Last Known Victim (4 page)

Spencer thanked her and he and Tony started toward the golf cart. “If she was killed post-Katrina, the Handyman is here. And he's active.”

“Detectives!” Elizabeth Walker called. “We found something.”

They turned back, crossed to the tech holding the item in his gloved hands. He held it out.

An NOPD badge. Number 364.

Spencer stared at the badge, his heart thundering. He made a sound and was aware of the others looking his way. Of the seconds ticking past.

He knew that badge number. Knew it well.

“Slick? What is it?”

Spencer shifted his gaze to Tony. “We have one of our answers. She was killed before Katrina. Right before.”

At his colleagues' blank looks, he added, “That badge belonged to Captain Sammy O'Shay.”

The information hit with the force of a small bomb. For a moment, no one spoke.

Tony broke the silence first. “You're sure, absolutely sur—”

“Hell yes!”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “How do you want to proceed, Detective?”

“I'll call Captain O'Shay. She'll want to come down here herself. She'll call the shots from there on.”

Friday, April 20, 2007
3:00 p.m.

P
atti held the badge in her gloved hands. They trembled slightly. Her chest hurt, as if she had been struck. The cool breeze rustled the leaves in the maple tree; one of the crime-scene techs shifted uncomfortably. Otherwise all were silent. Waiting. Giving her time.

She lifted her gaze, moved it around the circle. She saw sympathy. Shock and sadness.

And anger.

A cop had been killed. One of their own.

“I'm sorry, Aunt Patti,” Spencer said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“I'm not,” she said, voice clear and strong. “He's already gone. This gives me an opportunity to nail the bastard who took him.”

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That this changes everything. That it blows the ‘killed by looters' theory to hell.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe. Sammy stumbled upon the killer, most likely in the act or its aftermath. It got him killed.”

“That's one explanation.”

“You have another?”

“She could have killed him.”

“Not likely.”

“But possible.”

She made a sound of frustration. “Anything's possible.”

“The badge,” Spencer continued, “could have ended up in the grave by—”

“Accident? Come on, Detective. It was found
under
her remains, not mixed in the debris around the grave. My guess is, the son of a bitch tossed Sammy's badge into the hole, then dumped the body on top.”

“It could have gone down that way. No doubt. But I don't think we should close the door on other options.”

“Other options?” she repeated, suddenly angry. The group went stone silent. “What are they? Right now, I have this. And I mean to pursue it.”

Friday, April 20, 2007
7:10 p.m.

M
uch later, Patti sat at her desk. The department around her was mostly silent. Unless neck-deep in an investigation, NOPD detectives worked eight to five, so most of ISD had left for the day. The detectives all carried cell phones or pagers and understood that they were essentially on call 24/7.

She had no intention of packing up for the night—or the weekend. Finally she had a lead in Sammy's murder.

The two years that had passed hadn't dimmed her grief. People kept telling her “It'll get better” and “You'll move on.”

But she knew better. Until she got justice for Sammy, she couldn't begin to let go.

Of her grief. Or her anger.

Her marriage and the NOPD had been her whole life. She felt as if she'd lost both. The department had let her down. Sammy had devoted his life to the NOPD. But when he'd been killed in the line of duty, their attempts at justice had been laughable. Their focus had been on the hurricane and their own future. The case had been closed. They'd moved on.

She hadn't moved on. And she wouldn't.

Now she had something.

Though, she had to admit she was having trouble wrapping her head around this. Sammy's badge found in a shallow grave in City Park, along with the skeletal remains of a young woman?

A young woman whose right hand had been severed.

She'd requested all the Handyman files. They contained damn little, considering this bastard had killed at least six women.

And a cop, she thought. Her husband.

She had promised herself she would bring his killer to justice. Until today, that promise had seemed damn near impossible to keep.

She needed that victim IDed. She needed something, some bit of evidence to link an individual to the case. She wouldn't rest until she found it.

“Aunt Patti?”

Spencer stood in her office doorway; she motioned him in, forcing a relaxed smile. “Ready for the weekend?” she asked him.

“Always.” He crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite her desk. Although he smiled, she saw his concern. “Big day.”

“Very.”

“You're okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Have you eaten?”

She smiled at that. “I will. I promise.”

He frowned and moved his gaze over her desk.

“The Handyman files? Until we hear back from the coroner's offi—”

“I know. But I want to go over it all myself. Make certain nothing is missed.”

“Tony and I are on this. Nothing's going to be missed.”

“This is about me, not about you. Or my confidence in you.”

He sat silently a moment, then leaned forward. “It's not going to get solved tonight. Nothing will be served by you staying here all night.”

“It's what—” She glanced at her wall clock. “Just after seven. Hardly cause for concern.”

“I'm worried about you, that's all.”

“A waste of energy, I promise. Go home. Take Stacy out for dinner. Someplace nice.” She wagged a finger at him. “That's not only your captain's orders, it's your godmother's as well.”

That made him smile. He came around the desk, bent and kissed her cheek. “I'll do that.”

He crossed to the door, stopped and looked back at her. “You'll be leaving behind me, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Her smiled faded as he walked out the door.

God forgive her. It'd been a small lie. One meant to reassure.

She intended to sit here until she knew everything in these files by heart.

Friday, April 20, 2007
7:55 p.m.

S
pencer let himself into his Riverbend cottage. He'd bought his Camaro from John Jr.—older brother number one—when John had gotten married, and this house from Quentin—older brother number two—when he'd gotten hitched. Since he was brother number three in the Malone lineup, he supposed it was his turn to “pass along.”

Which was too bad. His brothers had damn good taste—he would miss the largesse.

He'd certainly been glad to have this place. Located at the Uptown bend of the Mississippi River, the Riverbend area had been among the twenty percent of the city left high and dry after Katrina.

He'd been host to a dozen family members after the storm. And to Stacy Killian, his girlfriend and fellow NOPD detective, whose City Park double had taken on four feet of water.

Stacy was the only one still with him.

Spencer stepped inside. “I'm home,” he called.

“Back here.”

He followed the sound of her voice and found her in front of the bathroom mirror, applying makeup. She wore a pair of snug-fitting, low-riding jeans and a small stretchy top that exposed a nearly indecent expanse of her flat belly.

“Looking good, Killian.”

She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled. He saw that she had lined her eyes with a deep smoky color.

“Glad you like.”

“Oh, yeah. Not your usual look, but I could grow accustomed.” He crooked his finger. “Come on over here and I'll show you.”

She sauntered over and slid her arms around him. He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Never mind that I'm not going to let you out of the bedroom in that getup, but…
damn.
”

“Sorry, stud.” She rubbed herself against him, teasing. “It's for my new job.”

He cocked an eyebrow, playing along. “New job? You've left DIU? Quit the force to move on?” Not so outrageous, considering when he met her she'd quit the Dallas force and moved to New Orleans to go to graduate school. And study English lit.

That hadn't lasted a semester.

Truth was, you either were a cop or you weren't—it wasn't something you could just give up. Like smoking. Or the bottle. There wasn't a twelve-step program for reformed cops.

Though most days, he thought there should be.

“Mmm,” she said. “Moving on to the Bourbon Street Hustle.”

The Hustle billed itself as a “gentleman's club.” Skanky titty bar was a better description, one that catered to tourists, bikers and those who couldn't afford upscale clubs like Rick's Cabaret or Temptations.

Just a few years ago, Bourbon Street had been dotted with places like the Hustle, but those had become fewer as the high-end, luxurious clubs had appeared on the New Orleans scene. Folks who wouldn't be caught dead in a place like the Hustle felt comfortable frequenting this new breed of club.

Given what was left of the traditional Bourbon Street clubs, the Hustle wasn't bottom of the barrel, but damn close to it.

She kissed him, then stepped away. “Undercover gig. Starts tonight.”

He was a cop, she was a cop. She had a job to do and could absolutely take care of herself.

But the thought of her down there, looking like
that,
being drooled over by a bunch of horny bastards…That he didn't like it would be an understatement.

He dropped his gaze to her chest. The tops of her breasts spilled out of her tight shirt.

She laughed at his expression. “Victoria's Secret, Wonderbra. Uncomfortable as hell.” She crossed back to the mirror to admire her cleavage. “Bet these babies'll get me some major tips.”

Not exactly what he wanted to hear.
“I need a beer.”

“Grab me a diet Coke. I'll be out in a minute.”

She appeared as he was taking a swallow of his beer—and nearly choked on it. Her short blond hair had been transformed to a long auburn mane. Between the makeup and wig, he wouldn't recognize her in passing.

Which, of course, was the point.

“I've always wanted to be a redhead, now I've got the chance.” She grinned and caught the can of soda he tossed her. “This is going to be fun.”

She was liking this drug task force gig way too much.

Spencer forced himself to focus. He didn't want her to know he was feeling uncomfortable about this. It just wasn't cool. “What's the story?”

“We busted a small-time meth dealer. Turns out, he's the Hustle's regular bartender. He rolled right over, offered us the name of a big fish.”

“And this fish is a regular patron.”

“Comes in every night. Apparently he's got a regular girl there. I'm supposed to get to know her.”

“Who's the guy?”

She popped the soda can's top. “Name's Marcus Gabrielle. Squeaky clean on paper. He's a commercial real estate broker. Married with two kids. Lives uptown.”

“Wife know about the little hottie?”

“Doubt it.” She took a swallow of the soft drink.

“According to our informant he manufactures
and
distributes. We get him, we get his people on both sides of the process.”

“Who else is in there with you?”

“Baxter. And Waldon. Baxter's tending bar with the guy we busted. Waldon's playing customer.”

Rene Baxter was a solid cop, a small, wiry guy with one of those nondescript faces perfect for undercover work. Waldon was a big doofus who fancied himself an ace detective. And a ladies' man. Go figure.

“You'll be wired?”

“Of course, with the cavalry in a van around the corner.”

Before he could ask anything else, she changed the subject. “I heard about City Park. About finding Uncle Sammy's shield in that grave. I'm sorry.”

News about one of their own traveled fast.
Spencer rolled the cold can between his palms. “Finding his badge in that grave…it blew me away.”

“How's Patti?”

“I don't know.” He frowned. “She said all the right things, but I'm worried she's…” He let the thought trail off.

“She's what?”

“When I left tonight, she was still there. Reviewing the Handyman files.”

“And?”

“And Tony and I are on it. It was after hours. Until we hear back from the coroner's office, we're not even certain the Jane Doe is a Handyman victim.”

He looked away, then back. “She won't even consider any other possibilities. In her mind, Sammy was killed by the Handyman. Period.”

“If it dead ends, she will. This gives her a ball to run with.”

“I know that, it's just…she hasn't been the same since Sammy was killed. I don't know, I can't put my finger on it. She's changed.”

“It's going to take time,” Stacy said softly. “For all of us.”

He knew she referred not only to Sammy's murder, but the destruction and uncertainty Katrina had wrought.

Katrina had changed them all.

“You're right. Come here.” He took the can from her hand and set it on the counter, then drew her against him. “I'll miss you tonight.”

“I'll miss you, too.” She kissed him, then eased away. “My shift starts at nine. I've got to go.”

He pulled her back into his arms and held her close, a moment too long, a bit too tightly. When he released her, he saw the question in her eyes. “People with a lot to lose fight hard to hold on to it. Don't forget that, Stacy.”