Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Stacy left the backpack, then the two stood and crossed to Stacy’s car. They climbed in, buckled their safety belts, and Stacy started the car. They drove in silence, the girl slumped in her seat, the picture of adolescent misery.

Stacy parked in front of the mansion; they both climbed out. Alice didn’t wait for Stacy, simply darted for the house, disappearing through the front door as Stacy reached the porch.

She followed the girl into the house. Leo stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. On the second floor, a door slammed.

He looked at Stacy, perplexed. “I thought she was upstairs.”

“She was at my apartment.”

“Your apartment?” His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t understand.”

“Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

He led her to his study, closed the door behind them and waited.

“When I got home, I found Alice on my doorstep. She said she’d been there a couple hours.”

“A couple hours? Good God, why-”

“She’s scared, Leo. She knows something’s going on. That I’m not a technical adviser. She wanted me to tell her the truth.”

“You didn’t, did you?”

“Of course not. She’s your daughter, and you asked me not to.”

“I don’t want her frightened.”

“She already is. She saw Malone and Sciame here last night. She heard at least a portion of what was discussed.”

He paled. “She should have been asleep. In the guest house.”

“Well, she wasn’t. She guessed, correctly, that they were police. She even suspected it had to do with a murder.”

“But how?” He pushed away from the desk, face creased with worry.

Stacy lifted her shoulders. “She’s a bright girl, she put two and two together. As she said, people only call in the middle of the night when somebody’s died.”

A reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “She never ceases to amaze me.”

“She’s afraid you and Kay are in danger. You need to reassure her. She’s sixteen, Leo. Think back. What were you like at sixteen?”

He ran a hand across his face. “You don’t know Alice. She’s high-strung. The gifted often are. She needs more guidance than most kids her age.”

“You’re the parent, of course. But in my experience, the known is much less frightening than the unknown.”

He was quiet a moment, then nodded. “Kay and I will discuss it.”

“Good.” She checked her watch. “I’m beat. If you don’t mind, I’m heading home.”

“Go ahead.” He stopped her when she reached the door. “Stacy?”

She looked back at him in question.

“Thank you.”

The gratitude in his expression made her smile. She exited the office. As she passed through the foyer, she saw Alice hovering at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met, but before Stacy could call goodbye, Kay appeared behind the girl.

Obviously, the older woman hadn’t seen Stacy. Judging by the way Alice turned quickly away, Stacy sensed the teenager didn’t want her to. Stacy hesitated a moment more, then left the mansion.

Within minutes, she was on her way home. Hungry, she stopped at the Taco Bell and picked up an enchilada bowl. As she waited for her food, she thought about Spencer and wondered if he had caught up with Pogo. She glanced at her cell phone, confirming that it was on and that she hadn’t missed a call.

Stacy parked in front of her place, shut off the engine and headed inside. She dropped the bag of fast food in the kitchen, checked her recorder for messages-and saw that she had none-then crossed to the bathroom.

Pajamas, she decided. She would take a long hot shower, put on her pj’s and eat in front of the TV. If Spencer hadn’t called her by ten o’clock, she would call him.

She reached into the shower and turned on the hot water. While it heated, she undressed. Steam billowed from behind the curtain, and she inched it aside to add cold water. She frowned. A thread of pink water mixed with the clear and swirled down the drain.

She pushed the curtain back. A sound flew to her throat. Part surprise. Part horror.

A cat’s head. Suspended from the ceiling above the tub with nylon fishing line. A tabby, the creature’s mouth stretched into a bizarre snarl.

It appeared to be smiling at her.

She turned away, struggling to calm herself. She breathed deeply through her nose. Divorce yourself from it, Killian. It’s a scene. Like the dozens, hundreds, of others you’ve worked.

Do the job.

She grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, slipped into it, then retrieved her gun from the nightstand. She began a systematic search of the apartment, from the bedroom forward.

In the kitchen she discovered how the perp had entered: he’d broken a pane of glass in the kitchen door, reached inside and unlocked the dead bolt. Looked like he’d cut himself doing it, a sloppy mistake.

But good for the home team.

The rest of her search revealed nothing unexpected. Nothing appeared to have been taken or disturbed. No sign of the rest of the cat, poor thing. Clearly, the perp’s intention had been to frighten her.

She returned to the bathroom. Swallowing hard, she studied the creature, the way it had been suspended from the ceiling. Nothing fancy, but it had taken a bit of both ingenuity and skill. She lifted her gaze. A cup hook screwed into the ceiling. Nylon fishing line attached to the hook and the cat’s head.

Stacy ran her gaze along the lines-there were two-the end of each fitted with a fish hook. The hooks attached to the animal’s ears.

She lowered her eyes to the tub floor. A plastic bag had been taped to the tub directly under the cat’s head. The resealable kind, used for food storage.

She saw that there was something in the bag. A note. Or notecard-sized envelope.

Stacy stared at the bloodied bag, pulse pounding in her head. She forced herself to breathe. To think clearly.

Leave it. Call Spencer.

Even as the thought registered, she turned and headed for the kitchen. To the sink and the rubber gloves she stored underneath. She bent, retrieved the package and drew out a pair.

She fitted them on and returned to the bathroom. Bending, she carefully freed the bag, unzipped it and eased the notecard out.

It said, simply: Welcome to the game. It was signed the White Rabbit.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

8:15 p.m.

Spencer sped through the Metairie Road, City Park Avenue and I-10 intersection, making the turn onto City Park, cherry lights bouncing crazily off the underpass walls. Stacy’s first call had come in while he and Tony had been in with the captain. The second one while he was on his way home. He’d made a U-turn, heading back toward central city, before he had even ended the call.

Spencer tightened his grip on the wheel, weaving around vehicles that didn’t get out of his way fast enough. Stacy had said little besides “Get over here, ASAP.” But he’d heard the strain in her voice-the hint of a quiver-and had reacted without question.

He’d decided to make the call solo. Assess what had happened and who was needed. Give Tony a chance to eat the meal waiting for him at home. Spencer had learned the hard way that coming between the Pasta Man and his food wasn’t pretty.

He reached Stacy’s double. She sat on her porch step, waiting. He parked in the fire zone, climbed out of his vehicle and headed up to meet her.

As he neared, he saw her Glock was resting across her knees.

He stopped before her. She lifted her face. “Sorry to call you out like this. I remember what it was like.”

“No problem.” He searched her expression, concerned. “Are you all right?”