Last Known Victim (26 page)

“Hit by a boater while swimming. The prop—” She bit the words
“chewed up her face and nearly decapitated her”
back. “She's good now. Really good.”

“You're close?”

“Very.”

“I don't have any family.”

“None?”

It seemed to Stacy she hesitated slightly before saying no. Could be “no family” was more a statement of principle than fact.

“Sorry I scared you earlier. Cops move quietly.”

“S'okay. I shouldn't have opened the door like that. I guess that was stupid.”

Stacy curled her hands around the warm mug. “Can I ask you a question?”

Yvette shrugged. “I guess.”

“Why are you doing this? Hanging around, maybe putting yourself in danger. You could have taken off.”

“Patti's paying me.”

She said it so casually, as if it was totally no big deal. “Obviously you think that's okay?” “Obviously you don't. I'm not ashamed.”

“Maybe you should be?”

Yvette flushed, but not with embarrassment, Stacy suspected. With anger. “Screw the goody-goody crap. I'm putting my life on the line to help her. Besides, the money was her idea, not mine.”

“You could have refused it.”

“Why would I have done that?”

“Because the Handyman murdered her husband. She's grieving. It makes her vulnerable.”

“To people like me.”

“Yes.”

“From where I'm standing, people like you are a lot more dangerous. At least I'm honest about my motives.”

“This is stupid.” Stacy dumped the last of her milk in the sink. “I'm going to bed.”

She didn't get far. “Why're you really here?” Yvette called. “Afraid I'm going to run off with her ten grand?”

The amount knocked the wind out of Stacy. “She's paying you ten thousand dollars?”

“Fifty. Ten's the deposit.”

Stacy gazed at the young woman, her dislike of her so strong she felt ill. “That money's part of her husband's life insurance payoff.”

“And it's hers to spend as she chooses.”

Stacy shook her head. “You make me sick.”

Yvette stiffened. “I'm being paid for performing a service. She made the offer, I took it.”

“Performing a service. That's what you do, right? It's at the heart of all your relationships, your every move. I was going to apologize for what I said about life being all about money for you. Now I see just how accurate that comment was.”

Wednesday, May 16, 2007
8:05 a.m.

P
atti worked to shake out the mental cobwebs. She sat at her kitchen table, cup of coffee and the
Times-Picayune
on the table in front of her.

Still no Artist. Not at Yvette's apartment, not at the Hustle. She was beginning to think Yvette was right: he had gotten spooked and had taken off.

Her cell phone vibrated. She saw from the display that it was Stacy. “What's up?” she answered.

“The brat refuses to get up.”

“Did you try shooting her in the butt?”

“Very funny. Should I douse her with a glass of cold water? I've got to head in.”

Patti dragged a hand through her hair. “Leave her. I'll clean up and head over there and collect Sleeping Beauty.”

“Wrong story. This one's more like Beauty and the Beast. Guess who's the Beast?”

Patti laughed. “All quiet last night?”

“Yes. You?”

“No Artist.”

“Thoughts?”

“It's too early to think, I'll check in later.”

Patti hung up. Yvette had grown more difficult to manage by the day. She believed the Artist had lost interest. No longer afraid, the young woman was all attitude and no gratitude.

If Patti didn't want this guy so desperately, she'd cut Yvette loose. She had lied to her chief and the men and women under her command. She had alienated Spencer and now driven a wedge between him and Stacy. And for what?

Her cell phone went off again, but this time it wasn't Stacy. It was June.

“I'm at your front door,” she said. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I'll be right there.”

A moment later, she swung open the door. June held a napkin-covered basket. “I went crazy baking. Save me from myself?”

“You're an angel of mercy, you know that?”

She stepped aside so her friend could enter. “Why didn't you ring the bell?”

“I was afraid you might be sleeping. I know your new hours are…different.”

Patti cut her an amused glance. “Who've you been talking to?”

“Spencer.”

Big surprise.
“Come on, I've got coffee.”

June followed her to the kitchen. Patti got out plates and napkins, filled a mug for June and freshened her own.

Muffins, Patti saw as they sat down. Big, fat banana-nut muffins.

Heaven on earth.

June made pretty much the best muffins on the planet. They were so good, for a time she had considered marketing them. She could have been the Mrs. Fields of muffins. But then the low-carb craze had come along, and she'd abandoned the idea.

“So what Spencer told me is true.”

Patti dug in. “What'd he tell you?”

“That you asked for a leave of absence to try to track down Sammy's killer yourself. That you've lost hold of your senses. That you've now involved Stacy in it. He's quite worried.”

“And he called you and asked if you would try to talk some sense into me.”

“Pretty much. What's going on?”

“I haven't lost my mind, if you're worried.”

June smiled and peeled away a muffin's paper liner.

“Prove it.”

“Yes, I've taken a leave of absence. I don't think that in itself is so shocking. As for tracking down Sammy's killer, I've had doubts about Franklin. The department does not. While I'm footloose and fancy free, I thought I'd investigate a few leads.”

“Now, venturing into the ‘lost it' category. That's not who Patti O'Shay is.”

Patti looked away, then back. “I'm not so certain I know who Patti O'Shay is anymore.”

“It's natural for you to feel this way.” June reached across the table and covered Patti's hand with her own. “After what you've been through.”

“Now, I've inserted a wedge between Spencer and Stacy.”

“He said she moved out. That they were through.”

Patti nodded. “How'd he sound?”

“Miserable.” June took a sip of her coffee. “Personally, I say good for her. It's about time.”

“How can you say that?”

“Has he not been stringing her along? Taking her for granted? Men wield all the power in relationships. Seems like she's taking some back.” She reached for her muffin. “Again, I say good for her.”

June had said things like that before. Patti felt bad for her. Several failed romances and a short, disastrous marriage had left her wary of men, cynical about relationships and the balance of power between the sexes.

Patti's experience had been so different—mutual respect, give and take, collaboration.

“You're not the only one who's lost their mind,” June continued. “Riley seems to have taken leave of his senses as well.”

“How so?”

“He's besotted with that dancer. Yvette—”

“Borger?”

She nodded. “He does this, gets all head-over-heels stupid about some woman, then when it doesn't work out, he mopes around for weeks. Then suddenly—”

“—is head-over-heels over another one?”

“Exactly.” June sighed. “She came to see him play the other night.”

“What night?”

“Last Thursday.”

The night she disappeared. So that's where she'd gone.

“Why does he keep falling for women like her?”

“What do you mean, women like her?”

“You know what I mean. Strippers, party girls. Why can't he fall for someone like Shauna?”

“Yvette's okay,” Patti said, realizing she was defending the woman to yet another person in her life, this time her oldest friend. “She hasn't had it easy.”

“Who has?” June shot back. “You didn't see me drop out, resort to drugs or turning tricks.”

Patti stiffened, offended. “As far as either of us know, she has turned to neither drugs nor prostitution.”

“Lap dancing is—”

“A way for a young, uneducated woman to make a good living. Not all of us have a fat inheritance to fall back on. I respect her for doing as well as she has.”

June flushed. Patti squeezed her hand. “We can agree to disagree. Right?”

“Sure. I—” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. I sounded just awful then, didn't I? Like one of those snobs Mother used to play bridge with. Always looking down their noses at somebody. I guess the Good Lord knew what He was doing when He didn't give me children.”

“That's just nonsense. You have Riley. You've been watching out for him most of his life. And he's turned out wonderfully.”

Patti was shocked to see June's eyes fill with tears. “I've screwed him up. Made him too dependent. Emasculated him.”

“Emasculated? June, that's just not true. You've been a wonderful sister.”

“I worry about him. About the way he sometimes broods. He'll withdraw from me, become almost secreti—” She bit the thought back. “He'll be fine.”

“Exactly. He'll be fine.”

“Thank you.” June caught her hand again, holding it tightly. “You're my best friend, Patti.”

“You're my best friend, too. Twenty years now.”

“We were such babies when we met.”

Patti laughed. “
You
were such a baby. Remember, I've got ten years on you.”

June didn't smile. “I don't know if I could have managed all the curves and bumps without you. And I mean that.”

Tears stung Patti's eyes. “Now you're just getting maudlin. And you're making me that way, too.”

June released her hand, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “Must be premenopausal.”

“Been there, done that, it sucked.” Patti's cell phone vibrated. She saw that it was headquarters, sent June an apologetic glance and picked up. “Captain O'Shay.”

“Patti, it's Tony. Thought you'd want in on this. Looks like we have another Handyman victim.”

Wednesday, May 16, 2007
9:20 a.m.

T
he lower Ninth ward had been one of the hardest hit by Katrina. Water had topped the levees in some areas by more than twelve feet. Rebuilding here had been at best sporadic. The current population of this parish stood at about twenty-five percent its pre-hurricane population. It was a tragic wasteland—but a smart place to dump a body.

Patti picked her way around the piles of building debris, slick from the previous night's rain. She ducked under the scene tape, aware of the crime techs arriving behind her. The press wouldn't be far behind once word leaked that the Handyman had struck again.

Spencer and Tony stood beside the badly decomposed victim. They looked her way as Patti approached. Spencer didn't smile.

“Hey, Captain,” Tony said, holding out a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

She took it and applied a smear under her nose; it helped mitigate the stench of the corpse. “Detectives. What've we got?”

She could see the basics already: female, white, quite dead.

“Found by a couple of sightseers on a ‘disaster tour.' Saw more than they wanted to, that's for damn certain.”

“ID?”

“Nope.”

“Cause of death?”

“To be confirmed by autopsy, but she was shot in the chest. Twice.”

Patti frowned. “That's not the Handyman's MO.”

“True. But that is.”

She followed the direction of his gaze.
Right hand missing.

“No sign of the hand?” she asked.

“Nope. That's not to say a dog or wild animal couldn't have carried it off, but there's no doubt it was ‘removed' first.”

Patti fitted on latex gloves and squatted beside the victim. When dumped, the victim had been fully dressed. Like her body, the garments had begun to deteriorate in the hot, humid air. Patti moved her gaze over her, starting with her head, forcing herself to go slowly. Long, bleached-blond hair—she'd needed to have her roots done. Dangly earrings, flashy. Two necklaces, both gold. She had indeed been drilled in the chest. Point of entry for both: her left side.

Patti lowered her gaze. Wearing thong panties and low-cut blue jeans. “No sexual assault is my guess.”

“But maybe sex. Then a ride and bang bang, tomorrow never comes.”

She nodded. Wouldn't be the first time some guy got rid of his honey after enjoying himself one last time.

But was that the Handyman's way?

Until now, they'd never had enough of a victim to know.

Patti shifted her gaze. Left hand intact. Long, square-tip nails, most probably synthetics. Red polish. Half dozen bangle bracelets adorning the wrist.

“Hello, friends.”

Deputy Coroner Ray Hollister had pulled this one. Lucky him.

He looked at the victim, then scowled up at the sunny sky. “Nobody can convince me global warming doesn't exist. It's too damn hot for May.”

As if on cue, they simultaneously murmured their agreement. He slipped into his gloves. “Somebody want to fill me in?”

Patti did, quickly. He nodded

He examined the victim's left hand. “No defensive wounds. Nails all intact. Bet they'll come back clean.”

“Means she didn't fight,” Spencer said.

“Most probably didn't see it coming.” The coroner frowned, studying the wound. “Interesting entry point,” he said. “Her left side. Gun was quite close to the victim when fired. Notice the tattooing.”

Sure enough, a telltale “tattoo” circled each wound. Upon discharge, particles of burned gunpowder and primer exploded from a gun's barrel, depositing on both shooter and victim. Much could be learned from the amount and patterning of the particles, including the angle and distance of the shooter. The tighter the circle, the closer the gun.

“First shot,” he said, pointing to the smallest circle.

“Second,” he continued, indicating the other.

Patti agreed. “We'll need to take a good look at the bullet's trajectory.”

“Wonder why he didn't shoot her in the head,” Tony murmured.

“Maybe he thought it was too messy,” Spencer offered. “Or too visible.”

Patti nodded. “What if they were in a car? He's driving, has a gun tucked in a handy position—”

“Pardon the pun.”

“—and squeezes off a shot before she knows what's happening.”

“No big mess for the world to see.”

“The shot doesn't kill her. She slumps in her seat, he rips off another one.”

“It does the trick, if not immediately, soon enough. He drives on. Nobody notices a thing.”

The coroner carefully examined the other entry point, then glanced up at her. “From what I'm seeing, your scenario could work, Captain. But so could others.”

Lucky them.
“How long's she been dead?”

“My ‘in the field' guess, four or five days. It's been hot. We've had a couple good rains and she's totally exposed. Give me some light.”

Spencer directed his penlight beam to the spot the coroner indicated—one of the wounds. The light revealed a squirming world of activity—bugs, doing their part in the decomposition dance.

“Ultimately the insects will tell the tale.”

The lab's entomologist would collect samples of the insect life on the corpse and provide an estimated time frame based on the stage of growth or development of the larvae.

“A Bug's Life,”
Tony quipped. “I'll never look at that kid's movie in quite the same way.”

“What about the missing hand, Ray?”

“Gone,” he deadpanned.

“We need to know if this is the work of the Handyman. Can you compare this sample to the originals?”

“I'll do the best I can, though I specialize in flesh, not bones.” He suddenly looked impatient. “Mind if I get to it? I'm about to get sunstroke.”

He didn't wait for an answer, simply set about his business.

Patti looked at Tony. “Get Elizabeth Walker. I want her to compare this victim's severed wrist bone with the samples found in the Katrina refrigerator. ASAP.”

She shifted her gaze to Spencer. “We need a name. The sooner we ID her, the sooner we—”

“I think I can help there,” the coroner said.

They looked down at the man, crouched beside the body. Very carefully he eased a gloved finger under one of the woman's necklaces and lifted it away from her shirt.

The sun caught on the gold pendant. Gold twisted into curving, ornate letters. They spelled
Tonya.