Last Known Victim by Erica Spindler Page A

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?”
    â€œShe had this weird stalker. Sent her notes all the time. Called himself ‘the Artist.’ Real creepy dude.”
    â€œDid he threaten her?”
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œRight,” she said sarcastically, “go to the cops. My good friends in blue.”
    â€œThey’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.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œBoxed 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.”
    â€œMaybe 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.”
    â€œYeah, 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.”
    â€œYou don’t have—”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œMy car’s this way,” Stacy said, pointing in the direction of Canal Street.
    â€œI’m heading the other. Thanks for meeting me, it was fun.”
    â€œIt was.” Stacy smiled, started across the street, then stopped and looked back. “What was her name? Your roommate?”
    â€œKitten Sweet.”
    Kitten Sweet? Good God.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œGet me a transcript. I’ll take it over to Captain O’Shay myself.” She ended that call and dialed Spencer.
    â€œWhere are you?” she asked when he