Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

And do what? She’d given up her job. Sold her house. She could move in with Jane and Ian for a couple of weeks, then what? And to what end?

She believed what she had told Spencer, that the White Rabbit would follow her. That he not only knew her identity, but that he knew her. She based that belief on nothing but her gut-and what she had been told about the game.

Who was the White Rabbit? Why was he playing the game? Most murders were motivated by love or hate, by greed, by a desire for revenge or jealousy.

The serial killer, on the other hand, was a different animal. He usually preyed on strangers; he killed to fulfill some sick need within himself.

Who were they dealing with? And why had she been included in his game?

For a specific reason, she was certain. One other than the fact that she had poked her nose into what he considered his private business. She interested him. He wanted to play with her.

Hide and seek. Cat and mouse.

She frowned and sat up, her head filling with the image of the beheaded cat. Its obscene grin.

Was she the cat? Stacy brought a hand to her throat. Did he mean for her to die in that gruesome way?

If the Allen murder set the pattern for more to come, the answer to that question was yes.

They needed to get into his head, Stacy acknowledged. Figure out what made him tick.

There was only one way to do that: play the game.

She scrambled out of bed and slipped into her robe before heading to the kitchen. She found Spencer, his back to her, making coffee.

She gazed at him a moment, remembering her tears of the night before, wondering what he thought of her now. If he would be able to take her seriously.

Like a dope, she had revealed how badly the White Rabbit’s visit had shaken her. How upset she was.

She’d revealed that she was a big fake. Hard as nails Stacy Killian was like one of those Tootsie Roll Pops-hard shell, soft, chewy center.

Once a guy knew the center could be chewed, that’s what they did. Chewed you up and spit you out. Or swallowed you, bite by bite. Goodbye respect. Goodbye self-esteem.

She had been down this road before. It didn’t lead anywhere she wanted to go.

Though Malone seemed different. He could be funny. And kind. Certainly not the Bubba she had first pegged him to be.

Which meant exactly nothing. Cops were off-limits, period.

As if sensing her presence, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Morning. I was going to let you sleep a bit more.”

“I have a class.” She returned his smile. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The coffeemaker sputtered as it finished brewing and he turned back to it. She saw that he’d found the mugs already; she watched as he filled two.

He held one out for her. She crossed to him, took it and went about adding milk and sweetener. That done, she took a sip, then looked at him over the rim of her mug. “It occurred to me that we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“Going about what the wrong way? Our romance?”

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She shook it off and crossed to a chair and sat. “Get a grip, Romeo. Catching the White Rabbit.”

“Last I checked, you were a civilian and I was the detective. There is no ‘we’ in that scenario.”

She ignored that. “It seems to me, if we played the game, we’d have a better handle on what we’re up against. And who we’re up against.”

“Get into this Rabbit’s head.”

“Exactly. If the killer really is someone who’s begun playing the game for real, what better way to predict his moves?”

He gazed at her a moment, then nodded. “I’m in. So’s Tony.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Leo about setting it up. After all, who better to help understand the White Rabbit than the man who created him?”

He nodded again, drained his mug and set it on the counter. He started for the doorway, stopping and looking back at her when he reached it. “Call me when you have the details. And Stacy?”

“Hmm?”

“If you don’t get that door fixed, I’m sleeping over again tonight. That’s a promise.”

She watched him go, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had to admit, a part of her would like to test that promise.

Friday, March 11, 2005

10:30 a.m.

“’Morning, Mrs. Maitlin,” Stacy said as the woman opened the door of the Noble mansion. “How are you today?”

The woman frowned slightly. “Mr. Leo isn’t up yet. But Mrs. Noble is in the kitchen.”

Which didn’t answer her question. But did reveal the difference in the way the housekeeper felt about her employers. Stacy thanked her and started for the kitchen. The Nobles’ was a big, old-fashioned country kitchen, with a brick floor and exposed beam ceiling. Kay sat at the large butcher-block-style table, reading the newspaper and sipping orange juice. Sunlight fell across her, accenting the inky highlights in her dark hair.

She looked up when Stacy entered the kitchen and smiled. “’Morning, Stacy. I thought Friday mornings you were at school.”

The woman had a mind like a steel trap.

“I overslept,” Stacy fibbed, crossing to their coffeemaker, a newfangled, high-tech machine that ground the beans and brewed one perfect serving at a time-from a single shot to a full eight-ounce cup.

She coveted the machine. She figured she’d have to sell her soul to afford to buy one.

“Overslept?” Kay repeated, sounding disapproving. “Something you and Leo have in common.”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m being dissed here?”

They both turned. Leo stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, his hair standing on end. Obviously, he had just rolled out of bed and into a T-shirt and pair of rumpled khakis.

The mad scientist returns, Stacy thought, turning back to the pot to hide her grin. She pressed the appropriate buttons and the machine whirred to life, grinding, brewing and dispensing a perfect double shot.

The smell filled the air.

“Leo,” Stacy said. “There’s something I need to-”

“Coffee,” he croaked, coming up behind her.

Kay made a sound of disgust. “For God’s sake, you’re like Pavlov’s dog.”

He wasn’t the only one. Stacy handed him the cup, then brewed herself another. When she reached the table, he was slouched in a chair, slurping the beverage. He’d managed to make a mess-sugar on the table, dribbled cream, used spoon. Like a small tornado-or Dennis the Menace-he came into a room and stirred things up.

Stacy sat. “Leo, there’s something we need-”

“Not yet,” he said, holding up a hand. “One more sip.”

“You should sleep at night,” Kay said. “Then we wouldn’t have to go through this every morning.”

“I’m best at night.”

“That’s just an excuse to get your own way.”

She glanced at her watch, then at Stacy. “The man would be a pauper if not for me. The rest of the world doesn’t operate on Leo time.”

“Quite true.” Leo leaned over and kissed his ex-wife’s cheek. “I owe everything to you.”

The woman’s expression softened. She laid a hand against his cheek and looked affectionately at him. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “That’s why you divorced me.”

As if on cue, they turned their full attention on her. She blinked, slightly embarrassed, as if she had just witnessed an intimate moment meant for only them.

Stacy collected her thoughts. “As of yesterday,” she began, “I’m in the game.” She quickly described the cat, how she had found it and the note she had been left.

Welcome to the game.