Last Known Victim (7 page)

Saturday, April 21, 2007
2:10 p.m.

B
y the time Patti arrived back at headquarters, the suspect had been picked up. Spencer met her outside the door to the interview room.

“That was quick,” she said.

“Sent a couple of uniforms. He was climbing into his van when they pulled up. Name's Ben Franklin—” She cocked an eyebrow and he grinned.

“I asked. No relation. Did time for aggravated rape and assault. Served seven of his ten years.”

“How long's he been out?”

“Just over two years.”

Timing worked with what they had so far.
“And he's managed to keep his nose clean?”

“To fly under the radar,” Spencer corrected. “The officer who picked him up saw some suspicious-looking items in his van. Half-dozen flat-screen TVs. Light fixtures.”

He had her with the last. “Light fixtures?” she repeated.

“That's right. Chandeliers. Lots of sparkle. Officer White confronted Franklin about the items. Asked for receipts, which he couldn't produce.”

“Big surprise. Have an inventory yet?”

“Working on it now.” He motioned the room. “Maybe I should do this?”

“I'm not that
rusty,
Detective.” She reached for the door. “You monitor.”

Each interview room was outfitted with a video camera so interviews could be taped for later review or to be used as evidence in a trial. In addition, others could monitor the process from a room down the hall.

He caught her arm. “I don't think this arrangement is a good idea.”

She looked at him, eyebrow cocked. “And why's that, Detective?”

“If we're going strictly by-the-book, you're too personally involved in the outcome of this interrogation.”

“And you're not? Besides, who says we're going strictly by-the-book?”

He held her gaze a moment, then backed off. “Right. You're the captain.”

Ignoring the disappointment in his voice, Patti stepped into the interview room. Ben Franklin was short and thick, with thinning hair and a deep tan. She figured he either frequented a tanning salon or got his color from a bottle. He probably thought it made him look young and vigorous; in her opinion, freaky landed a bit closer to accurate.

“Hello, Mr. Franklin. I'm Captain O'Shay.”

He folded his arms across his wide chest and scowled at her.

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“I did nothing.”

Of course not, sweetie. You're as pure as the driven snow.
“You ever heard of a writer named Anna North?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Who?”

“A local novelist. Writes mysteries.”

Some emotion flickered across his features, then was gone. “Yeah. I've heard of her.”

“You've read her books, haven't you?”

“What if I have?”

“Would you call yourself a fan?”

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Read her in the joint. Lots of time to read in the joint.”

“Have you ever written the author?”

His gaze shifted slightly. “No.”

“Gone to one of her book signings? Met her in person?”

“No.”

“Any idea then how your name and address would have ended up on her personal fan list?”

“If you're suggesting I threatened her or anything, you're barkin' up the wrong tree.”

“I'm not suggesting anything, Mr. Franklin. I'm just asking a few questions.”

He shifted in his seat. “Okay, yeah. I wrote her once.”

“Why?”

He squirmed, looking uncomfortable. “For advice. About becoming a writer myself.” He met her eyes, the expression in his defiant. “I got a story to tell.”

She took one of the magnets out of her pocket and tossed it onto the table in front of him. “Ever seen that before?”

He stared at it, frowning. “What is it?”

“A refrigerator magnet. For one of Anna North's books.”

Clearly unimpressed, he shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “So?”

“You have one of those on your refrigerator? Ever?”

“Nah. I'm not much for that kind of crap.”

“I hear you were doing a little shopping today.”

“What's it to you?”

“Flat-screen TVs. Crystal chandeliers.”

“That ain't against the law, is it?”

“Not if you can produce proof the items belong to you.”

“I got canceled checks somewhere.”

She eyed him, unsurprised. The “bad guys” always responded the same way—cheap attitude and lies. And perversely, she always enjoyed the show. Was taking twisted pleasure in watching suspects dig themselves into holes a character flaw? If so, nearly all cops had the same flaw.

“Where were you during Hurricane Katrina?”

Spencer slipped into the interview room. Patti glanced at him and he motioned her to the hallway.

Patti stood. “Why don't you take a moment to work on that answer.”

She followed Spencer into the hall. “What's up?”

“Officer Lee finished searching Franklin's vehicle. He found this tucked under the driver's seat.”

He handed her a plastic evidence bag. The bag held a gun. Standard issue Glock .45. The preferred weapon of the NOPD.

“The serial numbers have been filed off,” Spencer said.

Glocks' serial numbers were found in three places: the right side of the slide, the right side of the barrel and the underside of the front of the frame. She turned the bag over and inspected the places the numbers should have been.

Should have been.

Removing a gun's serial number rendered it virtually untraceable.

Patti looked at Spencer; she saw from his expression that he was thinking the same thing as she.

Sammy had carried a Glock. It'd never been found. But they had retrieved a bullet from his body.

“I want ballistics done on—”

“I'll call the lab.”

“Good. Keep me posted.” She reentered the room and caught the suspect picking his nose. She sat and slid him the box of tissues. He had the decency to look embarrassed. “My colleague just informed me of something very interesting.”

“Lucky you.”

“Sorry I can't say the same about you.” She leaned forward. “Tell me about the gun.”

Under the tan he seemed to pale. “What gun?”

“The Glock. The one hidden under the driver's seat of your van. The one you filed the serial numbers off of.”

“It's not mine.”

That brought a smile to her face. “No? Then whose is it?”

“A friend.”

“I need a name, Ben.”

He pursed his lips, as if deciding whether or not to answer. She supposed he was doing a mental scan for someone to pin this on.

“What if I told you that gun had been used in a murder?”

She saw that she had gotten his attention by the way his expression altered. She could almost hear the
“Oh, shit, I'm totally fucked!”
running through his head.

“I wouldn't know anything about that,” he said.

She laid her palms on the table. Her cell phone vibrated but she ignored it. “What if I told you it had been used to kill a cop?”

Now he looked ill. “I want a lawyer.”

“Of course you do. You need one, Mr. Franklin. I can assure you of that.”

“I found the piece.”

“Where?”

“In City Park. It was half buried, folded up in a towel inside a black garbage bag. I tripped over it. I swear!”

City Park. Where Sammy's badge and the Jane Doe had been found.
“Where in the park?”

“The lagoon. The one by the art museum, along City Park Avenue.”

A ways from where the badge had turned up. But considering the size of the city and where Sammy had been killed, suspiciously close.

“When was this?” she asked.

“A while ago.”

“How long? Best guess.”

“A year. Yeah, that's right. It was starting to get hot.”

“You have the towel?”

“Please.” He shifted. “Besides, it was a mess.”

“A mess. What does that mean?”

“Stained.”

“Blood?”

“Dunno. I tossed the towel and kept the piece. I've never fired it.”

“Why'd you file the serials off?”

“I didn't!”

“Maybe because you knew the gun belonged to a cop?”

“No! I found it that way—”

“I guess you're just an all-around bad guy, aren't you, Ben? A rapist and now a cop killer.”

“This is bullshit! I'm not saying another word until I have a lawyer.”

Patti wanted to push more but knew better. Besides, until the ballistics report came back, she was operating on little more than wishful thinking.

“Then let's get you some representation, Mr. Franklin.”

Patti pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the door. There she stopped and looked back at him.

“You never told me, where were you during Hurricane Katrina?”

“Stuck on a fucking roof for three days. Where were you? Looting stores?”

“No, Mr. Franklin. I was rescuing assholes like you from rooftops.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007
2:50 p.m.

S
tacy sat slumped behind the wheel of her parked car, watching the house. Nice place. Very upscale. Garden District address.

Location. Location. Location.
Wasn't that a Realtor's mantra, after all? Seemed Mr. Gabrielle followed his own advice.

She reviewed what she knew about the suspect—forty-six, married with two kids, successful businessman. Friend to the Audubon Zoo and the library.

Frequented titty bars—one in particular. Manufactured and distributed methamphetamine.

Not your typical Realtor.

Her cell phone vibrated; she saw it was Spencer.

“Yo,” he said when she answered. “What's up?”

“Not much. Keeping an eye on Gabrielle's house. Figured I'd do a drive-by of some of the properties he's got for sale.”

“This a solo recon?”

“With my captain's okay. How'd you know?”

“I know you, Killian. It's Saturday. You're working undercover all night. Where else would you be on your day off?”

“Are you suggesting I'm all work and no play?”

“Sorry, babe, but I call it as I see it.”

“That's not what you said last night,
babe.
”

“Don't be bringing that up. I'm in public.”

She laughed softly. “What was Patti's big find?”

Spencer explained about the fridge magnet and visiting Quentin and Anna. “We got a big hit, right out of the gate. Ex-con. In possession of a Glock .45 with the serials removed.”

“You're running ballistics?”

As no two weapons left identical impressions upon discharging, every spent bullet and casing carried a sort of “fingerprint.” A technician would fire this gun into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet and compare its markings—or fingerprint—to the ones from the bullet taken from Sammy using an Integrated Ballistics Identification System machine.

“Could it be so easy?” Stacy asked. “After two years of not knowing?”

“Patti sure hopes so. She's overseeing it herself. Poor bastard,” he added, referring to the ballistics expert. “He's going to have her hot breath on his neck until she gets an answer.”

“Uh-oh,” she said as the door to Gabrielle's home swung open. “There's activity.”

“Meet me for a burger later? Shannon's at five?”

She agreed and hung up.

Marcus Gabrielle was a handsome man. Dark hair and eyes, nice build. Today dressed in tennis whites. The picture of health and personal success.

Stacy shifted her gaze to his wife. Blonde. Pretty. Looked to be considerably younger than Gabrielle, maybe ten years. They had two kids, a boy and girl. From the dossier, she knew them to be seven and nine. Cute. Appeared to be well behaved.

Stacy narrowed her eyes, studying the foursome. They were smiling, conversing with one another. Relaxed. Happy. The picture of the American dream.

American nightmare, more like.

They crossed to the Mercedes sedan parked in the drive. Gabrielle opened the car door for his wife; she kissed him, then slid into the vehicle. The kids piled into the back seat.

Stacy shook her head. Why would Gabrielle take the chance of messing that up?

Greed. Zero love for anyone but himself. Totally screwed value system.

Same old story.

She still didn't get it.

Gabrielle watched until the Mercedes had turned right at the end of the block, then he headed to his own vehicle—a silver Porsche Boxster. He tossed his equipment bag in, then climbed behind the wheel.

A moment later, he rolled right past her without glancing her way. Stacy gave him a safe lead, then followed.

By the tennis gear, she assumed he would head to the New Orleans Country Club, where he was a member. Instead, he headed downtown and into the French Quarter.

Yvette was waiting on the corner of North Peters and Conti Street. Gabrielle drew to the curb and she hopped in.

So much for tennis at the club.

She was dressed in a simple print blouse and a pair of trousers. Sling-back pumps. A totally different girl from the one on the stage the night before.

Practicing to be a Realtor?

Now
that
was kinky.

The French Quarter was a crisscross of narrow, one-way streets. Stacy followed Gabrielle as best she could, at times forced to anticipate his next move. She managed to keep them in sight until he turned onto Rampart and a delivery truck cut her off, then stopped, blocking the narrow street.

By the time she made it onto South Rampart, Gabrielle and Yvette were long gone. She drove around the area for twenty minutes, in the hopes of spotting the Boxster, then gave up.

If they had been heading for a rendezvous, why had she been dressed so conservatively? Because it turned him on? Hardly, the guy was a strip club regular. Clearly he liked to play on the wild side.

She glanced at her watch. After four already. She had enough time to do drive-bys of a few of Gabrielle's listings and still meet Spencer at Shannon's by five. Tonight she would try to get some information out of Yvette.