“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.”
CHAPTER 30
Friday, March 11, 2005
9:20 a.m.
Stacy awakened to the sound of the toilet flushing. Spencer. Moaning, she rolled onto her side to see the clock. She stared at the numbers a moment, struggling to think.
Today was Friday. Malone’s shift probably started around 7:30 a.m., standard for most P.D.’s detective units.
She flopped onto her back. What did she have today? Professor Schultze’s class. Introduction to Graduate Studies in English. About as exciting as watching grass grow.
She might as well head back to Texas. She was probably going to be booted out of grad school.
Stacy stared at the ceiling. A long crack ran diagonally across it, nearly from corner to corner. Should she? Tuck tail and run back to Dallas?
And do what? She’d given up her job. Sold her house. She could move in with Jane and Ian for a couple of weeks, then what? And to what end?
She believed what she had told Spencer, that the White Rabbit would follow her. That he not only knew her identity, but that he knew her. She based that belief on nothing but her gut-and what she had been told about the game.
Who was the White Rabbit? Why was he playing the game? Most murders were motivated by love or hate, by greed, by a desire for revenge or jealousy.
The serial killer, on the other hand, was a different animal. He usually preyed on strangers; he killed to fulfill some sick need within himself.
Who were they dealing with? And why had she been included in his game?
For a specific reason, she was certain. One other than the fact that she had poked her nose into what he considered his private business. She interested him. He wanted to play with her.
Hide and seek. Cat and mouse.
She frowned and sat up, her head filling with the image of the beheaded cat. Its obscene grin.
Was she the cat? Stacy brought a hand to her throat. Did he mean for her to die in that gruesome way?
If the Allen murder set the pattern for more to come, the answer to that question was yes.
They needed to get into his head, Stacy acknowledged. Figure out what made him tick.
There was only one way to do that: play the game.
She scrambled out of bed and slipped into her robe before heading to the kitchen. She found Spencer, his back to her, making coffee.
She gazed at him a moment, remembering her tears of the night before, wondering what he thought of her now. If he would be able to take her seriously.
Like a dope, she had revealed how badly the White Rabbit’s visit had shaken her. How upset she was.
She’d revealed that she was a big fake. Hard as nails Stacy Killian was like one of those Tootsie Roll Pops-hard shell, soft, chewy center.
Once a guy knew the center could be chewed, that’s what they did. Chewed you up and spit you out. Or swallowed you, bite by bite. Goodbye respect. Goodbye self-esteem.
She had been down this road before. It didn’t lead anywhere she wanted to go.
Though Malone seemed different. He could be funny. And kind. Certainly not the Bubba she had first pegged him to be.
Which meant exactly nothing. Cops were off-limits, period.