Last Known Victim (35 page)

Saturday, May 19, 2007
1:20 p.m.

P
atti left Spencer to wait at the scene for the coroner's representative and the arson investigator. She had also left him in the dark about her mysterious call.

The Artist.
Another move in his game, another punishment. Or should she say
her
game?

Riley was dead. That left one obvious suspect.

Yvette.

It felt wrong. Patti wanted her to be innocent, to be the victim she claimed to be.

Patti had grown to understand her and respect her fighting spirit. She had seen through her sarcasm and anger to a young woman who had been hurt. Who needed love, to be cared for. Not in the physical sense, but in an emotional one.

Patti pulled into her driveway. That may all be true, but she had a job to do. She killed the engine, then checked her weapon. A full magazine, bullet chambered. Locked and loaded.

She opened her console, retrieved the set of handcuffs she kept there. She hooked them to her belt, then climbed out and made her way to the front door. Was Yvette watching? Would she be surprised when Patti confronted her? Would she try to play innocent?

Or was this another nasty surprise? Her chest tightened. Another loaded cooler? Worse?

The door was locked. As stealthily as possible, she fitted the key into the lock and turned. The dead-bolt slid back. She unholstered her Glock as she eased the door open.

No nasty surprises. Yet.

Patti stepped inside, weapon out. A rustling noise came from the back of the cottage. Her heart rate increased. She firmed her grip on the Glock and made her way soundlessly forward. She knew the house like the back of her hands and avoided the creaks and groans effortlessly.

She reached the kitchen doorway and stopped, heart sinking. Up until that moment, she had held out hope that she had been wrong. That Yvette was the innocent victim she had proclaimed herself.

She wasn't.

She stood at the kitchen counter, her back to the door. She wore a T-shirt and pair of sweats that Patti recognized as her own.

“Hello, Yvette.”

With a cry, the other woman spun around, soft drink slipping from her hand. It hit the floor and the cola spewed out.

“Patti! Thank God, you're—” Her gaze went to the gun; her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“That's my question, isn't it? What are you doing here? In my home?”

“Trying to help. Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“I think you know.”

“No, I don't! Have you lost your mind?”

She backed against the counter. Patti saw that she had been making a peanut butter sandwich.

“Where are they?” Patti asked.

“Who? Stacy—”

“And Shauna. My friend June.”

“Riley's sister? How would I…I don't know!”

“I believe you.”

At the sarcasm, Yvette held a hand out, expression pleading. “I came back to help you. To help find Stacy and Shauna. I could be in Houston by now.”

“A totally selfless act? Sounds like the Yvette Borger I know.”

Her eyes filled with tears; unaffected, Patti smiled grimly. “I suppose you're going to tell me the Artist got you, but you escaped?”

“Yes! I was on my way out of town…I saw a newspaper. I read about Stacy and Shauna, and I—”

“Came back to help?” Patti cocked an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, the sound tight. “We both know that's bullshit. Here's what really happened. You ducked out of the Hustle Thursday night. You had everything planned and ready. You were angry at me for questioning you, doubting your story. You had decided to punish me by getting to the people I loved. Shauna. Stacy. And now June.”

“That's crazy!” Yvette cried. “Why are you saying this?”

“You used Riley to reinforce the illusion you were abducted. Did he figure you out, Yvette? Did he catch you in the act?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Is that why you killed him? He was on to you?”

Yvette went white. “What?”

“You killed Riley and tried to cover it up by burning down the gallery.”

Yvette grabbed the counter for support. “Please don't…Riley can't be—”

“Is that why you're wearing my clothes? Are yours bloo—”

“No! My God, I could never—”

“Make this better. Tell me where Stacy, Shauna and June are.”

As if her legs gave way, Yvette sank to the floor. “Riley was supposed to meet me,” she whispered. “I knew you were trying to pin this on me, so I called him.”

“Go on.”

“I planned ahead. Left clothes and my wallet hidden by the alley door. I knew no one would expect me to leave right after a performance.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away. “I ducked out into the alley and he was there. The Artist.”

Patti made a sound of frustration. She'd thought she was getting a confession.

“I didn't realize at first. It was this bum who…hung out in the alley a lot. He'd followed me home once…”

She cleared her throat. “He was staring at me. I yelled at him and he…attacked me.”

Patti had to admit she sounded convincing. But then, that was Yvette Borger's trademark.

“What happened then?”

“I don't know. I—”

“You're losing me now. And just when I was starting to buy your baloney.”

“No, it's the truth! I woke up in this place…I didn't know where I was. It was dirty and…and I remembered then, what had happened.”

“When was this?”

“Last night, middle of the night.”

“It's the first you remember?”

“Not completely. I realized I had been in and out of consciousness. Maybe he was drugging me, I'm not certain.”

She pressed her face against her drawn-up knees, and Patti wondered if she was composing herself—or hiding a smile.

“Someone spoke to me. A woman, I think. Telling me to run. To escape.”

Patti recalled what the psychologist had said.
“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. Become a part of a fantasy life or relationship.”

“How did you escape?”

“I was in a boarded-up room…it was completely dark. I stumbled, hurt my knee and cut myself on the broken window.”

“The boarded-up broken window?”

Yvette looked stricken. “Yes! Look—”

She peeled back a handmade bandage, revealing a nasty cut. “And here.” She carefully inched up the sweatpants. Sure enough, she had badly scraped her knee. It looked dirty.

“You should clean that,” Patti said. “It'll get infected.”

Tears filled the young woman's eyes. Patti's resolve wavered. She scolded herself for it, even as she crossed to the cabinet where she kept her first aid kit.

Her aim never wavering from Yvette, she retrieved the kit, then handed it to her.

“Everything you need's in there.”

Yvette nodded and opened the kit. Patti watched as she cleaned the wound.

“So how did you escape?”

“I figured, if the woman urged me to escape, she'd left a way for me to do it.” Yvette slathered the ointment on the cut, then covered it with a big bandage. “The door was open.”

Interesting, Patti thought, that a “woman” told her to escape. Left the door unlocked.

Patti had a pretty good idea who that woman was: Yvette herself.

“If I was guilty, why would I come here? Why would I call you?”

Patti didn't answer.

“I've got my clothes, you'll see—”

“Show me.” Patti motioned her up, then followed, gun trained on her.

Yvette had, indeed, left her clothes in a small pile on her bedroom floor. She held them up for Patti. They were rumpled and dirty. The knee of the capri pants was torn, bloodstains marred the pink stretchy T-shirt.

“See? I'm telling the truth.” She dropped them. “I can take you there. Stacy may be there. Shauna…I just ran. I was so scared.”

What if she was telling the truth?

Her cell phone vibrated. Instead of answering, she retrieved her cuffs.

“What are you—”

She snapped one around Yvette's right wrist, then the left.

“Patti, please! I—”

“Excuse me while I take this call. O'Shay here.”

It was Spencer. “Aunt Patti, I'm with Ray Hollister. He's confirmed that Riley was shot. Twice.”

“Self-inflicted?”

“He doesn't think so, judging by the entry-point locations. Autopsy will confirm, but his bet is Riley was dead before the fire reached him.”

“Which would most probably mean he wasn't our guy.”

“But he may have known who was.”

“Bingo. Let's try to find out if he was killed at the gallery or dumped there.”

“You've got it.” He paused. “Where are you?”

“At my house.”

“Your house? What—”

“I've got to go. Keep me posted.”

“You were talking about Riley, weren't you?”

At the choked question, Patti glanced at Yvette. She looked…devastated, as if her world had come to an end.

Patti stared at the young woman. Riley was dead, shot twice. His body had been found in the blackened rubble of the torched gallery. Three women were still unaccounted for—Shauna, Stacy and June.

Riley. The gallery.

Then Patti knew. Beyond all reason. She fought back a sound of disbelief. Of despair.

Riley had, indeed, caught on to the killer. A killer who had a connection to the missing women. To Riley and the gallery. The black-and-white shih tzu and Ray's Perfect Pups. A killer no one would have suspected—and everyone would trust. Including her.

That killer wasn't Yvette Borger.

It was June Benson.

Saturday, May 19, 2007
2:35 p.m.

S
pencer swung the Camaro into Patti's driveway and braked sharply. Leaving the car running, he leapt out and ran to the front door. Patti hadn't sounded like herself on the phone. She'd had no reason to be home.

When that had sunk in, he'd rung her back. Several times. She hadn't answered.

Patti had left him at the scene, told him she would get a cruiser to take her back to headquarters. So how had she ended up here?

And more important, why?

He struggled to remember what she had been doing right before she exited the scene.

Checking her cell phone.

He pounded on the door. “Aunt Patti! It's Spencer. Open up!”

When she didn't answer, he tried the door and found it locked, then went around back. There he found a broken window. Whoever had broken it had used it as a way to enter the house. They had cut themselves going in, he saw. Blood on the glass, the inside sill.

He tried the rear door, found it locked, then reared back and kicked it in. “Sorry, Aunt Patti,” he muttered, and slipped inside.

Little out of place. Sandwich fixings on the kitchen counter. PB & J. Half-drunk Coke. Looked like some had spilled onto the tile floor.

He made his way into the living room, then the bedroom.

There he found a pile of discarded garments. They were dirty. Bloodstained.

He stared at those stains, growing dizzy with fear. Not Aunt Patti. Dear God, not her, too. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, working to clear his head. Think it through.

Grabbing a tissue, he carefully lifted one of the garments. Capri pants. Ridiculously small. A size 0, or some such number. Aunt Patti was a trim woman, but these were
tiny.

Yvette's clothes.

They stunk. He wrinkled his nose. But of wha—

He realized then. Of mold and mildew. From water damage. The way the entire freaking city had smelled for a year. The way some parts still smel—

The lower Ninth ward. Pockets of St. Bernard. Son of a bitch.

He unholstered his cell and dialed Tony. “I know where they are,” he said when his partner answered. “Lower Ninth. Assemble a search—”

“What about the captain?”

“MIA. Either with Yvette or the Handyman.”

“That makes no damn sense.”

“Live with it. Assemble a team. Lower Ninth.”

“Wait! That's a big place, Slick. Where do you want this team to start?”

“Where we found Messinger's body. I'm on my way now.”