“My car’s this way,” Stacy said, pointing in the direction of Canal Street.

“I’m heading the other. Thanks for meeting me, it was fun.”

“It was.” Stacy smiled, started across the street, then stopped and looked back. “What was her name? Your roommate?”

“Kitten Sweet.”

Kitten Sweet? Good God.

“You 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?”

“Not 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.

“Get me a transcript. I’ll take it over to Captain O’Shay myself.” She ended that call and dialed Spencer.

“Where are you?” she asked when he answered.

“Headquarters. Nothing like Sunday afternoon in the trenches.”

“How about Aunt Patti?”

“She’s on her way in.”

“Stay put. I might have something on your City Park Jane Doe. I need to be de-wired first, then I’m on my way.”

Sunday, April 22, 2007

3:35 p.m.

Patti 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.

“How long’s it been?” she asked Spencer.

“Twenty minutes.”

“What’s taking-”

“So long?” Stacy finished for her, hurrying into the office. “Have you tried navigating French Quarter traffic lately?”

“What do you have?” Patti asked.

She moved her gaze between her and Spencer. “Kitten Sweet. Working girl.”

“Where’d you get the tip?”

“My 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.”

“You were wired?”

“Of 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.”

“Go fishing. Plant the idea of a trade. Something she might give up to get off the hook.”

“And 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.”

“She 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.

“Bite 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.”

“What?” 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.

“Run it through the computer,” Patti said. “See what you get. We’ll go from there.”

Monday, April 23, 2007

11:45 p.m.

The 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 Franklin to the victim, the sooner they could tie this up. The tighter the knot, the stronger the case.

She wanted Franklin to fry. And she was willing to do whatever was necessary to make that happen.

Straight-arrow O’Shay could be bent.

She hadn’t shared her thoughts with Spencer or Stacy. She didn’t want them involved. She was the superior officer. She was acting alone. If the Public Integrity Division caught wind of this, she would go down.

But only her. That’s the way she intended to keep it.

Patti parked her vehicle on Barracks Street, just down the block from Yvette Borger’s apartment building. Yvette was working. She intended to slip in, do a bit of recon and slip back out. With any luck, she would find something the lab could use to tie Sweet to their Jane Doe.

She exited her vehicle and started toward the building. The door would be locked. Hopefully it wouldn’t give her too much trouble.

In upholding the law, cops learned a lot about breaking it. Truth was, cops knew how to break the law better than most criminals. Because they had seen it all, what worked and what didn’t. Of course, cops used that inside knowledge to catch the lawbreakers.

Except in certain, highly specialized situations.

Like this one.

She retrieved a small tool kit from her pocket, inserted a pippin file into the lock and manipulated it until a distinct click signaled success. She slipped the file back into the kit, the kit into her pocket.

Yvette lived in unit twelve. Patti scanned the building’s setup-a central staircase on both sides of the courtyard, even numbers on her right, odds on her left. The door she had entered through appeared to be the only exit, as well.

She took the stairs to the second floor. She moved quickly and silently. Unfortunately not silently enough for the dog in number eight. He began to bark furiously.

A moment later, light spilled out of the unit immediately in front of her. A woman poked her head out. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Patti responded.

The woman’s gaze shifted, looking past her. Obviously wondering who she was here to see. And how she had gotten in.

“I’m visiting Yvette,” she said. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s that stupid Samson. He barks at everything.” She paused, frowning. “You’re a friend of Yvette’s?”

By her expression Patti could tell the woman didn’t think she looked like a friend of Yvette’s.

“I like to think of myself as her friend.” Patti smiled. “Actually, I’m her mother. I’m here for the week.”

She held her breath. Claiming to be such a high-profile relation was risky.

“Fun,” the neighbor said. “She didn’t tell me.”