Last Known Victim (34 page)

Saturday, May 19, 2007
8:10 a.m.

J
une didn't answer her home or cell phone. When Patti rang Pieces, she got the message machine. Patti kept the panic at bay by telling herself it was early, a weekend. Her friend was still sleeping or in the shower. Or taking Max for a walk.

But it felt wrong.

Patti ordered a unit to Pieces, and she, Spencer, Quentin and John Jr. all headed for June's Garden District home.

She and Spencer made the Garden District mansion in ten minutes. Quentin and John Jr. pulled up just behind them. Patti leapt out of the Camaro and ran to the door. She rang the bell, then pounded. Inside, Max went nuts, yapping and clawing at the door.

“I'm going in,” she called to Spencer.

She fumbled with her keys, found the one June had given her for emergencies, unlocked the door and pushed it open. As she did, Max darted past her and outside.

“Somebody catch him!”

John Jr. gave chase and Patti stepped into the mansion. “June!” she shouted. “Riley!”

Silence answered. Spencer and Quentin joined her in the foyer. She looked at them. “Let's split up. I'll start upstairs.”

Quentin offered to go outside and Spencer took the main floor.

Moments later, Patti was on the second floor. She made her way from room to room, forcing herself to move slowly, to treat each room like a crime scene. Nothing appeared out of order. No signs of a struggle. June's bedroom was pin neat; Riley's was a mess. Same with their respective bathrooms.

The spare bedrooms looked as they should—un-lived in, ready and waiting for a guest.

“Anything?” she asked as she rejoined her two nephews downstairs.

“Grounds, garage and tool shed are clean,” Quentin said. “There's one vehicle in the garage. A Mercedes.”

Patti's heart sank. “That's June's.” She turned to Spencer in question.

“One broken dish in the sink. Otherwise everything's in order.”

Patti frowned.
A broken dish?
“Could she have cut herself? Maybe Riley drove her to get stitches?”

“It's possible, though there didn't appear to be any blood at the site.”

“June's pretty neat. Maybe she cleaned it up.”

“
Before
rushing to the emergency room?”

Patti felt ill. Where would June be so early Saturday morning? Without her car. Without Max.

Same MO as Messinger, Shauna and Stacy.

John Jr. returned, out of breath, dog in his arms. “Little shit was almost to St. Charles Avenue before I got him.”

Patti stared at the shih tzu. Not the traditional champagne color. A salt and pepper.

Black and white.

She turned to Spencer. “Get the lab on the phone now. I want to know the breed of that dog!”

While Spencer made that call, she made one of her own: Ray's Perfect Pups. Ray himself answered. He sounded frazzled. No doubt Saturday morning was one of his busiest.

“Ray, this is Captain Patti O'Shay. Yvette's friend.”

“Captain O'Shay, sure. What can I do for you?”

“I have a question. Is June Benson a client of yours?”

“Benson…shih tzu named Max, right?”

“Right,” she answered, then thanked him, hung up and looked at Spencer, who had just finished his call. “Well?”

“A shih tzu.”

“And June's a client of Perfect Pups.”

They all turned to John Jr., who was still holding the dog.

It all made sense. Riley had been at the scene the night Yvette disappeared. She had confided in him. Perhaps, just as he'd said, Yvette asked him for a ride. Had confided why she needed one.

She had played right into the Artist's hands.

He'd come looking for her at the Hustle all innocent concern. A smokescreen. Covering his ass in case her phone log revealed they'd talked that night.

Patti's mind raced. June confiding in her. That she was concerned about him. What had she said? That Riley gets all head-over-heels stupid about some woman, then when it doesn't work out, he mopes around for weeks, brokenhearted.

After they betray him. And he kills them.

Had June begun to suspect her brother was a murderer? Had she made a connection between Riley and one of the victims? Maybe she had confronted him?

Dear God…If Riley was…that meant he'd—

Riley killed Sammy.

Patti brought a hand to her mouth. This couldn't be happening. The brother of her oldest friend. She loved him like one of her own nephews.

“Aunt Patti? Captain?”

She blinked, focusing on the men. “It's Riley,” she said. “Riley's the Handyman.”

Her nephews stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Quentin cleared his throat. “Aunt Patti…with all due respect, you're talking about Riley here. He's family.”

“You think I don't know that?” She realized her hands were shaking and fisted them. “You think I don't know what it means? What he's done?”

Her cell phone vibrated and she flipped it open. “O'Shay.”

It was the patrol unit she had sent to Pieces. She heard what sounded like a roar in the background. “Captain, we've got a situation here. The art gallery…it's on fire.”

Saturday, May 19, 2007
Noon

P
atti saw the smoke from blocks away. After asking the patrolman to repeat himself twice, she had grabbed Spencer and together they'd raced to the scene.

June and Riley were both missing. Their business was in flames. This was not an accident. But what would they find inside?

Spencer held the wheel in a death grip. She knew he feared the same as she, and was praying those fears proved unfounded. Praying they wouldn't find someone they loved in that building.

The fire department had barricaded the block. Patti produced her NOPD credentials and was waved through. She rolled in, the smell stronger as she drew closer.

At the first sight of Pieces engulfed in flames, an involuntary cry slipped past her lips. She knew there was nothing she could do, that her work would come later, but hanging back idle was agony.

June could be in there. Stacy or Shauna. Dear God, no.

It looked as if the firefighters were on the winning side of the fire. They had contained it, which was no small feat in the Arts District, where the buildings nestled snugly up to one another.

Patti parked; she and Spencer climbed out. They found the incident commander. “What do you know so far?”

“Damn little. Investigator's been called. He's coming from Baton Rouge.”

“Was anybody in the building?”

“Don't know. By the time we got here it was too late to go inside. Whatever was in there went up quick.”

All those beautiful paintings. It made Patti sick to think of it.

“When can we go in?”

“As soon as the fire's suppressed. You'll have to suit up.”

“Of course. Let me know.”

One of the patrolmen she had sent saw her and hurried over.

“I found Benson's car.”

“Where?”

“In a private lot across the street.”

“Great. Spencer?”

They crossed to the lot. The officer explained that he'd gotten the remote from a woman who worked in the building next to Pieces. He activated it and the gate slid open.

Riley's Infiniti sedan was parked in a spot in back. She and Spencer peered in the windows.

“It's empty,” the patrolman said, as if to confirm what they were seeing.

“Did you check the license plate number?” she asked.

“Called it in. Vehicle's registered to Benson.”

She looked at Spencer. “What're you thinking?”

“He could be in there.”

And he might not be alone.

She ran the possibilities through her head. They were all horrific. All involved women she loved.

She glanced at the uniformed officer. “Open it up.”

“Captain O'Shay!” The call came from the incident commander. “Fire's suppressed.”

She nodded, then turned back to the patrolman. “Search it. Keep me posted.”

She and Spencer returned to the now-smoldering gallery. She knew the drill: the fire investigator would look for the source of the fire, follow its trail and determine if it had been accidental or intentional. If the investigator determined a crime had been committed, the PD came on board.

She didn't have a doubt which one this was.

Patti looked at Spencer. “Maybe you should sit this out?”

“Like hell.”

“We don't know what we'll—”

“Find?” he finished for her, voice tight. “You think I don't know that?”

She hesitated. As his commanding officer she could order him to stay put, but he was just stubborn enough to defy her.

“Let's do this.”

They donned overalls, boots, respirators and hard hats. Though they were cumbersome and uncomfortable, Patti was grateful for the protection as she entered the building and the heat and smell slammed into her.

Patti moved her gaze over the interior. Though the fire hadn't consumed everything, nothing had been left untouched. Shauna's beautiful work was ruined. Some totally destroyed, others only partially burned. None salvageable.

Was this meant to be part of her punishment? Seeing her niece's beautiful artwork reduced to blackened rubble?

It looked as if June had been in the process of installing a new show. A number of paintings were propped against the walls, a number were hanging, and some, judging by blank wall space, appeared to have been removed.

Patti wondered if some buyers had already picked up their purchases. She hoped so.

“Captain O'Shay?” One of the firefighters stood at the burned-out doorway to the gallery's storage area. He motioned her over. “We have a victim.”

Her chest tightened. She didn't want to do this. She didn't have to. She could turn and walk away now, leave it for the coroner's office.

She didn't know if she could handle what she might find.

She glanced at Spencer. He stood frozen, his agonized gaze fixed on the blackened doorway.

She would have to handle it.

She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. She reached the fireman; he ushered her into the storeroom.

The victim lay just inside the door. Body blackened. Mummified. But still recognizable. Odd how fire could consume a body save for a random area. In this case, that area was part of his face. Riley Benson's face.

What did this mean?

She looked at the firefighter. “Just the one?”

“Yes.”

“You're certain? You searched the rest of the gallery?”

“Yes. This one's it.”

Spencer joined her. “Lord, God Almighty.”

She glanced at him; he had tears in his eyes. “I always thought he was a good guy.”

“If Riley was our perp—”

“Where are the women?”

Patti turned to the fireman once again. “Could he have killed himself?”

“Possible, but unlikely. Few people choose fire as a means to kill themselves. More often we see the fire used as a way to cover up a homicide.”

True. Many a criminal didn't realize that a conventional house fire didn't burn hot enough to incinerate a body, only about one thousand degrees. In contrast, a body was cremated at seventeen hundred degrees.

At one thousand degrees, clothing, hair and flesh burned. The skin melted, although it wasn't uncommon for areas of soft tissue to be left intact. Autopsies could still be performed, determination of cause of death pinpointed.

She squatted near the body, examining it as best she could without touching it. “We need to know if he died in the fire or was already dead when he burned.”

The pathologist would make that determination based on whether or not he found smoke and soot in the lungs.

“Coroner's office has been called,” Spencer said.

She saw by his expression that he was thinking the same thing as she: how Riley died made a big difference in this investigation. If he had been murdered and the fire started in an attempted cover-up, Riley hadn't been their guy.

Then who was? And where were the women?

Back out on the street, Patti saw she'd had a call. She checked the display and frowned. She knew the number by heart.

It was her home number.