Killer Takes All

CHAPTER 29

Friday, March 11, 2005

2:10 a.m.

Spencer opened his eyes, instantly awake. He went for his weapon, tucked under the mattress, curled his fingers around its grip and listened.

It came again. The sound that had awakened him.

Stacy, he realized. Crying.

The sound was thick, as if she was trying to muffle it. No doubt, she perceived tears as a sign of weakness. She would hate it that he had heard her. She would be embarrassed if he checked on her.

Spencer closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out. He couldn’t. Small, hopeless-sounding, her grief tore at him. Both were so foreign to the woman she wanted him to think she was.

He couldn’t simply wait for her crying to stop. That was foreign to the man he was.

He stood, stepped into his jeans and fastened them. Taking a deep breath, he went to her bedroom. He stood outside the door a moment, then tapped on it. “Stacy,” he called, “are you all right?”

“Go away,” she called, voice thick. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. Clearly. He hesitated, then tapped again. “I have a pretty good shoulder. Best in the Malone clan.”

She made a strangled sound, one that sounded part laugh, part sob. “I don’t need you.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“Then go back to sleep. Or better yet, go home.”

He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door eased open.

She hadn’t locked it, after all.

“I’m coming in. Please don’t shoot me.”

As he stepped into the dark bedroom, the light came on.

Stacy was sitting up in bed, blond hair a wild tangle, eyes red and puffy from crying. She gripped the Glock with both hands, the weapon aimed at his chest.

He stared at it a moment, feeling like a cat burglar caught in the act. Or a deer in the headlights of a truck. A big one, traveling too damn fast for comfort.

He raised his hands over his head, fighting a smile. Pissing her off would be a bad idea.

“The chest, Stacy? You couldn’t aim for a leg or something?”

She inched the barrel directly south. “Better?”

His nuts ran for cover. “That’s equipment I’d rather die for than do without, sweetheart. Do you mind?”

She grinned and lowered the Glock. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry. It’s genetic.”

“Good. Meet me in the kitchen in five?”

“Sounds good.” He started through the door, then stopped. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“You made me forget,” she answered simply.

He left her bedroom, mulling over what she had said. The turn of events. She had surprised him. The invitation. Her honest answer to his question.

Stacy Killian was one complicated, high-maintenance woman. The kind he made a practice of steering clear of.

So what the hell was he doing meeting her for a midnight pajama party?

She joined him in the kitchen. “What do you like to eat?”

“Everything. Except beets, liver and brussels sprouts.”

She laughed, crossed to the fridge. “Don’t have to worry about those, not with me.” She peered inside. “Enchilada bowl. Leftover Peking duck. Though I’d give it the sniff test first. Tuna. Eggs.”

He peered over her shoulder, made a face. “Pickings are slim, Killian.”

“I was a cop, remember. Cops always eat out.”

It was true. His refrigerator was emptier than hers.

“How about cereal?” she asked.

“That depends, what’ve you got?”

“Cheerios or Raisin Bran.”

“The O’s are good, definitely. Whole milk or skim?”

“Two percent.”

“That’ll do.”

She took the carton of milk from the fridge and closed the door. He saw her check the date on the carton before she set it on the counter. She took two bowls from one cabinet and two boxes of cereal from another.

They filled their bowls-she took the bran, no surprise there-and carried them to the small café table by the window.

They ate in silence. He wanted to give her time. A little space. A chance to become comfortable with him. And to decide if forgetting was enough, or if she needed someone to talk to.

She hadn’t asked him to the kitchen because she was hungry. Or because she was worried that he was.

She had needed company. Another’s support, even if that support only came in the form of a cereal buddy.

One of his sisters, Mary, third oldest of the Malone brood, was like that. Tough as nails, stubborn as a mule, too prideful for her own good. When she had gone through a divorce a couple of years ago, she had tried to keep it all in, handle everything-including her hurt-by herself.

She had finally confided in Spencer. Because he had first allowed her the space, and then the opportunity to do so. And maybe, too, because he had made so many mistakes in his own life, she figured he would be less judgmental of hers.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked finally as her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl.

She didn’t ask about what; she knew. She stared into her bowl, as if preparing her answer.

“I didn’t want to do this,” she said after a moment, looking at him. “Not anymore.”

“Breakfast cereal with near strangers?”

A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Are you ever totally serious?”

“As infrequently as possible.”

“I’m thinking that would be a nice way to be.”

He thought of Lieutenant Moran. “Trust me, it has drawbacks.” He inched aside his bowl. “So, you left police work behind, moved to New Orleans to study Literature and start a new life?”

“Something like that,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “But it wasn’t the police work I wanted to leave behind. It was the ugliness of the job. The absolute disregard for life.” She let out a long, weary-sounding breath. “And here I am, smack dab in the middle of it again.”

“By your own doing.”

“Cassie’s murder was not my doing.”

“But putting yourself into the investigation was. Signing on with Noble was. Stepping through each door that opened was.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue. He reached across the table and caught her hand, curving his fingers around hers. “I’m not criticizing you. Far from it. You’re doing what comes natural. You were a cop for ten years. We both know that law enforcement isn’t a job, it’s a way of life. It’s not what you are, it’s who you are.”

He had discovered just how true those words were when he was falsely accused, suspended and facing a lifetime without police work.

“I don’t want to be that person, not anymore.”

“Then let it go, Stacy. Get out of it. Go back to Texas.”

She made a sound of frustration and stood. She carried her bowl to the sink, then turned to face him once more. “What about Cassie? I can’t just…leave.”

“What about her? You hardly knew her.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is, Stacy. You were friends for less than two months.”

“She didn’t deserve to die. She was young. And good. And-”

“And the morgue is filled with young, good people who shouldn’t be dead, but are.”

“But they’re strangers to me! And Cassie…Cassie was the person I wished I was!” She fell silent a moment; he saw her struggle for control. “And someone killed her. The same ugliness that I wanted to escape…followed me.”

Understanding, he stood and crossed to her. He caught her hands. “You think the ugliness found you? Followed you? And she died because of it?”

“I didn’t say that.” Eyes bright with tears, she shook her head and moved to free her hands from his.

He tightened his grip. “Cassie’s death doesn’t have anything to do with what you’ve involved yourself in. There’s nothing similar about her death and the White Rabbit killings.”

She knew he had a good point; he saw it in her expression. “What about her computer?”

“What about it?”

“She stumbled onto something that put her in harm’s way. It had to do with White Rabbit.”

“You believe,” he countered. “The facts don’t support that belief.” He leaned toward her. “The most obvious is most often the one ‘whodunit.’ You know that.”

“Gautreaux.”

“Yeah, Gautreaux. We have physical evidence linking him to the murders.”

“What?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “What do you have?”

“A print-”

“His or hers?”

“His. Retrieved from her apartment. And some trace.”

She nodded, skepticism becoming excitement. “What kind of trace?”

“Hair. Hers. On his clothing. Because of their past relationship, neither is strong enough to prove he did it.”

“Bullshit. No way there should be a print of his in her place. They didn’t break up amicably. The guy stalked and threatened her, no way she just let him in for a nice little chat. Plus, they broke up last year. Doesn’t he wash his clothes?”

“Jacket,” he corrected. “Denim. Doesn’t look like it’s ever seen a washing machine.”

She swore and stood. “I hate defense lawyers. They can twist the facts-”

“Hold on, there’s more. We found a hair consistent with his on her T-shirt. We got the order for the swab, results are due next week. If we’re lucky-”

“DNA will tie him to the scene. Nasty little prick.”

Spencer turned her earlier question back on her. “So why’d he take her computer?”

“To cover his ass. Maybe he sent her hate mail, maybe he knows she saved it. So when he kills her, he takes away the evidence. Or he takes it as a trophy. Or because it was the thing he perceived she loved most. Certainly more than him.”

Spencer smiled. “By George, I think she’s got it.”

She frowned suddenly. “When did you swab him?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you really think he hasn’t skipped?”

“I’m not a complete rookie, you know. We’ve got a GPS tracking device on his car. He takes one step too close to the state line and we grab him.”

He caught her hands in his, holding them gently. “Go home to Texas, Stacy. We’ve got Cassie’s killer. She doesn’t need your help anymore.”

Her hands trembled; he felt her indecision, the conflict raging inside her.

She wanted to.

She couldn’t bring herself to let go.

Spencer tightened his fingers on hers. “Go. Visit your sister. Stay until we find this crazy White Rabbit character and get him behind bars.”

She shook her head. “School doesn’t work that way. Can’t just come and go. Besides, I only have a little over a month to go in this semester.”

He frowned. “We both know a month is a long time. A lot can happen in a month.”

He knew she understood what he was saying. That death could find her in the blink of an eye.

And that this one scared him.

“He’ll follow me,” she said softly. “He knows all about me now.”

“You’re just guessing. You don’t know that for certain-”

“But I do, Malone. He’s playing the game. So am I. And the game doesn’t end until there’s only one man standing.”

He stroked the back of her hands with his thumbs. “Then go somewhere he won’t think to look for you. Someplace you’ve no connection to.”

“And how do we know he won’t wait me out? For years, the rest of my life, even. I have family, a life outside this. I’m not going to go into hiding.”

“But we’re going to catch him. Long before years pass.”

“You hope.”

She moved to slip her hands from his; he tightened his fingers on hers. “I will catch him, Stacy. I promise you that.”