Her friend’s face went slack with surprise. “But…we met the other night.”

Yvette shook her head. “What made you think this person was my mother?”

“She told me she was. It was late…you were working. Samson started barking and I-” She bit her words back, obviously upset. “I told her where your key was. She said you’d told her but she’d forgotten.”

Yvette fought to steady her voice. “You told a stranger where I keep my spare key?”

“I’m really, really sorry. But she seemed so nice. So…motherly.”

Yvette remembered leaving work early because of menstrual cramps, finding the woman standing at her door. Yvette struggled to remember what she had looked like, the words they had exchanged.

“I’m Nancy’s mom. I’m here for the week. The key she gave me isn’t working.”

Yvette looked at Nancy. “Was your mother here this week?” Her neighbor didn’t need to reply, Yvette saw the answer on her face.

“What night did this happen?”

The other woman thought a moment, then confirmed what Yvette already knew.

Monday night.

“What did she look like?” Yvette asked.

“Like she could be your mom. I even told her how much like her you looked.”

“Short, reddish hair? Medium height and trim? Wearing a dark jacket and slacks?”

Nancy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. How did you-”

“She tricked me, too.” Yvette quickly explained, then asked, “You haven’t seen her since, have you?”

Nancy shook her head and hugged herself. “This is so creepy. Who do you think she was?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” After warning her neighbor to keep watch, she headed for her apartment.

She checked the cherub planter; the spare key was gone. Had she interrupted the woman before she’d been inside her apartment? Or after?

Yvette swallowed past the sudden, suffocating fear that rose up in her. She hadn’t for a minute sensed that something was wrong. That a stranger had been in her home, touching her things.

In a strange way, that scared her most of all.

This person, whoever she was, still had the key.

Yvette’s knees went weak. She forced herself to cross to her door, unlock it and step into her apartment. And sensed immediately that something wasn’t right.

Of course she did. In all probability, she would “sense” something out of order for a long time to come.

She slid her gaze toward the doorway to the kitchen, then the short hall that led to the two bedrooms. Her heart began to pound.

“Hello,” she called out, though she hadn’t a clue why. Did she think a whack-job intruder was going to answer?

“Yo, babe, I’m here. C’mon back!”

Perversely, she didn’t find the silence comforting. A bold answer would give her the chance to run like hell. She moved her gaze slowly over the room. Nothing looked out of order. Nothing looked different from when she had left-been dragged out-that morning.

Her tips.

She hurried toward the kitchen. She kept her stash in a plastic bag in a cleaned, empty ice cream carton in the freezer. She reached the unit, opened the freezer.

The carton was there, the bag of money inside. She quickly counted it and found that none had been taken.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she replaced the carton, shut the freezer door and turned.

Thumbtacked to the back of her kitchen door was a note.

I did it for you.

Yours always, the Artist

Yvette stared at the message, her hands beginning to shake. Did what for her? Broke into her apartment?

Then she knew. A cry rose to her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth to hold it back.

Marcus.

Her admirer had killed him. For her.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

4:45 p.m.

Patti looked at the forensic odontologist’s report, bitterly disappointed. The dental records proved that Kitten Sweet was not their Jane Doe.

It changed nothing. Franklin was still in jail, charged with theft and felony possession of a firearm. He wasn’t going anywhere.

But it left them with nothing-no new angle to investigate, nothing new to tie Franklin to Sammy’s murder and the Handyman victims.

She had broken the law, the very thing she had sworn to uphold. She had involved one of her detectives, put both their careers on the line. And for what?

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

She had managed to put that call out of her mind, managed to convince herself it’d been some crank. Somebody with an ax to grind with her, which wasn’t such a far-fetched concept.

Chief Howard had appointed her to the post-Katrina tribunal to judge officers who had gone AWOL during and after the storm. When an officer took an oath, it was to serve the public, no matter what. Some of the stories had broken her heart, but where did you draw the line? “Protect and Serve” meant just that, even when it was really inconvenient.

Patti picked up the list of names she’d assembled and scanned them. The officers ranged from first-year rookies to veterans with twenty-five years under their belt. She read through the names, able to picture each and every one. Could one of them be this angry at her?

What happened if she assumed the caller’s claim was legit? They had the wrong guy. Just as Franklin claimed, he had found the gun in City Park. It fit. Sammy stumbles upon the Handyman and his victim. The Handyman manages to get Sammy’s gun, kills him with it, dumps both victims in the park, then disposes of the weapon as quickly as possible.

Right there at the park.

So who made the call?

Someone who’d known about the gathering at Shannon’s. A cop? Someone connected to a cop or the force?

“You don’t look happy.”

Patti glanced up. Spencer stood in her office doorway. “I’m not. Take a look.”

She slid the report across the desk. He strode over, picked it up and scanned the information.

Tony ambled into the office. “Who died?”

Spencer handed him the findings. Tony read it, then handed it back. “So much for that anonymous tip.”

Patti worked to keep her disappointment from showing. Spencer had lied to his partner about how they’d gotten Kitten Sweet’s name as the possible Jane Doe. She hadn’t asked him to, but hated that she had put him in the position of having to choose between them.

“Did the search of Franklin’s apartment turn up anything?” she asked.

“More stolen merch,” Spencer replied. “And a truly amazing collection of adult magazines. Nothing bizarre, just straight nudie shots.”

“Checked the freezer,” Tony offered. “Hamburger meat and Eskimo Pies, no hands or other body parts. No saws, clippers or anything else that could be used to sever a human hand.”

“What about a computer?”

“Nope. The answering machine was clear and his only mail was a stack of bills and advertising circulars. Can you believe somebody was offering him a MasterCard? Go figure.”

Dammit. She stood and crossed to her single window. She gazed out at the brilliant spring day. “Franklin’s not our guy.”

“With all due respect, Captain,” Tony said, “he had the gun. He placed himself at the scene.”

She turned and faced them. “Placing himself at the scene is circumstantial.”

Spencer and Tony exchanged glances. Spencer spoke first. “The old rule of thumb about somebody who looks guilty, being guilty, usually proves true. It certainly fits in this case. The gun is strong physical evidence connecting him to the grave and the victims in it. The man is a convicted rapist. He’s also a thief and a liar.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I have to be sure. One hundred percent positive.”

“What can we do?”

“Find me a victim. If I can link Franklin to just one of the Handyman victims, even a weak link, I’ll be satisfied.”