Killer Takes All Read online

  “My ass.” He leaned toward the other man. “You going to have a problem working with me?”

  The officer took a step backward. “No problem. No, sir.”

  “Good thing. Because I’m here to stay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’ve we got?”

  “Double homicide.” The rookie’s voice shook slightly. “Both female. UNO students.” He glanced at his notes. “Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Neighbor there called it in. Name’s Stacy Killian.”

  Spencer glanced in the direction he indicated. A young woman, cradling a sleeping puppy in her arms, stood on the porch. Tall, blond and, from what he could see, attractive. It looked as if she was wearing pajamas under her denim jacket. “What’s her story?”

  “Thought she heard gunshots and went to investigate.”

  “Now, there was an intelligent move.” Spencer shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”

  They started toward the porch. Tony angled him a glance. “Way to set the record, Slick. Stupid little prick.”

  Tony had never succumbed to the Malone bashing that had become the favorite pastime of many in the NOPD. He’d stood by Spencer and the entire Malone clan’s belief in Spencer’s innocence. That hadn’t always been easy, Spencer knew, particularly when the “evidence” had begun to stack up.

  There were some who still didn’t buy Spencer’s innocence-or Lieutenant Moran’s guilt. Despite the department’s reinstatement or Moran’s confession and suicide. They figured the Malone family had “fixed” it somehow, used their considerable influence within the department to make it all go away.

  It pissed him off. Spencer hated that he had been involved, albeit innocently, in the sullying of his family’s reputation, hated the speculative glances, the whispers.

  “It’ll get better,” Tony murmured, as if reading his mind. “Cops’ memories aren’t that good. Lead poisoning, in my humble opinion.”

  “You think?” Spencer grinned at him as they climbed the steps. “I was leaning toward excessive exposure to blue dye.”

  They crossed the porch. He was aware of the neighbor’s gaze on him; he didn’t meet it. There would be time later for her distress and questions. Now was not it.

  They entered the double. The techs were at work. Spencer skimmed his gaze over the scene, experiencing a small rush of excitement.

  He had wanted Homicide for as long as he could remember. As a kid, he’d listened to his dad and Uncle Sammy discuss cases. And later, had watched his brothers John and Quentin with awe. When the department had decentralized, he’d wanted ISD.

  ISD was the big time. Top of the heap.

  He’d been too much of a screwup to earn the appointment. But here he was. Payoff for his cooperation and goodwill.

  He hadn’t been proud enough to turn it down.

  Spencer returned his attention to the scene before him. Typical college student’s apartment, Spencer saw. Junky, third-and fourth-hand furniture, overflowing ashtrays and about two dozen diet Coke cans littered the room. An all-chick place, Spencer thought. If a guy lived here, the cans would be Miller Lite. Or maybe south Louisiana ’s own Abita Beer.

  The first victim lay facedown on the floor, the back of her head partially blown off. The coroner’s investigator had already bagged her hands.

  Spencer shifted his gaze to a young detective he recognized as being from the Sixth District. He couldn’t remember his name.

  Tony did. “Yo, Bernie. You the one who dragged us out tonight?”

  “Sorry about that. This is no rubber stamp, figured the sooner you guys got involved the better.”

  The young detective looked nervous. He was new to DIU, probably hadn’t handled anything but gangbanger shootings.

  “My partner, Spencer Malone.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. Spencer figured the other cop had heard of him. “Bernie St. Claude.”

  They shook hands. Ray Hollister, the Orleans Parish coroner’s investigator, glanced up. “I see the gang’s all here.”

  “The midnight riders,” Tony said. “Lucky us. You worked with Malone yet, Ray?”

  “Not this Malone.” The officer nodded in his direction. “Welcome to the late-night homicide club.”

  “Glad to be here.”

  That brought a groan from a couple of the techs.

  Tony shot Spencer a grin. “The scary thing is, he means it. Back way off on the enthusiasm, Slick. People will talk.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Spencer said good-naturedly, then returned his attention to the coroner’s representative. “What do you have so far?”

  “Looks pretty straightforward right now. Shot twice. If the first bullet didn’t kill her, the second sure as hell did.”

  “But why was she shot?” Spencer wondered aloud.

  “That’s your job, kid. Not mine.”

  “Sexual assault?” Tony asked.

  “I’m thinking no, but autopsy will tell the tale.”

  Tony nodded. “We’re going to take a look at the other victim.”

  “Have a ball.”

  Spencer didn’t move; he stared at the fanlike spray of blood on the wall adjacent to the victim. Turning to his partner, he said, “The shooter was sitting.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Check it out.” Spencer circled around the body, crossing to the wall. “Blood splatter sprays up, then out.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Hollister weighed in. “Wounds are consistent with that theory.”

  Excited, Spencer glanced around. His gaze settled on a desk and chair. “Shooter was there,” he said, crossing to the chair. Not wanting to disturb possible evidence, he squatted beside it. He visualized the event: shooter sitting, the victim turning her back on him, then: Bang. Bang.

  What had they been doing? Why had he wanted her dead?

  He shifted his gaze again, to the dusty desktop. It bore a subtle outline, about the size and shape of a laptop computer. “Take a look, Tony. I’m thinking there was a computer here.” The desk’s location supported the theory: the adjacent wall sported both an electrical outlet and a phone jack.

  Tony nodded. “Could be. Might’ve been books, notebooks or newspaper.”

  “Maybe. Whatever it was, it’s gone now. And, it appears, quite recently.” He fitted on a pair of latex gloves and ran a finger across the rectangular space. Finding it dust free, he motioned the photographer over and instructed him to get a shot of the desk, its top and chair.

  “Let’s make sure they dust that area well.”

  Spencer knew his partner meant dust for prints and nodded. “Done.”

  He and Tony moved on. They found the second victim. She had also been shot. The scenario, however, was totally different. She had been tagged twice in the chest and lay on her back, straddling the bedroom doorway. The front of her pj’s were bloody, a ring of red circled her body.

  Spencer crossed to her, checked her pulse, then glanced back at Tony. “She was in bed, heard the shots and got up to see what was going on.”

  Tony blinked and shifted his gaze from the vic to Spencer, his expression strange. “Carly has those same pajamas. She wears ’em all the time.”

  A meaningless coincidence, but one that touched too close to home. “Let’s nail this bastard.”

  Tony nodded and then finished examining the body.

  “Robbery wasn’t a motive,” Tony said. “Neither was sexual assault. No sign of a break-in.”

  Spencer frowned. “Then why?”

  “Maybe Ms. Killian can help.”

  “You or me?”

  “You’re the one who has a way with the ladies.” Tony smiled. “Go for it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday, February 28, 2005

  2:20 a.m.

  Stacy shivered and adjusted Caesar against her chest. The pup, barely old enough to have been weaned, whimpered a protest. She should have crated him, Stacy thought. Her arms ached; any moment he would awaken and want to play.


  But she hadn’t been able to let go. She still couldn’t.

  She rubbed her cheek against his soft, silky head. Between the time she’d made the call and the first officers arrived, she had returned to her apartment, stashed her Glock and grabbed a coat. She carried a permit for the gun but knew from experience that an armed civilian at the scene of a homicide would be at worst suspect, at best a distraction.

  She’d never been on this side of the process before-the helpless bystander, loved one of the deceased-though she had come terrifyingly close last year. Her sister Jane had narrowly escaped a murderer’s grasp. In those moments, when Stacy had thought she’d lost her, she’d decided she’d had enough. Of the badge. What went along with it. The blood. The cruelty and death.

  It had become clear to Stacy that she yearned for a normal life, a healthy relationship. Eventually, a family of her own. And that it wasn’t going to happen while she was in the job. Police work had marked her in a way that made “normal” and “healthy” impossible. As if she wore an invisible S. One that stood for shit. The worst life had to offer. The ugliest, man’s inhumanity to man.

  She had acknowledged that nobody could change her life but her.

  Now, here she was again. Death had followed her.

  Only this time, it had found Cassie. And Beth.

  Sudden anger surged through her. Where the hell were the detectives? Why were they moving so slowly? At this rate the killer would be in Mississippi before these two finished processing the scene.

  “Stacy Killian?”

  She turned. The younger of the two detectives stood behind her. He flashed his shield. “Detective Malone. I understand you called this in?”

  “I did.”

  “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  He motioned to Caesar. “Cute pup. Lab?”

  She nodded. “But he’s not…he was…Cassie’s.” She hated the way her voice thickened and fought to steady it. “Look, could we just get on with this?”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by her brusque response. He probably thought her cold and uncaring. He couldn’t know how far from the truth that assessment was-she cared so much, she could hardly breathe.

  He took out his notebook, a pocket-size spiral bound identical to the kind she had used. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I was sleeping. Thought I heard gunshots and went to check on my friends.”

  Something flickered across his face and was gone. “You live here?” He indicated her unit.

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “I’m not sure that’s important, but yes, I live alone.”

  “How long?”

  “I moved in the first week of January.”

  “And before that?”

  “ Dallas. I moved to New Orleans to attend graduate school at UNO.”

  “How well did you know the victims?”

  Victims. She winced at the label. “Cassie and I were good friends. Beth just moved in a week or so ago. Cassie’s original roommate dropped out of school, went home.”

  “You categorize the two of you as good friends? You only knew each other a matter of what, a couple months?”

  “We shouldn’t have been, I suppose. But we just…clicked.”

  He looked unconvinced. “You say you were awakened by gunshots and went to check on your friends? What made you so certain? Couldn’t the sound have been firecrackers? A car backfiring?”

  “I knew they were gunshots, Detective.” She looked away, then back at him. “I was a cop for ten years. In Dallas.”

  Again, his eyebrows lifted slightly; obviously the information had altered his original opinion of her.

  “What happened next?”

  She explained about heading out front, circling the property and seeing Cassie’s light on. “That’s when I realized the sound…it had come from next door.”

  The other detective emerged from the doorway behind him. Detective Malone followed her gaze and turned. She used the opportunity to study the two men. The aging cop partnered with the hotshot novice, a duo depicted in any number of Hollywood films.

  In her experience, she’d found the fictionalized coupling much more effective than its real life inspiration. Too often, the older of the two was a burnout or a coaster, the younger a swaggerer.

  The man crossed to them. “Detective Sciame,” he said.

  At the sound of the other man’s voice, Caesar opened his eyes and wagged his tail. She set the puppy down and held out a hand. “Stacy Killian.”

  “Ms. Killian here is a former cop.”

  Detective Sciame turned his gaze back to her, warm brown eyes friendly. And intelligent. He may be a coaster, she decided, but he was a smart one.

  “That so?” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Detective First Grade. Homicide, Dallas PD. Call me Stacy.”

  “Tony. What are you doing in our beautiful city?”

  “Graduate school at UNO. English lit.”

  He nodded. “Had enough of the job, huh? Thought about leaving myself, a number of times. Got retirement in sight now, no sense making a change.”

  “Why grad school?” Malone asked.

  “Why not?”

  He frowned. “English lit seems a world away from law enforcement.”

  “Exactly.”

  Tony motioned to Cassie’s half of the double. “You take a good look at the scene?”

  “I did.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “Cassie was killed first. Beth when she got up to investigate. Robbery was not a motive. Neither was sexual assault, though the pathologist will make the final determination. I’m thinking the killer was either a friend or acquaintance of Cassie’s. She let him in, locked up Caesar.”

  “You were a friend of hers.” This came from Malone.

  “True. But I didn’t kill her.”

  “So you say. First to the scene-”

  “Is always a suspect. Standard operating procedure, I know.”

  Tony nodded. “You carry a gun, Stacy?”

  She wasn’t surprised the man asked the question. She was grateful, actually. It gave her confidence this might get solved.

  “A Glock.40.”

  “Same bad boy we carry. You got a permit?”

  “Of course. Would you like to see both?”

  He said he would and she scooped up the puppy and headed inside. They followed. She didn’t protest. Again, standard operating procedure. Because she was first to the scene, she was-if only momentarily-a suspect. No detective worth his or her salt would allow a possible suspect to disappear into their home to retrieve a gun. Or anything else, for that matter. Nine times out of ten, said suspect would disappear out the back door. Or come back out the front, gun blazing.

  After leaving Caesar in her bedroom, she produced the gun and permit. Both detectives inspected them. Obviously, the Glock hadn’t been fired recently and Tony handed it back.

  “Cassie have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Was she into the bar scene?”

  Stacy shook her head. “RPGs and school. That’s it.”

  Malone frowned. “RPGs?”

  “Role-playing games. Her favorites were Dungeons amp; Dragons and Vampire: the Masquerade, though she played others.”

  “Pardon my ignorance,” Tony said, “are these board games? Video games?”

  “Neither. Each game has set characters and a scenario, decided upon by the game master. The participants role-play the characters.”

  Tony scratched his head. “It’s a live-action game?”

  “Not really.” She smiled. “I don’t play, but the way Cassie explained it, RPGs are played with the imagination. The player is like an actor in a role, following an unfolding script, without costumes, special effects or sets. The games can be played real-time or by e-mai
l.”

  “Why don’t you play?” Detective Malone said.

  Stacy paused. “Cassie invited me to join her group, but her description of play didn’t appeal. Danger at every turn, living by your wits. I had no desire to role-play that, I lived it. Every day I spent on the force.”

  “Know any of her fellow gamers?”

  “Not really.”

  Detective Malone cocked an eyebrow. “Not really. What does that mean?”

  “She introduced me to several of them. I see them around the University Center sometimes. They occasionally play at Café Noir.”

  Tony stepped in. “Café Noir?”

  “A coffeehouse on Esplanade. Cassie spent a lot of time there. We both did. Studying.”

  “When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

  “Friday afternoon…out at scho-”

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled. It came flooding back, their last meeting. Cassie had been excited, she’d met someone who played a game called White Rabbit. This person had promised to hook her up with what she’d called a Supreme White Rabbit. Arrange a private meeting with him.

  “Ms. Killian? Have you remembered something?”

  She filled them in, but they appeared unimpressed.

  “A Supreme White Rabbit?” Tony asked. “What in God’s name is that?”

  “Like I said, I don’t play. But as I understand it, in RPGs there’s something called the game master. In D amp; D that person’s the Dungeon Master, who basically controls the game.”

  “And in this new scenario, that person’s called the White Rabbit,” Tony said.

  “Exactly.” She pressed on. “The thought of her meeting this guy struck me wrong. Cassie was really trusting. Too trusting. I reminded her that this person was a stranger and urged her to select a public place for their meeting.”

  “What was her response to your warning?”

  What do you think, some game geek’s going to get pissed off and shoot me?

  “She laughed,” Stacy said. “Told me to lighten up.”

  “So the meeting took place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She give you a name?”

  “No. But I didn’t ask.”

  “The person who promised the introduction, where’d she meet him?”