Last Known Victim (12 page)

Wednesday, April 25, 2007
9:20 a.m.

A
s planned, Stacy sent two uniforms to pick up Yvette and bring her in. The young woman hadn't been at all happy about it and had made a scene. Enough of one, in fact, that they'd had to cuff her to get her into the cruiser.

Stacy wondered if Yvette would recognize her right off or if it would take a moment or two. Either way, she figured it'd be ugly.

She took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped into the interrogation room. At the sound, Yvette stopping pacing and swung to face her.

“Hello, Yvette,” she said.

The young woman's expression transformed from angry to confused. “Brandi?”

“Detective Killian. Stacy Killian.”

Confusion was replaced by understanding. “A cop? This is just wonderful. Fucking great.”

“I'm sorry, Yvette. I was just doing my job.”

“Right. Go to hell.”

“Why don't you sit down? I have some bad news for you.”

“I'll stand, thanks.”

“Fine.” Stacy crossed to the table, pulled out a chair and sat, facing the other woman. “Marcus Gabrielle is dead. He was shot last night outside his home.”

Yvette blinked three times, her expression almost comically blank. “I don't under…Are you saying—”

“He was murdered. Getting into his car. Timing suggests he was on his way to see you at the Hustle.”

Stacy could see she was digesting the information, sorting through her feelings, struggling to focus on what Stacy wanted from her. Yvette Borger was a smart girl; she would quickly focus on her own survival.

It didn't take more than a few moments. She crossed to the table, sat and faced Stacy. “I didn't have anything to do with Marcus getting killed. I couldn't have, I was at the Hustle. Just like you were.”

“You were his girlfriend.”

“So? I didn't want him dead.”

“Not even after he tried to kill you?”

“I'd pissed him off. He was angry. We don't know that he meant to—” Her expression shifted to one of realization. “You were undercover because of Marcus.”

“Yes.”

“And Saturday night someone on your team alerted you that he was in the alley.”

“Yes.”

“You get off lying to people?”

“I may have saved your life.” Stacy leaned toward her. “Do you know what Marcus was into?”

“Yeah. Strippers and real estate.”

“He manufactured and distributed meth. You helped him.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. “You're crazy.”

“Really? What were you doing for him on Saturday, April 21?”

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

“He picked you up on the corner of North Peters and Conti Street. I saw you. You were dressed like a frump. Remember?”

When she still didn't respond, Stacy tapped the file folder she had laid on the table in front of her. “Marcus was up to his ass in some very bad shit. You were an accomplice. I was undercover at the Hustle to get to know you, Yvette. Not Marcus.”

It bordered the truth, not that she would feel guilty if it had been an outright lie. Yvette had aligned herself with a criminal; she had done it for profit. Peel away all the “poor kid” crap and those were the facts, the hard truth.

“I had nothing to do with that!” Yvette said. “I just opened up properties for him. That's all.”

“You made deliveries?”

“No. I met clients, opened doors and waited.”

“For what?”

“To lock up again.”

Stacy frowned. “What were they doing there? Picking something up? Or delivering?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Marcus paid me to do a job, I didn't ask any questions.”

“How much did he pay you?”

She hesitated. “Five hundred dollars.”

“Every Saturday?”

“Not always Saturday. Some Sundays. Weekdays, too.”

“To lock and unlock a door? That's it?” When she nodded, Stacy cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “And you had no idea what these people you met were doing?”

“None.”

“And you never snooped?”

“Never.”

“I'm sure you'll understand why I find that hard to swallow.”

“That's your problem, isn't it?”

“No, Yvette, I think it's yours.”

“You're really good at what you do, you know? I thought you were my friend.”

Stacy ignored the quiver of hurt in the other woman's voice. Yvette Borger, she decided, was an accomplished actress. “You go to the same properties all the time? Or different ones?”

“Different ones, though I saw a couple of the places several times.”

“What about the people you met?”

“Repeats. Every week or two. Can I go now?”

“How long did you perform this service for him?”

She thought a moment. “Six months, give or take.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“You wanting a kickback?”

“I like you, Yvette. I do. I hate that I had to deceive you, but it was my job. If you help me, I'll help you. Tell me everything you know about Marcus's drug business and I'll do what I can to keep you from being charged.”

“This is such bullshit!”

“We'll want you to look at mug shots, see if you can pick anybody out.” Stacy ignored the way Yvette glowered at her. “And if we need it, we'll expect your help revisiting the properties.”

“I don't have time for this.”

“You don't have a choice, actually. Sorry.”

Of course, she wasn't sorry at all. An angry flush flooded Yvette's face. As she opened her mouth, as if to retort, Spencer poked his head into the room.

“This a good time?”

Stacy waved him in. They had discussed this beforehand. She would question the stripper about Marcus, then Spencer would step in and question her about her roommate. Patti would watch from the viewing room down the hall.

“I'm Detective Malone,” he said to Yvette, taking a seat across from her. “How are you today?”

“Confused,” she answered, angry sarcasm gone, replaced by a little-girl-lost, damsel-in-distress quiver that set Stacy's teeth on edge. “I have no idea why I'm here.”

“Didn't Detective Killian tell you about Marcus Gabrielle's murder?”

“Yes. But like I told her, I had nothing to do with that. How could I have? I was dancing last night.”

Yvette's whole demeanor had changed. Her face had become soft and trusting, her eyes luminescent pools of innocence. She actually batted her eyelashes at him.

Stacy wanted to puke, not so much irritated by Yvette's attempt to influence Spencer with her feminine wiles as by Spencer's obvious reaction to them. This young woman knew how to use the gifts God had given her.

Men could be so stupid.

“He was your boyfriend, was he not?”

“A good customer. He liked me, tipped me very well.”

“You saw him outside the Hustle?”

“Occasionally. He paid me to help him with his real estate business. I opened up properties, things like that.”

Things like that, indeed.
Stacy stood. “It looks like you have things under control, Detective Malone. I'm going to grab a cup of coffee.”

Stacy exited the interview room and went to join Patti. The older woman sat alone in the viewing room.

“She's good,” Patti said, not taking her eyes from the monitor.

“Tell me about it.”

Patti chuckled. “He's only human. And a male one at that.”

Before Stacy could respond, Spencer began. “I understand from Detective Killian that you may have some information for us about a murder.”

“I already told you, I was dancing last night. The first I heard about Marcus—”

“Not Marcus. Your former roommate, Kitten Sweet.”

“What about her?”

Stacy had to hand it to her, she was a damn convincing liar.

“You have reason to believe Kitten Sweet is the Jane Doe found in City Park.”

“I thought she might be.” Yvette shrugged. “She disappeared around the same time. It could have happened.”

Spencer frowned slightly. “You told Detective Killian that Kitten had been receiving love letters—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp. “I told a cocktail waitress named Brandi.”

He didn't miss a beat. “That she had a stalker. That she had received threatening letters from someone who called himself the Artist.”

“I made that up.” She tossed her hair. “She didn't believe me, so I embellished. It made a good story.”

Stacy glanced at Patti. The other woman was frowning.

“So you're saying Kitten Sweet wasn't being stalked? She didn't have a anonymous admirer who called himself the Artist?”

“That is what I'm saying.” She leaned forward in a way that emphasized her cleavage. “I shouldn't have fibbed. I wanted her to believe me. I wanted to have something exciting and important to say.”

She dropped her gaze, then returned it to his, the expression in her eyes pleading. “It's a character flaw, one I'm not proud of.”

For the second time, Stacy wanted to gag. To his credit, Spencer seemed unmoved by her wrenching confession.

“Have you ever seen this man before?” he asked.

He slid a photograph—of Franklin, Stacy knew—across the table.

The woman glanced at it, then quickly away. “No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

Patti glanced at Stacy. “She's lying.”

Stacy nodded. The reply had rung false in its quickness, the way she had shifted her gaze away while answering.

But why lie about this? Out of fear? Spite? Or simply the desire to get the hell out, as quickly as possible?

“You lied before,” Spencer said, “maybe you're lying now?”

“I embellished,” she corrected. “And not to the cops—at least I didn't think she was a cop.”

“You always tell the police the truth?”

“Yes.”

She said it with such earnestness, Stacy laughed out loud, then stood. Obviously it was time for the “bad cop” to take another whack at her.

“Go get her,” Patti muttered as she exited the room.

A moment later, she rejoined Malone and Yvette.

He glanced at her. “How was your coffee, Detective?”

“A little weak.”

“Weak? I find that hard to believe.”

“True. It's usually overcooked.”

Neither of them were talking about coffee. Malone grinned and pushed away from the table. “If you remember something else or want to reevaluate anything you said to me, give me a call.”

He held out his card, which she took with a smile. “If you need me, Detective, you know where to find me.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Yvette looked at Stacy. “He's cute.”

“If you go for that type.” Stacy opened her folder, flipped through. “The people you met at the proper—”

“He have a girlfriend?”

Stacy narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I think he does.”

“Is it serious?”

“Very.”

“She have a ring?”

The question hit Stacy hard. She supposed a ring was the difference between “available” and “not.”

Just what were she and Spencer?

“You have his number,” she said. “Call and ask him.”

“I just might do that.”

Have a ball.
“These people you met at the properties, they ever introduce themselves?”

“Never. We didn't speak.”

“Did they ever leave with something they hadn't arrived with?”

“And vice versa.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Didn't ask.”

“I think we're going to have to hold you.”

“For what? You have nothing.”

“You're the closest thing we have to ‘something.' Give me somewhere else to look, I'll see what I can do.”

“I liked you better as Brandi.”

“I'll bet you did.” Stacy smiled slightly and stood. “I'll see that you get your phone call.”