Last Known Victim (11 page)

Wednesday, April 25, 2007
1:30 a.m.

S
pencer eased to a stop in front of the Garden District mansion. Tony had already arrived, as had the coroner's representative. The first officers had cordoned off the scene.

A smattering of residents stood on their porches gawking, probably shaking in their Cole Haans and Manolo Blahniks, Spencer thought, as they acknowledged the horrible truth: money might be able to buy you a flood-free home in a ritzy neighborhood, but longevity was another story. When fate called, there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it.

Tonight that call had come in the form of a bullet.

Spencer signed in, then ducked under the police line. Tony caught sight of him and ambled over. “Took you long enough, Slick.”

“Kiss mine, Pasta Man.” He motioned toward the victim. “What's his story?”

“One bullet to the back of his head as he was climbing out of his car.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Not any poor bastard,” Tony said. “Marcus Gabrielle.”

It took a moment for the name to register. When it did Spencer whistled. “Stacy's undercover suspect. She's going to be really pissed.”

“So's her boss. Goodbye investigation.”

“Think it's related to his extracurricular activities? Maybe somebody in his chain got wind of the investigation.”

“It'd be my guess. Getting whacked is a consequence of being a bad boy.”

Spencer moved his gaze slowly over the area, then crossed to Gabrielle. Other than the victim sprawled in a bloody mess on the driveway, nothing looked out of order.

He squatted beside the man, who lay on his back beside his vehicle, the center of his face blown away. The driver's-side door stood open; his car keys were still clenched in his right hand.

“Wallet missing?” he asked.

“Nope.”

Spencer saw the gleam of gold at his wrist. After fitting on gloves, he eased aside the victim's bloodstained shirt cuff to get a look at it. A Rolex. With diamonds.

“A kick-ass piece of bling.”

Tony indicated his left hand. “Check out the ring. This was no robbery.”

What it looked like was an execution.

“Wife saw him last. Around 9:45.” Tony scratched his head. “She could be the shooter, though she was pretty hysterical. Seemed legit.”

“Somebody's with her now?”

“A neighbor and a uniform.”

Spencer nodded. “You're sure he was getting
out
of the car? Look at the way his body landed. His left hand was on the handle, keys in his right. He opens the door, somebody from the street comes up to him, nails him from behind.”

Tony nodded. “If he'd been climbing out of the car, he would have twisted the other way, fallen on his face.”

Spencer stood, stepped around the body to inspect the inside of the vehicle. “If the wife had been welcoming him home with a bullet, seems she'd have gotten him front on. Brains would be splattered behind him, not in front.”

“Brains have a way of doing that.”

“You know it, Pasta Man.”

“Rules out the wife being the shooter. Unless she was hiding in the bushes waiting for him, which would mean leaving the kids alone inside.”

Spencer pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. “Shall we question the grieving widow?”

“We shall,” Tony intoned. “After you, Slick.”

They found the woman in the front parlor; she was a trim blond sporting a huge diamond. Spencer placed her age somewhere between late twenties and early thirties.

“Mrs. Gabrielle,” he said gently. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

She nodded, looking a hairbreadth from falling apart. “This is our neighbor, Joe Williams.”

The man stood and shook both their hands. Spencer always found it interesting the way people fell back on social niceties, even at a time like this.

“The kids are with my wife,” the man said. “Next door.” He sat back down. “Took them the back way so they wouldn't—”

See their daddy's brains splattered all over the driveway. Good choice.

Spencer thanked him, then turned back to the wife. “When did you last see your husband?”

“Sometime after nine but before ten. We had just gotten the children down.”

“Can you be more specific about the time?”

She shredded the damp tissue she clutched in her hands. “It's a struggle to get them into bed…I know we should start at eight-thirty, but it's always nine.”

Her tone had become at once defensive and pleading, as if she had to justify her parenting to him.

Tony stepped in. “I know just what you mean. I raised four of 'em. The weirdest thing about our empty nest is how quiet it is at 9:00 p.m.”

“Go on,” Spencer urged gently.

She looked gratefully at Tony. “It was nine-thirty, I think. Maybe even a little after.”

“What happened then?”

“I said good night and told him to be—” Her voice cracked and her lips began to tremble.

“What, Mrs. Gabrielle?”

“I told him to be careful.”

“He was going out.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

She lowered her eyes, looking uncomfortable.

One moment passed, then another. Spencer tried again. “Your husband went out a lot at night, didn't he?”

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

“Do you know where he went?” When she didn't answer, he asked again. “Do you, Mrs. Gabrielle?”

“He was a good husband!” she cried. “A good father and provider! So what if he visited those clubs? It was business! The clients liked them. They wanted—”

She broke down sobbing. The neighbor glared at them, then awkwardly patted her back. Tony handed her the tissue box. She took it, whispering “Thanks.”

“Your husband was a Realtor?” Spencer asked when she had composed herself again.

“Yes.”

“Did he have any other business dealings that you know of?”

She lifted her gaze. “I don't understand.”

“Did he have another source of income?”

She frowned, glanced at the neighbor, then back at him. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Do you have full access to your finances, Mrs. Gabrielle?”

“Of course! I'm his—” Her face flooded with angry color. “Why are you asking about this? My husband's been killed. You should be asking…trying to find the animal who…who shot my husband!”

“We are,” Tony said softly, “trust me, Mrs. Gabrielle. Do you know anyone who might have wished your husband harm?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Any business dealings gone bad? Fights with clients? Anything like that?”

“No.” Her voice rose. “No.”

Spencer shifted focus. “How did you discover that your husband had been shot?”

“Joe called. Told me the interior lights in Marcus's car were on. I knew that…couldn't be…so I—”

Went out to investigate. And found her husband in a pool of blood.

Spencer turned to the neighbor. “What time was that, Mr. Williams? When you noticed the lights?”

“Maybe 12:30, 12:45. Something like that.”

“You usually up so late?”

He frowned slightly. “Not usually. I had horrible heartburn. I ate fried oysters. I love them, but they don't love me.” He shifted his gaze between the detectives, working, Spencer thought, a bit too hard to appear innocent. “Went to the kitchen to get an antacid…saw the lights and called over.”

“What happened next?”

“I heard Kim screaming and ran out to see what was wrong.”

Spencer closed his notebook and stood. Tony followed him to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Gabrielle. We'll be in touch.”

“Wait!” She stood, swaying slightly on her feet. “What do I do now? I mean…what's next?”

Despite the fact that she was better off without her scumbag husband, she didn't know that and he felt sorry for her. “We'll contact you as soon as we know more. You'll be the first to hear. And I'm really sorry for your loss, ma'am.”

They exited the home. While they had been inside, the crime-scene crew had arrived. The van's powerful scene lights lit up the area as if it were lunchtime. Presently the photographers were doing their thing.

Tony looked at him. “What do you think, Slick? Could she have pulled the trigger?”

“Anything's possible at this point, but I don't think so. From the way she reacted, she suspected the business her husband was up to at the Hustle was of the monkey variety. But she had chosen to look the other way.”

“Because he was a good husband and provider.”

“Bingo.”

“What about his second career as drug kingpin?”

“
Alleged
drug kingpin,” Spencer said dryly. “Clueless.”

“I feel bad for her,” Tony muttered. “Life's gonna suck big-time for a while.”

Spencer glanced at his watch, thinking of Stacy. Her gig at the Hustle should have ended thirty minutes ago. She would want to be here.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialed hers.

She answered right away. “Stacy Killian.”

“It's me,” he said. “Where are you?”

“St. Charles, crossing Poydras. Why?”

“You're going to want to make a stop on the way home.”

“From the tone of your voice, I'm not picking up doughnuts.”

“Gabrielle's dead,” he said. “Shot to death in his driveway. We're at the scene.”

“I'm on my way.”

Wednesday, April 25, 2007
2:35 a.m.

S
tacy stopped in front of Gabrielle's home, put the SUV into Park and climbed out. The crime-scene van was in place, scene lights turning night to day. She spotted the coroner's wagon and wondered which pathologist had pulled the lucky number tonight.

After signing the log, she ducked under the crime-scene tape and headed for Spencer and Tony.

Tony caught sight of her first. “Yo, Stacy. That's a new look for you, isn't it?”

“Yeah. You like it?”

“If I say yes, promise not to tell Betty?”

“Hell no, dirty old man.”

He laughed. Spencer turned and smiled at her. “Killian.”

Even though they made no secret of the fact that they were lovers and lived together, on the job they never acted like anything but colleagues and fellow detectives.

“Malone,” she said, stopping beside them, “thanks for the heads-up.” She shifted her attention to Gabrielle. Deputy Coroner Mitch Weiner, it seemed, had pulled the lucky number. He was squatted beside Gabrielle, examining the body.

“What's it looking like?” she asked.

Weiner glanced up. “Looks like a single shot. Back of the head.”

“Robbery wasn't a motive,” Spencer said. “Wallet and bling are still on him.”

“More like an execution,” Tony murmured.

“If Gabrielle was what he seemed to be, a successful, straight-arrow businessman, I might consider this a ‘blood in' kill.”

For several of the most notorious local gangs, the price to join was a kill. Just a random act of murder. Picking off someone like Gabrielle—wealthy, white, male—would earn the shooter extra glory.

“But knowing what I do about Gabrielle's unsavory sideline, my guess here is drug-related homicide.”

Stacy nodded and flipped open her cell phone. “Has my captain been informed yet?”

“Not from us.”

Knowing he would not want to wait until morning to hear the news, she dialed his cell. He answered, sounding grumpy.

Stacy enjoyed working for Captain Cooper. He had worked his way up from a childhood in the Desire Housing Project. He was smart, fair but tough. Being a minority himself, he understood how tough a fight it was to overcome prejudice and earn equal respect in the world. Cooper had let her know from day one that he judged her on the quality of her work—and nothing else.

“It's Killian.”

“Good news or bad?”

“Gabrielle's dead. Shot execution-style at his home. I'm at the scene.”

“Son of a bitch. How'd you—”

“ISD notified me.”

“Malone?”

“And Sciame. You want me to contact Baxter and Waldon?”

“Don't bother, there's nothing they can do tonight. We'll meet first thing, figure out where we go from here.”

“Borger might know something.”

“I want her brought in for questioning. Have a couple of uniforms drag her down to headquarters tomorrow morning.”

“Requesting permission to conduct the interview.”

“Granted. Operation's blown now.” He coughed, the sound thick. “Tell Malone and Sciame we want in on every step of the investigation.”

“You got it, Captain. Sorry I woke you.”

“If you hadn't, I'd have kicked your ass.”

He hung up; she closed her phone and turned to Spencer and Tony. “Captain Cooper wants full inclusion.”

“No problem.”

“I'm going to question Borger in the morning. I'm assuming you want in?”

“Absolutely.”

“If anything else comes up tonight, let me know. I'm going to catch some shut-eye.”

“I'll walk you to your car.”

She and Spencer fell into step together. They didn't speak or touch as they made their way to the street where her SUV was parked. She unlocked the door, climbed in and looked up at him. “I'll see you at home.”

“I shouldn't be too much longer.”

“Good. I'll wait up.”

Hand on the open door, he leaned toward her. “There's something I need to ask you.”

She frowned at the seriousness of his tone. “Sure. Anything.”

“I'm just wondering, with Gabrielle dead and the investigation blown…does this mean no more lap dances?”