Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

Spencer’s mouth tightened. “Where? Did he say?”

They both shook their heads. Kay caught her daughter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “But she was the ultimate. The Alice. He found us through news stories and online interviews.”

The EMTs arrived. Tony helped Kay and Alice to the ambulance.

Stacy watched them a moment, then turned to Spencer. “How’d you get here in time? We’re two hours from your stomping grounds.”

“You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.”

“The busboy dropping the pan of dishes?”

“Nope. Your promise not to do anything stupid. Got the okay to install a GPS tracking device to your SUV.”

“How’d you get a judge to okay that?”

“Fudged the facts.”

“I suppose I should be pissed.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Funny, I’m thinking I’m the one who should be pissed.” He leaned toward her, lowered his voice. “That was a pretty dumb stunt. You know that, right?”

She could be dead. She would be, if not for him. “Yeah, I know that. Thanks, Malone. I owe you.”

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

1:15 p.m.

March became April. Much had happened in the two weeks since that night at Belle Chere. Stacy had given her statement no less than four times. It was discovered that Troy had been a drifter, an underachiever who had used his looks to prey on women-leaving them both broke and brokenhearted.

But very much alive. Without priors, his turn as the White Rabbit didn’t fit a profile. But did prove that anything was possible when it came to criminal behavior.

The police were contacting the various places he’d lived, looking for any unsolved murders of girls named Alice.

So far they hadn’t found any, but their search had just begun.

The White Rabbit case had been officially closed. Leo had been buried. Spencer and Chief Battard in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, had been in touch.

The accident the Carmel police had originally classified as Dick Danson’s suicide had been changed to a homicide perpetrated by Danson. The victim: John Doe. Chief Battard hoped to change that before long.

Bobby Gautreaux had been officially charged with the murders of Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Stacy didn’t know if she bought it, but she had reached the end of the road. Her leads had dried up, and the police and D.A. believed they had enough for a conviction.

Who was she to say otherwise? She wasn’t a cop anymore. At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

Of course, nor was she a grad student. Stacy pulled up in front of her apartment, parked and climbed out of her Bronco. She’d officially flunked out. The head of the English Department had acknowledged there’d been extenuating circumstances and agreed to allow her back in the fall. After all, up until Cassie’s murder, she had been performing well.

She appreciated his understanding and offer, but had told him she wasn’t certain what she wanted to do.

She was burned out.

Nothing moving back to Dallas wouldn’t cure. Or so her sister said. They’d spoken that morning. Jane had done her best to convince Stacy to come home, at least until she knew for certain what she wanted to do. She’d filled her in on all Annie’s firsts: she had begun to crawl, she was sleeping through the night, laughed at herself in the mirror.

Stacy missed her, too. She longed to be a part of Annie’s life.

Then there was Spencer. She’d spoken with him that morning, as well. They’d hardly seen each other since that night at Belle Chere Plantation. Not that she wasn’t interested in him.

But she had to take charge of her life, do what was best for her, long term.

A cocky homicide detective wasn’t it.

At least, she didn’t think so. Damn, but she was turning into a wishy-washy pain in the ass.

She climbed her porch steps and crossed to her door. Her new neighbor, a perky, rail-thin blonde, popped her head out her door.

“Hi, Stacy.”

“Hey, Julie.” The girl wore a spandex shorts set. From her apartment came the sound of an aerobic workout video. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a package for you.”

She ducked back inside, then a moment later returned with a FedEx box. “They dropped this just after you left. Told ’em I’d make certain you got it.”

Stacy took the box. For its size, it was fairly heavy. She rocked it, and the contents thumped against the sides of the box.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Have a great day!”

The girl disappeared inside. Stacy crossed to her own door, unlocked it and entered the house. She kicked the door shut behind her, dumped her purse and keys on the entryway table, then turned her attention to the package. She quickly realized there wasn’t a shipping label affixed to the box and frowned.

She headed back over to her neighbor’s and knocked.

Julie appeared at the door. “Hi, Stacy.”

“Got a question. The package doesn’t have a shipping label. Did they hand you one?”

“Nope. I gave you just what they gave me.”

“You signed for it?”

The blonde looked confused. “No. I assumed I didn’t need to. ’Cause they left a form or something at your door.”

“They didn’t.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Stacy.” By her tone, her confusion had become irritation.

“No probl-Wait! One last question.”

The blonde stopped in her doorway, expression exasperated.

“The FedEx guy, was he in uniform?”

“She,” Julie corrected, drawing her eyebrows together, as if trying to recall. “Don’t remember.”

“What about the truck? Did you see it?”

“Sorry.” When Stacy opened her mouth to ask another question, the girl cut her off. “I’m missing the best part of the workout. Do you mind?”

Stacy said she didn’t and headed back into her own apartment. She crossed to the box, grabbed the pull tab, tore it open and eased its contents out. The item had been secured in bubble wrap. A note card was taped to the wrap.

She freed the card and flipped it open. It read, simply:

The game’s not over yet.

Stacy’s hands began to shake. The White Rabbit.

It couldn’t be.

Carefully, Stacy loosened the tape. Pulled away the bubble wrap.

Her breath caught. A laptop computer. An Apple, twelve-inch. Pretty white case.

One she recognized.

Cassie’s computer.

Even as she told herself it could be any Apple laptop, she opened it, hit the “on” button. The device sprang to life.

She forced herself to breathe as the programs loaded; then the finder filled the screen. She scanned the files, stopping on one titled My Pics.

Stacy opened it. The preferences had been set for a slide show. Rows of thumbnail-size photos popped up. She clicked on the first. A photo filled the screen. Cassie and Magda, wearing New Year’s Eve’s hats and blowing horns. Next appeared one of the rest of the game group, doing a cancan. Then a photo of Cassie’s mom and sister.

The next caused her heart to lurch to her throat.

She and Cassie. At Café Noir. Mugging for the camera.

A cry slipped past Stacy’s lips. She jumped to her feet and strode to the front window. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, struggling against the pain. The sense of loss.

She remembered the day that picture had been taken. Billie had taken it. With her camera phone. It seemed like just yesterday.

Cassie had been alive. And now she was gone.

Stacy balled her hands into fists. She had to focus. Not on the past. Not on the pain. But on what was happening. Why it was happening.

Bobby Gautreaux hadn’t killed Cassie and Beth.