Free Last Known Victim by Erica Spindler Page A

the suspect—forty-six, married with two kids, successful businessman. Friend to the Audubon Zoo and the library.
    Frequented titty bars—one in particular. Manufactured and distributed methamphetamine.
    Not your typical Realtor.
    Her cell phone vibrated; she saw it was Spencer.
    â€œYo,” he said when she answered. “What’s up?”
    â€œNot much. Keeping an eye on Gabrielle’s house. Figured I’d do a drive-by of some of the properties he’s got for sale.”
    â€œThis a solo recon?”
    â€œWith my captain’s okay. How’d you know?”
    â€œI know you, Killian. It’s Saturday. You’re working undercover all night. Where else would you be on your day off?”
    â€œAre you suggesting I’m all work and no play?”
    â€œSorry, babe, but I call it as I see it.”
    â€œThat’s not what you said last night, babe. ”
    â€œDon’t be bringing that up. I’m in public.”
    She laughed softly. “What was Patti’s big find?”
    Spencer explained about the fridge magnet and visiting Quentin and Anna. “We got a big hit, right out of the gate. Ex-con. In possession of a Glock .45 with the serials removed.”
    â€œYou’re running ballistics?”
    As no two weapons left identical impressions upon discharging, every spent bullet and casing carried a sort of “fingerprint.” A technician would fire this gun into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet and compare its markings—or fingerprint—to the ones from the bullet taken from Sammy using an Integrated Ballistics Identification System machine.
    â€œCould it be so easy?” Stacy asked. “After two years of not knowing?”
    â€œPatti sure hopes so. She’s overseeing it herself. Poor bastard,” he added, referring to the ballistics expert. “He’s going to have her hot breath on his neck until she gets an answer.”
    â€œUh-oh,” she said as the door to Gabrielle’s home swung open. “There’s activity.”
    â€œMeet me for a burger later? Shannon’s at five?”
    She agreed and hung up.
    Marcus Gabrielle was a handsome man. Dark hair and eyes, nice build. Today dressed in tennis whites. The picture of health and personal success.
    Stacy shifted her gaze to his wife. Blonde. Pretty. Looked to be considerably younger than Gabrielle, maybe ten years. They had two kids, a boy and girl. From the dossier, she knew them to be seven and nine. Cute. Appeared to be well behaved.
    Stacy narrowed her eyes, studying the foursome. They were smiling, conversing with one another. Relaxed. Happy. The picture of the American dream.
    American nightmare, more like.
    They crossed to the Mercedes sedan parked in the drive. Gabrielle opened the car door for his wife; she kissed him, then slid into the vehicle. The kids piled into the back seat.
    Stacy shook her head. Why would Gabrielle take the chance of messing that up?
    Greed. Zero love for anyone but himself. Totally screwed value system.
    Same old story.
    She still didn’t get it.
    Gabrielle watched until the Mercedes had turned right at the end of the block, then he headed to his own vehicle—a silver Porsche Boxster. He tossed his equipment bag in, then climbed behind the wheel.
    A moment later, he rolled right past her without glancing her way. Stacy gave him a safe lead, then followed.
    By the tennis gear, she assumed he would head to the New Orleans Country Club, where he was a member. Instead, he headed downtown and into the French Quarter.
    Yvette was waiting on the corner of North Peters and Conti Street. Gabrielle drew to the curb and she hopped in.
    So much for tennis at the club.
    She was dressed in a simple print blouse and a pair of trousers. Sling-back pumps. A totally different girl from the one on the stage the night before.
    Practicing to be a Realtor?
    Now that was kinky.
    The French Quarter was a crisscross of narrow, one-way