Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

She had finally confided in Spencer. Because he had first allowed her the space, and then the opportunity to do so. And maybe, too, because he had made so many mistakes in his own life, she figured he would be less judgmental of hers.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked finally as her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl.

She didn’t ask about what; she knew. She stared into her bowl, as if preparing her answer.

“I didn’t want to do this,” she said after a moment, looking at him. “Not anymore.”

“Breakfast cereal with near strangers?”

A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Are you ever totally serious?”

“As infrequently as possible.”

“I’m thinking that would be a nice way to be.”

He thought of Lieutenant Moran. “Trust me, it has drawbacks.” He inched aside his bowl. “So, you left police work behind, moved to New Orleans to study Literature and start a new life?”

“Something like that,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “But it wasn’t the police work I wanted to leave behind. It was the ugliness of the job. The absolute disregard for life.” She let out a long, weary-sounding breath. “And here I am, smack dab in the middle of it again.”

“By your own doing.”

“Cassie’s murder was not my doing.”

“But putting yourself into the investigation was. Signing on with Noble was. Stepping through each door that opened was.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue. He reached across the table and caught her hand, curving his fingers around hers. “I’m not criticizing you. Far from it. You’re doing what comes natural. You were a cop for ten years. We both know that law enforcement isn’t a job, it’s a way of life. It’s not what you are, it’s who you are.”

He had discovered just how true those words were when he was falsely accused, suspended and facing a lifetime without police work.

“I don’t want to be that person, not anymore.”

“Then let it go, Stacy. Get out of it. Go back to Texas.”

She made a sound of frustration and stood. She carried her bowl to the sink, then turned to face him once more. “What about Cassie? I can’t just…leave.”

“What about her? You hardly knew her.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is, Stacy. You were friends for less than two months.”

“She didn’t deserve to die. She was young. And good. And-”

“And the morgue is filled with young, good people who shouldn’t be dead, but are.”

“But they’re strangers to me! And Cassie…Cassie was the person I wished I was!” She fell silent a moment; he saw her struggle for control. “And someone killed her. The same ugliness that I wanted to escape…followed me.”

Understanding, he stood and crossed to her. He caught her hands. “You think the ugliness found you? Followed you? And she died because of it?”

“I didn’t say that.” Eyes bright with tears, she shook her head and moved to free her hands from his.

He tightened his grip. “Cassie’s death doesn’t have anything to do with what you’ve involved yourself in. There’s nothing similar about her death and the White Rabbit killings.”

She knew he had a good point; he saw it in her expression. “What about her computer?”

“What about it?”

“She stumbled onto something that put her in harm’s way. It had to do with White Rabbit.”

“You believe,” he countered. “The facts don’t support that belief.” He leaned toward her. “The most obvious is most often the one ‘whodunit.’ You know that.”

“Gautreaux.”

“Yeah, Gautreaux. We have physical evidence linking him to the murders.”

“What?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “What do you have?”

“A print-”

“His or hers?”

“His. Retrieved from her apartment. And some trace.”

She nodded, skepticism becoming excitement. “What kind of trace?”

“Hair. Hers. On his clothing. Because of their past relationship, neither is strong enough to prove he did it.”

“Bullshit. No way there should be a print of his in her place. They didn’t break up amicably. The guy stalked and threatened her, no way she just let him in for a nice little chat. Plus, they broke up last year. Doesn’t he wash his clothes?”

“Jacket,” he corrected. “Denim. Doesn’t look like it’s ever seen a washing machine.”

She swore and stood. “I hate defense lawyers. They can twist the facts-”

“Hold on, there’s more. We found a hair consistent with his on her T-shirt. We got the order for the swab, results are due next week. If we’re lucky-”

“DNA will tie him to the scene. Nasty little prick.”

Spencer turned her earlier question back on her. “So why’d he take her computer?”

“To cover his ass. Maybe he sent her hate mail, maybe he knows she saved it. So when he kills her, he takes away the evidence. Or he takes it as a trophy. Or because it was the thing he perceived she loved most. Certainly more than him.”

Spencer smiled. “By George, I think she’s got it.”

She frowned suddenly. “When did you swab him?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you really think he hasn’t skipped?”

“I’m not a complete rookie, you know. We’ve got a GPS tracking device on his car. He takes one step too close to the state line and we grab him.”

He caught her hands in his, holding them gently. “Go home to Texas, Stacy. We’ve got Cassie’s killer. She doesn’t need your help anymore.”

Her hands trembled; he felt her indecision, the conflict raging inside her.

She wanted to.

She couldn’t bring herself to let go.

Spencer tightened his fingers on hers. “Go. Visit your sister. Stay until we find this crazy White Rabbit character and get him behind bars.”

She shook her head. “School doesn’t work that way. Can’t just come and go. Besides, I only have a little over a month to go in this semester.”

He frowned. “We both know a month is a long time. A lot can happen in a month.”

He knew she understood what he was saying. That death could find her in the blink of an eye.

And that this one scared him.

“He’ll follow me,” she said softly. “He knows all about me now.”

“You’re just guessing. You don’t know that for certain-”

“But I do, Malone. He’s playing the game. So am I. And the game doesn’t end until there’s only one man standing.”

He stroked the back of her hands with his thumbs. “Then go somewhere he won’t think to look for you. Someplace you’ve no connection to.”

“And how do we know he won’t wait me out? For years, the rest of my life, even. I have family, a life outside this. I’m not going to go into hiding.”

“But we’re going to catch him. Long before years pass.”

“You hope.”

She moved to slip her hands from his; he tightened his fingers on hers. “I will catch him, Stacy. I promise you that.”

Friday, March 11, 2005

9:20 a.m.

Stacy awakened to the sound of the toilet flushing. Spencer. Moaning, she rolled onto her side to see the clock. She stared at the numbers a moment, struggling to think.

Today was Friday. Malone’s shift probably started around 7:30 a.m., standard for most P.D.’s detective units.

She flopped onto her back. What did she have today? Professor Schultze’s class. Introduction to Graduate Studies in English. About as exciting as watching grass grow.

She might as well head back to Texas. She was probably going to be booted out of grad school.

Stacy stared at the ceiling. A long crack ran diagonally across it, nearly from corner to corner. Should she? Tuck tail and run back to Dallas?