Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

He didn’t slow or look back. She shot to her feet, called his name again. Loudly. He started to run. She took off after him; hitting the stairs in seconds.

He was already gone.

She ran down the steps, anyway, earning a scowl from the librarian. A student worker, Stacy ascertained, crossing to her. “Did you see a dark-haired guy with an orange backpack just now? He was running.”

The young woman skimmed her gaze over Stacy, expression openly hostile. “I see a lot of dark-haired guys.”

Stacy narrowed her eyes. “The library’s not that busy. He was running. You want to change your answer?”

The coed hesitated, then motioned to the main entrance doors. “He went that way.”

Stacy thanked her, then headed back upstairs. She wouldn’t accomplish anything by going after him. First, she doubted she would find him. Second, what would it prove if she did? If he had been spying on her, he wouldn’t admit it.

But if he had been, why?

She reached the second floor, crossed to her table and began to collect her things, freezing as a thought occurred to her. Bobby was a big guy. Taller than she was. Not as tall as she’d guessed her attacker of the other night to have been, but considering the circumstances, she could have been wrong.

Maybe Bobby Gautreaux hadn’t been spying on her at all. Maybe his intentions had been darker.

She would have to be very careful.

Tuesday, March 8, 2005

11:15 p.m.

Spencer stood on the sidewalk in front of the dilapidated fourplex, waiting for Tony. The other man had arrived just behind him, but had yet to emerge from his vehicle. He was on his cell phone; his conversation appeared to be a heated one. No doubt the infamous teenager Carly, Spencer thought. Back for round twelve.

He turned his attention to the street, the rows of homes, most of them multifamily units. On a desirability scale, this Bywater neighborhood ranked no better than a three, though he supposed that depended on one’s perspective. Some would die to live here, others would kill themselves first.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile. And some, simply, would have death thrust upon them.

He shifted his gaze to the fourplex. The first officers had cordoned off the area and yellow crime-scene tape was draped across the front porch. In its youth, the structure had been a nice middle-class home, roomy enough for a big family. Sometime during its life, as the area had slid into disrepair and disfavor, it’d been divided into a multifamily residence, its handsome facade replaced with that awful tar-paper siding popular after World War II.

Spencer turned at the sound of a car door slamming. Tony had finished his conversation; though by his thunderous expression Spencer suspected it was far from over.

“Have I told you I hate teenagers?” he said as he reached Spencer.

“Repeatedly.” They fell into step together. “Thanks for coming.”

“Any excuse to get out of the house these days.”

“Carly’s not that bad,” Spencer said, grinning. “You’re just old, Pasta Man. ”

Tony glowered at him. “Don’t mess with me, Slick. Not now. The kid’s pushed me to the breaking point.”

“Cop goes postal. Sounds ugly. Very ugly.” Spencer lifted the crime-scene tape for Tony, then ducked under himself. A scrawny dog stood at the neighbor’s chain-link fence, watching them. He hadn’t barked the entire time, a fact Spencer found odd.

They crossed to the first officer, a woman his brother Percy had dated. It hadn’t ended well. “Hello, Tina.”

“Spencer Malone. I see you’ve moved up in the world.”

“Livin’ large in the Big Easy.”

“How’s that no-good brother of yours?”

“Which one? I’ve got several who answer to that description.”

“That you do. Present company included.”

“No denials from me, Officer DeAngelo.” He smiled. “What’ve we got?”

“Upper-right unit. Victim in the bathtub. Fully dressed. Rosie Allen’s her name. Lived alone. Tenant directly below called it in. Water dripping from the ceiling. She tried to rouse the woman, couldn’t and called us.”

“Why’d you call us and not DIU?”

“This one had ISD written all over it. Killer left us a calling card.”

Spencer frowned. “The neighbor hear anything? See anything that seemed suspicious?”

“No.”

“What about the other neighbors?”

“Nothing.”

“Crime-scene guys called?”

“On their way. Coroner’s rep as well.”

“Touch anything?”

“Checked her pulse and turned off the water. Moved the shower curtain. That’s it.”

Spencer nodded; he and Tony started up the walk. When he reached the unit’s open door, he stopped and turned. “I’ll tell Percy you asked about him.”

“If you want to die. No problem.”

Chuckling, he and Tony climbed the stairs, which emptied into the unit’s living room. It had been converted into a workroom, complete with two sewing tables fitted with sewing machines, both commercial-quality machines, from the look of them. Baskets heaped with clothing sat along one wall, along another, racks of hanging garments, one entirely costumes. The kind that got big applause at the gay fashion show during Carnival. Lots of sparkle. Overdone to the extreme. Against the far wall sat an old couch. In front of it a battered coffee table. A stack of paperback novels sat on its top, one upside down, propped open. Beside it a pretty china teacup and saucer. Old-fashioned-looking. Feminine.

Spencer crossed to the table. The cup was empty save for the dregs of the beverage. A half-eaten cookie perched on the saucer.

He shifted his attention to the books. Romances. A few mysteries. Even a western. He didn’t recognize any of the titles.

“No TV,” Tony said disbelievingly. “Everybody has a television.”

“Maybe it’s in the bedroom.”

“Maybe.”

From behind them came the sound of the techs arriving. Like a herd of cattle tromping up the wooden stairs. Not waiting to greet their colleagues, Spencer motioned Tony toward the bathroom. They’d been the first to arrive; they’d earned the right to be first to examine the scene.

The unit had one bathroom, located at the back of the apartment, between the bedroom and the kitchen. An inch of water stood on the black-and-white checked tile floor. Nothing looked out of place-save for the slippered feet and bony legs sticking out of the end of the claw-footed tub.

Spencer skimmed his gaze over the room. A virgin scene told tales, in a whisper, drowned out by too many warm bodies. Not always. But sometimes…if they were lucky.

Spencer stepped into the room. And he felt it, a kind of presence. A kind of echo of the act that made his skin crawl.

He swept his gaze over the room, hardly big enough for the tub, nestled against the far wall. The vinyl curtain, mounted on a circular rod, had been pushed to the backside of the tub.

They crossed to the tub. Tony muttered something about his shoes being ruined. Spencer didn’t acknowledge him. He couldn’t take his eyes from the woman.

She stared up at him from her watery grave, her eyes a faded blue. Had they faded with age? he wondered. Or death? Her hair circled her head like gray sea grass, weightless. Her mouth was open.

She wore a chenille robe, the same color as her eyes. A white cotton gown underneath. The pink fuzzy slippers perched on her feet were dry.

Those eyes, her unseeing gaze, called to him. Seemed to beg him to listen.

Spencer leaned closer. Tell me. I’m listening.

She’d been ready for bed. Reading. Enjoying a cup of tea and a cookie. Judging by the condition of the bathroom and the dry slippers, she hadn’t fought her attacker.