Last Known Victim (31 page)

“Then tell me how I can help.”

“I'm going to slip out of the Hustle tonight. Will you meet me? Give me a ride out of town?”

“Where to?”

“I don't know. I haven't figured that out yet.”

“Yvette—”

“Please, Riley. Please help me.”

For an agonizing moment, he was silent. Then he sighed. “Okay.
If
you'll promise to tell me everything when I pick you up.”

A cry of relief flew to her lips. “I will, I promise. Come at eleven-forty-five. Meet me at the corner of Dauphine and Bienville. Don't freak out if I'm a little late. I'm going to need to finish my number, make everything look normal.”

He agreed to be there, to wait as long as it took. “One last thing. Don't tell anyone, Riley.
Anyone.
It's important.”

When he didn't reply, she begged. “If you care at all about me, you'll promise. Not even your sister.”

“All right, but this doesn't feel right.”

Her vision blurred with tears. It didn't feel right to her, either. Her entire freaking life didn't feel right. “I wanted to tell you…how much last night meant to me.”

“Then don't go. Yvette, ple—”

She realized she was crying and hung up before she totally lost it.

Thursday, May 17, 2007
10:00 p.m.

Y
vette had everything in place. Riley would be waiting for her when she finished her last dance around midnight. She had stashed a set of clothes near the alley exit. She had hidden her wallet and tip money with the clothes.

Everything else, she left behind.

It hurt, but she would get over it. She had done it before.

She would complete her number, but instead of heading to her dressing area, she would head for the exit. Grab her garments and go, dressing in the alley as she made her escape.

Her bank accounts had proved a problem. She couldn't close them without alerting Patti and company to what she was up to. So she had written a check to Riley. She would give it to him, beg him to cash it, then bring her the money. He was wealthy. Twenty or so thousand dollars wouldn't be a great temptation to him.

By the time Patti realized Riley's part in the plan and went to him for information, she would be long gone. And any information he could offer would be useless.

Provided he didn't screw her. If he did, it wouldn't be the first time she'd been betrayed. It would just hurt more than the others.

The “new Tonya” ducked her head into Yvette's dressing room. “You're on in ten.”

Yvette thanked her and fired up a cigarette. She had left a note for her landlord, asking him to store her things and with it, a check for a thousand bucks to cover the cost of a storage unit and hiring someone to pack and haul it there. He was a good guy. She was fairly confident he'd do it.

But would she ever be back to collect?

Her art collection.
She hated leaving it behind. Each was like a brilliantly colored piece of her.

Yes, Yvette silently vowed. She would.

She glanced at the clock.
Time to go.

She said one quick, silent prayer, then exited the dressing room. “Wish me luck,” she called to Officer Guidry, wiggling her fingers in a flirty goodbye.

He did, his ears turning pink.

Minutes later, she was on stage. Though the music was familiar and her movements routine, it took all her concentration to focus on them. She had no idea how many other NOPD officers were planted in and around the club tonight, but she would bet there were several.

Where were they? she wondered, searching the crowd while she danced. The big guy with the florid complexion? The one in the cowboy hat? And what of the Artist? Was he here, watching and laughing, playing them all for fools?

Her gaze settled on a man she recognized—Rich Ruston. The guy from Pieces gallery, Shauna Malone's boyfriend. She had been talking to him when she fainted. He was alone. Sitting near the front.

He saw her gaze on him and he smiled. Something about the curving of his mouth made her blood run cold.

Had he come to see her? Or was his being here a coincidence?

Her heart pounded, but not from the dance. Not from exertion.

She swung right. Her gaze landed on another man, another familiar face. He wagged his tongue lewdly at her.

She had to get out of here.

She spun again, her gaze searching for Rich Ruston.

He was gone.

Her number ended. She made her way into the audience, playing her part as best she could, mind on the clock. Counting the minutes until she could sneak away. Worrying about Riley. Wondering whether he would be waiting, as he promised.

The guy with the wagging tongue requested a private dance. On her way to meet him, she took a detour. Her clothes were right where she left them, in the trash can by the alley exit. So was her wallet and money. Her flip-flops.

With an involuntary sound of relief, she snatched them up and ducked out into the dark alley.

Friday, May 18, 2007
12:50 a.m.

T
he call awakened Patti, though she hadn't been sleeping deeply. She brought the receiver to her ear. “O'Shay.”

It was Spencer. “Borger's gone.”

That brought her fully awake; she sat up. “How the hell did she manage…We had a half-dozen officers stationed in the club!”

“Seems she ducked out after her set. Never returned to her dressing room.”

“Where are you?”

“At the scene.”

Patti climbed out of bed. “I'm on my way.”

She made the drive to the French Quarter club in ten minutes and met Spencer at the front entrance. “Any news?”

“Nada.”

She turned toward Officer Guidry. “Have you done a complete search?”

“As best we could. When the club closes, we'll search again. Until then we've got people stationed at every exit.”

“You didn't before?”

The young cop turned red. “Who would have thought she'd leave naked?”

“She didn't, Officer.”

“But she finished her set in nothing but a G-string!”

“Are you telling me you believe Yvette Borger is wandering the French Quarter in a G-string?” She sent him a withering look. “She managed to hide clothes near an exit. Probably money, too. Somebody should have anticipated this.”

She turned back to Spencer. “Tell me you've sent a unit to her apartment.”

“Better than that. Stacy and Rene.”

“Good. I want everybody to stay in place. Carefully check anyone who exits. Once the club closes, I want it searched. Every storage closet and air vent. Understood?”

The chastened officer scurried off to spread the word.

Patti looked at Spencer. “You've personally searched her dressing room?”

“I have. Her purse is still there, minus her wallet. She's one smart cookie, no doubt about that.”

No doubt at all.

“Her timing says it all, in my opinion.”

Patti wanted to defend her. Other reasons for her disappearance sprang to her lips: she was running from the Artist, this was another of her romantic rendezvous, she enjoyed the challenge of giving them the slip and had made it a sort of contest.

She didn't utter them. The fact was, Yvette looked damn guilty.

How could she have been so wrong about her?

“Captain O'Shay? There's someone here I think you might want to speak to.”

She turned. Officer Guidry stood in the dressing room doorway, another man behind him. Guidry stepped aside and she saw who it was.

“Riley?”

“Aunt Patti! Oh, my God, something
has
happened to her!”

He looked panicked. His mop of curly hair stuck straight out in several places, as if he had been nervously running his hands through it. “Happened to whom, Riley?”

“Yvette. She asked me to meet her. At 11:45. I waited but—”

“Slow down, start at the beginning.”

He took a deep breath. “She called this afternoon. She said she was in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“She said this guy was hounding her. Threatening her. She needed my help.” He flexed his fingers. “She needed to get out of town. I offered to call you, but she said you wouldn't help.”

“She asked you to meet her here?”

“No. The corner of Dauphine and Bienville. But she didn't show up.”

Patti glanced at her watch—
1:40.
“At 11:45? And you're just looking for her now?”

“She told me she might be late. Made me promise to wait.”

Spencer cleared his throat. “So where is she?”

“I don't know.” He lifted his gaze, expression stricken. “I waited. I had the right corner, I wrote it down!”

Patti frowned. “Do you have your cell phone?”

He nodded. “I tried to call her. She didn't answer.”

“Try again now.”

She watched as he dialed, saw the hope in his expression turn to despair. He held out the phone; she heard Yvette's voice message.

“I think Yvette may be in some very serious trouble,” Patti said. “I want you to go back to that corner and wait, just in case. If she shows, call me.” She handed him her card. “It's important, Riley.”

He nodded again and stood. “Okay, Aunt Patti. You'll call me if you find her?”

“I will. Absolutely. Officer Guidry will take your number in case I need to reach you.”

Spencer's cell rang. He excused himself to answer.

“If you need anything, Riley, call me.”

A moment later, Spencer returned. “That was Stacy. Yvette's gone, all right. Took her tip stash and left a note for her landlord, asking him to store her stuff.”

“So why didn't she catch her ride out of town?”

“Another smokescreen? She knew Riley would sound the alarm. Fuel our fear of option number two.”

Option number two. The one Patti didn't want to think about.

The Artist.

Friday, May 18, 2007
8:40 a.m.

T
he search of the club proved futile. Riley spent most of the night in his vehicle and had also come up empty.

Yvette had vanished.

Patti had returned to the department and put out an all-radio alert for Yvette. At morning roll call her photo had been distributed to all patrol units. If she showed her face on the street, she would be picked up.

“She's fine, Aunt Patti. The fox outfoxed us, that's all.”

She focused on Spencer, standing in her office doorway. “I hope so. The alternative is damn grim.”

Yvette in the grasp of a madman.

“It's not your fault. None of it.”

“That's not the way it feels.”

“The self-blame game will get you nowhere fast.”

“Are you advising
me,
Boo?”

He grinned at the use of her childhood nickname for him. “In the mood for some good news?”

“Are you kidding?” She forced a harsh laugh. “You're looking at a desperate woman.”

“Stacy's moving back in. Tonight.”

“You call that good news?” The thought passed her lips before she could stop it.

He looked startled. “You don't?”

“I adore Stacy, you know that. It's just…she's not the problem. You are.”

He looked so shocked, she felt a moment of pity for him. “I'm sorry, Spencer. But until you figure out what I mean by that, her moving back in isn't such great news. And she won't be staying long. Do you hear what I'm saying?”

“Mail, Captain.”

She motioned Dora, the ISD receptionist, into her office. The woman set a stack of mail on Patti's desk and turned to leave. “Hi, Spencer, baby. You had a call. Somebody named Rich Ruston. Said it was important.”

“He leave a number?”

“Yes, indeed, sugar. It's on your desk.”

Patti began thumbing through the mail. She stopped at a cream-colored envelope. Crane's stationery. Addressed to Captain Patti O'Shay.

“Rich Ruston, Shauna's pain-in-the-ass boyfriend,” Spencer said aloud. “I wonder what he wan—”

Secured with a wax seal, bright red, in an ornate letter
A.
She opened the envelope, read the short message.

“Captain?”

She lifted her gaze to Spencer's. “It seems I've made myself an enemy.”

He strode across to her; she handed him the note card. He read it, then met her eyes. “Yvette?”

“She disappears and suddenly the Artist reappears. With a hard-on toward me. Oddly coincidental, I think.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get it to the lab, ASAP. And get me the number for the Greenwood PD.”

Moments later she was on the phone with Chief Butler of the GPD. He was an old-timer, with a thick drawl and an old-fashioned, mannerly way. It'd been a long time since another officer had called her “ma'am.”

“Thanks for taking the time to speak with me, Chief Butler. I'm in need of additional information about Carrie Sue Borger. Anything you can tell me might help.”

“Happy to try,” he drawled. “Sweet little thing back when. My first recollection of Carrie Sue was the night her mama died. Little darlin' was cowerin' in the corner, her eyes the size of half dollars.”

“How'd her mother die?”

“Fell down the back stairs, broke her neck. Little Carrie Sue witnessed the fall.” He paused. “I suppose I shouldn't speculate this way, but what the hell, maybe it'll help. Always had my suspicions Carrie Sue's mama had some help goin' down those stairs. Couldn't prove it, though. Coroner classified it accidental and that was that.”

“You interviewed Carrie Sue?”

“Yup. If she saw anything, she wasn't talkin'. Could've been too scared to talk. Her daddy was no damn good. Ornery. Soured on life. After her mama passed, everybody worried about Carrie Sue bein' brung up by him. Nothin' we could do about. She was his kin.”

“There were no outward signs of abuse?” Patti asked, feeling sorry for the youngster.

“Emotional, maybe. Nobody was real surprised when she started runnin' wild.”

“What about the assault charge against Carrie Sue?”

“As far as I'm concerned, Vic Borger deserved that knock on the head. Probably more than that. He came in, forced me to file the charge, but I didn't put much effort into pursuing it.”

“And her father? He's—”

“Dead,” he finished for her. “Passed away a year or so ago. Whatever case we might have had died with him.”

He had little else to tell her. She'd had no other family, few friends, and as far as he knew, hadn't been back to Greenwood since she left.

“If she does happen into town, will you let me know?”

“Happy to. Has Carrie Sue gotten herself into trouble down there?”

“She has, Chief Butler. Though I'll be honest, at this point I'm not quite sure what kind.”

She ended the call and flipped open her inter-department directory. She found the name she was looking for: Dr. Lucia Gonzales.

Lucia was the department's forensic psychologist. She was a post-Katrina hire, a bright, young Latino woman who had come from Texas to help the traumatized after the storm and had fallen in love with the struggling city.

When she decided to stay, Patti figured she either had no innate sense of self-preservation, zero common sense or simply couldn't resist fighting for the underdog. But whatever her psychological motivations, Patti was damn glad they had her on board.

“Captain Patti O'Shay,” she said when the woman answered. “ISD.”

“Yes, Captain. How are you?”

Not a polite, empty greeting. A real inquiry into Patti's state of mind and emotions. After Sammy's murder, she had spent many hours on the doctor's couch.

“I'd need more than this phone call for that, Lucia. I wanted to discuss a suspect with you, maybe get some insights into her psyche and possible motivations.”

“I have time now. Your place or mine?”

“You still have that fancy coffee machine up there?”

The psychologist had been the talk of the department when she brought in her own espresso machine. She could be heard frothing milk at all times of the day.

She laughed. “I do. Come on up, I'll have a latte waiting.”

Patti smelled the coffee the moment she alighted the elevator. If she hadn't known how to find Dr. Lucia's, she could have simply followed her nose.

The psychologist's office bore no resemblance to Patti's: larger and uncluttered, with a comfortable seating area that included a settee, all in a mellow, soothing palette.

Not only did Lucia Gonzales dissect the minds of criminals, she counseled overworked, burned-out, seen-it-all cops—of which the NOPD had an unending supply.

Patti greeted the woman, who motioned toward the sitting area. A frothy latte sat waiting on the table beside a comfortable armchair.

“Thank you,” Patti said, sitting. She picked up the cup, sipped, then sighed. “I needed this.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“I hear you arrested a suspect in Sammy's murder.”

“Yes.”

The woman picked up on the small hesitation. “You have your doubts.”

“I do. But perhaps I'm simply not ready for a suspect.”

“You want to talk about that?”

“Once his murder is solved, I have to let go.”

The psychologist nodded. “To a degree that you haven't yet.”

“Yes. I didn't come up with that myself, by the way. Someone I love pointed it out.”

“We all say goodbye in our own time and our own way.”

Patti cleared her throat. “I have an interesting suspect. Young woman. A stripper. Been on her own a long time. A number of arrests—solicitation, possession, petty theft.

“She may or may not have seen her father kill her mother. At the least, she witnessed her mother's neck-breaking fall. Abuse by the father was suspected but not substantiated.”

“Go on.”

“She first came to my attention when she claimed the City Park Handyman victim was her former roommate. The roommate disappeared right before Katrina and had been stalked by someone calling himself the Artist.”

“And that claim proved false?”

“Yes. She made it up.”

“For her own aggrandizement, I'm guessing.”

Patti nodded. “Then she came to me claiming that the Artist was actually stalking her, sending her disturbing love letters. Professing his undying and eternal love. She claimed he had broken into her apartment. That he had killed a friend who'd disappeared. She also insisted this ‘missing' friend had IDed the City Park victim and told her that this same girl had been receiving attention from the Artist.”

“Why did she come to you?”

“For my help.”

“Which you gave her.”

“I did, even though she couldn't produce any real proof of her claims. She absolutely believed her own story. Or seemed to.”

“So she was convincing.”

“Very. And facts began to substantiate her version of the truth.” Patti explained about Tonya's body being found, right hand missing, and the Jane Doe ID checking out.

“But?”

“Facts are coming to light that throw suspicion on not just her story, but on her as well. She may be a murderer. Now she's missing.”

“What are you asking me, Patti?”

“If she's lying, why? Why come to me with this fantastic story? Did I want to believe her so badly, I looked past the holes in the story? Or was she so convincing because she actually believes her version of events?”

For a long moment the psychologist was silent, lost in thought. “It's interesting to me,” she said finally, “that this Artist is sending ‘love' notes. Ones that profess his undying and eternal devotion.

“From what you've told me, it sounds as if this young woman had a pretty horrific childhood. One that included trauma, her mother's sudden, violent death, and abuse at the hands of her father. Most probably, she received little love or loving attention.”

“Except for her mother, maybe.”

“Who died.”

Eternal, undying love. Of course.

Dr. Lucia continued. “Could she be creating this fantastical story? Absolutely. Children who suffer extreme trauma or abuse sometimes disassociate from their own memories. It's a kind of breaking free. And it allows them to create another story, to become a part of another life or relationship.”

Patti's cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the display, saw it was Spencer, but didn't answer. “You're talking about multiple personality disorder?”

“That disorder has been renamed, more appropriately, disassociative identity disorder. DID for short. Sometimes, in extreme cases, different personalities develop to take over the painful memories. These alter identities can vary in age and gender. Whatever abuse occurred happened to that other person, not them. There are many documented cases of DID.”

“I hear a ‘but' coming.”

Dr. Lucia smiled. “But sometimes the person simply detaches. In doing so, they are free to embroil themselves in another's life—or tragedy. In a fantastical way.”

“Can you give me an example?”

She nodded. “There was a highly publicized case a year or two ago. A man confessed to a notorious and unsolved child killing. He claimed to ‘have been with her' when she died.

“It was a complete fantasy. The man was actually many states away at the time, but had emotionally invested himself so deeply in the case, he
believed
it to be true.”

“So in this woman's case, she could have so invested herself in the Handyman case, she created her own version of it?”

Her cell went off again. Again she ignored it.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I received this just a little while ago.” Patti held out the Artist's note. “What do you make of it?”

The doctor took it, scanned its simple message, then looked back up at her. “You believed her. Supported her. Then you didn't. You betrayed her. ‘Interfered' in her fantasy.”

“And now she's angry. She wants to punish me.”

“Yes, that could be. Remember, however, we're speculating here.”