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Authors: Erica Spindler
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their last respects to Cassie and Beth. It had been filled to overflowing.
Spencer shook off crushing fatigue. He had made the mistake of meeting some friends at Shannon’s the night before. One thing had led to another and he’d closed the place at 2:00 a.m.
He was paying the price today. Big time.
He forced himself to focus on the rows of faces. Stacy Killian, expression stony, accompanied by Billie Bellini. The members of Cassie’s game group, all of whom he had spoken with, Beth’s friends and family as well. Bobby Gautreaux.
He found that interesting. Very interesting.
The kid had acted remorseless a couple of days ago; now he presented the picture of despair.
Despairing over the fate of his own ass, no doubt.
The search of his car and dorm room hadn’t turned up a direct link—yet. The crime-lab guys were working their way through the hundreds of prints and trace lifted from the scene. He wasn’t giving up on Gautreaux. The kid was the best they had so far.
From across the room he caught the eye of Mike Benson, one of his fellow detectives. Spencer nodded slightly at Benson and pushed away from the wall. He followed the students out into the bright, cool day.
Tony had been stationed out front during the service. Police photographers with telephoto lenses had been planted, capturing the faces of all the mourners on film, a record they would cross-reference against any suspects.
Spencer moved his gaze over the group. If not Gautreaux, was the real killer here? Watching? Secretly excited? Reliving Cassie’s death? Or was he amused? Laughing at them, congratulating himself on his cleverness?
He didn’t have a sense either way. No one stood out. No one looked like they didn’t belong.
Frustration licked at him. A feeling of inadequacy. Ineptitude.
Damn it, he didn’t belong in charge of this. He felt like he was drowning.
Stacy separated herself from friends and crossed to him. He nodded at her, slipping into the good ol’ boy role that fit him so well. “’Morning, former-cop Killian.”
“Save the charm for somebody else, Malone. I’m beyond it.”
“That so, Ms. Killian? Down here we call it manners.”
“In Texas we call it bullshit. I know why you’re here, Detective. I know what you’re looking for. Anybody stand out?”
“No. But I didn’t know all her friends. Anyone jump out at you?”
“No.” She made a sound of frustration. “Except for Gautreaux.”
He followed her glance. The young man stood just outside the circle of friends. The man beside him, Spencer knew, was his lawyer. It seemed to Spencer the kid was working damn hard to look devastated.
“That his lawyer with him?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“I thought maybe the little weasel would be in jail.”
“We don’t have enough to charge him. But we’re still looking.”
“You got a search warrant?”
“Yes. We’re still waiting on print and trace reports from the lab.”
Part of her had hoped for better: the weapon or some other incontrovertible evidence. She glanced at the young man, then back at Spencer. She was angry, he saw. “He’s not sorry,” she said. “He’s acting all broken up, but he’s not. That pisses me off.”
He touched her arm lightly. “We’re not going to give up, Stacy. I promise you.”
“You really expect me to be reassured by that?” She looked away, then back. “You know what I told the bereaved friends and family of every victim I ever worked? That I wouldn’t give up. I promised. But it was bullshit. Because there was always another case. Another victim.”
She leaned toward him, voice tight with emotion, eyes bright with unshed tears. “This time I’m not giving up.”
She turned and walked away. He watched her go, reluctant admiration pulling at him. She was a hard-ass, no doubt about it. Determined to a fault. Pushy. Cocky in a way few women were, down here, anyway.
And smart. He’d give her that.
Spencer narrowed his
Spencer shook off crushing fatigue. He had made the mistake of meeting some friends at Shannon’s the night before. One thing had led to another and he’d closed the place at 2:00 a.m.
He was paying the price today. Big time.
He forced himself to focus on the rows of faces. Stacy Killian, expression stony, accompanied by Billie Bellini. The members of Cassie’s game group, all of whom he had spoken with, Beth’s friends and family as well. Bobby Gautreaux.
He found that interesting. Very interesting.
The kid had acted remorseless a couple of days ago; now he presented the picture of despair.
Despairing over the fate of his own ass, no doubt.
The search of his car and dorm room hadn’t turned up a direct link—yet. The crime-lab guys were working their way through the hundreds of prints and trace lifted from the scene. He wasn’t giving up on Gautreaux. The kid was the best they had so far.
From across the room he caught the eye of Mike Benson, one of his fellow detectives. Spencer nodded slightly at Benson and pushed away from the wall. He followed the students out into the bright, cool day.
Tony had been stationed out front during the service. Police photographers with telephoto lenses had been planted, capturing the faces of all the mourners on film, a record they would cross-reference against any suspects.
Spencer moved his gaze over the group. If not Gautreaux, was the real killer here? Watching? Secretly excited? Reliving Cassie’s death? Or was he amused? Laughing at them, congratulating himself on his cleverness?
He didn’t have a sense either way. No one stood out. No one looked like they didn’t belong.
Frustration licked at him. A feeling of inadequacy. Ineptitude.
Damn it, he didn’t belong in charge of this. He felt like he was drowning.
Stacy separated herself from friends and crossed to him. He nodded at her, slipping into the good ol’ boy role that fit him so well. “’Morning, former-cop Killian.”
“Save the charm for somebody else, Malone. I’m beyond it.”
“That so, Ms. Killian? Down here we call it manners.”
“In Texas we call it bullshit. I know why you’re here, Detective. I know what you’re looking for. Anybody stand out?”
“No. But I didn’t know all her friends. Anyone jump out at you?”
“No.” She made a sound of frustration. “Except for Gautreaux.”
He followed her glance. The young man stood just outside the circle of friends. The man beside him, Spencer knew, was his lawyer. It seemed to Spencer the kid was working damn hard to look devastated.
“That his lawyer with him?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“I thought maybe the little weasel would be in jail.”
“We don’t have enough to charge him. But we’re still looking.”
“You got a search warrant?”
“Yes. We’re still waiting on print and trace reports from the lab.”
Part of her had hoped for better: the weapon or some other incontrovertible evidence. She glanced at the young man, then back at Spencer. She was angry, he saw. “He’s not sorry,” she said. “He’s acting all broken up, but he’s not. That pisses me off.”
He touched her arm lightly. “We’re not going to give up, Stacy. I promise you.”
“You really expect me to be reassured by that?” She looked away, then back. “You know what I told the bereaved friends and family of every victim I ever worked? That I wouldn’t give up. I promised. But it was bullshit. Because there was always another case. Another victim.”
She leaned toward him, voice tight with emotion, eyes bright with unshed tears. “This time I’m not giving up.”
She turned and walked away. He watched her go, reluctant admiration pulling at him. She was a hard-ass, no doubt about it. Determined to a fault. Pushy. Cocky in a way few women were, down here, anyway.
And smart. He’d give her that.
Spencer narrowed his
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