Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Some touted decentralization a huge success. Some called it an embarrassing failure-especially in terms of homicide. In the end, one thing was certain, it saved the department money.

Spencer had accepted the department’s obvious bribe because he was a cop. More than a job, it was who he was. He’d never considered being anything else. How could he have? Police work was in his blood. His father, uncle and aunt were all cops. So were several cousins and all but two of his siblings. His brother Quentin had left the force after sixteen years to study law. Even so, he hadn’t strayed far from the family business. A prosecutor with the Orleans Parish D.A., he helped convict the guys the other Malones busted.

“Hello, Connelly,” Spencer said tightly. “Here I am, back from the dead. Surprised?”

The other officer shifted his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean, Detective.”

“My ass.” He leaned toward the other man. “You going to have a problem working with me?”

The officer took a step backward. “No problem. No, sir.”

“Good thing. Because I’m here to stay.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’ve we got?”

“Double homicide.” The rookie’s voice shook slightly. “Both female. UNO students.” He glanced at his notes. “Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Neighbor there called it in. Name’s Stacy Killian.”

Spencer glanced in the direction he indicated. A young woman, cradling a sleeping puppy in her arms, stood on the porch. Tall, blond and, from what he could see, attractive. It looked as if she was wearing pajamas under her denim jacket. “What’s her story?”

“Thought she heard gunshots and went to investigate.”

“Now, there was an intelligent move.” Spencer shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”

They started toward the porch. Tony angled him a glance. “Way to set the record, Slick. Stupid little prick.”

Tony had never succumbed to the Malone bashing that had become the favorite pastime of many in the NOPD. He’d stood by Spencer and the entire Malone clan’s belief in Spencer’s innocence. That hadn’t always been easy, Spencer knew, particularly when the “evidence” had begun to stack up.

There were some who still didn’t buy Spencer’s innocence-or Lieutenant Moran’s guilt. Despite the department’s reinstatement or Moran’s confession and suicide. They figured the Malone family had “fixed” it somehow, used their considerable influence within the department to make it all go away.

It pissed him off. Spencer hated that he had been involved, albeit innocently, in the sullying of his family’s reputation, hated the speculative glances, the whispers.

“It’ll get better,” Tony murmured, as if reading his mind. “Cops’ memories aren’t that good. Lead poisoning, in my humble opinion.”

“You think?” Spencer grinned at him as they climbed the steps. “I was leaning toward excessive exposure to blue dye.”

They crossed the porch. He was aware of the neighbor’s gaze on him; he didn’t meet it. There would be time later for her distress and questions. Now was not it.

They entered the double. The techs were at work. Spencer skimmed his gaze over the scene, experiencing a small rush of excitement.

He had wanted Homicide for as long as he could remember. As a kid, he’d listened to his dad and Uncle Sammy discuss cases. And later, had watched his brothers John and Quentin with awe. When the department had decentralized, he’d wanted ISD.

ISD was the big time. Top of the heap.

He’d been too much of a screwup to earn the appointment. But here he was. Payoff for his cooperation and goodwill.

He hadn’t been proud enough to turn it down.

Spencer returned his attention to the scene before him. Typical college student’s apartment, Spencer saw. Junky, third-and fourth-hand furniture, overflowing ashtrays and about two dozen diet Coke cans littered the room. An all-chick place, Spencer thought. If a guy lived here, the cans would be Miller Lite. Or maybe south Louisiana ’s own Abita Beer.

The first victim lay facedown on the floor, the back of her head partially blown off. The coroner’s investigator had already bagged her hands.

Spencer shifted his gaze to a young detective he recognized as being from the Sixth District. He couldn’t remember his name.

Tony did. “Yo, Bernie. You the one who dragged us out tonight?”

“Sorry about that. This is no rubber stamp, figured the sooner you guys got involved the better.”

The young detective looked nervous. He was new to DIU, probably hadn’t handled anything but gangbanger shootings.

“My partner, Spencer Malone.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Spencer figured the other cop had heard of him. “Bernie St. Claude.”

They shook hands. Ray Hollister, the Orleans Parish coroner’s investigator, glanced up. “I see the gang’s all here.”

“The midnight riders,” Tony said. “Lucky us. You worked with Malone yet, Ray?”

“Not this Malone.” The officer nodded in his direction. “Welcome to the late-night homicide club.”

“Glad to be here.”

That brought a groan from a couple of the techs.

Tony shot Spencer a grin. “The scary thing is, he means it. Back way off on the enthusiasm, Slick. People will talk.”

“Kiss my ass,” Spencer said good-naturedly, then returned his attention to the coroner’s representative. “What do you have so far?”

“Looks pretty straightforward right now. Shot twice. If the first bullet didn’t kill her, the second sure as hell did.”

“But why was she shot?” Spencer wondered aloud.

“That’s your job, kid. Not mine.”

“Sexual assault?” Tony asked.

“I’m thinking no, but autopsy will tell the tale.”

Tony nodded. “We’re going to take a look at the other victim.”

“Have a ball.”

Spencer didn’t move; he stared at the fanlike spray of blood on the wall adjacent to the victim. Turning to his partner, he said, “The shooter was sitting.”

“How do you figure?”

“Check it out.” Spencer circled around the body, crossing to the wall. “Blood splatter sprays up, then out.”

“I’ll be damned.”

Hollister weighed in. “Wounds are consistent with that theory.”

Excited, Spencer glanced around. His gaze settled on a desk and chair. “Shooter was there,” he said, crossing to the chair. Not wanting to disturb possible evidence, he squatted beside it. He visualized the event: shooter sitting, the victim turning her back on him, then: Bang. Bang.

What had they been doing? Why had he wanted her dead?

He shifted his gaze again, to the dusty desktop. It bore a subtle outline, about the size and shape of a laptop computer. “Take a look, Tony. I’m thinking there was a computer here.” The desk’s location supported the theory: the adjacent wall sported both an electrical outlet and a phone jack.

Tony nodded. “Could be. Might’ve been books, notebooks or newspaper.”

“Maybe. Whatever it was, it’s gone now. And, it appears, quite recently.” He fitted on a pair of latex gloves and ran a finger across the rectangular space. Finding it dust free, he motioned the photographer over and instructed him to get a shot of the desk, its top and chair.

“Let’s make sure they dust that area well.”

Spencer knew his partner meant dust for prints and nodded. “Done.”

He and Tony moved on. They found the second victim. She had also been shot. The scenario, however, was totally different. She had been tagged twice in the chest and lay on her back, straddling the bedroom doorway. The front of her pj’s were bloody, a ring of red circled her body.

Spencer crossed to her, checked her pulse, then glanced back at Tony. “She was in bed, heard the shots and got up to see what was going on.”