Last Known Victim (9 page)

Sunday, April 22, 2007
3:10 a.m.

S
tacy watched Yvette dart toward the courtyard door. When she reached it, she stopped. But instead of stepping inside, she turned and jogged back to the SUV.

Stacy lowered the window. “What's up?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Are you kidding? I'm starving.”

“Want to come in? I have to eat, too. We might as well do it together.”

Yvette worked hard to be tough, to act like it all rolled off her, but Stacy saw she was shaken.

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Where can I park?”

Yvette indicated a “residents only” spot and watched as Stacy eased into it, then climbed out. Together they crossed to the building, a crumbling stucco-and-brick three-story, whose ironwork balconies reflected its Spanish influence. Yvette unlocked the door and they stepped inside.

Like most of the old buildings in the French Quarter, this one was built around a shady, central courtyard. In the days before air-conditioning, the courtyards served as cool city oases. They still did, only now as a place to escape the paved world beyond.

Each apartment opened out to the courtyard, the units accessed from shared staircases and covered walkways.

Yvette lived on the second floor. They made their way up the stairs and down the covered walkway. Stacy noted how quietly Yvette moved, as if doing her best not to disturb her sleeping neighbors. As they passed one of the units a dog began to bark.

A big one, judging by the size of its bark. Yvette winced; Stacy guessed this wasn't the first time she had awakened the beast. And most probably, the neighbors as well.

They reached Yvette's apartment—number twelve—and she let them in. Simultaneously she flipped on the lights and kicked off her shoes.

French Quarter living did not come cheap, even for a small place like this one. Stacy had learned that right away. Throw in the great courtyard and she'd bet Yvette paid twelve to fifteen hundred bucks a month.

Stacy moved her gaze over the room's interior. Charming and traditional. Lots of soft colors and fabrics, accented with feminine touches and the occasional startlingly modern painting or print.

“You've got a great place,” she said, and crossed to study a large, crudely painted representation of a fairy.

“This is wonderful. A little scary, but wonderful.”

“I think so, too.” Yvette came up beside her. “It's a local artist named Wren. I own another by him. It's in the bedroom. Come on, kitchen's this way.”

Between the two rooms, Stacy noticed several more paintings. They didn't seem to be linked stylistically, so she asked Yvette what had drawn her to them.

“Don't know. They're all by local artists. Some I buy right out of studios here in the Quarter, some from galleries. A few from hawkers on Jackson Square.”

She crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. “What do you want to eat?”

“What do you have?”

“Leftover pizza. Eggs. Milk.” She slid open the crisper and made a face. “Something fuzzy.”

She closed the fridge and crossed to a long, narrow cabinet. She peered inside. “Chocolate chip cookies—Famous Amos. Cereal. Popcorn.”

She looked over her shoulder at Stacy. “I'm thinking popcorn and cocoa.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Minutes later they were curled up on the couch, a giant bowl of popcorn between them and hands curled around the mugs of warm cocoa.

Stacy took a sip, then coughed. “Some strong cocoa.”

“Added a little zip. Peppermint schnapps. The alcohol kills the effect of the caffeine. Do you like it?”

Stacy said she did and sipped again, glancing at the other woman. She saw several deep purple marks spotting her neck. “You're bruising.”

“I am?” Yvette brought a hand to her throat. “How bad?”

Stacy fumbled in her purse and pulled out a compact with a mirror. She handed it to Yvette. “Take a look.”

She did, silently. A moment later, she snapped the compact shut and handed it back.

“He's your boyfriend, isn't he?”

Instead of answering, she said, “He's not that bad.”

“After what he did, I can't believe you're saying that. He's a pig.”

“I egged him on. He's been good to me—”

“I
see
that.”

“He's never done anything like that before.”

“And if you're a good girl he won't again?” She shook her head. “A guy like that—”

“What do
you
know about Marcus?”

“He's married, for one. He was wearing a ring.”

“Don't be stupid. Most of the guys I meet are. At least he doesn't pretend by taking it off.”

“He put his hands on you. If I hadn't come looking for—”

“Why
did
you come looking for me?”

Because the surveillance team saw Gabrielle enter the alley and warned her.

“One of your tips,” she said instead. “You know those funny radio guys who were in, slamming back Jell-O shots—”

“Walton and Johnson?”

“Yeah. They left you a tip, but I forgot to give it to you and…I thought I'd catch you leaving.”

“An angel of mercy
and
honest.” She reached for a handful of popcorn. “What the hell are you doing working at the Hustle?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“The money.”

“Ditto.”

Yvette frowned, as if she didn't totally buy it, and Stacy leaned forward. “I was married for twelve years. Got hitched right out of high school. I didn't go to college, never worked. Barney wanted me home. Then the bastard up and leaves me with a bunch of debt and a kid to support.”

“You have a kid?”

Shit. Now she had a kid.
“A girl. She's eight.”

“What's her name?”

“Sandi.”
Brandi and Sandi.
Jeez.

But Yvette thought it was cute. “Do you have a picture?”

“Not with me. I don't like to bring personal stuff to work.”

That, at least, wasn't a lie.

Stacy rummaged in her purse for the “tip” and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “Here. Sorry about that.”

Yvette stared at the bill. “Twenty bucks is all? From those rich guys? Keep it, you earned it.”

Stacy frowned. “I helped you because you're my friend, Yvette. And because it was the right thing to do.
Not
because I expected to be paid.”

The younger woman gazed at her a moment, as though trying to decide if she was for real. Then she smiled. “Keep it, anyway. You've got a kid to take care of.”

“Wow. Thanks.” She stuffed the bill into her pocket. “Sorry if I was critical of Marcus. I guess I just don't get it.”

She let the comment hang between them for several moments, offering Yvette a chance to explain. When she didn't, Stacy went on. “How long have you been seeing him?”

“Let's not talk about Marcus. Okay?”

“Sure. Sorry.”

They fell silent a moment, then Stacy snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot! I saw you today. In the Quarter. I started across the street to say hello, but you got into a car before I could.”

“Wasn't me.”

“You sure? I was almost posi—”

“I said it wasn't me.”

Stacy backed off. “Sure. Okay.” She laughed. “I should've known. This chick was dressed like somebody's mama. Real frumpy.”

“Not my style.”

“Exactly.”

Yvette finished her cocoa. “Ready for another? Or just a shot of schnapps?”

She shook her head. “I've got to drive, remember?”

“You could sleep over?” She took in Stacy's expression and laughed. “I'm not gay. It just gets a little lonely around here. In the morning, we could go to the Coffeepot for brunch. They make the best Lost Bread in the city.”

Lost Bread, Stacy had learned after moving down here, was New Orleans' version of French toast—made with day-old French bread. “I can't. I wish I could, but—”

“Because of Sandi,” she said, disappointment clear in her voice.

“My mother's watching her, but I need to be there when she wakes up.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“I know! How about we meet for brunch tomorrow? Sandi's spending the day with her dad.”

Yvette agreed, and a short time later, Stacy climbed into her Explorer. No sooner had she slammed the door behind her than her cell phone buzzed. It was Dan, one of the surveillance team.

“I appreciate you wrapping that up,” he said. “I've been in this friggin' van so long, my ass's asleep. And the guys send their thanks for recruiting us for Sunday duty. We were hoping to spend the day in here, on top of each other.”

“World's smallest violin. I tell you what, seeing it's so late, I'll de-wire myself. I promise to be really careful with your little toys.”

“Your generosity overwhelms.”

She laughed. “See you tomorrow, at one.”

“One last thing, Killian. Your ex's name is
Barney?
Real smooth.”

“At one,” she repeated, and hung up to the sound of laughter.

Sunday, April 22, 2007
1:05 p.m.

W
hen Stacy arrived, Yvette was already at a table in the light-dappled courtyard, sipping coffee and reading the
Times-Picayune.

“Hey,” Stacy said as she reached the table. “Sorry I'm late.”

“You're not. I came early.”

Stacy sat. “I don't know about you, but I'm fried this morning.”

Yvette folded the section of the paper she'd been reading and laid it on top of the rest, which was at her feet. “I'm used to it.”

“Just wait until you're thirty. How's your neck?”

“Sore. It hurts to swallow.” She had draped a floral-print silk scarf around her neck to hide the bruises. “I got one of the girls to switch tonight for tomorrow night. I just don't feel up to dancing, you know?”

Stacy murmured that she did, and they fell silent.

The guys in the van would be happy to hear they had a twenty-four-hour reprieve. Yahoo. She, on the other hand, would prefer to keep the investigation moving forward.

The waitress took their orders—they both decided on the Lost Bread—filled their coffee cups, then left them alone.

“Have you…thought any more about what happened last night?”

“Should I have?”

Stacy shrugged and added cream to her coffee. “Thought you might like to talk. Sometimes it makes it better.”

“I pushed his buttons. He snapped. I won't do it again.”

She sipped the coffee, working to maintain a “girlfriends” kind of tone, chatty and intimate. “What do you know about his other life?”

Yvette narrowed her eyes. “Other life?”

“Away from the Hustle. You know.”

“Actually, I snooped a bit.” She leaned across the table, expression mischievous. “Borrowed a car and followed him.”

Stacy's heart beat a little faster. She hoped the transmitter was working. “Really? What did you find out?”

“His wife is one of those uptight country-club types. The kind who think they're too good for the rest of the world. Especially types like me.”

Stacy heard a note of little girl hurt in Yvette's voice, one she would vehemently deny. Obviously Yvette had been on the receiving end of that kind of thinking more than once.

“If she was so great, why would he need you?”

“Exactly!” Yvette beamed at her. “That's part of what set Marcus off last night. I threatened to tell her about us and to go to the—”

She bit the last back, though Stacy had a good idea she had been about to say “police.”

She tried a gentle nudge. “Go to who?”

“The press if I had to.”

“Maybe his wife holds the purse strings and that's why he stays with her.”

Yvette shook her head. “I don't think so. He reps commercial property. Does real well. Besides, I don't really care if he stays with her or not. I just want to be paid what I'm owed.”

Before Stacy could counter with another question, Yvette pointed to the paper. “I was reading about that body they found in City Park. They think that guy got her. The one who chops off his victims' hands.”

“I heard about that. So creepy.”

“I've got a theory on that.”

“Yeah?”

“Know how they've never found any of his other victims? And how there's been no high-profile thing about girls going missing?” Yvette leaned forward.

“They're working girls.”

“You mean prostitutes.”

“And girls like me.”

“Could be he traveled around and that's why no other victims have turned up or been reported missing.”

“Uh-uh.” The waitress arrived with their French toast. Yvette dug in immediately, eating as if starved. Stacy followed more slowly, preparing how to steer the conversation back to Gabrielle.

“I've thought a lot about this,” Yvette continued. “Nobody cares much about working girls. A lot of 'em either don't have families or their families don't know where they are.”

It certainly wouldn't be the first time a serial killer had targeted prostitutes. But she couldn't tell her that.

Instead she nodded. “True.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I might know who that girl is. Or was.” She lowered her voice even more. “My old roommate.”

When she'd arranged this brunch, Stacy hadn't expected to get information about the Handyman. She imagined the expressions of the guys in the van. “How do you figure?”

“They think this girl was killed right before Katrina struck. That's when Kitten disappeared.”

“So did about a million other New Orleanians.” That number wasn't an exaggeration, and it represented eighty percent of the metro area's 1.3 million residents.

“But she never came back. Left all her stuff.”

“I don't know, Yvette. Lots of folks did that.”

Yvette looked irritated. “I've got a strong feeling about this, Brandi. I mean, we were both going to wait out the storm. We stocked up on water and junk food, then she disappears.”

Yvette glanced over her shoulder, then back at Stacy. “I think he calls himself ‘the Artist.'”

Now she had her.
Stacy leaned forward. “Why?”

“She had this weird stalker. Sent her notes all the time. Called himself ‘the Artist.' Real creepy dude.”

“Did he threaten her?”

“She felt threatened. That's pretty much the same thing.”

Not to the police. An overt threat always beat out an implied one.
“Go to the cops. Tell them what you know and let them handle it.”

“Right,” she said sarcastically, “go to the cops. My good friends in blue.”

“They're not all bad.”

Yvette eyed her suspiciously. “They are if you're me. The cops and I have a history. None of it good.”

She had a record. Solicitation. Resisting arrest. Possession.

And all that
after
her eighteenth birthday. Her runins with the law had started well before that.

“What are you going to do?”

She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”

“But she was your friend. If he killed her…wouldn't you want him caught?” Stacy leaned forward. “Besides, if he's not caught, he might kill someone else.”

“You tell 'em, then. I'll deny it all.”

Arguing the point would do nothing but lose her Yvette's trust. So, she approached from another angle. “You still have her stuff?”

“Boxed up in the apartment. It's a real pain in the ass, too. She's not paying any rent and it's taking up half the second bedroom.”

“Maybe you could go through it. See if there's an address or phone number, someone you could contact. At least then you'd know if she was okay.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She scraped the last piece of her toast through the well of syrup on her plate, then stuck the dripping bite in her mouth.

As if on cue, the waitress brought the check. Yvette grabbed it. “I've got it.”

“You don't have—”

“You came to my rescue big-time last night. How 'bout we call us square now?”

Stacy agreed, and minutes later they exited the restaurant. The day was bright and warm, the humidity blessedly low. They stopped at the corner of St. Peter and Royal Street.

“My car's this way,” Stacy said, pointing in the direction of Canal Street.

“I'm heading the other. Thanks for meeting me, it was fun.”

“It was.” Stacy smiled, started across the street, then stopped and looked back. “What was her name? Your roommate?”

“Kitten Sweet.”

Kitten Sweet? Good God.

“You know, she probably ran off with some guy who offered her a ride out of town and didn't even think twice about leaving me behind and alone. Bitch is probably living someplace like Cleveland right now. I don't even know why I worried.” With that, Yvette turned and headed down the street.

But Yvette
had
worried, Stacy could tell. For all her toughness, Stacy could see that the roommate's desertion had hurt.

Yvette Borger had been let down many times, and no matter what she told herself, it still hurt.

Kitten Sweet. Could she be dead? Could she be the woman found in City Park?

It seemed a bit of a long shot. Except for the stalker.

Her cell phone jangled. As expected, it was the surveillance team. “Hello, boys,” she said. “You got all that?”

“Not a lot on our guy, but the
lagniappe
could be good.”

Lagniappe
was local vernacular for “A little something extra.” It certainly worked in this case.

“Get me a transcript. I'll take it over to Captain O'Shay myself.” She ended that call and dialed Spencer.

“Where are you?” she asked when he answered.

“Headquarters. Nothing like Sunday afternoon in the trenches.”

“How about Aunt Patti?”

“She's on her way in.”

“Stay put. I might have something on your City Park Jane Doe. I need to be de-wired first, then I'm on my way.”