Killer Takes All

CHAPTER 53

Saturday, March 19, 2005

8:10 a.m.

Malone made a couple of calls and managed to get her on the prison admit list. But before she paid Bobby a visit, she needed to check on Alice.

“How’re things there?” Stacy asked when Mrs. Maitlin answered the phone.

“I’ve never seen Mr. Leo so subdued.”

“How about Alice?”

“Quiet.”

“May I speak with her?”

The woman agreed and went in search of the teenager. Moments later the girl greeted her. “Stacy? Where are you?” she asked.

“Checking out a lead. Are you all right?”

“Fine. The police sent someone over. He’s out front, guarding the place.”

Probably shooting the shit with Troy. “Good.”

“You didn’t come home last night.”

“I stayed with a friend. How’s your dad?”

“He’s getting ready for a meeting downtown. You want to talk to him?”

She thought of his screenplay. “No, I don’t think so.”

For a long moment, Alice was silent. When she finally spoke, her tone was hushed. “Dad’s scared. He won’t admit it, but I can tell.”

Scared of getting killed? Or caught? “It’s going to be okay, Alice. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Not long. Don’t do anything until I get there. Understand? No messages to the Rabbit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She used the title to tease and Stacy smiled. What had happened to the surly teenager who had once warned Stacy to stay out of her way?

Stacy ended the call by reminding Alice she was no farther than a phone call away.

Spencer had arranged her admit pass to the prison through his cousin, who happened to be on staff there. He’d told Stacy to ask for Connie O’Shay; she was being admitted as a court-appointed therapist.

“Thanks for doing this,” Stacy told the redhead.

“Always happy to help a fellow clinician.”

Stacy didn’t correct her, and within minutes she was facing Bobby through unbreakable Plexiglas.

She picked up the phone. He did the same. “Hi, Bobby.”

He sneered at her. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Not interested.”

He started to hang up, but she stopped him. “What if I tell you I don’t believe you killed Cassie and Beth?”

Her words surprised her as much as they appeared to surprise him. He returned to his seat.

“Is this a joke?”

“No. You may be a rapist, Bobby, but I don’t think you’re a killer.”

“Why?”

Just a hunch, slimeball. “Let me ask the questions.”

“Whatever.” He slouched in his seat.

“Why’d you go to Cassie’s that night?”

“I wanted to talk to her.”

“About?”

“Getting back together.”

“Right.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Call me a romantic.”

“So, you didn’t go there to kill her?”

“No.”

“Then why? To rape her?”

“No.”

“I see why the police arrested you, Bobby. You have no credibility.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thanks.” She stood. “Have a nice stay.”

“Wait! Sit down.” He waved her toward the seat. “I saw her leaving Luigi’s, out by campus. So I followed her home.”

“Just because?”

“Yeah. Like a fuckin’ idiot.”

“And?”

“I sat out front. For a long time.”

She could imagine the young man, staring at Cassie’s house, getting angrier by the moment. Hating her. Wanting to punish her. To make her pay for hurting him. His ego.

For rejecting him.

“And?”

“I decided to force the issue.”

Force. Bad word for a serial rapist to use.

“What happened?”

“She answered the door. Let me in. We talked.”

“That credibility thing’s happening again.” He didn’t respond; she pressed the issue. “She wouldn’t have willingly let you in, Bobby.”

“No?”

“No. So, you pushed your way in. You’re angry. You want to let her have it for rejecting you. Embarrassing you.”

She leaned slightly forward. “What stopped you?”

“Someone came to the door.”

She experienced a tickle of excitement. “Who?”

“Don’t know. It was some guy. Never saw him before.”

“Could you pick him out of a photo lineup?”

“Maybe.” At her disbelieving look, he became defensive. “I was angry. Jealous. Figured she was screwing him. I left.”

“Did she greet him by name? Think, Bobby. It’s important. The sentencing difference between a rape and murder conviction is the rest of your life.”

“She didn’t.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, damn it!”

“You told the police this?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “They figured I was lying.”

So they weren’t bothering to look. They had their guy. “Was he tall? Short? Medium height?”

“Medium to tall.”

“Dark-haired or-”

“He had a cap on.”

“A cap?”

“Yeah, a stocking cap. The kind that hip-hop dude, Eminem, wears. Black.”

“He carrying anything?”

Bobby screwed up his face, as with thought. “Nope.”

“You see Caesar?”

“Her mutt?” He nodded. “Little shit tried to piss on my shoes.”

Caesar was out when he was there. Cassie had locked him up after Bobby left. “You have any idea what kind of car the guy was driving?”

He shook his head and she silently swore. Great. “Why’d you attack me in the library?”

“Because you were there,” he said simply. “And because I was pissed at you. I wanted to scare you.”

“Hope I didn’t disappoint you too much.”

He looked down at his hands, cuffed together, then lifted his face to hers. They smoldered with rage. “Better hope I don’t get out of here.”

“I’m not too worried.”

“You think you’re so cool, don’t you? So tough.” He leaned toward her. “If I had wanted to hurt you, I could have. If I’d wanted, I could have fucked you silly.”

Stacy stood. She calmly hitched her purse strap across her shoulder. She knew the more unaffected she was by his tirade of filth, the more agitated it would make him.

She reached the door and glanced back. “If you’d tried, Bobby, that ballpoint would have been in your eye. Or straight up your ass.”

She exited the Parish Prison. Sunlight spilled over her and she breathed deeply, feeling as if she needed to be cleansed from the inside out.

Bobby Gautreaux was a dirty little snake.

But had he killed Cassie?

He may have. But quite possibly he was telling the truth.

She crossed the parking lot, unlocked her SUV and climbed inside. She hadn’t visited her apartment in a week and she supposed she’d better stop by and check on things.

The first thing she noticed was the overflowing mailbox at her apartment. The second, that her calls had not been forwarding to her cell number.

Her message light was blinking. She hit Play and listened to several hang-ups, and then messages from her sister and her graduate adviser.

“Stacy. Professor McDougal. I’m concerned about you. Please call me.”

Professor McDougal. Great. Just frigging wonderful.

She stared at the answering machine, even as she acknowledged that she could stare at it until Christmas and it wouldn’t alter the fact that she was screwed. When was the last time she had actually attended class? She had a paper due Monday. She’d barely even started it. What, she wondered, was the last day to withdraw from classes without a grade penalty? She’d bet she’d already missed it.

Suddenly crushingly tired, Stacy rubbed her eyes. She crossed to her couch and sank onto it. She laid her head against the back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to pass her first semester of graduate school, and if she didn’t pass, she wouldn’t be welcomed back. Even if her professors were willing to let her try to bring her standing to current, she didn’t have the time to devote. Finding the White Rabbit took precedence. Protecting Alice, saving Kay. Living to see the next semester.

Or maybe the truth was, she didn’t have the heart for school.

Her cell buzzed. Though a part of her wanted to ignore the call, she unclipped the device. “Killian here.”

“Billie Bellini, super spy.”

Stacy sat forward, instantly focused, all thoughts of grad school falling away. “What have you uncovered?”

“No missing persons, but I think you’ll find this interesting. Dr. Carlson donated his time and professional abilities to the homeless. One day a week, he saw people referred to him from the local shelters and missions.”

Stacy knew where Billie was going with this: indigents weren’t likely to be reported missing. No employer to sound the alarm, no family or friends looking for them.

The dentist could have chosen someone with a similar build to Danson’s and switched their dental records. Then Danson did the rest.

Danson plans it all carefully. He leaves a suicide note. Packs his trunk with propane. Offers the bum a ride. Or incapacitates him. The charred body is positively identified by his dental records.

“Did the chief have any comments on your discovery?”

“He’s going to take a look at the dentist’s patient files and financial records. He’ll officially reopen the case if he finds anything suspicious.” She sounded proud. “He contacted Malone at NOPD and promised to keep in touch with us as well. If Charles Richard Danson is alive, we’re going to nail him.”

Stacy stopped on the name. She frowned. “What did you call him?”

“Charles Richard Danson. That was his full name, though everyone called him Dick.”

Charles Richard Danson.

Stacy froze, remembering a conversation she’d had with Alice’s tutor about his name. He’d joked about his parents giving him decidedly unsexy names.

Clark Randolf Dunbar.

Initials, C. R. D.

“Holy shit,” Stacy said. “I know who he is.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t you dare until you tell me-”

“Danson made a fatal mistake. The same one many people who try to drop out, or create a new identity, make. He chose a name with the same initials as his previous one. It’s human weakness. A desire to hold on to the very past they’re trying to leave behind.”

“So who is he?” Billie asked, tone hushed, admiring.

“Clark Dunbar,” she said. “Alice’s tutor.”