Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“Thanks. Was she pissed when you asked about Pogo?”

“Confused, mostly. I got his address from her, but I’d like to see you play this out. Tag along.”

She laughed. “You’ve surprised me, Detective. And I don’t surprise easily.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Strut your stuff, Killian.”

“Barracks and Dauphine, you familiar with the area?”

He nodded and they fell into step together. After a block, she angled a glance him. “So, how’d you pinpoint Gallery 124 so quickly?”

“My sister Shauna studied art. I showed her the card, she didn’t recognize it but directed me to Bill Tokar, the head of the New Orleans Arts Council. He suggested Gallery 124.”

“And the rest is history.”

“Is that grudging respect I hear in your voice?”

“Absolutely not.” She smiled. “Is Shauna your only sibling?”

“Nope. One of six.”

She stopped. Looked at him. “You have six siblings? ”

He laughed at her disbelief. “I’m from a good Irish Catholic family.”

“The Lord said, be fruitful and multiply.”

“So did the pope. And my mother takes the pope’s directives very seriously.” They fell back into an easy stroll. “What about you?” he asked.

“Just me and Jane. What’s it like? Being part of such a big family?”

“Crazy. Sometimes irritating. Always loud.” He paused. “But really great.”

The affection in his tone made her ache to see her sister. To hold her new niece.

They reached the cross streets. The area was a shabby mix of retail and residential space. The eighteenth-century buildings stood side-by-side in various states of disrepair. All part of the Quarter’s charm.

“Okay.” She slid him an amused glance. “Bet you a cup of coffee I’ll have Mr. Pogo’s address in ten minutes.”

“That’s a no-brainer, Killian. Make it five and you’re on.”

She took the bet and scanned the street. Small grocery with lunch counter. Seedy bar. Souvenir shop.

She pointed toward the grocery. “You wait. Don’t want to scare the straights.”

“Funny.” Smirking, he looked at his wrist. “Clock’s ticking.”

Stacy headed into the grocery, stopping just inside the door. It appeared to be a mom-and-pop family business. A sixtyish-looking man stood behind the lunch counter, a like-aged woman at the cash register. Whom to approach? Aware of the minutes ticking past, she decided on the woman.

Stacy crossed to her. “Hi.” She infused her voice with what she hoped was the right combination of sincerity and friendliness. “I hope you can help me.”

The woman returned her smile. “I’ll try.” She had the raspy voice of a lifetime smoker.

“I’m looking for an artist who lives right around here. Pogo.”

The woman’s expression altered in a way that suggested there was no love lost between the two.

She held the card out. “I bought this card from him last year and I’d like to buy some more. I tried his phone, but it’s out of order.”

“Probably disconnected.”

“What’s that, Edith?”

That came from the man. Stacy glanced over her shoulder at him. “This lady’s looking for Pogo. She wants to buy some of his art.”

“You paying him cash?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “If I can ever find him.”

The man nodded at his wife; she scribbled the address on the back of a register receipt. “Next door,” she said. “Fourth floor.”

Stacy thanked the pair and headed back out to Spencer. He looked at his watch. “Four and a half minutes. You have the address?”

She held up the scrap of paper.

He checked it against the one he had gotten from the gallery curator and nodded. “I would have chosen the bar. Unreliable and drink go together.”

“Yeah, but everybody has to eat. Plus, bartender’s going to be more suspicious and less likely to be forthcoming. Nature of the business.”

“Coffee’s on me. Wait here, I’ll check him out.”

“Excuse me? I don’t think so.”

“Police business, Stacy. It’s been fun, but-”

“But nothing. You’re not going in there without me.”

“Yes, I am.”

He started toward the neighboring building. She went after him, stopping him with a hand to his arm. “This is bullshit and you know it.”

He inclined his head. “Maybe. But my captain would have my ass if I questioned a suspect while in the presence of a civilian.”

“You’ll scare him away. I’ll keep up the charade, pretend to be an art buyer. He’ll talk to me.”

“The minute he sees the card, he’ll know the gig’s up. I’m not about to put you in harm’s way.”

“You’re assuming he’s guilty of something. Maybe he was commissioned to do the drawings and has no idea what their purpose was.”

“Forget it, Killian. Don’t you have a class or something?”

“You are the most irritating, pigheaded creature that I’ve ever had the misfortune of…”

Her words trailed off as she became aware of a commotion in front of the grocery store.

The man from inside, she saw. He stood with a long-haired, bearded man, motioning her way.

No, she realized. Not her way. At her.

Pogo.

The man looked from her to Spencer. She saw the moment he realized they were the law. “Spencer, quick-”

Too late, the artist bolted in the opposite direction. Spencer swore and took off after him, Stacy on his heels.

Pogo obviously knew the area well. He darted down side streets and cut through alleys. He was fast, too. A small guy, thin and wiry. Within minutes, Stacy lost sight of both men.

She stopped, panting. She was out of shape, she acknowledged, bending at the waist, resting her hands on her knees. Damn. She needed to start working out.

When she caught her breath, she headed back to the grocery. She saw that sometime during his chase, Spencer had called for backup. Two cruisers sat double-parked in front of the artist’s building. One of the cops was questioning the grocer and his wife. The others were nowhere to be seen.

Fanning the area for Pogo, no doubt. Questioning the artist’s neighbors.

She ducked behind the rack of postcards outside a souvenir shop. She didn’t want the grocer to spot her and send the cop her way. Spencer wouldn’t appreciate her part in today’s debacle being in anyone’s official report.

Tony pulled up, angled his car into the fire lane and climbed out. She thought about calling to him, then decided against it. She would let Malone call the shots.

Spencer returned. He was sweating. And looked pissed off.

Pogo had gotten away.

Damn it.

He crossed to Tony’s side. They exchanged words, then he turned, scanning the area. For her, Stacy knew. She stepped out from behind the rack. He caught sight of her, and she signaled for him to call her, then turned and walked away.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

2:00 p.m.

They had a search warrant within the hour. Spencer handed it to the landlord, who in turn unlocked the artist’s apartment door. “Thanks,” Spencer told him. “Hang around, okay?”

“Sure.” The man shifted from one foot to the other. “What’d Walter get himself into?”

“Walter?”

“Walter Pogolapoulos. Everybody calls him Pogo.”

Weird. But it made sense.

“So what’d he do?”

“Sorry, we can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

“Of course. I understand.” He nodded his head vigorously. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

They entered the apartment. Tony grinned at him. “Ongoing investigation, indeed. Thought the guy was going to wet his pants at that.”