Last Known Victim by Erica Spindler Read Free Book Online Page B

felt this rush, this well-spring of creativity…Of raw emotion.
    Just know this, sweet muse, I love you. And someday…some perfect day, we will be together. Forever.
    Yours, the Artist
    When would he make his next move? she wondered. Would he find the courage to approach her? To ante up for a “private performance”?
    The prickly sense of unease surprised her. She tossed the note aside. Just another creep, she told herself firmly. One she would take more seriously if he’d bothered to tuck a twenty dollar bill into the envelope.
    After all, “true love” didn’t come free.
    No, he wouldn’t be approaching her for a private show. Freaks like him liked it better from a distance. They liked it cerebral. And when they got off, it was alone with their perverted thoughts.

10
    Saturday, April 21, 2007
7:56 a.m.
    T he jangle of the phone dragged Spencer out of a deep sleep. He managed to reach it and bring the receiver to his ear without opening his eyes. “Yo.”
    â€œWake up, Detective. I found something.”
    He cracked open his eyes. Squinting against the light, he looked at the clock. Not quite eight.
    â€œAunt Patti?”
    â€œIt’s Captain O’Shay this morning. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
    She hung up before Spencer could reply. Obviously she knew him well enough to anticipate his attempt to wheedle a few more minutes out of her.
    Spencer tossed down the phone and climbed out of bed.
    â€œBad news?” Stacy asked sleepily.
    â€œAunt Patti. She’s on her way over.”
    Stacy murmured something that sounded like “Be careful,” then burrowed deeper into her pillow. Spencer bent and kissed her, then headed for the shower.
    Captain Patti O’Shay was nothing if not punctual. Exactly twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of his house and tooted her horn. He stumbled out, “to-go” mug clutched in his hand.
    After fastening his safety belt, he turned to her. “Want to tell me where we’re going?”
    She pulled away from the curb. “Quentin and Anna’s.”
    His brother and sister-in-law’s? Now she had his full attention. “I take it this isn’t a social call?”
    â€œGoing through the Handyman files, I found something we missed last time. In one of the photos. See for yourself.” She indicated the file folder lying on the dash.
    He opened it. The folder contained photographs of the refrigerator where the hands had been discovered. She had circled something in the first photo, a small item affixed to the freezer door, nearly under the handle.
    It’d been easy to miss because of its size, the location and because the duct tape that had been used to secure the unit half covered it.
    â€œI made a blowup,” Patti said without taking her eyes from the road.
    He thumbed to the next photo. A promotional magnet, he saw. One for a suspense novel by local author Anna North.
    His sister-in-law.
    â€œHoly shit.”
    â€œMy sentiments exactly.”
    â€œAnna’s not going to like this.”
    An understatement, he knew. The only child of celebrities, Anna had been kidnapped as a child, her pinkie severed and sent to her family as a warning. She had escaped, but the ordeal had left her, understandably, traumatized. Not until she had become another maniac’s target had she been able to conquer her fears.
    That’s how she had met Quentin; he had been the detective assigned to her case. They now lived with their young son in Mandeville, a bedroom community located across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans.
    â€œWe shouldn’t have missed this,” he said.
    â€œNo, we shouldn’t have.”
    The months immediately following Katrina had been nightmarish; they’d been overwhelmed, stretched to near breaking. It had made them sloppy, a fact neither was proud of.
    â€œDo they know we’re coming?”
    â€œI spoke with Quentin.”
    They