Last Known Victim by Erica Spindler Page B

answered.
    â€œHeadquarters. Nothing like Sunday afternoon in the trenches.”
    â€œHow about Aunt Patti?”
    â€œShe’s on her way in.”
    â€œStay put. I might have something on your City Park Jane Doe. I need to be de-wired first, then I’m on my way.”

19
    Sunday, April 22, 2007
3:35 p.m.
    P atti couldn’t stay still. First Franklin, now a possible ID of their Jane Doe. It was almost too good to be true. If the ID came through and they found a link between the woman and Franklin, she would have Sammy’s killer. No doubts.
    â€œHow long’s it been?” she asked Spencer.
    â€œTwenty minutes.”
    â€œWhat’s taking—”
    â€œSo long?” Stacy finished for her, hurrying into the office. “Have you tried navigating French Quarter traffic lately?”
    â€œWhat do you have?” Patti asked.
    She moved her gaze between her and Spencer. “Kitten Sweet. Working girl.”
    â€œWhere’d you get the tip?”
    â€œMy undercover assignment. Said her roommate disappeared right before Katrina hit.”
    Stacy held up a hand, as if anticipating their reactions. “I know, it’s a stretch. But Borger seemed adamant. And here’s the kicker. She says Kitten was being stalked by some dude who called himself ‘the Artist.’ He sent her notes. She felt threatened.”
    â€œYou were wired?”
    â€œOf course. Dan’s getting us a transcript.” She moved her gaze between the two once more. “I suggested she go to the police. She refused. Not a lot of love lost there.”
    Spencer looked at Patti. “Can’t call her in for questioning, it’ll blow Stacy’s cover.”
    Patti nodded. “We could pull her in for questioning on another matter. Bring her in on some bogus charge.”
    â€œGo fishing. Plant the idea of a trade. Something she might give up to get off the hook.”
    â€œAnd if she lawyers up, we’re not only out of luck, we’re in deep shit. Public Integrity Division sits around waiting for stuff like this to fall into their laps. Justifies their existence.”
    â€œShe still has the roommate’s stuff,” Stacy offered. “I could nose around. It won’t be quick, but since she’s discussed Kitten’s disappearance with me already, I can follow up.”
    Spencer grinned. “Pretend to be an amateur detective. Now, there’s a stretch.”
    They’d met when Stacy had inserted herself, then a student at the University of New Orleans, into one of Spencer’s homicide investigations.
    â€œBite me, Malone.” She turned back to Patti. “There might be something in Sweet’s things that’ll help ID her. Even if only her real name.”
    â€œWhat?” Spencer said, his tone dry. “You don’t think Kitten Sweet’s her real name?”
    Patti ignored their bantering, thoughts racing. There was no way she could sit and wait for Stacy to find the opportunity to poke around. She intended to find out if Kitten Sweet was the break they’d been waiting for. If she had to do it without the sanction of the NOPD, so be it.
    â€œRun it through the computer,” Patti said. “See what you get. We’ll go from there.”

20
    Monday, April 23, 2007
11:45 p.m.
    T he computer offered little. Kitten Sweet had been arrested several times, charged with solicitation, resisting arrest, and drunk and disorderly conduct. The woman’s real name was Diana Burke, her last address listed Yvette Borger’s Governor Nicholls Street apartment.
    Although her records hadn’t provided much information, they had confirmed Sweet could be their Jane Doe. She fit the physical profile: white, five foot four, twenty-one years old.
    That was enough to convince Patti to move forward—with a plan that didn’t include waiting for Stacy to finesse out answers. She wanted answers now.
    The sooner they could link