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.”
“It was a last-minute decision.”
“I see the resemblance. I’m Nancy.”
“Hi, Nancy. I’ll take that as a big compliment. I forgot where she said she hid the key. Do you know?”
“In the planter. The one with the cherubs.”
“Thanks!” She headed that way and looked back. Nancy still stood at her door, watching her. Patti found the key, waved goodbye and let herself into the apartment.
Inside, she paused to let out a pent-up breath. Too close for comfort. Way too close.
She flipped on the light-just in case the neighbor was still watching-then went in search of the boxes of Kitten Sweet’s things.
Patti found them easily, just where Stacy said they would be, packed and stacked in the back bedroom. She began with the top box, methodically and carefully picking through it, then moved on to the second. The first two boxes held nothing but clothes and shoes. Patti had never seen so many halter tops and miniskirts in one place.
The third storage box contained letters, paperwork and photographs. Patti flipped through the photos. She recognized Sweet from her mug shot. Ditto for Borger. No one else jumped out.
She moved on to the paperwork. Letters from her family. Bills. Credit offers. Nothing that fit Stacy’s description of the notes from the Artist.
Then she hit pay dirt. A manila envelope filled with Sweet’s medical information, going back several years. Patti sifted through. Results of a pap smear from the woman’s gynecologist. A local guy. A plastic surgeon’s “paid-in-full” receipt for breast augmentation. A bill from a local dentist.
Bingo. If he had X-rays of Sweet’s teeth, they could compare them to Jane Doe’s.
She slipped the bill into her pocket, resealed the box and stood. She made certain the boxes looked just as she had found them, then turned off the lights and hurried out the front door.
As she turned to relock, Samson began barking. But not at her, she saw as she glanced that way.
Borger. Damn.
The woman saw her. “Hi,” Patti called, waving.
She turned her attention to the door, pretending to be struggling with the lock, but actually relocking it.
“Can I help you?” Yvette asked. The young woman looked ill. Since she hadn’t been due home for a couple of hours, Patti figured she had clocked out sick.
“I’m Nancy’s mom,” she said, praying Nancy didn’t hear the commotion and take a peak out her door. “I’m here for the week. The key she gave me isn’t working.”
“I’m Yvette. That’s my apartment. Nancy lives next door.”
Patti pretended to be horrified. “Oh, my God…I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“No problem. If you don’t mind…I’m not feeling so well.”
“Sure.” She backed away from the door. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Yvette unlocked her door. “Really, I…excuse me.”
She ducked inside. Patti waited a moment, then turned and headed for the stairs. This time as she passed number eight, the dog didn’t bark, a fact she gave thanks for. Maybe the beast could tell the difference between “coming” and “going.”
She reached the stairs and descended, thoughts turning to what she had done. What she had taken wasn’t evidence. Yvette Borger wasn’t a suspect in the investigation. The only thing she had jeopardized was her job.
She would deal with PID and the chief if Kitten Sweet IDed as their Jane Doe.
Truth was, her job didn’t mean that much to her. Not anymore.
She cleared the courtyard and exited the building. There she stopped dead.
Spencer stood beside his Camaro, parked at the curb, leaning against the passenger side door. He grinned at her. “You’re getting predictable, Patti O’Shay.”
She couldn’t help herself and smiled. “What tipped you?”
“Your ‘We’ll go from there.’ Captain Patti O’Shay always knows how she wants to proceed. She always has a plan.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Does Stacy know?”
“Not unless she guessed. I suggest we keep it that way. How’d it go?”
“Except for a close call with Borger, great.”
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“Up the block. In a tow zone.”
“I’ll drive you.”
She agreed and they climbed in. He had pulled away from the curb before she glanced his way. “Hit the mother lode. Got the name and number of Sweet’s dentist.”
“Praying for X-rays?”
“And that his office was on high ground and the records survived the hurricane.”
He pulled up alongside her vehicle. “Who’s the coroner’s forensic odontologist? Baker?”
“Last I checked.” She opened the car door, stepped out and glanced back. “I want you out of this. I’ll take it from here.” He opened his mouth as if to argue; she held up a hand, cutting him off. “If anyone’s getting burned, it’s me.”
He gazed at her a long moment, then nodded. “By the way, I have orders to make certain you’re at Shannon’s Tavern tomorrow night at seven. Sharp.”
“John Jr.?”
“Who else? Planning a family thing for the opening of Shauna’s one-person exhibit.”
She nodded, but he stopped her before she could close the door. “Yo, Aunt Patti? Should I be worried about you?”
“In what way?”
“You’re acting out of character. Scary out of character.”
“If you’re asking if I’m cracking up, I’m not. My priorities have changed, Spencer. They’ve changed big-time.”