Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Somehow, she didn’t think that’d hold much sway here.

She leaned toward Billie. “What? The local no-tell-motel couldn’t fit us in?”

“Hush,” Billie said as a man hurried toward them. Tall, beautifully dressed and handsome, with silvering temples. The hotel manager, Stacy decided.

“Max, my love,” Billie said as he caught her hands, “thank you so much for making room at the inn.”

“How could I not?” He kissed her cheeks. “You’ve been away too long.”

“And I’ve been despondent every moment of that time.” She smiled. “My dear friend, Stacy Killian. It’s her first visit to the Lodge.”

He greeted her, motioned to the bellman, then turned his attention back to Billie. “Are you planning to golf?”

“Regrettably, no.”

“The pro will be devastated.” The bellman appeared; Max handed Billie over to his care-after he had coaxed her to promise to call if anything didn’t meet her expectations. Anything at all. No matter how small.

After they had been seated in a golf cart modified for passengers and were on their way to their rooms, Stacy looked at Billie. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask me to walk behind the cart.”

Billie laughed. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

“I can’t. Your friend Max, he knows I’m a fraud.”

“A fraud?”

“I don’t belong here.”

“Don’t be silly. If you can pay your bill, you belong.”

“But I can’t.”

“Leo’s paying for you. Same thing.”

She frowned, unconvinced. “You golf?”

“Quite well, actually.”

“I got that impression.” The cart stopped in front of an alcove shielded by a camellia tree covered with pink blossoms. “How well, by the way?”

“I was the U.S. Junior Amateur champion three years running. Gave up the game for love. Eduardo.”

Eduardo. Jeez.

They climbed out of the cart and followed the bellman. They had side-by-side rooms, both accessible from the alcove. The bellman opened Billie’s first-no surprises there-and they stepped inside.

“My God,” Stacy said. The room was large, complete with a sitting area and big stone fireplace. Sliding glass doors led to a shady patio. The pillows on the king-size bed had the look of down.

Billie brought her hands together in girlish delight. “I knew you’d love it!”

How could she not? She might be uncomfortable with wealth and luxury, but she was human, after all.

The bellman opened Stacy’s room, accepted Billie’s exorbitant tip and left them alone.

Stacy took in the room, stopping on the set fireplace, then glanced back at Billie, standing in her doorway, expression pleased. “I don’t want to know what this place costs a night.”

“No, you don’t. But Leo can afford it.”

“This just seems all so…extravagant. And unnecessary. Cops don’t live like this.”

“First off, sweetie, you’re not a cop anymore. Second, extravagance is never unnecessary. I know this. Trust me.”

Before Stacy could argue, she added, “I promised I’d call Connor the minute we’d checked in. Do you mind?”

She didn’t and used the opportunity to go to the bathroom. While there, she checked her cell and found that Malone had tried her again. He hadn’t left a message either time.

When she emerged, she found Billie waiting by the door, expression that of a cat presented with a saucer of cream.

“Good news. He’s free now.”

No surprise there either-the carrot was Billie, for heaven’s sake.

The trip from the Lodge to downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea took less than fifteen minutes, including parking the Jaguar at a meter on Ocean Avenue.

Carmel-by-the-Sea was as picturesque as Stacy had imagined it would be. More so, actually. Like a town out of a fairy tale, but inhabited by humans instead of fairies, elves and hobbits.

As she and Billie strolled up Ocean Avenue, her friend filled her in on all things uniquely Carmel. Billie explained that there were no street addresses in Carmel. Everyone had a post office box that served not only as a place to receive mail, but also as a social hub. Many a piece of news had been shared-then disseminated-from the post office.

“What about ambulances?” Stacy asked, disbelievingly. “Or FedEx deliveries?”

“All done by direction, description or association. For example-” she pointed to Junipero Avenue “-the third house from the corner of Ocean and Junipero.” She pointed toward another. “Or, the house across the street from the Eastwood place on Junipero.”

Stacy shook her head. In today’s high-tech world, it seemed impossible that any community still operated this way.

Stacy glanced at her friend. “By the way, when you say Eastwood, you don’t mean-”

“Clint? Of course I do. He’s a great guy. Very down-to-earth.”

A great guy. Very down-to-earth. Billie said this as if they were personal acquaintances. Buddies, even.

She wasn’t even going to ask.

They reached police headquarters; the officer at the information desk called the chief, who directed them to his office.

Chief Connor Battard was waiting. A big, handsome man with a head of dark silvering hair, he held his hand out when Billie made the introductions.

Stacy took it. “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Chief Battard.”

“Happy to help.”

Although his words were directed to her, he could hardly take his eyes off Billie.

“As I explained on the phone, I’m looking into Dick Danson’s death.”

“I have the file here. You’re welcome to it.” He slid it across the desk to her. “I’m sorry, but it can’t leave the building.”

Of course. Standard operating procedure. Stacy didn’t move to pick it up. She preferred to ask questions first. “On the phone, you mentioned a warrant for his arrest. What for?”

“Embezzlement. From a company he was doing game designs for.”

“Think the charge would have stuck?”

“Point’s moot now, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

The chief frowned. “What are you thinking?”

She shook her head, not ready to share her theory. Yet. She wasn’t in the mood to be laughed out of the room.

“How certain are you that it was a suicide?”

“Pretty damn certain. We had a warrant for his arrest. A search of his property turned up, considering the circumstances, the notable lack of an outdoor grill. Or any other device requiring portable propane. Those canisters were in his car for one reason only-to cause a really big explosion.

“He drove off Hurricane Point. Again, in terms of getting things done, he picked the right spot. And most damning, he left a note saying he had nothing to live for.”

“Did your investigation back that up? Did he have financial or emotional problems?”

The chief narrowed his eyes, obviously growing annoyed with her questions. She supposed she didn’t blame him.

“Frankly,” he said, “the case was open and shut. We had a positive ID. A suicide note. And a pending arrest. Danson was seeing a shrink. Let’s just say the man wasn’t shocked by the news. I didn’t see a need to dig deeper. It’s all in the file.”

“Thanks,” she said, disappointed. She’d been so certain she was onto something, now she felt like an idiot. And one who had blown a lot of time and money on an unsound hunch.

Her instincts had turned to shit. She picked up the file. “Why don’t you and Billie go catch up. Get dinner. I’ll review the file.”

“Great.” He rubbed his hands together in what Stacy was certain was anticipation of being alone with Billie.

“I’ll get you set up in one of the interrogation rooms.”

Stacy spent the next couple of hours alone with the file, a Coke and bag of corn chips from the vending machine. Long after the chips and a soft drink were history, she was still reading.