Last Known Victim (6 page)

Saturday, April 21, 2007
7:56 a.m.

T
he jangle of the phone dragged Spencer out of a deep sleep. He managed to reach it and bring the receiver to his ear without opening his eyes. “Yo.”

“Wake up, Detective. I found something.”

He cracked open his eyes. Squinting against the light, he looked at the clock.
Not quite eight.

“Aunt Patti?”

“It's Captain O'Shay this morning. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

She hung up before Spencer could reply. Obviously she knew him well enough to anticipate his attempt to wheedle a few more minutes out of her.

Spencer tossed down the phone and climbed out of bed.

“Bad news?” Stacy asked sleepily.

“Aunt Patti. She's on her way over.”

Stacy murmured something that sounded like “Be careful,” then burrowed deeper into her pillow. Spencer bent and kissed her, then headed for the shower.

Captain Patti O'Shay was nothing if not punctual. Exactly twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of his house and tooted her horn. He stumbled out, “to-go” mug clutched in his hand.

After fastening his safety belt, he turned to her. “Want to tell me where we're going?”

She pulled away from the curb. “Quentin and Anna's.”

His brother and sister-in-law's? Now she had his full attention. “I take it this isn't a social call?”

“Going through the Handyman files, I found something we missed last time. In one of the photos. See for yourself.” She indicated the file folder lying on the dash.

He opened it. The folder contained photographs of the refrigerator where the hands had been discovered. She had circled something in the first photo, a small item affixed to the freezer door, nearly under the handle.

It'd been easy to miss because of its size, the location and because the duct tape that had been used to secure the unit half covered it.

“I made a blowup,” Patti said without taking her eyes from the road.

He thumbed to the next photo. A promotional magnet, he saw. One for a suspense novel by local author Anna North.

His sister-in-law.

“Holy shit.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Anna's not going to like this.”

An understatement, he knew. The only child of celebrities, Anna had been kidnapped as a child, her pinkie severed and sent to her family as a warning. She had escaped, but the ordeal had left her, understandably, traumatized. Not until she had become another maniac's target had she been able to conquer her fears.

That's how she had met Quentin; he had been the detective assigned to her case. They now lived with their young son in Mandeville, a bedroom community located across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans.

“We shouldn't have missed this,” he said.

“No, we shouldn't have.”

The months immediately following Katrina had been nightmarish; they'd been overwhelmed, stretched to near breaking. It had made them sloppy, a fact neither was proud of.

“Do they know we're coming?”

“I spoke with Quentin.”

They fell silent once more. She glanced at Spencer. “He wasn't happy.”

Another understatement. The Malone men took protecting those they loved seriously. Having Anna threatened—or even the hint of a threat—would bring that streak out in him.

No doubt he was pacing like a caged lion right now.

That didn't prove to be the case. Thirty minutes later, as they pulled into Quentin and Anna's drive, Spencer saw that the couple were waiting on their wide front porch. Not only was Quentin sitting, Sam—their seventeen-month-old—was sprawled across his lap.

Anna stood as they climbed out of the car. Spencer adored his redheaded sister-in-law—and had from the moment he met her. How could he not? His brother had never been happier.

“Sam's asleep,” she called, tone hushed. “Already played out, and it isn't even eight-thirty yet. And I wonder why I'm tired.”

She said the last with a smile that showed that considering the source, she didn't mind the fatigue.

Spencer reached the porch and saw that the toddler was, indeed, asleep, his dark curls damp with sweat. Sam had been born days before Katrina struck. When they named him after Sammy, they'd had no idea how poignant that decision would become.

He embraced Anna, then greeted Quentin. “Yo, bro. Looking domestic.”

All the Malone men were strongly built, with dark hair and blue eyes, but Quentin was unarguably the most classically handsome of them.

Quentin met his eyes. “I can still take you, little brother. If I were you, I wouldn't forget that.”

“In your dreams, old man. I could—”

“For heaven's sake,” Patti interrupted, “could you check the macho posturing long enough for me to get a look at the baby?”

Spencer stepped away and Quentin smiled sweetly at her. “Hello, Aunt Patti.”

She bent and hugged him, then kissed Sam's head. “I saw him just last week, I swear he's grown since then.”

“He has,” Anna said. “Actually, we're thinking of nicknaming him Weed. I'll take him inside so we can talk.”

She scooped him up and carried him into the house. The minute the door closed behind them, Quentin jumped to his feet, all but vibrating with pent-up energy.

“What's going on, Patti? And not just the ‘official' bullshit story. The whole truth.”

“As I explained on the phone, in studying photographs taken of the Handyman's refrigerator, we found—”

“One of Anna's promotional magnets. That I already know. How the hell did you miss it the first time around?”

Spencer laid a hand on his brother's arm. “Back off, Quent. We're doing everything we can.”

“Back off? Anna having any connection to that madman, even one as flimsy as a free magnet, is not—”

“Spencer's right,” Anna said from the doorway. “I'm not thrilled about this turn of events, but there's not much I can do about it. Except try to help them identify the refrigerator's owner.”

He gazed at her a moment, then nodded tersely. Anna turned toward them. “So, what can I do?”

“Take a look.”

Patti handed the file folder to Quentin. He studied the photos, jaw tight, then crossed to Anna and handed them to her.

“It's mine, all right.” She handed the photos back. “
Dead of Night
was published in April 2005.”

“How many of those magnets were distributed?”

“Twenty-five hundred. Give or take.”

“All in the New Orleans area?”

“No. I gave them away at my book signings, through my Web site and to fans who wrote and requested one. In addition, I sent a stack to a number of my most supportive booksellers. For their customers.”

“How many locally, do you think?”

“Five hundred, for sure. Maybe seven-fifty.” Her voice shook slightly and Quentin put his arm around her.

“I know this makes you uncomfortable, Anna,” Patti said. “I'm sorry.”

“A psycho who severs his victims' hands does hit a little too close for comfort. But this isn't about me. It's about Sammy. And the girls who were murdered. I think I can handle it.” Her eyes grew bright. “I loved Sammy, too.”

Patti held her gaze a moment. “Thank you.”

Spencer brought the focus back to the investigation. “Ever have a fan threaten you?”

“Just Ozzie.”

“Osborne?”

At the mention of the rocker and erstwhile reality-TV-show figure, a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Hardly. A guy who axed his wife. Said he'd do the same to me.”

Spencer arched his eyebrows in surprise. “And how, sister-in-law, did you meet him?”

“Fan mail from prison,” Quentin said for her, voice tight.

“You get letters from prison?”

“Doesn't everyone?” When nobody laughed, she went on. “Yes, from both male and female cons. Since Ozzie, I don't even read them anymore. Refuse them and send them back unopened.”

“Do you still have his?”

She shook her head and Quentin stepped in. “He was doing life without opportunity for parole. I took the letters to the proper officials. Mr. Oz's days of letter-writing to authors are over. Anna, it turns out, wasn't the only one.”

“Any other readers, particularly local ones, who've made you uncomfortable?”

“Because of what I write, there's an occasional whack-job who comes up to me at a signing, but overwhelmingly everyone I meet is just a really nice person who likes to read scary books.”

“Do you have a list of local fans' names and addresses?” Spencer asked.

“I do. I'll print a copy.”

She headed inside and Quentin turned to them. “What next?”

“We run the names through the computer, see if we get any kind of a hit. We'll follow up from there.”

“And if you don't get a hit?”

“We find another angle.”

They fell silent a moment. From inside, they heard Sam waking up. Patti started for the door. “I'll go see if I can help Anna.”

When she disappeared into the house, Quentin turned to Spencer. “How is she?”

“Patti? Not herself. Though finding this link to Sammy's murder seems to have given her direction.”

“That's a good thing.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

For a long moment his brother simply gazed at him, then he nodded. “This couldn't have happened at a worse time. Anna's pregnant.”

The news floored him, though Quentin and Anna hadn't made a secret of the fact they wanted another child—someday.

He hadn't realized that someday meant now. He playfully punched his brother's shoulder. “Way to go, stud. Big surprise.”

“We just found out. We were waiting until she was through the first trimester to announce, just to be certain everything was okay.”

Before Sam, Anna had lost a baby early in the first trimester. Unfortunately she and Quentin had shared their good news with everyone—then had to share the bad news as well. It'd been devastating for everyone involved.

“We've got several weeks to go, so I'd appreciate you keeping it under wraps.”

“I'll try. But keeping a secret in the Malone family is damn near impossible. Personally, I think Mom's psychic.”

“I'm going with John Jr.'s. theory that she's planted listening devices in our homes and vehicles.”

“Works for me. But slightly more creepy than the psychic angle.”

“How's Stacy?” Quentin asked, changing the subject.

“She's good.” He frowned. “Has Mom said something?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Just going with the conversation, man. You're the one who segued from psychic, snooping mothers to my relationship.”

“And babies.”

At what must have been his horrified expression, Quentin laughed. “What's the deal, little brother? You have commitment issues?”

“He's scared,” Anna said, emerging from the house, Patti and Sam right behind her. She crossed to Spencer and handed him the list of names and addresses.

“Stacy's great. If you don't get with it, you'll lose her.”

“I agree,” Patti said. “She's a good cop, too.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Thanks for bringing this up, Quentin. I owe you.”

He grinned. “Happy to help, Spence. After all, what are big brothers for?”

Saturday, April 21, 2007
1:00 p.m.

T
he Bon Temps Café served traditional Cajun-Creole fare, like jambalaya, crawfish etouffée and stuffed crabs. It was one of the many shiny new places that had opened post-the-Big-One, and although the food was excellent, Patti missed the slightly derelict atmosphere of the places that had been lost. What was it about ancient wiring and cracked lathe-and-plaster walls that she had found so appealing?

She took a table by the front windows so she could watch for her friend June Benson.

She and June had been friends for twenty years. They'd met in a support group for childless women who had either lost babies or were unable to conceive. Their situations had been similar—both had tragically miscarried and were then unable to conceive—and they had bonded despite the decade difference in their ages and their backgrounds.

Patti came from a hard-scrabble, working-class family of Irish immigrants. June's family could be described as New Orleans royalty. Descended from the original American planters to settle in “Nouvelle Orléans,” the Benson family still owned the Garden District mansion built in 1856 by planter Jonathan Benson, still ruled Comus, the most elite and secretive of the Mardi Gras krewes, and served on the boards of the city's most high-profile philanthropic organizations.

Yet over the years the friendship had blossomed, then matured, carrying over to their extended families as well. The two families had shared in each other's celebrations of joy, times of grief—and everything in between.

After Sammy's murder, Patti had turned to June more than anyone else for comfort and support. June understood her completely. She had listened. Just listened. She hadn't tried to make it better, for nothing could have. Nor had the depths of Patti's despair frightened her.

Patti ordered an iced tea, then glanced at her watch, surprised at June's tardiness. Usually it was Patti rushing in, June already half finished with her tea.

At the blare of a horn, she looked up to see her friend dashing across St. Peter Street, forcing a cab driver to brake. June waved apologetically at the driver, reached the sidewalk, then ducked into the restaurant.

A moment later, she hurried to the table. “Sorry I'm late.” She slid into the chair across the table from Patti. “Max got out and I had to chase him down. Then I couldn't find the key to my Club thingie.”

Her auto anti-theft device. June only misplaced the key about once a week.

She waved to the waitress, who hurried over. She ordered herself an iced tea and the bread basket, then went on. “Max was almost to St. Charles Avenue before I got him.”

A waiter brought a basket of fresh, hot French bread and whipped butter.

June tended toward extremes. She was either pin neat or totally disheveled. The picture of composure, or completely frazzled. She loved food and loathed exercise; fifty percent of the time she was on a diet, the other fifty on a binge.

Clearly today was a frazzled, flushed, binge day.

“And how did Max, the marvelous salt-and-pepper shih tzu, get out?” Patti asked as she watched the brunette slather butter on a piece of the bread.

“One guess.”

“Riley,” she said, referring to June's happy-go-lucky, much younger brother.

“Bingo. Left the door ajar.” June laughed. “I swear, he's the least organized, most scattered—”

“Delightful, darling—”

“—mess of a young man. What was Mother thinking, having another child so late in life! Now I'm stuck with him.”

Patti grinned. June adored Riley. He was born when she was fifteen—she could have despised him. And from what she had told Patti, she had for years, secretly referring to him as “It” and “Thing.”

June laughed about it now. How she had resented him. How jealous she had been of the attention her parents had lavished on him.

She had gone off to university and come home one Christmas break only to fall in love with the curly-haired, bright-eyed four-year-old.

“When is he going to grow up?” June asked, buttering another piece of bread. “He's twenty-seven.”

“Maybe never. If you keep babying him.”

“I do not baby him.”

Their eyes met and they both laughed. “Okay, so I baby him a little.”

Patti understood. She tended to exercise her maternal instincts on her nieces and nephews. For June it was more extreme. She had no one but Riley. Her parents were dead, her marriage had fallen apart early on.

“How's the gallery doing?” Patti asked, referring to Pieces, the Warehouse District art gallery June had opened in the fall and which Riley helped her run.

“It's going well, actually. Riley's recruited several really talented local artists, and we made enough last month to pay the bills
and
our salaries.”

Without dipping into investments and trust funds.

Neither June nor Riley had to worry about money, but June was too good a businesswoman not to.

“Can you keep a secret?” June asked, eyes twinkling. “Riley convinced Shauna to come on board.”

Shauna was the baby of the Malone brood, but instead of joining the NOPD, she'd become an artist. And a damn good one at that.

“She asked him to keep it quiet until she notified her present representation, then she's going to tell the family herself.”

It was so like June to share the news, anyway, then expect Patti to do what she couldn't.

“It must have taken some coaxing,” Patti murmured as the waitress approached. “She was happy where she was.”

The server took their order—a seafood salad for June and etouffée for Patti—then June went on, “You know Riley. Offered to take ten percent less commission for the first year. Plus, he appealed to their friendship.”

Shauna and Riley were close in age, knew each other and had similar interests: art, music, dancing, good food. They had hung out together as teenagers and had remained good friends all these years. Shauna had even had a crush on the slightly older, good-looking Riley at one time.

June sighed. “I always wished they'd get together. They'd make a handsome couple.”

“They still might. After all, they're both still single.” Patti leaned forward. “Although I hear she's dating someone. An artist she met at an opening at the Contemporary Arts Center.”

“You don't sound thrilled.”

“I haven't met him.”

June cocked an eyebrow. “Somebody did. And they're not thrilled.”

“Colleen. Said he was moody and controlling.”

“But we both know your sister can be a bit overprotective of her children.”

“True.” Patti changed the subject. “I have news. About Sammy.”

June laid down her butter knife. “You have a suspect.”

“Yes. And no.” She cleared her throat. “Do you remember the killer the newspapers called the Handyman?”

“Vaguely. You never caught him.”

Although June stated it as a simple fact, it stung like an admonition. “We didn't have much to go on,” she said. “We do now.”

For a moment, June stared at her. Then she shook her head. “But what does this have to do with Sammy? I thought the Handyman killed women?”

Patti explained about the find in City Park. “Sammy's badge was in the grave.”

June gasped. “That can't…My God, Patti…this means—”

“That the Handyman killed Sammy.”

The server arrived with their food. June gazed blankly at hers, then lifted her eyes to Patti. “Suddenly I'm not so hungry.”

Patti reached across the table and covered her hand. “This doesn't change how he died. It doesn't make it worse or more painful.”

“No?”

“No. But it does give me a lead. Finally.” She smiled grimly. “I'm going to get him. And I'm going to make him pay.”

June fell silent. They both picked at their food. Patti saw that her friend was upset.

“What?” she asked, pushing her own plate away.

“I'm worried about you.”

“Now, there's something new.”

June waved off the teasing sarcasm. “You act so tough, but I know—”

“The real me?”

“Yes.”

“Tough exterior, soft, chewy center?” Patti teased.

“Yes. And it's not funny.”

“I'm a police captain. Being soft is a liability.”

June leaned forward. “I don't want you hurt any more than you already have been. First the heart attack, then Katrina and Sammy…”

“Thanks, but…I think closure is the only thing that'll stop the hurt.”

June opened her mouth as if to argue her point, but closed it as Patti's cell phone buzzed. “Captain O'Shay.”

“Aunt Patti. It's Spencer. We got a hit.”

“Tell me.”

“Ex-con. Did time for aggravated rape.”

“Pick him up. I'm on my way.”