Killer Takes All

by Erica Spindler

  She had finally confided in Spencer. Because he had first allowed her the space, and then the opportunity to do so. And maybe, too, because he had made so many mistakes in his own life, she figured he would be less judgmental of hers.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked finally as her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl.

  She didn’t ask about what; she knew. She stared into her bowl, as if preparing her answer.

  “I didn’t want to do this,” she said after a moment, looking at him. “Not anymore.”

  “Breakfast cereal with near strangers?”

  A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Are you ever totally serious?”

  “As infrequently as possible.”

  “I’m thinking that would be a nice way to be.”

  He thought of Lieutenant Moran. “Trust me, it has drawbacks.” He inched aside his bowl. “So, you left police work behind, moved to New Orleans to study Literature and start a new life?”

  “Something like that,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “But it wasn’t the police work I wanted to leave behind. It was the ugliness of the job. The absolute disregard for life.” She let out a long, weary-sounding breath. “And here I am, smack dab in the middle of it again.”

  “By your own doing.”

  “Cassie’s murder was not my doing.”

  “But putting yourself into the investigation was. Signing on with Noble was. Stepping through each door that opened was.”

  She looked as if she wanted to argue. He reached across the table and caught her hand, curving his fingers around hers. “I’m not criticizing you. Far from it. You’re doing what comes natural. You were a cop for ten years. We both know that law enforcement isn’t a job, it’s a way of life. It’s not what you are, it’s who you are.”

  He had discovered just how true those words were when he was falsely accused, suspended and facing a lifetime without police work.

  “I don’t want to be that person, not anymore.”

  “Then let it go, Stacy. Get out of it. Go back to Texas.”

  She made a sound of frustration and stood. She carried her bowl to the sink, then turned to face him once more. “What about Cassie? I can’t just…leave.”

  “What about her? You hardly knew her.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is, Stacy. You were friends for less than two months.”

  “She didn’t deserve to die. She was young. And good. And-”

  “And the morgue is filled with young, good people who shouldn’t be dead, but are.”

  “But they’re strangers to me! And Cassie…Cassie was the person I wished I was!” She fell silent a moment; he saw her struggle for control. “And someone killed her. The same ugliness that I wanted to escape…followed me.”

  Understanding, he stood and crossed to her. He caught her hands. “You think the ugliness found you? Followed you? And she died because of it?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Eyes bright with tears, she shook her head and moved to free her hands from his.

  He tightened his grip. “Cassie’s death doesn’t have anything to do with what you’ve involved yourself in. There’s nothing similar about her death and the White Rabbit killings.”

  She knew he had a good point; he saw it in her expression. “What about her computer?”

  “What about it?”

  “She stumbled onto something that put her in harm’s way. It had to do with White Rabbit.”

  “You believe,” he countered. “The facts don’t support that belief.” He leaned toward her. “The most obvious is most often the one ‘whodunit.’ You know that.”

  “Gautreaux.”

  “Yeah, Gautreaux. We have physical evidence linking him to the murders.”

  “What?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “What do you have?”

  “A print-”

  “His or hers?”

  “His. Retrieved from her apartment. And some trace.”

  She nodded, skepticism becoming excitement. “What kind of trace?”

  “Hair. Hers. On his clothing. Because of their past relationship, neither is strong enough to prove he did it.”

  “Bullshit. No way there should be a print of his in her place. They didn’t break up amicably. The guy stalked and threatened her, no way she just let him in for a nice little chat. Plus, they broke up last year. Doesn’t he wash his clothes?”

  “Jacket,” he corrected. “Denim. Doesn’t look like it’s ever seen a washing machine.”

  She swore and stood. “I hate defense lawyers. They can twist the facts-”

  “Hold on, there’s more. We found a hair consistent with his on her T-shirt. We got the order for the swab, results are due next week. If we’re lucky-”

  “DNA will tie him to the scene. Nasty little prick.”

  Spencer turned her earlier question back on her. “So why’d he take her computer?”

  “To cover his ass. Maybe he sent her hate mail, maybe he knows she saved it. So when he kills her, he takes away the evidence. Or he takes it as a trophy. Or because it was the thing he perceived she loved most. Certainly more than him.”

  Spencer smiled. “By George, I think she’s got it.”

  She frowned suddenly. “When did you swab him?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “And you really think he hasn’t skipped?”

  “I’m not a complete rookie, you know. We’ve got a GPS tracking device on his car. He takes one step too close to the state line and we grab him.”

  He caught her hands in his, holding them gently. “Go home to Texas, Stacy. We’ve got Cassie’s killer. She doesn’t need your help anymore.”

  Her hands trembled; he felt her indecision, the conflict raging inside her.

  She wanted to.

  She couldn’t bring herself to let go.

  Spencer tightened his fingers on hers. “Go. Visit your sister. Stay until we find this crazy White Rabbit character and get him behind bars.”

  She shook her head. “School doesn’t work that way. Can’t just come and go. Besides, I only have a little over a month to go in this semester.”

  He frowned. “We both know a month is a long time. A lot can happen in a month.”

  He knew she understood what he was saying. That death could find her in the blink of an eye.

  And that this one scared him.

  “He’ll follow me,” she said softly. “He knows all about me now.”

  “You’re just guessing. You don’t know that for certain-”

  “But I do, Malone. He’s playing the game. So am I. And the game doesn’t end until there’s only one man standing.”

  He stroked the back of her hands with his thumbs. “Then go somewhere he won’t think to look for you. Someplace you’ve no connection to.”

  “And how do we know he won’t wait me out? For years, the rest of my life, even. I have family, a life outside this. I’m not going to go into hiding.”

  “But we’re going to catch him. Long before years pass.”

  “You hope.”

  She moved to slip her hands from his; he tightened his fingers on hers. “I will catch him, Stacy. I promise you that.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Friday, March 11, 2005

  9:20 a.m.

  Stacy awakened to the sound of the toilet flushing. Spencer. Moaning, she rolled onto her side to see the clock. She stared at the numbers a moment, struggling to think.

  Today was Friday. Malone’s shift probably started around 7:30 a.m., standard for most P.D.’s detective units.

  She flopped onto her back. What did she have today? Professor Schultze’s class. Introduction to Graduate Studies in English. About as exciting as watching grass grow.

  She might as well head back to Texas. She was probably going to be booted out of grad school.

  Stacy stared at the ceiling. A long crack ran diagonally across it, nearly from corner to corner. Should she? Tuck tail and run back to Dallas?

  And do what?
She’d given up her job. Sold her house. She could move in with Jane and Ian for a couple of weeks, then what? And to what end?

  She believed what she had told Spencer, that the White Rabbit would follow her. That he not only knew her identity, but that he knew her. She based that belief on nothing but her gut-and what she had been told about the game.

  Who was the White Rabbit? Why was he playing the game? Most murders were motivated by love or hate, by greed, by a desire for revenge or jealousy.

  The serial killer, on the other hand, was a different animal. He usually preyed on strangers; he killed to fulfill some sick need within himself.

  Who were they dealing with? And why had she been included in his game?

  For a specific reason, she was certain. One other than the fact that she had poked her nose into what he considered his private business. She interested him. He wanted to play with her.

  Hide and seek. Cat and mouse.

  She frowned and sat up, her head filling with the image of the beheaded cat. Its obscene grin.

  Was she the cat? Stacy brought a hand to her throat. Did he mean for her to die in that gruesome way?

  If the Allen murder set the pattern for more to come, the answer to that question was yes.

  They needed to get into his head, Stacy acknowledged. Figure out what made him tick.

  There was only one way to do that: play the game.

  She scrambled out of bed and slipped into her robe before heading to the kitchen. She found Spencer, his back to her, making coffee.

  She gazed at him a moment, remembering her tears of the night before, wondering what he thought of her now. If he would be able to take her seriously.

  Like a dope, she had revealed how badly the White Rabbit’s visit had shaken her. How upset she was.

  She’d revealed that she was a big fake. Hard as nails Stacy Killian was like one of those Tootsie Roll Pops-hard shell, soft, chewy center.

  Once a guy knew the center could be chewed, that’s what they did. Chewed you up and spit you out. Or swallowed you, bite by bite. Goodbye respect. Goodbye self-esteem.

  She had been down this road before. It didn’t lead anywhere she wanted to go.

  Though Malone seemed different. He could be funny. And kind. Certainly not the Bubba she had first pegged him to be.

  Which meant exactly nothing. Cops were off-limits, period.

  As if sensing her presence, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Morning. I was going to let you sleep a bit more.”

  “I have a class.” She returned his smile. “But thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” The coffeemaker sputtered as it finished brewing and he turned back to it. She saw that he’d found the mugs already; she watched as he filled two.

  He held one out for her. She crossed to him, took it and went about adding milk and sweetener. That done, she took a sip, then looked at him over the rim of her mug. “It occurred to me that we’re going about this the wrong way.”

  “Going about what the wrong way? Our romance?”

  For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She shook it off and crossed to a chair and sat. “Get a grip, Romeo. Catching the White Rabbit.”

  “Last I checked, you were a civilian and I was the detective. There is no ‘we’ in that scenario.”

  She ignored that. “It seems to me, if we played the game, we’d have a better handle on what we’re up against. And who we’re up against.”

  “Get into this Rabbit’s head.”

  “Exactly. If the killer really is someone who’s begun playing the game for real, what better way to predict his moves?”

  He gazed at her a moment, then nodded. “I’m in. So’s Tony.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to Leo about setting it up. After all, who better to help understand the White Rabbit than the man who created him?”

  He nodded again, drained his mug and set it on the counter. He started for the doorway, stopping and looking back at her when he reached it. “Call me when you have the details. And Stacy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If you don’t get that door fixed, I’m sleeping over again tonight. That’s a promise.”

  She watched him go, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had to admit, a part of her would like to test that promise.

  CHAPTER 31

  Friday, March 11, 2005

  10:30 a.m.

  “’Morning, Mrs. Maitlin,” Stacy said as the woman opened the door of the Noble mansion. “How are you today?”

  The woman frowned slightly. “Mr. Leo isn’t up yet. But Mrs. Noble is in the kitchen.”

  Which didn’t answer her question. But did reveal the difference in the way the housekeeper felt about her employers. Stacy thanked her and started for the kitchen. The Nobles’ was a big, old-fashioned country kitchen, with a brick floor and exposed beam ceiling. Kay sat at the large butcher-block-style table, reading the newspaper and sipping orange juice. Sunlight fell across her, accenting the inky highlights in her dark hair.

  She looked up when Stacy entered the kitchen and smiled. “’Morning, Stacy. I thought Friday mornings you were at school.”

  The woman had a mind like a steel trap.

  “I overslept,” Stacy fibbed, crossing to their coffeemaker, a newfangled, high-tech machine that ground the beans and brewed one perfect serving at a time-from a single shot to a full eight-ounce cup.

  She coveted the machine. She figured she’d have to sell her soul to afford to buy one.

  “Overslept?” Kay repeated, sounding disapproving. “Something you and Leo have in common.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m being dissed here?”

  They both turned. Leo stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, his hair standing on end. Obviously, he had just rolled out of bed and into a T-shirt and pair of rumpled khakis.

  The mad scientist returns, Stacy thought, turning back to the pot to hide her grin. She pressed the appropriate buttons and the machine whirred to life, grinding, brewing and dispensing a perfect double shot.

  The smell filled the air.

  “Leo,” Stacy said. “There’s something I need to-”

  “Coffee,” he croaked, coming up behind her.

  Kay made a sound of disgust. “For God’s sake, you’re like Pavlov’s dog.”

  He wasn’t the only one. Stacy handed him the cup, then brewed herself another. When she reached the table, he was slouched in a chair, slurping the beverage. He’d managed to make a mess-sugar on the table, dribbled cream, used spoon. Like a small tornado-or Dennis the Menace-he came into a room and stirred things up.

  Stacy sat. “Leo, there’s something we need-”

  “Not yet,” he said, holding up a hand. “One more sip.”

  “You should sleep at night,” Kay said. “Then we wouldn’t have to go through this every morning.”

  “I’m best at night.”

  “That’s just an excuse to get your own way.”

  She glanced at her watch, then at Stacy. “The man would be a pauper if not for me. The rest of the world doesn’t operate on Leo time.”

  “Quite true.” Leo leaned over and kissed his ex-wife’s cheek. “I owe everything to you.”

  The woman’s expression softened. She laid a hand against his cheek and looked affectionately at him. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “That’s why you divorced me.”

  As if on cue, they turned their full attention on her. She blinked, slightly embarrassed, as if she had just witnessed an intimate moment meant for only them.

  Stacy collected her thoughts. “As of yesterday,” she began, “I’m in the game.” She quickly described the cat, how she had found it and the note she had been left.

  Welcome to the game.

  “My God.” Leo stood and crossed to the counter, visibly upset. There, he stopped, as if uncertain what to do next.

  “I don’t understand,” Kay murmured. “Why is this happening?”

  “You tell me.”r />
  She looked startled. “Excuse me?”

  “It seems to me both of you might have a better idea why this is happening than I would. I’m a late addition.”

  Leo spread his hands. “Someone’s obsessed with the game.”

  “Or with you,” Stacy countered. “Because of the game.”

  “But why?” he asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “The very nature of obsession defies logic.”

  Mrs. Maitlin appeared at the kitchen doorway. “Excuse me, Mr. Noble, those detectives from the other day are here. They say they need to speak with you.”

  “Send them back, Valerie.”

  He looked at Stacy in question. She saw what she thought was fear in his eyes. She shook her head. “As far as I know, nobody’s dead.”

  Mrs. Maitlin showed them in. After a round of greetings, Spencer began. “We identified the artist who created the cards you received. A local guy named Walter Pogolapoulos, Pogo for short. Do you know him?”

  They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

  “Heard the name before?”

  Again, they indicated they hadn’t.

  Tony showed them a picture. “Ever seen him? Hanging around the neighborhood? At the mall, in the park? Anything like that?”

  “No,” Leo said, sounding frustrated. “Kay?”

  She stared at the photo, then hugged herself. “No.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. Is he the one who…killed that woman?”

  “We don’t know,” Tony said, sliding the photo back into his pocket. “He could be. Or he simply could have been hired to create the drawings.”

  “We’ve yet to question him,” Spencer said. “But we will.”

  Leo looked confused. “If you’ve identified him, why haven’t you questioned-”

  “He got wind of us and disappeared.”

  “But don’t worry,” Tony added. “We’ll get him.”

  The couple didn’t look convinced. Stacy couldn’t blame them.

  “Have you received another card?” Spencer asked.

  “No.” Leo frowned. “Do you expect us to?”