She held out the phone. “Chief Connor Battard.”
“Chief?”
“Of police, silly. Carmel-by-the-Sea.”
Stacy took the phone, doubly amazed. Did the woman know everyone? “Chief Battard, Stacy Killian. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
“Anything for Billie. How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating a death that occurred three years ago. Dick Danson.”
“Danson’s death, sure I remember it. Drove off Hurricane Point. ’Bout three and a half years ago.”
“I understand the death was classified an accident.”
“A suicide.”
“A suicide,” she repeated, surprised. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely. He had a full propane gas tank in the trunk of his 1995 Porsche Carrerra, another in the back seat. He wanted to do the job well, and he did.”
“A very big boom, I’m guessing.”
“Yup. The trunk in that Porsche is in the front of the car, and there’s nothing but a fire wall between it and the fuel tank. The vehicle hit nose first. The medical examiner identified Danson by his dental records.”
“You didn’t see the body?”
“I saw what was left of it.”
“Can you remember anything unusual about the incident?”
“Other than the propane tanks and the warrant for his arrest, not a thing.”
“A warrant? What for?”
“The case is closed, so I’d be happy to share the file with you. If you and Billie were to make a trip out.”
In other words, give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want.
Mutual cooperation made the world go ’round.
After thanking the man, she handed the phone back to Billie. The two spoke another moment or two, then Billie ended the call.
“And how do you know Chief Battard?” Stacy asked, reholstering the phone.
“I lived there for a few years. Connor’s a sweetie.” She sighed. “He was in love with me.”
Stacy cocked an eyebrow. Weren’t they all? And judging by the man’s response to the call, there was nothing past tense about his feelings for the woman.
“Does he know you’re married?”
Billie lifted a shoulder. “Suspects, I’m sure. I almost always am.”
“Would you like to see him again?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Road trip?”
“I’d like to see that file. He offered it.” Stacy smiled. “Though, he made it clear I wouldn’t be welcome without you.”
“Rocky’s being such a pain in the ass right now, a road trip would be the perfect attitude adjuster.”
CHAPTER 41
Thursday, March 17, 2005
9:00 a.m.
Stacy and Billie quickly put together a travel itinerary. They found nonstop flights to San Francisco for the next day. Billie insisted that they should rent a car there and drive to the Monterey Coast. Waiting for a connection to the tiny regional airport would have taken longer than the two-hour drive. And besides, to miss such a beautiful drive would be a sin.
Especially made in a convertible. Something sleek and European. Or, so said Billie.
Billie believed in traveling in style.
Stacy had decided to make the trip, with or without Leo’s blessing. However, when she’d presented him with her plan, he had not only given her his blessing, he had agreed to pay for the trip.
A good thing, since booking at the last minute had sent the airfare from exorbitant to utterly ridiculous.
Which Billie could easily afford. And Stacy could not.
An exploding credit card was not a pretty sight.
Stacy zipped her carry-on, into which she had stuffed enough for a two-day stay. She quickly scanned the bedroom, then bath to make certain she hadn’t forgotten anything.
That done, she hoisted her bag. As she stepped into the hallway, Stacy glanced left, toward Alice’s room. She thought of her crying the night before. The girl was most likely in class. Acting on instinct, she crossed to the closed door and tapped on it. Clark answered.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” she said, “but could I speak with Alice? It’ll just take a moment.”
He lowered his eyes to her bag, then returned them to hers. “Sure.”
A moment later Alice appeared. “Hey,” she said, not quite meeting Stacy’s eyes.
“I have to go out of town for a couple days. If you need me for anything, call me.” She scrawled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “If you need anything, Alice. I mean that.”
The girl stared at the paper and its scrawled number, throat working. When she lifted her gaze to Stacy’s, her eyes were bright with tears. Without a word, she turned and went back into the schoolroom. As the door swung shut, Clark looked at Stacy.
She met his eyes just before the door closed.
She stood rooted to the spot as the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
The doorbell sounded.
Billie. Stacy paused a moment more, then readjusted the bag and headed down to meet her friend.
Traffic proved to be on their side, and the trip to Louis Armstrong International Airport took just under twenty minutes. A good thing, because unlike her single carry-on, Billie had two bags to check. Big bags.
“What,” Stacy asked, “could you possibly have in there that you’ll need in the next forty-eight hours?”
“My essentials,” the woman answered breezily, smiling at the skycap. The man, ignoring several people in line in front of them, asked if he could help her.
Amazingly, no one complained.
Not so amazingly, the skycap totally ignored Stacy, leaving her to schlep her own bag.
As they proceeded to the gate, her cell phone rang. Stacy saw from the display that it was Malone.
“You going to answer that?” Billie asked.
Was she? If she told him what she was up to, he could skewer her meeting with Chief Battard, Billie or no Billie. All he had to do was claim she was interfering with an active investigation, and the file the chief had offered would be sealed shut.
Besides, this was the first time she had heard from Spencer since Saturday. Clearly, he had cut her out. She was cutting him out, as well.
She smiled to herself. “Nope,” she said, hitting the device’s power button.
CHAPTER 42
Thursday, March 17, 2005
10:25 a.m.
“You filed your taxes yet, Slick?” Tony said as they slammed the car doors and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Crime-scene tape stretched across the front of the ironwork-laced French Quarter apartment building. Located just down the block from two of New Orleans’ most popular gay bars, Oz and the Bourbon Pub and Parade, clusters of men stood around the scene, some crying, some comforting and others stony-faced with fury or shock.
“Nope. Got a month still. I like to wait to the last minute. It’s an act of defiance,” Spencer answered.
“Death and taxes, man. Can’t get around ’em.”
Death would be the reason for this particular tête-à-tête.
Double homicide. Called in by a friend who discovered the bodies.
That would be him, Spencer thought as he caught sight of a man huddled on a bench in the building’s lush courtyard.
Spencer and Tony crossed to the first officer and signed in. The kid looked a bit green.
The two detectives exchanged glances. Not a good sign.
“What’ve we got?”
“Two males.” His voice shook slightly. “One black. One Hispanic. In the bathroom. Been dead awhile.”
“Great,” Tony muttered, digging a bottle of Vicks from his jacket pocket. “Another stinker.”
“How long?” Spencer asked. “Your best guess.”
“A couple of days. But I’m no pathologist.”
“Names?”
“August Wright and Roberto Zapeda. Interior designers. Nobody had seen them for a couple of days, their friend over there was concerned. Came to check on them.”