Killer Takes All

CHAPTER 15

Saturday, March 5, 2005

12:30 a.m.

Spencer greeted the officer standing sentinel at the door of the UNO library. He was an old-timer. “How’s it going?”

The other man shrugged. “Okay. Wish spring’d get here. It’s still too damn cold for these old bones.”

Only a New Orleanian would gripe about nighttime temperatures in the sixties.

The man held out a clipboard; Spencer signed in. “Upstairs?”

“Yeah. On four.”

Spencer found the elevator. He had been asleep when he’d gotten the call. At first he thought he’d misunderstood the dispatcher. Nobody was dead. An attempted rape. But the victim claimed it had something to do with the Finch murder.

His investigation.

So he’d dragged his butt out of bed and headed what seemed like halfway across the world to the UNO campus.

The elevator reached four; he stepped off and followed the sound of voices. The group came into view. He stopped. Killian. Her back was to him, but he recognized her, anyway. Not just by her glorious blond hair, but something about the way she held herself. Erectly. With a kind of confidence that had been earned.

To her left stood a couple of the campus cops and John Russell, from DIU, Third District.

Spencer closed the distance between them. “Trouble follows you, doesn’t it, Ms. Killian?”

The three men looked his way. She turned. He saw that her shirt was bloodstained.

“It’s starting to seem so,” she said.

“Do you need medical attention?”

“No. But he might.”

He wasn’t surprised she’d gotten the best of him. He motioned toward the library table nearest her. They crossed to it, then sat.

He took the spiral notebook from his pocket. “Tell me what happened.”

Russell wandered over. “Attempted rape,” he began. “Same MO as three earlier, unsolved-”

Spencer held up a hand. “I’d like to hear Ms. Killian’s version of events first.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t an attempted rape.”

“Go on.”

“I was working late.”

He glanced at the material on the table, scanning titles. “Research?”

“Yes.”

“On role-playing games?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Yes. The library was deserted, or seemed to be. I heard someone, behind the stacks. I called out. Got no answer and went to investigate.”

She paused. Smoothed her hands over her thighs, her only outward sign of nerves. “When I reached the stacks, the lights went off. The stairwell door flew open and someone darted through. I started to go after him. That’s when I was grabbed from behind.”

“So there were two people besides you here?”

Her expression registered something akin to surprise. He’d only repeated her words in a different way; clearly she hadn’t put the two together.

She nodded. He looked at the other officers. “Any of the other victims report more than one attacker at the scene?”

“No,” the youngest of the university officers replied.

Spencer returned his gaze to hers. “He grabbed you from behind?”

“Yes. And held me in a way that indicated he knew what he was doing.”

“Show me.”

She nodded, stood and motioned to the campus cop. “Do you mind?” He said no, and she demonstrated. A moment later, she released him and returned to her seat.

“He was several inches taller than me. And quite strong.”

“So how did you get away?”

“Drove a ballpoint pen into his belly.”

“We’ve got the pen,” Russell offered. “Bagged and tagged.”

“And how does this relate to the Finch and Wagner murders?”

She made a sound of frustration. “He told me to stay out of it. Or else he wouldn’t. Then he poked his tongue in and out of my ear. And asked me if I understood.”

“Sounds like a direct threat of rape,” Russell said.

“He was warning me to keep my nose out of the investigation.” She jumped to her feet. “Don’t you see? I’ve stepped on somebody’s toes. Gotten too close.”

“Whose toes?”

“I don’t know!”

“We’ve alerted the infirmary to watch for a student who comes in with a puncture wound to be treated.”

Stacy made a sound of disbelief. “With at least two dozen doc-in-the-box clinics in the metro area, you think he’ll go to the infirmary?”

“Maybe,” the cop said defensively. “If he’s a student.”

“I’d say, that’s a mighty big ‘if,’ Officer.” Stacy looked at Spencer. “Can I go now?”

“Sure. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’ve got my car, thanks.”

He skimmed his gaze over her. If she was pulled over for some reason, the cop would take one look at her and haul her in for questioning.

Bloodstained shirts had that effect on police officers.

“I think, considering your present condition, I’ll follow.”

It looked as if she was going to protest. She didn’t. “Fine.”

Spencer followed her across town, angling his Camaro into the space by a fire hydrant. He flipped down his visor, revealing his NOPD identification and climbed out of the car.

Crime-scene tape still stretched across the Finch side of the double. He made a note to take it down before he left. The scene should have been cleared for cleanup days ago. He was surprised Stacy hadn’t busted him on it.

Stacy slammed her car door. “I can take it from here.”

“What? Not even a thank you?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “For what? Seeing me home? Or thinking I’m full of shit?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Your expression shouted it.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Shouted?”

“Forget it.”

She spun on her heel and started for her front steps. He caught her arm, stopping her. “What’s your problem?”

“Right now, you.”

“You’re pretty when you’re mad.”

“But not when I’m not?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Believe me, I couldn’t. I don’t know Bubba-speak.”

He gazed at her a moment, torn between frustration and amusement. Amusement won; he laughed and released her arm. “You have any coffee up there?”

“Are you making a pass at me?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Killian. Just figured I’d give your theory another chance.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it might have merit.” He grinned. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not that. The other. Why wouldn’t you dare make a pass at me?”

“Simple. You’d kick my ass.”

She stared at him a moment, then sent him a killer smile. “You’re right, I would.”

“We agree on something.” He brought a hand to his heart. “It’s a miracle.”

“Don’t push it, Malone. Come on.”

They climbed the stairs, then crossed the porch to the front door. She unlocked it, stepped inside and flipped on a light. He followed her in and to the kitchen, located at the back of the apartment.

She opened her refrigerator, peered inside, then glanced back at him. “Coffee’s not going to do the trick tonight. Not for me.” She held out a bottle of beer. “How about you?”

He took it, twisted off the cap. “Thanks.”

She followed suit, then took a swallow of the beverage. “I needed that.”

“Big night.”

“Big year.”

He had called the DPD and now he knew a little about her past. She was a ten-year veteran of the DPD. Highly regarded within the force. Resigned suddenly after cracking a big case that had involved her sister, Jane. The captain he’d spoken with had indicated some personal reasons for her resignation but hadn’t provided details. Spencer hadn’t pushed.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” She took another swallow.

“Why’d you leave the force?”

“Like I told your partner, I needed a change.”

He rolled the bottle between his palms. “It have anything to do with your sister?”

Jane Westbrook. Stacy’s half sister and only sibling. An artist of some renown. The target of a murderous plot. One that had damn near been successful.

“You checked out my story.”

“Of course.”

“The answer to your question is no. Leaving the force was about me.”

He brought the bottle to his lips and drank, never taking his gaze from hers.

She frowned. “What?”

“You ever hear the old saying, you can take the cop out of the job, but you can’t take the job out of the cop?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it. I don’t put much stock in old sayings.”

“Maybe you should.”

She checked her watch. “It’s getting late.”

“That it is.” He took another swallow of the beer, ignoring her not-so-subtle hint that he should go. Taking his time, he finished his beer. Set the bottle carefully on the table, then stood.

She folded her arms across her chest, annoyed. “I thought you wanted to hear my story one more time?”

“I lied.” He grabbed his leather jacket. “Thanks for the brew.”

She made a sound. Of outraged disbelief, Spencer guessed. He fought a smile, crossed to the door, then looked back at her. “Two things, Killian. First, clearly you have no idea what a ‘Bubba’ is.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “And second?”

“You might not be so full of shit after all.”