Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Caesar was out when he was there. Cassie had locked him up after Bobby left. “You have any idea what kind of car the guy was driving?”

He shook his head and she silently swore. Great. “Why’d you attack me in the library?”

“Because you were there,” he said simply. “And because I was pissed at you. I wanted to scare you.”

“Hope I didn’t disappoint you too much.”

He looked down at his hands, cuffed together, then lifted his face to hers. They smoldered with rage. “Better hope I don’t get out of here.”

“I’m not too worried.”

“You think you’re so cool, don’t you? So tough.” He leaned toward her. “If I had wanted to hurt you, I could have. If I’d wanted, I could have fucked you silly.”

Stacy stood. She calmly hitched her purse strap across her shoulder. She knew the more unaffected she was by his tirade of filth, the more agitated it would make him.

She reached the door and glanced back. “If you’d tried, Bobby, that ballpoint would have been in your eye. Or straight up your ass.”

She exited the Parish Prison. Sunlight spilled over her and she breathed deeply, feeling as if she needed to be cleansed from the inside out.

Bobby Gautreaux was a dirty little snake.

But had he killed Cassie?

He may have. But quite possibly he was telling the truth.

She crossed the parking lot, unlocked her SUV and climbed inside. She hadn’t visited her apartment in a week and she supposed she’d better stop by and check on things.

The first thing she noticed was the overflowing mailbox at her apartment. The second, that her calls had not been forwarding to her cell number.

Her message light was blinking. She hit Play and listened to several hang-ups, and then messages from her sister and her graduate adviser.

“Stacy. Professor McDougal. I’m concerned about you. Please call me.”

Professor McDougal. Great. Just frigging wonderful.

She stared at the answering machine, even as she acknowledged that she could stare at it until Christmas and it wouldn’t alter the fact that she was screwed. When was the last time she had actually attended class? She had a paper due Monday. She’d barely even started it. What, she wondered, was the last day to withdraw from classes without a grade penalty? She’d bet she’d already missed it.

Suddenly crushingly tired, Stacy rubbed her eyes. She crossed to her couch and sank onto it. She laid her head against the back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to pass her first semester of graduate school, and if she didn’t pass, she wouldn’t be welcomed back. Even if her professors were willing to let her try to bring her standing to current, she didn’t have the time to devote. Finding the White Rabbit took precedence. Protecting Alice, saving Kay. Living to see the next semester.

Or maybe the truth was, she didn’t have the heart for school.

Her cell buzzed. Though a part of her wanted to ignore the call, she unclipped the device. “Killian here.”

“Billie Bellini, super spy.”

Stacy sat forward, instantly focused, all thoughts of grad school falling away. “What have you uncovered?”

“No missing persons, but I think you’ll find this interesting. Dr. Carlson donated his time and professional abilities to the homeless. One day a week, he saw people referred to him from the local shelters and missions.”

Stacy knew where Billie was going with this: indigents weren’t likely to be reported missing. No employer to sound the alarm, no family or friends looking for them.

The dentist could have chosen someone with a similar build to Danson’s and switched their dental records. Then Danson did the rest.

Danson plans it all carefully. He leaves a suicide note. Packs his trunk with propane. Offers the bum a ride. Or incapacitates him. The charred body is positively identified by his dental records.

“Did the chief have any comments on your discovery?”

“He’s going to take a look at the dentist’s patient files and financial records. He’ll officially reopen the case if he finds anything suspicious.” She sounded proud. “He contacted Malone at NOPD and promised to keep in touch with us as well. If Charles Richard Danson is alive, we’re going to nail him.”

Stacy stopped on the name. She frowned. “What did you call him?”

“Charles Richard Danson. That was his full name, though everyone called him Dick.”

Charles Richard Danson.

Stacy froze, remembering a conversation she’d had with Alice’s tutor about his name. He’d joked about his parents giving him decidedly unsexy names.

Clark Randolf Dunbar.

Initials, C. R. D.

“Holy shit,” Stacy said. “I know who he is.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t you dare until you tell me-”

“Danson made a fatal mistake. The same one many people who try to drop out, or create a new identity, make. He chose a name with the same initials as his previous one. It’s human weakness. A desire to hold on to the very past they’re trying to leave behind.”

“So who is he?” Billie asked, tone hushed, admiring.

“Clark Dunbar,” she said. “Alice’s tutor.”

Saturday, March 19, 2005

9:30 a.m.

Stacy flipped her phone shut and ran for the front door. She darted through, locked it and jogged to her car, parked on the street. She stopped and swore when she saw it. She was wedged in. Both the car in front and behind her had squeezed into too-small spots, leaving her about three inches to maneuver with.

Not enough.

Leo’s place wasn’t much more than a half a mile away. She could make it on foot in six or seven minutes-without denting any fenders.

She started off, urgency pushing her. She dialed Malone. He picked up right away. “Malone.”

“Run a background check on Alice’s tutor, Clark Dunbar,” she said.

“Hello to you, too, Killian. A little intense this morning, aren’t we?”

“Just do it.”

He became all business. “Ran him through the NCIC already. No priors.”

“Take it a step further.”

“What’s going on?”

“Clark Dunbar’s the White Rabbit.” A car sped by, windows open, hip-hop blaring. “I can’t go into it now, just trust me.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way to Leo’s. On foot.” She paused at a crosswalk, looked both ways, then darted across-earning the scream of a horn. “Don’t ask. Let me know what you find out.”

She hung up before he responded and dialed Leo’s cell number. “Leo, Stacy. I think Clark’s the White Rabbit. If you see him, stay away. Call me when you get this.”

She called the mansion next. Mrs. Maitlin answered.

“Valerie, have you heard anything from Clark?”

“Stacy? Are you all right? You sound-”

“I’m fine. Have you? Heard from Clark?”

“He’s here.”

Stacy’s heart dropped. “He’s there? I thought he was out of town for the weekend.”

“He was. I was so surprised to see him. Something about a reservation mixup, he said. Hold on a second.”

Stacy heard a male voice in the background, then the housekeeper’s reply. In the next instant, the woman returned. “So sorry. Where were-”

Stacy cut her off. “Just now, was that Clark?”

“No. Troy.”

“Valerie, this is important. Where’s Clark now?”

“Outside. With Alice.”

God, no. The crossing light changed and Stacy darted across the City Park Avenue and Wisner Boulevard intersection, cutting over to Esplanade. To her left stood City Park with its tennis and golf complexes, lagoons and the New Orleans Museum of Art.