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.”
CHAPTER 16
Saturday, March 5, 2005
11:00 a.m.
Stacy worked to focus on the text in front of her. John Keats’s “Ode to Psyche.” She had chosen to study the Romantics because the sensibility was so foreign to today’s-and so far from the brutal reality she’d been a part of for the past ten years.
Today, however, the poem of beauty and spiritual love seemed overwrought and just plain silly.
She felt battered and punchy, though she wasn’t sure why. Beyond a couple of bruises, the man hadn’t hurt her. Truth be told, save for the adrenaline rush, she hadn’t even been frightened. She’d never felt the situation out of her control.
So why the shakes now?
Stay out of it. Or I won’t.
A warning. She had made someone very uncomfortable.
But whom? Bobby Gautreaux? It didn’t seem likely, because the police had already pinpointed him. Someone else she had spoken with about White Rabbit? Yes. But who?
The cops wouldn’t be any help. They were convinced her attacker was the same man who had raped those other coeds-that he had escalated his attacks.
She didn’t blame them; the MO of the encounter was nearly identical to that of the raped coeds. She reviewed what they’d told her about the campus rapist. A big man, he targeted women alone on campus at night, grabbed them from behind. They had nicknamed him Romeo because of the sweet nothings he murmured in his victims’ ears. Things like “I love you,” “We’ll be together forever,” and most damning, “Stay with me.”