Killer Takes All

“Wagner just moved in a week ago,” Tony offered. “Poor kid, talk about some bad fuckin’ luck.”

The woman didn’t seem to notice the language, but Spencer winced.

“Robbery doesn’t appear to have been the motive,” Spencer offered, “although her laptop is missing. Neither does rape.”

“What, then?”

Tony stretched his legs out in front of him. “Crystal ball’s not working this morning, Captain.”

“Clever,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt she found it to be anything but. “How about a theory, then? Or is that asking a bit much after only a couple doughnuts?”

Spencer jumped in. “Looks like Finch was killed first. We figure she knew her killer, let him in. Probably killed Wagner because she was there. Of course, it’s speculation so far.”

“Leads?”

“A few. We’re going to pay a visit to the university, the places both women hung out. Talk to their friends, professors. Boyfriends, if any.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Canvas of the neighborhood’s complete,” Spencer continued. “With the exception of the woman who phoned it in, nobody heard a thing.”

“Her story checks out?”

“Seems legit. She’s a former cop. Dallas PD Homicide.”

She frowned slightly. “That so?”

“I’m going to run her through the computer. Call the Dallas PD.” “Do that.”

“Coroner notified the next of kin?” “Done.”

She reached for her phone, signaling their meeting was over. “I don’t like double homicides in my jurisdiction. I like them even less when they’re unsolved. Understood?”

They agreed they did, stood and started toward the door. The captain stopped Spencer before he reached it. “Detective Malone?”

He looked back.

“Watch that temper of yours.”

He flashed her a smile. “Under control, Aunt Patti. Altar boy’s honor.”

As he walked away, he heard her laugh. Probably because she remembered what a total failure he had been as an altar boy.

CHAPTER 5

Monday, February 28, 2005 10:30 a.m.

Spencer stepped into Café Noir. The scent of coffee and baking cookies hit him hard. It’d been a long time since breakfast—a sausage biscuit from a drive-thru window just as the sun cracked the horizon.

He just didn’t get the whole coffeehouse thing. Three bucks for a cup of fancy coffee with a foreign-sounding name? And what was with the whole tall, grande, supergrande thing? What was wrong with small, medium and large? Or even extra large? Who did they think they were fooling?

He’d made the mistake of ordering an americano once. Thought it would be a good, old-fashioned cup of American coffee. It had proved to be anything but.

Shots of espresso and water. Tasted like burned piss.

He decided to save his money and wait until he got back to HQ for a cup. Glancing around, he saw that from what he knew of coffeehouses, this one was pretty typical. Deep, earthy colors, groupings of comfy, oversize furniture interspersed with tables for conversing or studying. The building, located on a triangular sliver of land called neutral ground in New Orleans, even sported a big old fireplace.

For all the good it would be, he thought. This was New Orleans, after all. Hot and humid, twenty-four/seven, nine months out of twelve.

Spencer crossed to the counter and asked the girl at the cash register for the owner or manager. The girl, who looked to be college-age, smiled and pointed at a tall, willowy blonde restocking the buffet. “The owner.

Billie Bellini.”

He thanked her and crossed to the woman. “Billie Bellini?” he asked.

She turned and looked up at him. She was gorgeous. One of those flawlessly beautiful women who could—and probably did—have their pick of men. The kind of woman one didn’t expect to see managing a coffeehouse.

He’d be a liar or a eunuch to say he was immune, though he could honestly claim she wasn’t his type. Too damn high maintenance for a regular Joe like him.

A smile touched the corners of her full lips. “Yes?” she said.

“Detective Spencer Malone. NOPD,” he said as he flashed his badge.

One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Detective? How can I help you?”

“You know a woman named Cassie Finch?”

“I do. She’s one of the regulars.”

“A regular. What exactly does that mean?”

“That she spends a lot of time in here. Everybody knows her.” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Why?”

He ignored her question and asked another of his own. “How about Beth Wagner?”

“Cassie’s roommate? Not really. She was in once. Cassie introduced us.”

“What about Stacy Killian?”

“Also a regular. They’re friends. But I suspect you already know that.”

Spencer dropped his gaze. The fourth finger of her left hand sported a major rock and a diamond studded gold band. That didn’t surprise him.

“When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

Concern leaped into her eyes. “What is this in reference to?” she asked. “Is Cassie okay?”

“Cassie Finch is dead, Ms. Bellini. She was murdered.”