Killer Takes All

“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 back-firing?”

“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 & 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-mail.”

“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 & 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?”

“She didn’t say and, again, I didn’t ask.” Stacy heard the frustration in her own voice. “I’m thinking it was a guy, though I’m not even certain of that.”

“Anything else?”

“I have a feeling about this.”

“Women’s intuition?” Malone asked.

She narrowed her eyes, irritated. “The instinct of a seasoned detective.”

She saw the older man’s mouth twitch, as if with amusement.

“What about her roommate?” Tony asked. “Beth? She play those games?”

“No.”

“Did your friend have a computer?” Malone asked. She swung her gaze to him. “A laptop. Why?” He didn’t answer. “She play these games on her computer?”

“Sometimes, I think. Mostly she played real time, with her game group.”

“So they can be played online.”

“I think so.” She shifted her gaze between the two.

“Why?”

“Thank you, Ms. Killian. You’ve been helpful.”

“Wait.” She caught the older detective’s arm. “Her computer’s gone, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Stacy,” Tony murmured, sounding like he meant it. “We can’t say any more.”

She would have done the same; it pissed her off, anyway. “I suggest you check out this White Rabbit game. Ask around, see who’s playing. What the game involves.”

“We will, Ms. Killian.” Malone closed his notebook. “Thank you for your help.”

She opened her mouth to say more, to ask if they would update her on their progress, then shut it without speaking. Because she knew they wouldn’t. Even if they agreed to, it would be an empty platitude.

She didn’t have the right to the information, she acknowledged, watching the two walk away. She was a civilian. Not even family of the deceased. They weren’t required to give her anything but courtesy.

For the first time since leaving the force, she understood the ramifications of what she had done. Of what she was.

A civilian. Outside the blue circle. Alone.

Stacy Killian wasn’t a cop anymore.

CHAPTER 4

Monday, February 28, 2005 9:20 a.m.

Spencer and Tony entered police headquarters. Located in City Hall, at 1300 Perdido Street, the mirrored glass building housed not only the NOPD but the mayor’s office, the New Orleans Fire Department and city council, among others. The Public Integrity Division, the NOPD’s version of Internal Affairs, was housed outside headquarters, as was the crime lab.

They signed in and took the elevator to ISD. When the doors whooshed open, Tony headed for the box of breakfast pastries, Spencer for his messages.

“Hey, Dora,” he said to the receptionist. Though a civilian employed by the city, she wore a uniform. Her extra-large, top-heavy frame strained at the confines of the blue fabric, revealing glimpses of hot pink lace. “Any messages?”

The woman handed Spencer the yellow message slips, sliding her gaze over him appraisingly. He ignored the look. “Captain in?” “Ready and waiting, stud.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she cackled. “You white boys have no sense of humor.”

“No sense of style, either,” offered Rupert, another detective, sidling past them.

“That’s right,” Dora said. “Rupert here knows fine threads.”

Spencer glanced at the other man, taking in his sleek Italian suit, colorful tie and bright white shirt, then down at himself. Jeans, chambray shirt and tweedy jacket. “What?”

She groaned. “You’re working ISD now, top of the heap, baby. You need to be dressin’ the part.”

“Yo, Slick. Ready?”

Spencer turned and grinned at his partner. “Can’t. In the middle of a free fashion consultation.”

Tony returned the grin. “Lecture, you mean.” “Don’t even go there.” Dora wagged her finger at the older man. “You’re hopeless. A fashion disaster.”

“What? Me?” He held his hands out. His gut protruded over the waist of his Sansabelt trousers, the fabric shiny from age, and strained the buttons of his short-sleeved plaid shirt.

The woman made a sound of disgust as she handed Tony his messages. Turning to Spencer, she said, “You just come see Miss Dora, baby. I’ll fix you right up.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, sugar pie,” she called after him. “Ladies go for a man with style.”

“She’s right, sugar pie,” Tony teased. “Take it from me.”

Spencer laughed. “You’d know this how? The way the ladies stay away in droves?”

“Exactly.” They turned the corner, heading for the open door of their captain’s office.

Spencer tapped on the casing. “Captain O’Shay? Got a minute?”

Captain Patti O’Shay looked up, waved them in. “‘Morning, Detectives. It’s been a busy one already, I hear.”

“We got a double,” Tony said, lowering himself into one of the chairs across from her.

Patti O’Shay, a trim, no-nonsense woman, was one of only three female captains in the NOPD. She was smart, tough but fair. She’d worked her ass off to get where she was, twice as hard as any man, overcoming doubt, chauvinism and the good old boy network. She’d been bumped up to ISD this past year and some predicted she’d make deputy chief one day.

She also happened to be Spencer’s mother’s sister.

It was hard for Spencer to reconcile this woman with the one who had called him “Boo” growing up. The one who’d slipped him cookies when his mother hadn’t been looking. She was his godmother, a special relationship for Catholics. And one she took seriously.

However, she had made it clear his first day under her command that here she was his boss. Period.

She turned her miss-nothing gaze on him. “Think DIU jumped the gun by calling us in?”

He straightened, cleared his throat. “No way, Captain. This was no rubber stamp.”

She shifted her gaze to Tony. “Detective Sciame?”

“I agree. Better to get it now, before the trail’s cold.”

Spencer took over. “Both vics were shot.”

“Names?”

“Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. UNO students.”

“Wagner just moved in a week ago,” Tony offered. “Poor kid, talk about some bad fuckin’ luck.”

The woman didn’t seem to notice the language, but Spencer winced.

“Robbery doesn’t appear to have been the motive,” Spencer offered, “although her laptop is missing. Neither does rape.”

“What, then?”

Tony stretched his legs out in front of him. “Crystal ball’s not working this morning, Captain.”

“Clever,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt she found it to be anything but. “How about a theory, then? Or is that asking a bit much after only a couple doughnuts?”

Spencer jumped in. “Looks like Finch was killed first. We figure she knew her killer, let him in. Probably killed Wagner because she was there. Of course, it’s speculation so far.”

“Leads?”

“A few. We’re going to pay a visit to the university, the places both women hung out. Talk to their friends, professors. Boyfriends, if any.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Canvas of the neighborhood’s complete,” Spencer continued. “With the exception of the woman who phoned it in, nobody heard a thing.”

“Her story checks out?”

“Seems legit. She’s a former cop. Dallas PD Homicide.”

She frowned slightly. “That so?”

“I’m going to run her through the computer. Call the Dallas PD.” “Do that.”

“Coroner notified the next of kin?” “Done.”

She reached for her phone, signaling their meeting was over. “I don’t like double homicides in my jurisdiction. I like them even less when they’re unsolved. Understood?”

They agreed they did, stood and started toward the door. The captain stopped Spencer before he reached it. “Detective Malone?”

He looked back.

“Watch that temper of yours.”

He flashed her a smile. “Under control, Aunt Patti. Altar boy’s honor.”

As he walked away, he heard her laugh. Probably because she remembered what a total failure he had been as an altar boy.

CHAPTER 5

Monday, February 28, 2005 10:30 a.m.

Spencer stepped into Café Noir. The scent of coffee and baking cookies hit him hard. It’d been a long time since breakfast—a sausage biscuit from a drive-thru window just as the sun cracked the horizon.

He just didn’t get the whole coffeehouse thing. Three bucks for a cup of fancy coffee with a foreign-sounding name? And what was with the whole tall, grande, supergrande thing? What was wrong with small, medium and large? Or even extra large? Who did they think they were fooling?

He’d made the mistake of ordering an americano once. Thought it would be a good, old-fashioned cup of American coffee. It had proved to be anything but.

Shots of espresso and water. Tasted like burned piss.

He decided to save his money and wait until he got back to HQ for a cup. Glancing around, he saw that from what he knew of coffeehouses, this one was pretty typical. Deep, earthy colors, groupings of comfy, oversize furniture interspersed with tables for conversing or studying. The building, located on a triangular sliver of land called neutral ground in New Orleans, even sported a big old fireplace.

For all the good it would be, he thought. This was New Orleans, after all. Hot and humid, twenty-four/seven, nine months out of twelve.

Spencer crossed to the counter and asked the girl at the cash register for the owner or manager. The girl, who looked to be college-age, smiled and pointed at a tall, willowy blonde restocking the buffet. “The owner.

Billie Bellini.”

He thanked her and crossed to the woman. “Billie Bellini?” he asked.

She turned and looked up at him. She was gorgeous. One of those flawlessly beautiful women who could—and probably did—have their pick of men. The kind of woman one didn’t expect to see managing a coffeehouse.

He’d be a liar or a eunuch to say he was immune, though he could honestly claim she wasn’t his type. Too damn high maintenance for a regular Joe like him.

A smile touched the corners of her full lips. “Yes?” she said.

“Detective Spencer Malone. NOPD,” he said as he flashed his badge.

One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Detective? How can I help you?”

“You know a woman named Cassie Finch?”

“I do. She’s one of the regulars.”

“A regular. What exactly does that mean?”

“That she spends a lot of time in here. Everybody knows her.” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Why?”

He ignored her question and asked another of his own. “How about Beth Wagner?”

“Cassie’s roommate? Not really. She was in once. Cassie introduced us.”

“What about Stacy Killian?”

“Also a regular. They’re friends. But I suspect you already know that.”

Spencer dropped his gaze. The fourth finger of her left hand sported a major rock and a diamond studded gold band. That didn’t surprise him.

“When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

Concern leaped into her eyes. “What is this in reference to?” she asked. “Is Cassie okay?”

“Cassie Finch is dead, Ms. Bellini. She was murdered.”

She brought a hand to her mouth, which had pulled into a perfectly formed O. “There must be some mistake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me, I—” She fumbled behind her for a chair, then sank onto it. For long moments, she sat motionless, struggling, he suspected, to compose herself.

When she finally looked back up at him, it was without tears. “She was in yesterday afternoon.”