Welcome to the game.
It was signed the White Rabbit.
Spencer looked at her. She met his gaze, hers unflinching. Steady. “I asked too many questions,” she said. “Stepped on somebody’s toes. I’m in the game now.”
He wished he could reassure her otherwise. He couldn’t.
“The Cheshire Cat,” she continued. “A character with long claws and lots of teeth. In the story the queen tries to behead it, but it disappears before she can.” She pressed her lips together a moment, as if using the time to regain emotional control. “This one wasn’t so lucky.”
“The cat fades in and out throughout the story,” Spencer said, thinking of the Cliff’s Notes he had read the night before. “Further evidence of a world in which reality has been distorted.”
“Am I the cat?” she asked. “Is that what this means? That I’m the cat, and he means for me to die this way?”
Spencer frowned. “You’re not going to die, Stacy.”
“You can’t guarantee that.” Her eyebrows drew together. “You can’t tell me I won’t. It’s the nature of the beast.”
The beast.
Man with the will to murder.
He crossed to the tub, examined the creature, then fanned out until, finally, he had taken in the entire apartment. He took his time, making notes as he went. After dumping the clothes in a hamper, Stacy silently shadowed him. Giving him space, letting him come to his own conclusions.
Spencer checked his watch. Tony should be good and full by now. He needed to get the evidence collection team over. The prints techs. If they were lucky, the bastard had left a print to go along with the blood on the broken window.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Make your calls.” She smiled slightly at his expression. “I don’t read minds, unfortunately. It’s the obvious next step in the process.”
He opened his cell, punched in Tony’s number first. While he spoke to his none-too-happy partner, he was aware of Stacy grabbing a jacket and heading out to the front porch.
He finished his calls and followed her outside. She stood at the edge of the porch, near the stairs. She looked cold. He glanced up at the cloudless dark sky, thinking that the temperature had dipped into the fifties. He hunched deeper into his jacket and crossed to stand beside her.
“They’re on their way,” he said.
“Good.”
“Are you okay?” he asked for the second time that night.
She rubbed her arms. “I’m cold.”
For a reason that had nothing to do with temperature, he suspected. He wished he could draw her against his chest, comfort and warm her.
He wouldn’t cross that line.
Even if he could, she wouldn’t let him.
“We have to talk. Quickly. Before the others get here.”
She turned. Met his eyes in question.
“Pogo’s the one,” he said. “We found sketches for the cards Leo received. And for others.”
Her gaze sharpened with interest. Became intent. He sensed her analytical mind kicking in, digesting the facts, categorizing, organizing.
“Tell me about the others,” she said.
“The March Hare. The two playing cards, the Five and Seven of Spades. The Queen of Hearts and Alice. All dead. Their deaths gruesome.”
“And the Cheshire Cat? Was he there?”
He paused, then nodded. “Decapitated, the head floating above its body.”
She pursed her lips. “If the Allen murder is the first in a series, then the people the cards represent will be victims.”
“Yes.”
“Including me.”
“We don’t know that, Stacy. Leo received the first cards, yet he wasn’t the intended victim.”
She agreed, though she didn’t look convinced. The team arrived then. Tony first. The crime-scene van immediately behind. Spencer started toward his partner; she caught his arm, stopping him.
“Why’d you tell me that?”
“You’re in the game now, Stacy. You needed to know.”
CHAPTER 28
Thursday, March 10, 2005
11:30 p.m.
Stacy surveyed her apartment, moving from room to room. The crime-scene techs had just finished. Spencer had followed them out. He hadn’t said goodbye.
She swallowed hard. She had known what to expect, of course. The black powder left by the fingerprint techs, the freshly vacuumed floor-done to pick up any trace evidence-the general sense of chaos.
She hadn’t expected the way it had made her feel. Stripped bare. Violated. She found herself on the other side of the process, once again. And again, it sucked.
Stacy reached the bathroom door. She saw that they had taken her shower curtain, and she curved her arms around her middle. Something about that naked tub hit her hard. She knew what the tub floor looked like. Streaked red, the color deepening with the deoxidization process.
Police collected evidence of a crime.
They didn’t clean up after it.
She crossed to the tub, adjusted the showerhead and turned on the water. It jettisoned out of the head, mixing with the blood, turning it pink.
Washing it away.
She watched it swirl down the drain.
“I’m sorry, Stacy.”
She looked over her shoulder. Spencer hadn’t left. He stood in the doorway, his gaze intent. “For what?”
“The mess. The late hour. That a half dozen strangers just tromped through your house. That some wacko broke in and left you that gruesome gift.”
“None of it is your fault.”
“But I can still be sorry.”
Tears pricked her eyes, and she turned quickly back to the tub. She flipped off the shower, then mopped up the water that had sprayed on the floor. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He hadn’t moved.
“You can go,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“You have a friend you can stay with tonight?”
“No need for that.”
“The door-”
“I’ll nail a board over it. It’ll be good for tonight.” She smiled grimly at his concern. “Besides, I’ve got my old friend Mr. Glock to protect me.”
“You always been such a hard-ass, Killian?”
“Pretty much.” Stacy wrung out the towel and laid it across the edge of the tub. “It made me popular around the DPD. Ball-buster Killian, they called me.”
He didn’t smile at her attempt at humor. She made a sound of exasperation. “He’s not coming back, Malone. He may intend for me to die, but not tonight.”
“Invincible, are you?”
“No. But I’m figuring this guy out. It’s a game. He’s engaging me in a battle of wits. And will. His cat to my mouse. If he’d wanted a quick kill, he would have orchestrated it that way.”
“If you won’t go, I’m staying.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
A part of her was touched by his concern for her. Warmed by it.
But the sensation reminded her of Mac. Her partner and friend. Her lover.
Liar. Betrayer.
He’d broken her heart. And worse.
And the way he’d hurt her.
She steeled herself against the memory and crossed to stand in front of him. She met his eyes. “What are you thinking here? That I’m going to fall apart and need a big strong man? You thinking you’re going to get lucky?” She cocked up her chin. “I’ll save you the rude reality check, Malone. You’re not.”
As she stepped around him, he caught her arm, stopping her. “Nice try. But I’m staying.”
She opened her mouth to argue; he cut her off. “The couch will be fine. No sex required, expected or, frankly, desired.”
Her cheeks heated. She knew he could see the color in them.
“I can’t force you to let me stay, but sleeping in the car will be damn uncomfortable, so I’m asking for mercy. What’s it going to be, Killian?”
She folded her arms across her chest. He would do it, too. The man was more pigheaded than she was, for heaven’s sake. She’d done surveillance detail, and spending the night in a car ranked up there with cold showers and stepping in shit with bare feet.