Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“His name?” Stacy asked.

Leonardo took over once more. “Dick Danson.”

She made a note of the name as the man continued. “We formed a business partnership, intending to publish White Rabbit and other projects we had in the works. We had a falling out before we could.”

“A falling out?” Stacy repeated. “Over what?”

The man looked uncomfortable; he and his ex-wife exchanged a glance. “Let’s just say, I discovered Dick wasn’t the person I thought he was.”

“They dissolved the partnership,” Kay said. “Agreed not to publish anything they worked on together.”

“That must have been difficult,” Stacy said.

“Not as difficult as you might think. I had lots of opportunities. Lots of ideas. So did he. And White Rabbit was already out there, so we figured we weren’t losing that much.”

“Two White Rabbits,” she murmured.

“Pardon?”

“You and your former partner. As co-creators, you could both go by the title of Supreme White Rabbit.”

“That would be true. Except that he’s dead.”

“Dead?” she repeated. “When?”

He thought a moment. “About three years ago. Because it was before we moved here. He drove off a cliff along the Monterey coast.”

She was silent a moment. “Do you play the game, Mr. Noble?”

“No. I gave up role-playing games years ago.”

“May I ask why?”

“Lost interest. Grew out of them. Like anything done to excess, after a while the endeavor loses its thrill.”

“So you went looking for a different thrill.”

He sent her a big, goofy smile. “Something like that.”

“Are you in contact with any local players?”

“None.”

“Have any contacted you?”

He hesitated slightly. “No.”

“You don’t seem certain of that.”

“He is.” Kay glanced pointedly at her watch; Stacy saw the sparkle of diamonds. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” she said, standing, “but Leo’s going to be late for a meeting.”

“Of course.” Stacy got to her feet, tucking her notebook into her pocket as she did.

They walked her to the front door. She stopped and turned back after she had stepped through it. “One last question, Mr. Noble. Some of the articles I read suggested a link between role-playing games and violent behavior. Do you believe that?”

Something passed across both their faces. The man’s smile didn’t waver, yet it suddenly looked forced.

“Guns don’t kill people, Detective Killian. People kill people. That’s what I believe.”

His answer seemed practiced; no doubt he had been asked that question many times before.

She wondered when he had begun to doubt his answer.

Stacy thanked the pair and made her way to her vehicle. When she reached it, she glanced back. The couple had disappeared into the house. Odd, she decided. She found something about them very odd.

She gazed at the closed door a moment, reviewing their conversation, assessing her thoughts about it.

She didn’t think they had been lying. But she was certain they hadn’t been telling the whole truth. Stacy unlocked her car, opened the door and slid behind the wheel. But why?

That’s what she meant to find out.

Thursday, March 3, 2005

11:00 a.m.

Spencer stood at the back of the Newman Religious Center ’s chapel and watched Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner’s friends file out. Located on the UNO campus, the multidenominational chapel, like every other building on site, looked grimly utilitarian.

The chapel had proved too small to accommodate the many who had come to pay their last respects to Cassie and Beth. It had been filled to overflowing.

Spencer shook off crushing fatigue. He had made the mistake of meeting some friends at Shannon ’s the night before. One thing had led to another and he’d closed the place at 2:00 a.m.

He was paying the price today. Big time.

He forced himself to focus on the rows of faces. Stacy Killian, expression stony, accompanied by Billie Bellini. The members of Cassie’s game group, all of whom he had spoken with, Beth’s friends and family as well. Bobby Gautreaux.

He found that interesting. Very interesting.

The kid had acted remorseless a couple of days ago; now he presented the picture of despair.

Despairing over the fate of his own ass, no doubt.

The search of his car and dorm room hadn’t turned up a direct link-yet. The crime-lab guys were working their way through the hundreds of prints and trace lifted from the scene. He wasn’t giving up on Gautreaux. The kid was the best they had so far.

From across the room he caught the eye of Mike Benson, one of his fellow detectives. Spencer nodded slightly at Benson and pushed away from the wall. He followed the students out into the bright, cool day.

Tony had been stationed out front during the service. Police photographers with telephoto lenses had been planted, capturing the faces of all the mourners on film, a record they would cross-reference against any suspects.

Spencer moved his gaze over the group. If not Gautreaux, was the real killer here? Watching? Secretly excited? Reliving Cassie’s death? Or was he amused? Laughing at them, congratulating himself on his cleverness?

He didn’t have a sense either way. No one stood out. No one looked like they didn’t belong.

Frustration licked at him. A feeling of inadequacy. Ineptitude.

Damn it, he didn’t belong in charge of this. He felt like he was drowning.

Stacy separated herself from friends and crossed to him. He nodded at her, slipping into the good ol’ boy role that fit him so well. “’Morning, former-cop Killian.”

“Save the charm for somebody else, Malone. I’m beyond it.”

“That so, Ms. Killian? Down here we call it manners.”

“In Texas we call it bullshit. I know why you’re here, Detective. I know what you’re looking for. Anybody stand out?”

“No. But I didn’t know all her friends. Anyone jump out at you?”

“No.” She made a sound of frustration. “Except for Gautreaux.”

He followed her glance. The young man stood just outside the circle of friends. The man beside him, Spencer knew, was his lawyer. It seemed to Spencer the kid was working damn hard to look devastated.

“That his lawyer with him?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“I thought maybe the little weasel would be in jail.”

“We don’t have enough to charge him. But we’re still looking.”

“You got a search warrant?”

“Yes. We’re still waiting on print and trace reports from the lab.”

Part of her had hoped for better: the weapon or some other incontrovertible evidence. She glanced at the young man, then back at Spencer. She was angry, he saw. “He’s not sorry,” she said. “He’s acting all broken up, but he’s not. That pisses me off.”

He touched her arm lightly. “We’re not going to give up, Stacy. I promise you.”

“You really expect me to be reassured by that?” She looked away, then back. “You know what I told the bereaved friends and family of every victim I ever worked? That I wouldn’t give up. I promised. But it was bullshit. Because there was always another case. Another victim.”

She leaned toward him, voice tight with emotion, eyes bright with unshed tears. “This time I’m not giving up.”

She turned and walked away. He watched her go, reluctant admiration pulling at him. She was a hard-ass, no doubt about it. Determined to a fault. Pushy. Cocky in a way few women were, down here, anyway.

And smart. He’d give her that.

Spencer narrowed his eyes slightly. Maybe too damn smart for her own good.

Tony ambled over. He followed the direction of Spencer’s gaze. “The prickly Ms. Killian give you anything?”