Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

And learning little new. Sure, details. Times. But nothing that promoted her hunch.

Dick Danson was dead.

And she’d left Leo and his family alone with a killer.

She called Billie to let her know she was finished. She heard music in the background, people laughing. Connor offered to have one of his officers drive her back to the Lodge.

Apparently, the night was still young.

The officer, a nice young man barely out of his teens, dropped her off at the hotel. She lit the fire, ordered room service and slipped into her robe.

Her cell rang. She saw that it was Malone. Again. This time she answered, ready to grovel if need be. Admit to being a hunch-happy, burned-out, instincts-shot has-been.

She needed to hear his voice.

“Malone.”

“Where are you?”

He sounded tense. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “In California. The Lodge at Pebble Beach.”

A long silence followed. “You’re playing golf?”

She smiled at his obvious confusion. “No. Checking out a hunch. With Billie.”

“Man-eater Billie?”

Funny, she had thought of her that way, too. “The very one.”

“Can-do Killian. Girl Wonder. The hunch?”

“I’ve learned my lesson, actually. My hunches suck.”

He laughed, but the sound was tight. Humorless. “The playing cards are dead-August Wright and Roberto Zapeda. Partners. Professionally and personally.”

“Any connection to Leo?”

“His interior designers.”

“Shit.”

“I’d say. Your boss is knee-deep in it right now.”

“Leo? What-”

“Got to go.”

“No, wait-”

He ended the call. She flipped her cell shut and looked at the crackling fire. All this luxury was wasted on her.

Time to go home.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

6:30 a.m.

“I’m not ready to go home,” Billie said, sliding into the Jaguar’s passenger side seat. “I love that room. I love being waited on. I love the coast.”

“Stop whining. You have a business to watch over. Not to mention a husband.”

She made a face. “Rocky’s attitude won’t be changed yet. I need another couple of days for him to really appreciate me.”

From what she’d heard about Rocky St. Martin, really appreciating Billie would take more energy than the man had left. Even on a good day.

“Face it,” Stacy said, “the trip was a bust. Not only that, while I was here, living in the lap of luxury, the playing cards turned up dead.”

“Now who’s whining?”

Stacy scowled at her. “Stay if you’d like, I’m going home.”

Billie sighed dramatically, slipped on her sunglasses and leaned her head back against the rest. “Connor will be despondent.”

Stacy angled her a glance as she started the car. “And you?”

“I love my husband.”

She said it as if she meant it, and Stacy felt her mouth drop in surprise.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…I-”

“Thought I’d married him for his money? Because he’s so much older than I am? Why would I do that? I have money of my own.”

“Sorry,” Stacy murmured, easing away from the curb, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t. But if I’m going to be monogamous, which I am, at least give me credit for it.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Thank you.” She sighed again. “Damn, I’m going to miss the coast.”

Shaking her head, Stacy opened her cell, punched in Malone’s number.

He answered right away. “Malone here.”

“I’m on my way to the airport.”

“Miss me that much, do you?”

“What did you mean about Leo being hip deep in-”

“That was knee-deep. As in looking guilty as hell.”

“Leo guilty? That’s not right.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” His voice took on an edge. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! How good’s the evidence?”

“Let’s put it this way, doll. By the time you touch down in Louisiana, you may be unemployed.”

He ended the call, and she frowned. “That’s wrong.”

“What?” Billie asked.

“Malone says they’ve got evidence that Leo’s guilty.”

“Of what? Really bad hair?”

“I like his hair.”

“You do not!” Billie faced her, aghast. “He looks like he stuck a finger in an electrical socket.”

“Does not. It’s all crazy and windblown. Like a surfer’s.”

“Or a deranged killer’s-”

Billie bit the word back, realizing how inappropriate it was in light of the situation. “Bad hair or not, the man seems pretty harmless to me.”

“Me, too.”

Stacy fell silent. She glanced at the clock on the Jag’s dash and swore. She needed to speak to Chief Battard, ASAP. “You don’t happen to know Connor’s home number?”

“Sure I do. Have it right here in my cell.”

“Could you call him? I need to ask one last question. I think it’s important.”

Billie did as she asked; several moments later Stacy greeted the sleepy-sounding police chief. “I apologize for calling so early, but I have one last question. I didn’t see the answer in the file.”

“Shoot,” he said, yawning.

“What was Danson’s dentist’s name? Do you remember?”

“Sure,” he said. “Dr. Mark Carlson. Great guy.”

She glanced at the Jag’s dashboard clock. They had plenty of time until their flight; even with the drive and returning the rental car. Enough, anyway, for a quick call on a dentist. “Do you think there’s any way I could speak with him before I leave?”

“It’d be damn difficult, Ms. Killian. Dr. Mark’s dead. He was killed during a robbery.”

“When?”

“Last year.” He paused. “It was Carmel’s only murder in 2004. We never solved it.”

A moment later, Stacy ended the call. “Gotcha, asshole,” she said, pulling off the road to turn around.

“What?”

“Remember when you told me you’d always wanted to be a spy?” Billie turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You bet I do.”

“How would you feel about spending a few more days in paradise?”

Friday, March 18, 2005

New Orleans

9:10 a.m.

Spencer tapped on his aunt’s hospital room door. He heard her inside, giving her doctor a tongue-lashing. He bit back a smile. She was insisting the man release her. Demanding to speak to someone with more authority. Someone who had actually earned a medical degree.

To the physician’s credit, he kept his cool. In fact, he actually sounded pleased.

Spencer stepped into the room. “’Morning, Aunt Patti,” he said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I’m telling this quack-”

“Dr. Fontaine,” the man said, stepping forward, hand out.

They shook hands. “Detective Spencer Malone. Patient’s nephew, godson and ISD whipping boy.”

She glared at him. She looked good, he thought. Healthy and strong. He told her so.

“Of course I’m healthy. As fit as a fiddle.”

“You want me to bust you out of here?” he asked her.

“God, yes.”

The physician shook his head, amused. “Soon, Patti, I promise.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

The moment the doctor had left the room, she ordered Spencer to pull up a chair and sit. She wanted news.

“Remember Bobby Gautreaux, the suspect in the Finch homicide?”

“Sure, kid was a worm.”

“The very one.” A smile tugged at Spencer’s mouth. “DNA came back this morning. The hair we found on Finch’s T-shirt was his.”