Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Alice looked at Stacy. “Dad and I used to eat these every Saturday morning for breakfast.”

“While we watched cartoons.” He took a bite, then washed it down with milk.

“Roadrunner was his favorite.”

“Because of Wile E. Coyote,” he said.

“What was your favorite?” Stacy asked the teenager.

“I don’t remember. Maybe the same.” Her eyes became glassy with tears. “Any news about Mom?”

“Not that they told me.” He set the remainder of the sandwich on the plate. “I’m sure they’re looking, Alice.”

Bright color spotted her cheeks. “No, they’re not! They’re wasting time questioning you.”

Stacy had to agree. She kept her mouth shut.

“They asked lots of questions,” he murmured. “About my relationship with Kay. Our financial agreement, my recent licensing deals. What I did last night.”

“The search turn up anything?”

“Of course not.”

“Sometimes nothing looks like something. It happens, Leo.”

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze moving to a point somewhere behind her.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. Was there something he didn’t want to say?

He looked at her then, giving his head the smallest of shakes. As if to say “Not now, not here.”

She understood. Besides, he and his daughter needed some time alone.

And she needed to talk to Malone. She intended to convince him she was right.

She excused herself, grabbed her purse and car keys and headed outside. As she climbed into her car, she called Malone from her cell.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Home.” He sounded as tired as Leo had looked.

“Where’s home?”

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

For a long moment he was silent. “I’m talked out, Killian.”

“Alice told me more about the game.” A tiny exaggeration, but one she could live with. “And my short-term memory’s not so great.”

He rattled off his address and hung up.

Friday, March 18, 2005

10:30 p.m.

Stacy made Malone’s Irish Channel address in no time at all. He lived in an in-the-process-of-being-renovated Creole cottage, which made her wonder if he was doing the work himself. And if he was, when he found the time.

The front door opened just before she knocked. Malone leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. His soft, worn T-shirt pulled across his shoulders.

“Going to ask me in?”

“Do I have to?”

“Asshole.”

He laughed and stepped aside.

She entered his house and he shut the door behind her. He’d been eating a pizza, she saw. Out of the box. In front of the TV. ESPN.

Typical guy.

“Beer?” he asked.

“Thanks.”

He got one for both of them, handed her hers, then turned off the television. Facing her, he asked, “The kid had information?”

“Insight, really.”

He cocked an eyebrow; she suspected he was onto her already-that she was not here with information, but to plead her case. Again.

She set the stage, anyway, explaining how Alice had described Wonderland being a spiral and about the King and Queen being at its epicenter. “Each death brought the killer, through Alice, a step closer to them.”

“So?”

“So, it makes sense that Danson-”

“The ex-partner thing again?”

“What can I say, I’m a one-note song.”

“Right.” One corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement. “Shoot.”

“Alice is playing the game, but none of the deaths has been by chance. The drawings you recovered from Pogo’s studio prove that all the deaths are predestined. The White Rabbit is executing his very well-thought-out plan in an effort to terrorize.”

“Or create a smoke screen.”

She ignored that. “Obviously, to be able to control the game the way he has required someone with superior knowledge of the game. A master player.”

He opened his mouth to comment; she stopped him. “He also has to be someone who had no hesitation about involving Alice in murder.”

“And her father wouldn’t?”

“Think about it, Spencer. A father involving his daughter in the murder not just of others, but of her mother, as well. That’d make him-”

“A monster?”

“Yes.”

“If not a monster, how do you describe someone who’s willing to kill for nothing more than financial gain? Where do you draw the line?”

“Hear me out. Danson’s the game’s co-inventor. He and Leo parted acrimoniously. Leo went on to wealth and celebrity and Danson-”

“Killed himself.”

“Or not. He’s brilliant. He concocts a plan to punish Leo-”

“You’re beautiful when you’re determined.”

“Don’t try to distract me.”

“Why not? It worked.”

She made a sound of frustration.

“You always have to be right, Killian? You always have to be in the driver’s seat?”

“Don’t make this personal.”

He set his beer bottle on the kitchen counter. “All right, the facts. Leo’s also co-inventor. He’s the one who received the first messages from the White Rabbit. He had personal knowledge of each of the victims. He’s the one with the most to gain from Kay’s death.”

“Says you.”

“Consider this, Stacy. The drawings we recovered from Pogo’s, there were drawings of all the major characters, except the King of Hearts. What do you think that means?”

That he was a better cop than she had given him credit for.

She decided to defy logic, anyway. “Perhaps the artist simply hadn’t started that drawing.”

“That’s bullshit. And you know it. No drawing means the King of Hearts’ death wasn’t predestined. Because he’s the killer.”

It all made sense. Perfect sense. Why couldn’t she buy into it?

“Leo’s on Gallery 124’s mailing list,” he added. “Put on about the time of Pogo’s show.”

No wonder they had been closing in on Leo, even before Kay disappeared. “What about Cassie? What’s the connection there?”

“There’s not,” he said flatly. “We arrested Bobby Gautreaux this morning. We charged him with the three UNO rapes. And plan to charge him with Cassie Finch’s and Beth Wagner’s murders soon.”

She caught her breath. “On what evidence?”

“DNA. He left a hair at the scene. We swabbed him and got a match. I checked it against the blood your attacker left in the library-”

“And got a match,” she finished for him.

“Yup. From the blood left there…and the semen from the rapes.”

He took a swallow of his beer. “In addition, he left a print at the Finch and Wagner scene. He threatened and stalked Cassie. We found her hair on his clothing. And he warned you to keep your nose out of the investigation.”

She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Bobby Gautreaux had been the one who attacked her. He was a serial rapist. And he’d left solid physical evidence tying himself to the murder scene. It was shaping up to be a strong case.

She was glad. Relieved.

Her goal had been to ensure Cassie’s killer would be caught.

But it didn’t feel right. Why?

“What’s he saying?” she asked.

“That he’s innocent. That he was there that night, but he didn’t kill her. What he whispered in your ear, you were correct about it. He was warning you to keep your nose out of the investigation. Because he’d been there. But he claims he didn’t kill either of the women.”

Same thing they all said. “Why’d he go to Cassie’s that night?”

“Wanted to talk to her. About their relationship.”

“They had no relationship. They hadn’t in nearly a year.”