Erica Spindler: Last Known Victim

“Sammy’s body is found uptown. His cruiser located nearby,” Patti continues.

“A present-day dancer from the Hustle claims she’s being stalked by somebody calling himself the Artist. She comes to us for help. Claims the club’s talent manager not only recognized our Jane Doe as Jessica Skye-”

“Which proved true.”

“-but insisted the creepy dude sending her notes used to send notes to Skye as well.”

“At the same time, she tells us the manager is missing. She fears the Artist may have killed her. She has no proof to support the claims.”

“But the manager turns up dead, right hand severed.”

“In addition, the dancer’s elderly neighbor is murdered. The same night another neighbor’s dog is poisoned. Dancer claims the Artist visited her that night.”

“You come on board,” Spencer went on, “and all communication from the Artist stops. Dancer disappears and he reappears.”

“Bent on punishing me.”

“To that end, Shauna and Stacy go missing. And Tonya’s hand is delivered to your front door. So,” he finished, “is it Borger?”

Patti swore softly, frustrated. Stymied. Circumstantial evidence suggested it was. But her gut, the instinct she had built her career on, said Yvette had been telling the truth.

Problem was, she no longer trusted her gut.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You think she may be innocent?” He drew his eyebrows together, expression disbelieving. “What is it with you and her?”

“I don’t know,” she said again.

“We’ve got plenty of circumstantial evidence against her.”

“But no physical.”

He thumbed through the Maytree file, then stopped and looked back up at Patti. “What kind of dog?”

“Pardon?”

“The two strands on the victim’s robe. The lab was supposed to identify the breed.” He flipped through the pages. “I don’t see a report. Looks like they never got back to us.”

Patti got to her feet, looking excited. “What about the dog groomer’s business? Anyone ever run a client list?”

She saw by his expression that he followed her thought-maybe there was a connection there. Match the breed with one of the Perfect Pups’ clients and it might lead somewhere.

“Doesn’t look like it was done.”

“McBreakfast.”

Quentin and John Jr. stood in the doorway, one carrying take-out bags from McDonald’s, the other a beverage tray.

Spencer’s stomach growled loudly. Patti smiled. “Apparently just in time.”

The brothers dropped the bags on the desk and pulled up chairs. They all helped themselves to an Egg McMuffin.

While they ate, Spencer explained about the unidentified dog breed and the neighbor’s grooming business. “I’m thinking, we finish this and contact the lab. Somehow it fell through the cracks.”

“Oh, my God,” Patti said, it suddenly hitting her like a ton of bricks.

The Artist was punishing her. By going after the women in her life. The ones she cared about most.

They all looked at her.

“June,” she said, standing. “I forgot all about June.”

Saturday, May 19, 2007

8:10 a.m.

June didn’t answer her home or cell phone. When Patti rang Pieces, she got the message machine. Patti kept the panic at bay by telling herself it was early, a weekend. Her friend was still sleeping or in the shower. Or taking Max for a walk.

But it felt wrong.

Patti ordered a unit to Pieces, and she, Spencer, Quentin and John Jr. all headed for June’s Garden District home.

She and Spencer made the Garden District mansion in ten minutes. Quentin and John Jr. pulled up just behind them. Patti leapt out of the Camaro and ran to the door. She rang the bell, then pounded. Inside, Max went nuts, yapping and clawing at the door.

“I’m going in,” she called to Spencer.

She fumbled with her keys, found the one June had given her for emergencies, unlocked the door and pushed it open. As she did, Max darted past her and outside.

“Somebody catch him!”

John Jr. gave chase and Patti stepped into the mansion. “June!” she shouted. “Riley!”

Silence answered. Spencer and Quentin joined her in the foyer. She looked at them. “Let’s split up. I’ll start upstairs.”

Quentin offered to go outside and Spencer took the main floor.

Moments later, Patti was on the second floor. She made her way from room to room, forcing herself to move slowly, to treat each room like a crime scene. Nothing appeared out of order. No signs of a struggle. June’s bedroom was pin neat; Riley’s was a mess. Same with their respective bathrooms.

The spare bedrooms looked as they should-un-lived in, ready and waiting for a guest.

“Anything?” she asked as she rejoined her two nephews downstairs.

“Grounds, garage and tool shed are clean,” Quentin said. “There’s one vehicle in the garage. A Mercedes.”

Patti’s heart sank. “That’s June’s.” She turned to Spencer in question.

“One broken dish in the sink. Otherwise everything’s in order.”

Patti frowned. A broken dish? “Could she have cut herself? Maybe Riley drove her to get stitches?”

“It’s possible, though there didn’t appear to be any blood at the site.”

“June’s pretty neat. Maybe she cleaned it up.”

“ Before rushing to the emergency room?”

Patti felt ill. Where would June be so early Saturday morning? Without her car. Without Max.

Same MO as Messinger, Shauna and Stacy.

John Jr. returned, out of breath, dog in his arms. “Little shit was almost to St. Charles Avenue before I got him.”

Patti stared at the shih tzu. Not the traditional champagne color. A salt and pepper.

Black and white.

She turned to Spencer. “Get the lab on the phone now. I want to know the breed of that dog!”

While Spencer made that call, she made one of her own: Ray’s Perfect Pups. Ray himself answered. He sounded frazzled. No doubt Saturday morning was one of his busiest.

“Ray, this is Captain Patti O’Shay. Yvette’s friend.”

“Captain O’Shay, sure. What can I do for you?”

“I have a question. Is June Benson a client of yours?”

“Benson…shih tzu named Max, right?”

“Right,” she answered, then thanked him, hung up and looked at Spencer, who had just finished his call. “Well?”

“A shih tzu.”

“And June’s a client of Perfect Pups.”

They all turned to John Jr., who was still holding the dog.

It all made sense. Riley had been at the scene the night Yvette disappeared. She had confided in him. Perhaps, just as he’d said, Yvette asked him for a ride. Had confided why she needed one.

She had played right into the Artist’s hands.

He’d come looking for her at the Hustle all innocent concern. A smokescreen. Covering his ass in case her phone log revealed they’d talked that night.

Patti’s mind raced. June confiding in her. That she was concerned about him. What had she said? That Riley gets all head-over-heels stupid about some woman, then when it doesn’t work out, he mopes around for weeks, brokenhearted.

After they betray him. And he kills them.

Had June begun to suspect her brother was a murderer? Had she made a connection between Riley and one of the victims? Maybe she had confronted him?

Dear God…If Riley was…that meant he’d-

Riley killed Sammy.

Patti brought a hand to her mouth. This couldn’t be happening. The brother of her oldest friend. She loved him like one of her own nephews.

“Aunt Patti? Captain?”

She blinked, focusing on the men. “It’s Riley,” she said. “Riley’s the Handyman.”