Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“No.”

“What’d you do, take a piss in the bushes?”

“Pool house.”

“What about water and food?”

“I bring everything I need.”

“Did you see anybody you didn’t recognize today?”

“Nope.” He glanced toward the house, then back at them. “Mind if I get back to work? If I don’t finish today, I gotta come back tomorrow.”

“Go ahead, Barry. We’ll be around…if you think of anything.”

The kid returned to his work. Spencer and Tony started toward the house. “He was awfully defensive for somebody who’d kept his nose in the dirt all day,” Tony said.

“My thoughts exactly.” Spencer’s cell rang; he picked up the call. “Malone here.”

He listened, then asked the dispatcher to repeat what she’d said. Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he wished he hadn’t.

“We’re on our way.”

He looked at Tony, who cursed. “What now? It’s friggin’ Saturday.”

“Walter Pogolapoulos is dead. Washed up on the banks of the Mississippi River.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Oh, it gets better. The Mississippi River at the Moonwalk. A tourist from Kansas City found him. Apparently, the mayor is shitting purple bricks.”

Saturday, March 12, 2005

6:00 p.m.

By the time they reached the French Quarter Moonwalk, the scene had been entirely cordoned off. Like bees to honey, a crowd had been drawn to the crime-scene tape and police cruisers.

Spencer angled the Camaro into a spot along the railroad tracks. He popped the glove box, retrieved the jar of Vicks VapoRub he kept there and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

He looked at Tony. “Ready to do this thing?”

“Let’s go.”

They climbed out of the Camaro. The Moonwalk, a promenade developed atop the levee at the French Quarter, lay between Jackson Square and the Mississippi River, the Café du Monde and the Jax Brewery shopping complex.

Spencer swept his gaze over the area. Damn inconsiderate of Pogo, washing up here. In terms of visibility, few spots beat this one. In terms of unwanted heat, the spot was even worse. Anything that touched tourism, the city’s biggest industry, attracted attention. The governor’s. The mayor’s. The media’s.

The mayor would come down hard on the chief, who in turn would climb his aunt Patti’s frame. Who, in turn, would put the screws to him and Tony.

Shit rolled downhill.

He and Tony were about to be hip deep in brown muck.

They crossed to one of the uniforms at the perimeter and signed in. “Fill us in.”

“Tourist found him. He got good and sick.” He pointed toward the cruisers. Spencer saw that the back door of one of them was open and a man was sitting sideways on the seat, head in hands. “My partner’s baby-sitting him.”

“Toto,” Tony murmured, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

The uniform snickered. “They caught the smell over at Café du Monde, thought it was somebody’s garbage.”

Spencer reached into his jacket pocket for the jar of Vicks. After helping himself to a smear, he held it out to Tony. He, too, smeared the goop under his nose.

They climbed the stairs to the observation area. Tony was winded when they reached the top.

He stopped to catch his breath. “I’m too old and fat for this shit.”

“I’m seriously worried about you, Pasta Man. Join a gym or something.”

“I’m afraid it’ll kill me.” They crossed the tracks, then climbed the stairs up the levee. “I’m not too far from couch-potato status. I don’t want to blow it now.”

“Don’t want to keel over before you get that gold-toned watch and pension, right? Think about that gym-”

That’s when the smell of the corpse hit them. Spencer glanced at his partner and saw the man’s eyes were watering.

They descended the stairs, then picked their way to the river’s edge. Spencer spotted Terry Landry, DIU from the Eighth. He’d been his brother’s partner before Quentin had decided to leave the force.

Landry caught sight of them and met them halfway.

“Terror,” Spencer said, greeting the man with the nickname he’d been given as a rookie. A hard-partying hothead, he was stuck with the label.

“Don’t go by the ‘Terror’ anymore, kid. I’ve settled down. Mended my ways.”

“Yeah, right.” Tony shook his hand.

“It’s true. My Thursday night AA group is my new, favorite party.”

“That our vic?” Spencer asked, pointing to a misshapen form on the rocks covering the riverbank.

“Yup. Wallet was in his pocket.”

Spencer tipped his face up to the purpling sky. “Going to have to get some lights over here.”

“On the way.”

“Did you check his pulse?” Tony asked, smirking.

“Oh, yeah,” Terry answered. “I gave him mouth to mouth. Now it’s your turn.”

It was Homicide humor. Checking for a pulse, standard operating procedure, was unnecessary in a case like this one. Spencer and Tony picked their way toward Walter Pogolapoulos’s remains. The artist’s throat had been slit. The wound formed an obscene gaping smile. The decomposition process was well underway, sped up by the warm water.

“Sometimes I hate this job.”

Tony glanced over his shoulder, toward the Café du Monde. “Either you guys want some beignets?”

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Spencer fitted on gloves and crossed to the corpse. He squatted beside it, ran his gaze assessingly over the body, the area around it. He had to strain to see in the gathering dusk.

The vic looked pretty beat-up, though that didn’t surprise him. It was often the case when victims had been dumped in water. They were dragged by the current, scraped against the bottom, gouged by tree branches and sharp rocks and generally banged around. He’d even seen them chewed up by boat props and nibbled on by fish.

The pathologist would differentiate between pre- and postmortem wounds; a body in this state was way beyond his abilities.

From what he could see, it didn’t appear the killer had made any effort to weight the body. Either he hadn’t known that putrefaction gases brought a body to the surface in a matter of days-they called such vics floaters-or he hadn’t cared.

Still, Pogo had popped up a bit ahead of schedule. He hadn’t been dead-or submerged-long enough to have developed adipocere, a yellow, rancid smelling and waxy substance seen on most floaters. Spencer glanced at his partner. “Perp must’ve dumped him upriver. River currents are strong, brought him down here. What do you think? Up toward Baton Rouge? Or Vacherie?”

“Maybe. Pathologist might shed some light on it.”

As if on cue, the coroner’s investigator made the scene. “Where the hell is the van and the lights? What am I supposed to do with this one in the dark?”

He looked really pissed off. Spencer stepped forward, introducing himself. “Looks like your Saturday night just took a turn for the worse.”

“Had theater tickets.” He frowned. “How many Malones are there, anyway?”

“More than a gang, but less than a mob.”

A smile touched his mouth; he looked at Tony. “Thought you retired.”

“No such luck, my friend. You know Terry Landry.”

“Everybody knows the Terror.” The pathologist nodded in the man’s direction, then scowled. “Where’s that van?”

Several of the department’s crime-scene vans were fitted with high-powered, alley lights for nighttime crime scenes.

“I’ll check it out,” Terry said.

The pathologist made his way to the body; Tony followed him. Spencer flipped open his cell and dialed Stacy.

“Hello, Killian.”