Erica Spindler - Last Known Victim

Brandi rubbed her back. “Was that the guy from tonight? The one you wouldn’t dance for?”

Yvette nodded. “I thought he…was going…to kill me.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

Brandi started to stand; Yvette caught her arm, stopping her. “Don’t,” she croaked. “It’ll only make things…worse.”

“How can it be worse? He tried to kill you!”

“Just help me up. I’m okay.”

Brandi hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. Unsteady on her feet, she took a deep, calming breath, acknowledging she was happy to be alive.

She sent a small smile to Brandi. “Thanks. If you hadn’t…”

She let the thought trail off. Brandi jumped in quickly. “How about I give you a ride home?”

“I don’t live that far. I can-”

“Walk? Get real. What if that creep is waiting for you?”

She had a point. And the truth was, at this moment she felt neither steady nor brave.

She and Brandi walked to the lot where Brandi had parked her car, a battered SUV. They climbed in and Yvette sagged back against the seat, exhausted.

“Where to?”

She gave directions, then closed her eyes. What had she been thinking? Challenging Marcus that way? Threatening him with the cops? Threatening to go to his wife?

“Right turn?”

She cracked open her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Several directions later, Brandi pulled the vehicle to a stop. “Here we are,” she said.

Yvette grabbed the door handle, then hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be alone. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.

“Anytime. If you change your mind about the cops-”

“I won’t.” Yvette opened the vehicle door, climbed halfway out, then glanced back. “I really appreciate…you know.”

“No problem.” Brandi smiled. “I’ll watch to make sure you get in.”

Yvette hesitated again, thinking of her dark, empty apartment.

“You sure you’re okay?”

She forced a breezy smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. See you around.”

She slipped out of the vehicle and darted for the door.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

3:10 a.m.

Stacy 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.”