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.”

You might not be so full of shit after all.

Did Malone believe her? Or was he simply tossing her a bone to shut her up?

I wouldn’t make a pass at you, Killian. You’d kick my ass.

The comment bothered her. Was she that intimidating? That much of a hard-ass? Somewhere along the line had she lost the ability to be approachable?

“Ball-buster Killian,” her DPD colleagues had called her. It appeared she was moving up in the world-she was an ass-kicker now. What next? Gut-crusher?

“Hello, Detective Killian.”

Stacy looked up. Leonardo Noble was headed across Café Noir for her table, in one hand a plate with a scone, in the other a cup of coffee. “I’m not a detective,” she said as he reached her. “But I suspect you already know that.”

Without asking if he could join her, he set his cup and plate on the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “But you are,” he said. “Homicide. Ten years with the Dallas force. Distinguished a number of times, including this past fall. You resigned in January to pursue a graduate degree in English literature.”

“All true,” she said. “You have a point?”

He ignored her question and took a leisurely sip of his coffee. “If not for you, your sister would be dead and her killer free. Her husband would no doubt be rotting in prison right now, and you’d be-”

She cut him off. She didn’t need to be reminded of where she would be. Or how close Jane had come to dying. “Enough with the dossier, Mr. Noble. I lived it. Once was enough.”

He sampled the scone, made a sound of pleasure, then returned his attention to her. “It’s incredible how much you can learn about someone these days with little more than a few keystrokes.”

“Now you know all about me. Bully for you.”

“Not all.” He leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. “Why, after all those years as a cop, did you resign? From what I read, seemed like you were born to do the job.”

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?

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read. Besides, that would be my business, not yours.” She made a sound of irritation. “Look, I’m sorry you got the wrong idea the other day. I didn’t mean to-”