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.”

70

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.”

Her nephews stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Quentin cleared his throat. “Aunt Patti…with all due respect, you’re talking about Riley here. He’s family.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She realized her hands were shaking and fisted them. “You think I don’t know what it means? What he’s done?”

Her cell phone vibrated and she flipped it open. “O’Shay.”

It was the patrol unit she had sent to Pieces. She heard what sounded like a roar in the background. “Captain, we’ve got a situation here. The art gallery…it’s on fire.”

71

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Noon

Patti saw the smoke from blocks away. After asking the patrolman to repeat himself twice, she had grabbed Spencer and together they’d raced to the scene.

June and Riley were both missing. Their business was in flames. This was not an accident. But what would they find inside?

Spencer held the wheel in a death grip. She knew he feared the same as she, and was praying those fears proved unfounded. Praying they wouldn’t find someone they loved in that building.

The fire department had barricaded the block. Patti produced her NOPD credentials and was waved through. She rolled in, the smell stronger as she drew closer.

At the first sight of Pieces engulfed in flames, an involuntary cry slipped past her lips. She knew there was nothing she could do, that her work would come later, but hanging back idle was agony.

June could be in there. Stacy or Shauna. Dear God, no.

It looked as if the firefighters were on the winning side of the fire. They had contained it, which was no small feat in the Arts District, where the buildings nestled snugly up to one another.

Patti parked; she and Spencer climbed out. They found the incident commander. “What do you know so far?”

“Damn little. Investigator’s been called. He’s coming from Baton Rouge.”

“Was anybody in the building?”

“Don’t know. By the time we got here it was too late to go inside. Whatever was in there went up quick.”

All those beautiful paintings. It made Patti sick to think of it.

“When can we go in?”

“As soon as the fire’s suppressed. You’ll have to suit up.”

“Of course. Let me know.”

One of the patrolmen she had sent saw her and hurried over.

“I found Benson’s car.”

“Where?”

“In a private lot across the street.”

“Great. Spencer?”

They crossed to the lot. The officer explained that he’d gotten the remote from a woman who worked in the building next to Pieces. He activated it and the gate slid open.

Riley’s Infiniti sedan was parked in a spot in back. She and Spencer peered in the windows.

“It’s empty,” the patrolman said, as if to confirm what they were seeing.

“Did you check the license plate number?” she asked.