Saturday, March 19, 2005
7:15 a.m.
S
tacy awakened early. She moaned, stretched and realized in a galvanizing jolt where she was. And what she had done.
Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.
What was wrong with her?
She cracked open her eyes. Spencer lay next to her—sleeping. He’d half kicked off the blanket and she saw that he was naked. Gloriously, fabulously naked.
She squeezed her eyes shut. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his bedroom abilities. The man was so hot, he could melt butter on his backside.
What had he thought about her?
No.
She didn’t care what he thought. Last night had been a big, stupid mistake. Another to add to her fast-growing list of screwups.
Once upon a time, she had been so smart. So capable.
She could barely remember what that had been like.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slid toward the edge of the bed. She figured she could slide off it, gather up her stuff and get out before he woke up.
That’d give her time to prepare her “let’s forget this ever happened” speech.
She eased toward the edge. The angle at which she lay facilitated a head-and-hands-first escape. Her hands found the floor; her torso eased over the side.
As she prepared to make her final descent, his hand clamped around her ankle, trapping her.
Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.
He was awake. And here she was, hanging half off the bed. Naked. Backside up.
“Could you let me go, please?” she managed to say.
“Do I have to?” She heard the amusement in his voice and grimaced. “The view’s spectacular.”
“Thanks. But yes, you do.”
“Pretty please?”
She groaned and he let her go. She slid off the bed, landing in an inelegant heap.
He leaned over the side of the bed and smirked at her. “Moving mighty quietly this morning, Killian. Tired? Too sore to stand?”
Her face heated. “I was just heading…going to—”
“The bathroom.”
“Home.”
“Sneaking out without so much as a goodbye? Or a thanks for the good time? Tacky, Killian. Extremely.”
She yanked the sheet free, wrapped it around her and stood. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “This is difficult?”
“You know what I mean. Awkward. Embarrassing.”
“Oh, sure.” He threw back the bit of blanket still covering him and climbed out of bed. And stood buck naked in front of her. “I know just what you mean. Totally embarrassing.”
The man deserved to die, she decided. Unfortunately, she’d left her Glock back at the Noble place.
She went for the next best thing, a bed pillow. She flung it at him as he made his way to the bathroom. She missed and it hit the bathroom door casing, then dropped to the floor.
His laughter ringing in her ears, she snatched up her panties and tugged them on, careful to hold on to the sheet. She found her bra, made certain the bathroom door was still shut, then dropped the sheet. From there, she went for her trousers.
She retrieved them from where they hung half on and half off the dresser, her cheeks heating as she remembered shimmying out of them, then flinging them over her shoulder.
Her cell phone, clipped to the waistband of her pants, buzzed. She’d set it to mute, she remembered. Unclipping it, Stacy saw that she had a new text message waiting.
The game’s exciting, isn’t it? It will be more so for you.
Soon, Stacy. Very soon.
She reread the message, blood humming in her ears. From the White Rabbit, she acknowledged. A warning.
She was next.
Stacy glanced at her watch. It read 7:20 a.m. The game’s clock was still ticking. In slightly more than seven hours Alice had to make her move. Against the Cheshire Cat.
Who had sent the message? Leo? Danson?
Or neither?
The bathroom door opened; Spencer stepped out. He’d wrapped a bath towel around his waist. It did little to cover him, but she appreciated the effort.
“Nice getup,” he said, referring to her panties and bra.
“We have contact.”
“Excuse me?”
“A text message on my phone. Take a look.”
He crossed to stand behind her, then read the message over her shoulder. When he’d finished, he shifted his gaze to hers. “Want to give him a call back?”
“I’d love to.”
She punched in the number. It rang once, then clicked over to voice mail. She angled the phone so Spencer could hear it as well.
“Hi. You’ve reached Kay Noble of Wonderland Creations. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Stacy ended the call. “Not a good turn of events.”
“No shit.” He strode across to the bed, snatched up his own cell phone and punched in a number. “Rise and shine, Pasta Man. We’ve got mail.”
While he spoke to his partner, Stacy scooped up the rest of her clothing and headed to the bathroom to finish dressing. When she returned to the bedroom, Spencer was fully dressed and strapping on his shoulder holster.
She remembered when she’d had a shoulder holster. Remembered the weight of it, the way it had hugged her side. The way wearing it had made her feel.
“Tony’s working on getting the location that call came from. At the least, the cell company will be able to triangulate a position. At best, with GPS technology, they’ll pinpoint the exact location. I’m predicting the latter. I seriously doubt Kay Noble was carrying anything but the most up-to-the-moment cell technology.”
“You think she’s dead, don’t you?”
He stilled, looked at her. “I hope to hell she’s not.”
But it didn’t look good. Not for Kay Noble.
And not for her.
Six hours, forty-five minutes. And counting.
“I need a favor,” she said.
He cocked an eyebrow in question.
“I want to talk to Bobby.”
“That’s going to be tough, he’s in the Old Parish Prison. I doubt he’d put you on his visitor list.”
“You could get me in.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you owe me?”
“After last night, I would have thought it the other way around.”
He had a point, she thought, a smile tugging at her mouth. She held her ground, anyway. “If I hadn’t injured young Mr. Gautreaux, you wouldn’t have had the blood to link him to me, then to the three coeds.”
Spencer folded his arms across his chest. “True.”
“Look, I just want to talk to him. I want to hear it from his own lips. That he didn’t kill Cassie and Beth.”
He paused, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But you have until two o’clock this afternoon to do your thing.”
“Then what? I turn into a pumpkin?”
“I put about a dozen men trailing you. If this guy makes a move on you, we’ll be there.”
Saturday, March 19, 2005
8:10 a.m.
M
alone 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.”