Last Known Victim (28 page)

Wednesday, May 16, 2007
6:35 p.m.

Y
vette bent over her bathroom sink and splashed her face with cold water. It snapped her out of the fog she had been in since Patti told her.

Tonya was dead. Murdered. In her heart, Yvette had known it all along. But now it was real.

He shot her. Twice.

And removed her right hand. His trademark.

She straightened. Gazed into the mirror.

Her fault. Tonya was dead because of her.

She stared at herself, suddenly light-headed. Her knees went to rubber and she clutched the vanity for support. She breathed deeply through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. Letting go. Of the guilt. The fear.

Her life had spun completely out of control, her with it. Morphing her into a person she was afraid to know.

“You okay?” Stacy called softly, tapping on the bathroom door.

Anger surged up in her. She fisted her fingers. “No, I'm not okay! I'm pissed. At you. At your stupid boyfriend. If you'd done something right away when I told you about the Artist, Tonya would be alive.”

“You don't know that. He may have targeted—”

“I turned to Tonya for help…and now she's—” Yvette fought the urge to cry. “It's your fault, not mine. You hear me? Your fault!”

The other woman didn't respond. The seconds ticked awkwardly past. Yvette went to the door, rested her palms and forehead against it. “Say something, dammit!”

“I'm sorry, Yvette.” She said it softly, her voice thick. “I really am.”

“Sorry doesn't mean jack!”

Make the hurt go away. Make this nightmare end.

Stacy cleared her throat. “If you…need anything, let me know. I'll be right out here.”

Yvette squeezed her eyes shut against the need that welled up inside her. For comfort. Companionship. The urge to spill her guts and pour out her heart.

“Just leave me alone,” she said instead, harshly. “Go away! I don't want you h—”

To her horror, the words choked off on a sob. A terrible, broken sound.

Biting back another, she crossed to the commode, flipped down the lid and sat. She curved her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.

What to do? What to do? She was losing it.

On the vanity counter, her cell phone pinged, announcing the arrival of a text message. She gazed at the device a moment, then reached for it. Hands shaking, she retrieved the message.

He didn't identify himself; he didn't have to.

Riley.

Yvette reread the message, heart beating heavily. It seemed forever since she'd stormed out of Tipitina's, pride wounded and heart broken.

In light of today's news, her actions seemed childish and melodramatic. She wished she could take them back. Wished she could rewind to last Thursday night and stand up to June Benson.

Stand up for herself. Her feelings.

Maybe she could do it now?

She hit reply and typed:

Holding her breath, she sent it. A moment later, her phone pinged. He'd responded! She eagerly read:

She wanted to, badly. To tell him how she felt, what his sister had done. How it had hurt. And ask if they still had a chance.

And she wanted to do it without a chaperone. How could she get rid of Stacy?

If you need anything, let me know.

She needed something, all right. Quickly, she typed a reply.

He answered almost instantaneously:

Smiling to herself, she typed:

Yvette knew she had to come up with something urgent enough to propel Stacy from her post. Something that couldn't be put off or ordered in.

She mentally thumbed though her choices: food, drink, reading material. Then she knew. Something every woman understood.

Smiling to herself, she got to her feet, went to the vanity cabinet. From it she retrieved an almost full box of tampons. She dug some tissues out of the waste basket, dumped the box's contents in, then covered it with the used tissues.

Box in hand, she went to the bathroom door, peeked out. From where she stood, she had a straight view into the living room. The detective sat on the couch, reading a magazine.

“Stacy?”

The woman looked over at her. It occurred to Yvette that Stacy's expression seemed off; she ignored the thought and moved her plan forward.

“I've got a problem.” She held up the empty box.

“I just started.”

“You don't have any?”

She shook her head. “There's a drugstore up the block and around the corner. Royal Pharmacy.”

“Does the store deliver?”

“Not that I know of.” Yvette mustered what she hoped was distress. “I flow kind of…It's going to get messy fast.”

Stacy made a face and stood. “Where's the store?”

“Up one block, take a left. It's right there.”

“Dead-bolt and security chain the door. Don't open for anyone.
Anyone.
Got that?”

Yvette nodded and scurried out of the bathroom, joining the other woman at the door. “And Stacy?” When the woman looked back at her she sent her a weak smile. “Thanks.”

The moment she had closed and locked the door, she raced back to the bathroom. She rinsed her face again, ran a brush through her hair, then applied mascara, blush and lip gloss.

Snatching up her purse, she tiptoed to the door and peered out the peephole. The coast looked clear and she carefully eased the door open, half expecting the other woman to jump out with an “Aha!”

She didn't. Nor was she anywhere in sight.

Yvette slipped out, locking the door behind her. Not glancing back, she hurried to meet Riley.

The Moon Walk was a scenic boardwalk along the Mississippi River, across from Jackson Square. Just steps from the water, it had been named for Mayor “Moon” Landrieu.

Yvette dropped a dollar in a street musician's hat; he acknowledged without missing a note of “Blue Moon.” He wasn't very good, but she figured he had to make a living—and the living for French Quarter street performers had been lean since Katrina.

She hurried up the ramp that led to the observation deck and promenade. She saw him right away, pacing, expression distraught.

“Riley!”

He stopped and turned, broke into a broad smile and strode to her. He caught her hands. “You came. I'd begun to lose hope.”

“I said I'd be here.”

He searched her gaze. “Since the other night, I've been by your apartment several times. You never answered your bell.”

“Why didn't you call?”

“Figured you wouldn't answer.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “June told me what she said to you. That's not what I'm about, Yvette. I promise.”

“What she said really hurt.”

“She's overprotective.”

Yvette firmed her resolve to stick up for herself. “What she said was just plain mean. She judged me without knowing anything about me.”

“She's just crazy sometimes. Don't hold it against me. Please?”

He tightened his hands on hers. “I like you, Yvette. And it doesn't matter to me what you do for a living. No, that's wrong. It does, but I still want to be with you. Whether you're a waitress or a stripper doesn't change that fact.”

She gazed at him.
Could it be?
Was he simply accepting what she did as a fact of her life? Neither condemning her stripping nor turned on by it?

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That you're too good to be true.”

“I'm not.” He drew her against his chest. “I'm real. And I'm here.”

She stood on tiptoes, lifting her face to his. “So am I,” she whispered.

He kissed her. Once, then again and again. Deep, drugging kisses. Ones that left her wanting him naked. Wanting her naked against him.

“Get a room, why don'tcha?”

That came along with snickers from a group of teenagers. Riley pulled away, faced flushed and out of breath. “Do you trust me?”

“Trust you? Why—”

“I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“It'll ruin the surprise.”

“Where?”

“Not far.”

When she hesitated, he held out his hand. “Do you trust me?” he asked again.

Did she? With everything going on, she shouldn't. After all, what did she really know about Riley Benson?

She shouldn't, but she did. She prayed she wasn't making another mistake. That she wouldn't have her heart broken again.

She laid her hand in his. “Yes,” she said simply. “I trust you.”

Wednesday, May 16, 2007
9:45 p.m.

S
tacy paced. The lying little sneak had conned her. And she had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. She wasn't certain whether she was more pissed off or embarrassed.

She'd had to call Patti and tell her she'd been duped. By now, the rest of the team knew. By morning most of the department would be in on the joke—the one played on her.

She had to admit a bit of grudging respect for the woman. She'd come up with the one thing that would propel her to leave Yvette unsupervised. For twelve minutes. Twelve stinking minutes.

She'd gotten back and Yvette had been gone. She would have worried she'd been snatched by the Handyman, but while searching for her keys, Nancy had popped her head out and informed her she had seen Yvette leave—alone and smiling.

Stacy bet she had been smiling. Congratulating herself on outsmarting her archenemy, the hapless Detective Killian. Never mind that the archenemy was around to protect her from a madman.

How could such a bright girl be so stupid?

All this to meet a guy. Stacy had come to that conclusion after performing a quick search of the apartment. It didn't appear Yvette had taken anything but her purse, and she had left makeup strewn on the vanity counter.

Patti hadn't bought “the guy” angle. She feared that Yvette had decided to cut and run. And that on her own, Yvette would be an easy target.

The captain had sentenced Stacy to “stay put.” She needed Stacy at the apartment in case Yvette returned or the Artist showed. So here she was, pacing and stewing, while the rest of the team actively searched for the dancer.

She dialed Rene. “Anything?” she asked when he answered.

“Nada.”

“She never showed at the Hustle?”

“Sorry.”

“Shit. Keep me posted.”

Frustrated, she snapped her cell phone shut, tossed it onto the couch and continued pacing. If Yvette had bolted, Stacy's stupidity had jeopardized the investigation.

But if the Artist had gotten Yvette, Stacy's stupidity would have jeopardized the young woman's life.

“If you'd done something right away, when I told you about the Artist, Tonya would be alive. It's your fault she's dead, not mine. Your fault!”

The words hurt. And the possibility that they were even partly true was too horrible to contemplate. They'd had good reason to doubt Yvette, but that didn't change how Stacy felt now, knowing a woman was dead.

At the tap on the door, she all but lunged for it, hoping Yvette had returned.

She hadn't. Instead, Spencer stood on the other side, a Starbucks grande cup in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.

She swung open the door. “I hate this job.”

“I know you do.” He held out the cup. “Nothing a triple mocha with whip won't cure.”

It hit her then, like a lightning bolt.

She loved him. She was
in love
with him.

He made her laugh when nothing was funny. Made her smile when smiling was the last thing on her mind. And he made her feel connected. To the job. This city.

To life.

That's why she had been so hurt by his flippant proposal. She didn't want “comfortable.” She didn't want him to just settle for her because they got along well or his family loved her.

She needed him to love her back.

“You okay?” he asked. “You look funny suddenly.”

“I'm fine.” She took the cup. “C'mon in. Keep me from killing myself.”

He made a sympathetic noise. “She pulled the tampon routine on you. I would have reacted the same way.”

“Promise?”

“Are you kidding? Us guys are total wimps about that kind of girlie stuff.” He glanced at her. “Kitchen's to the right?”

She said it was, then watched, amused, as he wandered that way, then starting nosing around.

She shook her head when he opened the freezer and peered inside. “Hungry, Malone? Or looking for body parts?”

“You never know.” He poked through the scant contents before selecting a carton of ice cream.

Blue Bell. Rocky Road.

“Just so you know, most women, especially right before their period, eat ice cream directly out of the carto—”

Not ice cream, she saw. Money. Lots of it.

Spencer counted it. “There's three thousand bucks here.”

“She didn't bolt, then. It would have been too easy to take the cash.”

He nodded, rewrapped the money and replaced it and the carton. He moved on to the cabinets. “There may be a problem with the Handyman angle and Messinger's death.”

She waited, knowing he didn't expect a response.

“Elizabeth Walker doesn't think the same person performed the amputations. In fact—” He reached the sink, peeked into the cabinet below. “In her expert opinion, the Handyman's right-handed. And Messinger's killer was left-handed. Yvette have a car?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Antifreeze.” He held up the gallon jug. “Know anything else it's used for?”

“Poisoning loud dogs?”

“Bingo. And remember, Samson was poisoned the same night Miss Alma was killed and Yvette had her last visit from the Artist.”

“Her supposed visit from the Artist.”

Stacy suddenly remembered her first night staying here with Yvette, pictured her using the chopsticks. “Did you say left-handed?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Yvette's left-handed.”

“Are you certain?”

“Pretty damn.” She paused. “You know, without a search warrant, anything you find is inadmissible.”

“That's why I'm not finding anything.” He closed the cabinet door. “Don't say anything to Patti just yet. I'm going to do a bit of research, see what I come up with.”

“There's something I haven't told you. It's about Patti. She promised Yvette fifty thousand dollars if she'd stay and help her catch the guy. Ten grand of it up front.”

A deep, angry flush crept from his neck to his hairline. “Part of Sammy's life insurance money. A big part. Son of a bitch.”

“I'm really sorry, Spencer.”

He took two steps toward her, caught her by the upper arms and pulled her against him. “You and I,” he said, “have unfinished business. Personal business. Unfortunately it'll have to wait.”

He kissed her, then released her. A moment later, he was gone. Leaving her with even more to stew about.