Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Tony blinked and shifted his gaze from the vic to Spencer, his expression strange. “Carly has those same pajamas. She wears ’em all the time.”

A meaningless coincidence, but one that touched too close to home. “Let’s nail this bastard.”

Tony nodded and then finished examining the body.

“Robbery wasn’t a motive,” Tony said. “Neither was sexual assault. No sign of a break-in.”

Spencer frowned. “Then why?”

“Maybe Ms. Killian can help.”

“You or me?”

“You’re the one who has a way with the ladies.” Tony smiled. “Go for it.”

Monday, February 28, 2005

2:20 a.m.

Stacy shivered and adjusted Caesar against her chest. The pup, barely old enough to have been weaned, whimpered a protest. She should have crated him, Stacy thought. Her arms ached; any moment he would awaken and want to play.

But she hadn’t been able to let go. She still couldn’t.

She rubbed her cheek against his soft, silky head. Between the time she’d made the call and the first officers arrived, she had returned to her apartment, stashed her Glock and grabbed a coat. She carried a permit for the gun but knew from experience that an armed civilian at the scene of a homicide would be at worst suspect, at best a distraction.

She’d never been on this side of the process before-the helpless bystander, loved one of the deceased-though she had come terrifyingly close last year. Her sister Jane had narrowly escaped a murderer’s grasp. In those moments, when Stacy had thought she’d lost her, she’d decided she’d had enough. Of the badge. What went along with it. The blood. The cruelty and death.

It had become clear to Stacy that she yearned for a normal life, a healthy relationship. Eventually, a family of her own. And that it wasn’t going to happen while she was in the job. Police work had marked her in a way that made “normal” and “healthy” impossible. As if she wore an invisible S . One that stood for shit. The worst life had to offer. The ugliest, man’s inhumanity to man.

She had acknowledged that nobody could change her life but her.

Now, here she was again. Death had followed her.

Only this time, it had found Cassie. And Beth.

Sudden anger surged through her. Where the hell were the detectives? Why were they moving so slowly? At this rate the killer would be in Mississippi before these two finished processing the scene.

“Stacy Killian?”

She turned. The younger of the two detectives stood behind her. He flashed his shield. “Detective Malone. I understand you called this in?”

“I did.”

“Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

“No, I’m okay.”

He motioned to Caesar. “Cute pup. Lab?”

She nodded. “But he’s not…he was…Cassie’s.” She hated the way her voice thickened and fought to steady it. “Look, could we just get on with this?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by her brusque response. He probably thought her cold and uncaring. He couldn’t know how far from the truth that assessment was-she cared so much, she could hardly breathe.

He took out his notebook, a pocket-size spiral bound identical to the kind she had used. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

“I was sleeping. Thought I heard gunshots and went to check on my friends.”

Something flickered across his face and was gone. “You live here?” He indicated her unit.

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I’m not sure that’s important, but yes, I live alone.”

“How long?”

“I moved in the first week of January.”

“And before that?”

“ Dallas. I moved to New Orleans to attend graduate school at UNO.”

“How well did you know the victims?”

Victims. She winced at the label. “Cassie and I were good friends. Beth just moved in a week or so ago. Cassie’s original roommate dropped out of school, went home.”

“You categorize the two of you as good friends? You only knew each other a matter of what, a couple months?”

“We shouldn’t have been, I suppose. But we just…clicked.”

He looked unconvinced. “You say you were awakened by gunshots and went to check on your friends? What made you so certain? Couldn’t the sound have been firecrackers? A car backfiring?”

“I knew they were gunshots, Detective.” She looked away, then back at him. “I was a cop for ten years. In Dallas.”

Again, his eyebrows lifted slightly; obviously the information had altered his original opinion of her.

“What happened next?”

She explained about heading out front, circling the property and seeing Cassie’s light on. “That’s when I realized the sound…it had come from next door.”

The other detective emerged from the doorway behind him. Detective Malone followed her gaze and turned. She used the opportunity to study the two men. The aging cop partnered with the hotshot novice, a duo depicted in any number of Hollywood films.

In her experience, she’d found the fictionalized coupling much more effective than its real life inspiration. Too often, the older of the two was a burnout or a coaster, the younger a swaggerer.

The man crossed to them. “Detective Sciame,” he said.

At the sound of the other man’s voice, Caesar opened his eyes and wagged his tail. She set the puppy down and held out a hand. “Stacy Killian.”

“Ms. Killian here is a former cop.”

Detective Sciame turned his gaze back to her, warm brown eyes friendly. And intelligent. He may be a coaster, she decided, but he was a smart one.

“That so?” he said, shaking her hand.

“Detective First Grade. Homicide, Dallas PD. Call me Stacy.”

“Tony. What are you doing in our beautiful city?”

“Graduate school at UNO. English lit.”

He nodded. “Had enough of the job, huh? Thought about leaving myself, a number of times. Got retirement in sight now, no sense making a change.”

“Why grad school?” Malone asked.

“Why not?”

He frowned. “English lit seems a world away from law enforcement.”

“Exactly.”

Tony motioned to Cassie’s half of the double. “You take a good look at the scene?”

“I did.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“Cassie was killed first. Beth when she got up to investigate. Robbery was not a motive. Neither was sexual assault, though the pathologist will make the final determination. I’m thinking the killer was either a friend or acquaintance of Cassie’s. She let him in, locked up Caesar.”

“You were a friend of hers.” This came from Malone.

“True. But I didn’t kill her.”

“So you say. First to the scene-”

“Is always a suspect. Standard operating procedure, I know.”

Tony nodded. “You carry a gun, Stacy?”

She wasn’t surprised the man asked the question. She was grateful, actually. It gave her confidence this might get solved.

“A Glock.40.”

“Same bad boy we carry. You got a permit?”

“Of course. Would you like to see both?”

He said he would and she scooped up the puppy and headed inside. They followed. She didn’t protest. Again, standard operating procedure. Because she was first to the scene, she was-if only momentarily-a suspect. No detective worth his or her salt would allow a possible suspect to disappear into their home to retrieve a gun. Or anything else, for that matter. Nine times out of ten, said suspect would disappear out the back door. Or come back out the front, gun blazing.

After leaving Caesar in her bedroom, she produced the gun and permit. Both detectives inspected them. Obviously, the Glock hadn’t been fired recently and Tony handed it back.