in that night. He could have killed me, butâ”
“He didn't, did he, Yvette?”
“He left me a note and locket pendant. With Tonya's picture in it.”
“Why do you think he didn't kill you?” Patti asked, surprised by her own ferocity, by the way the words seemed to explode out of her.
Yvette clasped her hands together. “I don't know. How could I? Maybe because heâ¦he loves me?”
“We want to believe you, kid,” Tony said, tone fatherly. “I want to. Problem isâ”
“You're so full of shit,” Spencer said. “You're a liar and an opportunist.”
“I'm not! IâI want a lawyer.”
“Sure. Call one when you get home.”
“Home? I don't understand.”
“We're not keeping you, Carrie Sue. You're not under arrest.”
“But what aboutâ”
“NOPD protection?” Patti asked. “You've got it. If you still want it?”
“Of course I still want it!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “Are you nuts? The Artist exists! He's after me!”
“Okay then, an officer will accompany you home. He or another officer will be assigned to protect you.”
Yvette looked confused. “So I can go?”
“Absolutely.” Patti turned to Tony. “Detective Sciame, will you accompany Ms. Borger downstairs?”
“Sure, Captain.” He understood what he was to do: accompany her downstairs, hand her off to a patrol unit who would bring her home, then stay to “protect” her.
Tony stood and smiled at the young woman. “Ready?”
When the door snapped shut behind them, Patti turned to Spencer. “I want a search warrant for her apartment. You know what we're looking forâanything to link her to the murders of Messinger and Maytree.”
“Got it, Captain.” He stood. “You coming?”
“In a minute. You go on.”
He frowned slightly, as if he found her behavior bizarre, but did as she requested.
For a long time Patti sat in the empty interview room. She rubbed the back of her neck, working at the knots of tension. She was having difficulty wrapping her mind around this. She trusted Spencer. And Tony. Everything they said made sense. The evidence against Yvette's version of the truth was piling up.
So why couldn't she fully buy into it? Why couldn't she accept Franklin as Sammy's killer? Why did she want to grasp at far-fetched straws instead?
“If you accept that Franklin killed him, you've got to move on. Let go of Sammy.”
“This whole thing with Yvette was a way of keeping him in your life.”
The words hurt terribly.
They hurt because they were true.
Tears burned her eyes; a lump formed in her throat. She didn't want to let Sammy go. She wasn't ready for a life without him.
Patti lifted her gaze to the ceiling, swallowing hard. Spencer had been right about Yvette being alive. Maybe he was right about all of itâYvette Borger was not only a liar and scam artist, but a murderer as well.
The judge would approve the warrant. They already “unofficially” knew of one suspicious item they'd find: the gallon of antifreeze. A car-rental receipt for the weekend Tonya disappeared would be a home run. A gun. Bloodstained garments.
“Aunt Patti?” She looked up. Spencer had poked his head into the interview room. “You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
He frowned. “It's been a half an hour.”
“I didn't know I was on the clock.”
“The request is on the way to Judge Boudreaux.”
“He's good about acting quickly. Let me know when you have it.”
“You want in?”
“Don't think so. Spencer?” When he met her eyes, she said, “You were right. About Sammy. I didn't want to let go. I still don't.”
He came to her side, laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I know.”
Tears swamped her. Fighting them, she covered his hand with hers. “And Spencer?”
He met her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Thursday, May 17, 2007
1:10 p.m.
Y
vette paced her living room, emotions swinging between fury and terror. They were trying to pin Miss Alma's murder on her. As if she could ever hurt that sweet old lady. And Tonya. The only person willing to help her.
It was bullshit! Absolute bullshit. They were questioning
her?
Suspecting
her?
While a maniac roamed free?
They'd found out about Carrie Sue.
She stopped pacing, brought a hand to her throat, feeling like she might throw up. Carrie Sue had been a pathetic victim. The day she walked away from Greenwood, Carrie Sue had diedâand Yvette had been born.
The kitchen floor. The pool of blood.
Yvette breathed deeply through her nose, struggling against the nausea. She would not be sick. Her father had deserved what he got. Hell, he'd deserved worse.
But Miss Alma had never hurt anybody.
Outside her door sat a cop. For her own “protection.” Right. More like, to make certain she didn't bolt for real this time.
Cops were all alike. She'd been stupid to trust Patti O'Shay. Stupid to think the woman would actually follow through on her promises.
Patti had never meant to protect Yvette. That had been a sham. She had used Yvette as bait to catch her husband's killer. Now they were trying to pin these murders on her. Or at least creating a big umbrella of suspicion over her. But why?
Patti O'Shay had what she needed. And now she wanted out of paying Yvette the money she had promised her.
Was that what this was all about? Money?
She should have run. She could still. Take the ten grand and run like hell. Away from New Orleans. Make a new life somewhere else.
Riley.
She thought of the night before, how magical and perfect it had been. He had taken her to the gallery. To the show they had been unpacking in the back room. Big, bold paintings. Organic and blatantly sexual.
Riley had wanted her to see them because they reminded him of her.
Swept away with emotion, they had made love, surrounded by the exquisite works of art. They had fallen asleep in each other's arms, only to awake and make love again.
She had finally met a man she could love and one she believed could love her. And now this. It wasn't fair.
“Life isn't fair. Get used to it, girl.”
She brought her hands to her ears, trying to shut out her father's voice. To get him out of her head. To stop his pounding and pounding at her.
“Ms. Borger? Police!”
She dropped her hand and swung toward her door.
The cop stationed out front.
“Yes?”
“People here to see you.”
Yvette went to the door and opened it. Stacy and a man she didn't recognize stood there, two uniformed officers behind them.
“Hello, Yvette,” Stacy said.
“My good friend Brandi,” she said sarcastically.
“What a surprise.”
“Thanks for making me look like a jerk last night.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mine, too. Now.” Stacy shoved a piece of paper into her hands. “Search warrant.”
Yvette looked at it, stunned. She saw her name, her address. “I don't understand.”
“A judge granted us the right to search your apartment.”
“Why? For what?”
“Evidence in the murders of Alma Maytree and Tonya Messinger.”
“That's crazy!”
“The law requires that you or your legal representative be on the premises for the search.”
“Legal representative?”
“Lawyer.”
“I don't have one.”
“Then you may wait here or follow us. It's your choice. Either way, we'll present you with a list of everything we take.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You may have one, of course. Call one. But we have the right to search your property now, lawyer present or not.”
So Yvette trailed them around the apartment, biting back sounds of distress as they went through her things. Touching, examining. Sometimes quietly discussing an item between themselves.
Yvette hugged herself, feeling violated. Sick to her stomach. She wondered if she would ever feel comfortable in her home again.
They had begun with the living room, then went on to the bedrooms and bath. Digging through her vanity drawers, they found her contraceptive jelly and a clutch of condoms. Young Officer Guidry glanced at her from the corners of his eyes; she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.
She could imagine what he thought of her. What he thought she was.
Whore. Hooker.
He could think what he wanted; she knew better.
Stacy and her cop crew saved the kitchen for last. It wasn't until they entered the room that she remembered her cache of tip money. Heart in her throat, she watched as they began to search the refrigerator, then freezer.
They checked each carton, container and box. What, she wondered, a bubble of hysteria rising up in her, were they looking for? Tonya's hand?
She held her breath as Stacy removed the Rocky Road carton, opened it and retrieved the plastic bag of cash. Light-headed, Yvette watched Stacy unwrap, then count it.
The police could call it evidence and confiscate it.
Goodbye three thousand bucks.
Stacy glanced at her in question.
“My tip money,” she whispered.
Stacy nodded and folded the aluminum foil around the cash, then tucked it back into the Rocky Road carton. “You might want to rethink the hiding place. It's not as clever as you imagine.”
Finished with the freezer, they moved on to the sink area. Stacy knelt in front of the cabinet below and began shuffling through the bottles, jugs and cans of cleaning supplies.
Again, it looked as if she was searching for something specific.
Stacy pulled out a gallon jug. Yvette didn't recognize it and frowned. “What is that?”
“You don't know? It's antifreeze.”
“That's not mine.”
“Then what's it doing here?”
“I don't know! I don't even know what antifreeze is.”
“Then it's not a problem.”
“Butâ”
She brought a hand to her head, dizzy.
“Are you all right?” Officer Guidry asked.
“I need toâ¦I'm going to go sit down.”
He followed her into the living room. She sank onto the couch and dropped her head into her hands.
“Can I get you something?” he asked.
She shook her head, thoughts racing. Antifreeze? How had it ended up in her cabinet? And why were the cops interestedâ
Samson. “The vet said he was poisoned. Antifreeze.”
“We're done.”
She looked up, vision blurry. Stacy held out a sheet of paper. “That's a list of everything we took. I need you to check the list, then sign it. I'll leave you a signed copy, as well, to share with your lawyer.”
Lawyer?
She blinked and took the list, scanned it. Credit card receipts. One of her old T-shirts. Some photographs. Her day-planner. Journal. The antifreeze.
Not much. A weird collection of seemingly unrelated things.
She signed the paper; they gave her a copy. She walked them to the door, then locked it behind them. She brought her shaking hands to her face. How could this be happening? She was the victim, not the perpetrator.
Cops could do anything they wanted.
They had probably planted the stuff themselves.
Of course.
Stacy living here. Patti in and out. Spencer, too, she'd bet. They had keys.
Why were they doing this to her? And what of the Artist? He was real. He'd killed Jessica Skye. He would kill her, as well.
Dizzy with fear, she crossed to the couch and sat. She put her head between her knees and breathed slowly and deeply, in through her nose and out her mouth.
Let the fear go. Be calm and thinkâ¦think. How to get out of this?
She had to give them the slip. Get out of town. But how?
Officer Guidry was standing watch right outside her door. She had given them permission to station him there. For her “protection.”
If she withdrew that permission, they'd suspect she meant to take offâand they would be all over her.
She wasn't under arrest. They couldn't stop her from going to work. Or anywhere else.
So Officer Guidry would accompany her to work tonight. Just like they'd planned. Only she had plans of her own.
She would show them. They thought they had outsmarted her. Trapped her in whatever sick game they were playing.
Think again, Captain Patti O'Shay.
Her best chance for escape was the Hustle. Lots of people and distractions, several entrances and exits. She would go right after a dance, with just the clothes on her backâand her cache of tip money.
She got to her feet, clearheaded now. Revitalized. She remembered feeling this way when she had finally resolved to leave Greenwood. And again, right before Katrina hit. That time, she had made the decision to stay, to fight back. To stand up and shout “Take that, bitch!”
This was a different kind of F-you, but just as liberating. Just as exhilarating.
Yvette began to pace. She would need to empty her bank accounts and operate on a cash-only basis, at least for a while. Otherwise they could track her through her financial transactions.
She could get out of the Quarter easily, but she would need to get out of the city. Quickly. As soon as they realized she'd bolted, they would converge on both the bus and rail stations. And renting a vehicle would be too risky.
Riley. She had no one else.
His cell number was in her day-planner, which the police had confiscated. Her cell phone, she realized. He had text-messaged her; it'd be saved there.
She scrambled for her phone, found his number and dialed.
It dumped immediately to voice mail. Afraid to leave a message, she ended the call.
What now? She could call the galleryâ¦.
What if his sister answered? June couldn't know she'd contacted Riley. She would run right to her good buddy Captain O'Shay.
Lie. If June answered, pretend to be someone else.
Hands shaking she retrieved the phone book, dialed Pieces. Sure enough, June answered.
“Riley Benson, please.” Yvette worked to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“May I tell him who's calling and what this is in reference to?”
Pick a name. A reason for calling. The new show. The paintings that had surrounded them while they made love.
“Tell him Ellen St. James is calling. About the Avery piece I was interested in.”
“You must be the lawyer,” June said warmly. “Congratulations on your new practice.”
“Thank you. I'm very excited.”
“You can't go wrong with an Avery. He's very talented, and I predict his work will escalate in value.”
“Just what Riley assured me. Is he in?”
“He is. Hold, please.”
A moment later he came on the line. “This is Riley Benson.”
She heard the question in his voice. She spoke quickly. “Riley, it's me, Yvette. Don't let on it's me, please. I need your help.”
“Yes, Ellen. It's a fabulous piece. One of my personal favorites.”
She said a silent thank-you, then continued, “I've got to get out of town,” she continued. “There's this guyâ¦he's crazyâ¦he's threatened to hurt me. I'm afraid.”
“Hold please, Ellen.”
Yvette heard him talking to his sister, assuring her he could handle the gallery while she ran an errand.
A moment later, he came back to her. “Go to the police,” he said, voice low, fierce-sounding. “They'll protect you.”
“They won't. I already tried them and they didn't believe me.”
“I'll talk to Aunt Patâ”
“No! Please, Riley. I need
you.
I have no one else.”
“This is nuts. I'll protect you. Come here andâ”
“I can't.” A sob rose in her throat. “He'll hurt you and Iâ¦I couldn't bear that.”