Killer Takes All

by Erica Spindler

  “She didn’t say and, again, I didn’t ask.” Stacy heard the frustration in her own voice. “I’m thinking it was a guy, though I’m not even certain of that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I have a feeling about this.”

  “Women’s intuition?” Malone asked.

  She narrowed her eyes, irritated. “The instinct of a seasoned detective.”

  She saw the older man’s mouth twitch, as if with amusement.

  “What about her roommate?” Tony asked. “Beth? She play those games?”

  “No.”

  “Did your friend have a computer?” Malone asked.

  She swung her gaze to him. “A laptop. Why?”

  He didn’t answer. “She play these games on her computer?”

  “Sometimes, I think. Mostly she played real time, with her game group.”

  “So they can be played online.”

  “I think so.” She shifted her gaze between the two. “Why?”

  “Thank you, Ms. Killian. You’ve been helpful.”

  “Wait.” She caught the older detective’s arm. “Her computer’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry, Stacy,” Tony murmured, sounding like he meant it. “We can’t say any more.”

  She would have done the same; it pissed her off, anyway. “I suggest you check out this White Rabbit game. Ask around, see who’s playing. What the game involves.”

  “We will, Ms. Killian.” Malone closed his notebook. “Thank you for your help.”

  She opened her mouth to say more, to ask if they would update her on their progress, then shut it without speaking. Because she knew they wouldn’t. Even if they agreed to, it would be an empty platitude.

  She didn’t have the right to the information, she acknowledged, watching the two walk away. She was a civilian. Not even family of the deceased. They weren’t required to give her anything but courtesy.

  For the first time since leaving the force, she understood the ramifications of what she had done. Of what she was.

  A civilian. Outside the blue circle.

  Alone.

  Stacy Killian wasn’t a cop anymore.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday, February 28, 2005

  9:20 a.m.

  Spencer and Tony entered police headquarters. Located in City Hall, at 1300 Perdido Street, the mirrored glass building housed not only the NOPD but the mayor’s office, the New Orleans Fire Department and city council, among others. The Public Integrity Division, the NOPD’s version of Internal Affairs, was housed outside headquarters, as was the crime lab.

  They signed in and took the elevator to ISD. When the doors whooshed open, Tony headed for the box of breakfast pastries, Spencer for his messages.

  “Hey, Dora,” he said to the receptionist. Though a civilian employed by the city, she wore a uniform. Her extra-large, top-heavy frame strained at the confines of the blue fabric, revealing glimpses of hot pink lace. “Any messages?”

  The woman handed Spencer the yellow message slips, sliding her gaze over him appraisingly.

  He ignored the look. “Captain in?”

  “Ready and waiting, stud.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her and she cackled. “You white boys have no sense of humor.”

  “No sense of style, either,” offered Rupert, another detective, sidling past them.

  “That’s right,” Dora said. “Rupert here knows fine threads.”

  Spencer glanced at the other man, taking in his sleek Italian suit, colorful tie and bright white shirt, then down at himself. Jeans, chambray shirt and tweedy jacket. “What?”

  She groaned. “You’re working ISD now, top of the heap, baby. You need to be dressin’ the part.”

  “Yo, Slick. Ready?”

  Spencer turned and grinned at his partner. “Can’t. In the middle of a free fashion consultation.”

  Tony returned the grin. “Lecture, you mean.”

  “Don’t even go there.” Dora wagged her finger at the older man. “You’re hopeless. A fashion disaster.”

  “What? Me?” He held his hands out. His gut protruded over the waist of his Sansabelt trousers, the fabric shiny from age, and strained the buttons of his short-sleeved plaid shirt.

  The woman made a sound of disgust as she handed Tony his messages. Turning to Spencer, she said, “You just come see Miss Dora, baby. I’ll fix you right up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that, sugar pie,” she called after him. “Ladies go for a man with style.”

  “She’s right, sugar pie,” Tony teased. “Take it from me.”

  Spencer laughed. “You’d know this how? The way the ladies stay away in droves?”

  “Exactly.” They turned the corner, heading for the open door of their captain’s office.

  Spencer tapped on the casing. “Captain O’Shay? Got a minute?”

  Captain Patti O’Shay looked up, waved them in. “ ’Morning, Detectives. It’s been a busy one already, I hear.”

  “We got a double,” Tony said, lowering himself into one of the chairs across from her.

  Patti O’Shay, a trim, no-nonsense woman, was one of only three female captains in the NOPD. She was smart, tough but fair. She’d worked her ass off to get where she was, twice as hard as any man, overcoming doubt, chauvinism and the good old boy network. She’d been bumped up to ISD this past year and some predicted she’d make deputy chief one day.

  She also happened to be Spencer’s mother’s sister.

  It was hard for Spencer to reconcile this woman with the one who had called him “Boo” growing up. The one who’d slipped him cookies when his mother hadn’t been looking. She was his godmother, a special relationship for Catholics. And one she took seriously.

  However, she had made it clear his first day under her command that here she was his boss. Period.

  She turned her miss-nothing gaze on him. “Think DIU jumped the gun by calling us in?”

  He straightened, cleared his throat. “No way, Captain. This was no rubber stamp.”

  She shifted her gaze to Tony. “Detective Sciame?”

  “I agree. Better to get it now, before the trail’s cold.”

  Spencer took over. “Both vics were shot.”

  “Names?”

  “Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. UNO students.”

  “Wagner just moved in a week ago,” Tony offered. “Poor kid, talk about some bad fuckin’ luck.”

  The woman didn’t seem to notice the language, but Spencer winced.

  “Robbery doesn’t appear to have been the motive,” Spencer offered, “although her laptop is missing. Neither does rape.”

  “What, then?”

  Tony stretched his legs out in front of him. “Crystal ball’s not working this morning, Captain.”

  “Clever,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt she found it to be anything but. “How about a theory, then? Or is that asking a bit much after only a couple doughnuts?”

  Spencer jumped in. “Looks like Finch was killed first. We figure she knew her killer, let him in. Probably killed Wagner because she was there. Of course, it’s speculation so far.”

  “Leads?”

  “A few. We’re going to pay a visit to the university, the places both women hung out. Talk to their friends, professors. Boyfriends, if any.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Canvas of the neighborhood’s complete,” Spencer continued. “With the exception of the woman who phoned it in, nobody heard a thing.”

  “Her story checks out?”

  “Seems legit. She’s a former cop. Dallas PD Homicide.”

  She frowned slightly. “That so?”

  “I’m going to run her through the computer. Call the Dallas PD.”

  “Do that.”

  “Coroner notified the next of kin?”

  “Done.”

  She reached for her phone, signaling their meeting was over. “I don’t like double homicides in my jurisdiction. I like them ev
en less when they’re unsolved. Understood?”

  They agreed they did, stood and started toward the door. The captain stopped Spencer before he reached it. “Detective Malone?”

  He looked back.

  “Watch that temper of yours.”

  He flashed her a smile. “Under control, Aunt Patti. Altar boy’s honor.”

  As he walked away, he heard her laugh. Probably because she remembered what a total failure he had been as an altar boy.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monday, February 28, 2005

  10:30 a.m.

  Spencer stepped into Café Noir. The scent of coffee and baking cookies hit him hard. It’d been a long time since breakfast-a sausage biscuit from a drive-thru window just as the sun cracked the horizon.

  He just didn’t get the whole coffeehouse thing. Three bucks for a cup of fancy coffee with a foreign-sounding name? And what was with the whole tall, grande, super-grande thing? What was wrong with small, medium and large? Or even extra large? Who did they think they were fooling?

  He’d made the mistake of ordering an americano once. Thought it would be a good, old-fashioned cup of American coffee. It had proved to be anything but.

  Shots of espresso and water. Tasted like burned piss.

  He decided to save his money and wait until he got back to HQ for a cup. Glancing around, he saw that from what he knew of coffeehouses, this one was pretty typical. Deep, earthy colors, groupings of comfy, oversize furniture interspersed with tables for conversing or studying. The building, located on a triangular sliver of land called neutral ground in New Orleans, even sported a big old fireplace.

  For all the good it would be, he thought. This was New Orleans, after all. Hot and humid, twenty-four/seven, nine months out of twelve.

  Spencer crossed to the counter and asked the girl at the cash register for the owner or manager. The girl, who looked to be college-age, smiled and pointed at a tall, willowy blonde restocking the buffet. “The owner. Billie Bellini.”

  He thanked her and crossed to the woman. “Billie Bellini?” he asked.

  She turned and looked up at him. She was gorgeous. One of those flawlessly beautiful women who could-and probably did-have their pick of men. The kind of woman one didn’t expect to see managing a coffeehouse.

  He’d be a liar or a eunuch to say he was immune, though he could honestly claim she wasn’t his type. Too damn high maintenance for a regular Joe like him.

  A smile touched the corners of her full lips. “Yes?” she said.

  “Detective Spencer Malone. NOPD,” he said as he flashed his badge.

  One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Detective? How can I help you?”

  “You know a woman named Cassie Finch?”

  “I do. She’s one of the regulars.”

  “A regular. What exactly does that mean?”

  “That she spends a lot of time in here. Everybody knows her.” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Why?”

  He ignored her question and asked another of his own. “How about Beth Wagner?”

  “Cassie’s roommate? Not really. She was in once. Cassie introduced us.”

  “What about Stacy Killian?”

  “Also a regular. They’re friends. But I suspect you already know that.”

  Spencer dropped his gaze. The fourth finger of her left hand sported a major rock and a diamond studded gold band. That didn’t surprise him.

  “When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

  Concern leaped into her eyes. “What is this in reference to?” she asked. “Is Cassie okay?”

  “Cassie Finch is dead, Ms. Bellini. She was murdered.”

  She brought a hand to her mouth, which had pulled into a perfectly formed O. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Excuse me, I-” She fumbled behind her for a chair, then sank onto it. For long moments, she sat motionless, struggling, he suspected, to compose herself.

  When she finally looked back up at him, it was without tears. “She was in yesterday afternoon.”

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of hours. From about three to five.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “She talk to anyone?”

  The woman clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Yes. All the usual suspects.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Other regulars. The usual crew was in.”

  “Was Stacy Killian in yesterday?”

  Again, her expression tightened with alarm. “No. Is Stacy…is she all right?”

  “As far as I know, she’s fine.” He paused. “It would help us immensely if I could get the names of the people Cassie hung out with. The regulars.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “No. I can’t imagine she did, anyway.”

  “Altercations with anyone?”

  “No.” Her voice shook. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I understand she was into fantasy role-playing games.” He paused; when she didn’t disagree, he went on. “She always have her laptop with her?”

  “Always.”

  “Never saw her without it?”

  “Never.”

  He nodded. “I’d like to speak with your employees, Ms. Bellini.”

  “Of course. Nick and Josie are coming in at two and five, respectively. That’s Paula. Shall I call her over?” He nodded and retrieved a business card from his jacket pocket. He handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  It turned out Paula knew even less than her boss had, but Spencer gave her a business card as well.

  He stepped out of the coffeehouse and into the cool, bright morning. Channel 6’s meteorologist had predicted the mercury would top seventy today, and judging by the warmth already, she’d been right.

  Loosening his tie, he started for his car, which was parked at the curb.

  “Detective Malone, wait!”

  He stopped, turned. Stacy Killian slammed her car door and hurried toward him. “Hello, Ms. Killian.”

  She motioned to the coffeehouse. “Did you get everything you needed here?”

  “For the moment. How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering, have you looked into White Rabbit yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “May I ask what’s taking so long?”

  He looked at his watch, then back at her. “By my calculations, this investigation is only eight hours old.”

  “And the probability of it being solved lessens with each passing hour.”

  “Why’d you leave the Dallas force, Ms. Killian?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He noticed the way she subtly stiffened. “It was a simple question. Why’d you leave?”

  “I needed a change.”

  “That the only reason?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Detective.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I just wondered since you seem pretty anxious to do my job.”

  Color flooded her cheeks. “Cassie was my friend. I don’t want her killer to get away.”

  “Neither do I. Back off and let me do my job.”

  He started past her; she caught his arm. “White Rabbit is the best lead you have.”

  “Says you. I’m not convinced.”

  “Cassie had met someone who promised to introduce her to the game. They had planned to meet.”

  “Could be a coincidence. We meet people all the time, Ms. Killian. They come and go in our lives, strangers who cross our paths on a daily basis, making deliveries, speaking to us in the checkout line, offering to pick up something we’ve dropped. But they don’t kill us.”

  “Most of the time they don’t,” she corrected. “Her computer was gone, wasn’t it? Why do you think that is?”

  “Her killer took it as a trophy. Or decided he needed one. Or it’s at the repair shop.”

  “Some games are played
online. Maybe White Rabbit is one of them?”

  He shook off her hand. “You’re stretching, Ms. Killian. And you know it.”

  “I was a detective for ten years-”

  “But you’re not now,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re a civilian. Don’t get in my way. Don’t interfere with this investigation. I won’t ask you so nicely next time.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Monday, February 28, 2005

  11:10 a.m.

  Stacy strode into Café Noir, fuming. Stupid, arrogant, swaggerer. In her experience, bad cops fell into three categories. Top of the list sat the dishonest cop. No explanation necessary. Next came the coaster. Cops who were content to do the minimum for whatever reason. Then came the swaggerers. For this group, the job was all about how it made them look. They endangered their partners by showing off; they jeopardized cases by refusing to see anything but their own glory.

  Or by refusing to follow a hunch that was somebody else’s.

  Sure, that’s all it was. A hunch. Based on a coincidence and a gut feeling.

  Over the years she had learned to trust her hunches. And she wasn’t going to allow some cocky, still-wet-behind-the-ears gun jockey to blow this case. She would not sit back and do nothing while Cassie’s killer went free.

  Stacy drew a deep breath, working to calm herself, shifting her thoughts from the past meeting to the one ahead.

  Billie. She would be crushed.

  Her friend stood at the counter. Six feet tall, blond and beautiful, she turned heads everywhere she went. Stacy had discovered her to be exceptionally smart-and exceptionally funny as well, in a dry, acerbic way.

  Billie looked up, met Stacy’s eyes. She had been crying.

  Stacy closed the distance between them and held out a hand. “I’m devastated, too.”

  Billie clasped her hand tightly. “The police were here. I can’t believe it.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “They asked me about you, Stacy. Why-”

  “I’m the one who found her. And Beth. I called it in.”

  “Oh, Stacy…how horrible.”

  Tears flooded Stacy’s eyes. “Tell me about it.”

  Billie waved her employee over. “Paula, I’ll be in my office. Call me if you need me.”