Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“Of course they didn’t. He’s lying. That’s what snakes like Bobby Gautreaux do. What was he supposed to tell me, he went there to murder her?”

“You think he went there intending to kill her?”

“I like it. With intent means the state can go for murder one.”

“Find the weapon?”

He frowned slightly. “No.”

She took a long drink of her warming beer. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“This doesn’t change my thoughts on Leo’s inno-”

“Maybe this will.” He took a step toward her. “Remember how I accused Leo of creating an elaborate smoke screen to get away with killing his wife? That after meeting you, he handpicked you to help him?”

“How could I forget?”

He took another step closer. “He’s writing a screenplay, Stacy. About a game inventor who receives threatening cards depicting the deaths of characters from his most famous creation.”

She felt as if Spencer had punched her.

“You’re in the story, Stacy,” he said softly, crossing to stand behind her. “The emotionally wounded ex-cop who’s running from her past.”

Leo had manipulated her from the get-go.

The past was repeating itself.

She turned away from him, crossed to the window, stared out at the darkness. What? Did she have a sign on her forehead proclaiming Easy Mark. Stupid, Gullible Fool?

“And ultimately,” he continued, “she can’t resist the inventor’s charms and falls willingly into his arms-”

“Stop it, Spencer.” She whirled to face him. “Just shut up.”

She held his gaze, even as she struggled to keep what he was saying in perspective. To fit all the pieces of the puzzle together, including this one.

Struggling to separate herself from the feeling of betrayal threatening to strangle her.

Leo had been writing a screenplay. The whole time. He’d planned this, used her.

“You uncovered it in today’s search.”

It wasn’t a question; he answered, anyway. “Yes. Locked in his desk.”

“You questioned him about it?”

“Yes. Claimed he just started it. That he recognized its ‘narrative potential.’”

That’s what Leo’s guilty expression had been about tonight. The reason why he had avoided meeting her eyes and shifted uncomfortably.

“Narrative potential,” she repeated, hearing the bitter edge in her own voice. “People are dying.”

“For a brilliant man,” Spencer said softly, “he sure is stupid.”

“Leaving such potentially damning evidence hardly seems the work of a supergenius, does it?”

“Stupid to cross such a smart, beautiful woman,” he corrected.

She made a sound of pain. “I surely don’t feel either of those things right now. Try gullible idiot.”

Several moments passed. He swore, then cupped her face in his palms. “Strong. Smart. Determined.”

As she gazed at him, something inside her turned over. Or opened up. Without pausing to think it through, she kissed him. After a moment, she broke the contact. “I thought you wouldn’t make a pass at me because I’d kick your ass?”

“You made the pass. All ass-kicking is off.”

Stacy smiled. “I can live with that.”

Saturday, March 19, 2005

7:15 a.m.

Stacy awakened early. She moaned, stretched and realized in a galvanizing jolt where she was. And what she had done.

Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.

What was wrong with her?

She cracked open her eyes. Spencer lay next to her-sleeping. He’d half kicked off the blanket and she saw that he was naked. Gloriously, fabulously naked.

She squeezed her eyes shut. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his bedroom abilities. The man was so hot, he could melt butter on his backside.

What had he thought about her?

No. She didn’t care what he thought. Last night had been a big, stupid mistake. Another to add to her fast-growing list of screwups.

Once upon a time, she had been so smart. So capable.

She could barely remember what that had been like.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slid toward the edge of the bed. She figured she could slide off it, gather up her stuff and get out before he woke up.

That’d give her time to prepare her “let’s forget this ever happened” speech.

She eased toward the edge. The angle at which she lay facilitated a head-and-hands-first escape. Her hands found the floor; her torso eased over the side.

As she prepared to make her final descent, his hand clamped around her ankle, trapping her.

Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.

He was awake. And here she was, hanging half off the bed. Naked. Backside up.

“Could you let me go, please?” she managed to say.

“Do I have to?” She heard the amusement in his voice and grimaced. “The view’s spectacular.”

“Thanks. But yes, you do.”

“Pretty please?”

She groaned and he let her go. She slid off the bed, landing in an inelegant heap.

He leaned over the side of the bed and smirked at her. “Moving mighty quietly this morning, Killian. Tired? Too sore to stand?”

Her face heated. “I was just heading…going to-”

“The bathroom.”

“Home.”

“Sneaking out without so much as a goodbye? Or a thanks for the good time? Tacky, Killian. Extremely.”

She yanked the sheet free, wrapped it around her and stood. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

He propped himself up on an elbow. “This is difficult?”

“You know what I mean. Awkward. Embarrassing.”

“Oh, sure.” He threw back the bit of blanket still covering him and climbed out of bed. And stood buck naked in front of her. “I know just what you mean. Totally embarrassing.”

The man deserved to die, she decided. Unfortunately, she’d left her Glock back at the Noble place.

She went for the next best thing, a bed pillow. She flung it at him as he made his way to the bathroom. She missed and it hit the bathroom door casing, then dropped to the floor.

His laughter ringing in her ears, she snatched up her panties and tugged them on, careful to hold on to the sheet. She found her bra, made certain the bathroom door was still shut, then dropped the sheet. From there, she went for her trousers.

She retrieved them from where they hung half on and half off the dresser, her cheeks heating as she remembered shimmying out of them, then flinging them over her shoulder.

Her cell phone, clipped to the waistband of her pants, buzzed. She’d set it to mute, she remembered. Unclipping it, Stacy saw that she had a new text message waiting.

The game’s exciting, isn’t it? It will be more so for you.

Soon, Stacy. Very soon.

She reread the message, blood humming in her ears. From the White Rabbit, she acknowledged. A warning.

She was next.

Stacy glanced at her watch. It read 7:20 a.m. The game’s clock was still ticking. In slightly more than seven hours Alice had to make her move. Against the Cheshire Cat.

Who had sent the message? Leo? Danson?

Or neither?

The bathroom door opened; Spencer stepped out. He’d wrapped a bath towel around his waist. It did little to cover him, but she appreciated the effort.

“Nice getup,” he said, referring to her panties and bra.

“We have contact.”

“Excuse me?”

“A text message on my phone. Take a look.”

He crossed to stand behind her, then read the message over her shoulder. When he’d finished, he shifted his gaze to hers. “Want to give him a call back?”

“I’d love to.”