“I love my husband.”

She said it as if she meant it, and Stacy felt her mouth drop in surprise.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…I-”

“Thought I’d married him for his money? Because he’s so much older than I am? Why would I do that? I have money of my own.”

“Sorry,” Stacy murmured, easing away from the curb, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t. But if I’m going to be monogamous, which I am, at least give me credit for it.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Thank you.” She sighed again. “Damn, I’m going to miss the coast.”

Shaking her head, Stacy opened her cell, punched in Malone’s number.

He answered right away. “Malone here.”

“I’m on my way to the airport.”

“Miss me that much, do you?”

“What did you mean about Leo being hip deep in-”

“That was knee-deep. As in looking guilty as hell.”

“Leo guilty? That’s not right.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” His voice took on an edge. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! How good’s the evidence?”

“Let’s put it this way, doll. By the time you touch down in Louisiana, you may be unemployed.”

He ended the call, and she frowned. “That’s wrong.”

“What?” Billie asked.

“Malone says they’ve got evidence that Leo’s guilty.”

“Of what? Really bad hair?”

“I like his hair.”

“You do not!” Billie faced her, aghast. “He looks like he stuck a finger in an electrical socket.”

“Does not. It’s all crazy and windblown. Like a surfer’s.”

“Or a deranged killer’s-”

Billie bit the word back, realizing how inappropriate it was in light of the situation. “Bad hair or not, the man seems pretty harmless to me.”

“Me, too.”

Stacy fell silent. She glanced at the clock on the Jag’s dash and swore. She needed to speak to Chief Battard, ASAP. “You don’t happen to know Connor’s home number?”

“Sure I do. Have it right here in my cell.”

“Could you call him? I need to ask one last question. I think it’s important.”

Billie did as she asked; several moments later Stacy greeted the sleepy-sounding police chief. “I apologize for calling so early, but I have one last question. I didn’t see the answer in the file.”

“Shoot,” he said, yawning.

“What was Danson’s dentist’s name? Do you remember?”

“Sure,” he said. “Dr. Mark Carlson. Great guy.”

She glanced at the Jag’s dashboard clock. They had plenty of time until their flight; even with the drive and returning the rental car. Enough, anyway, for a quick call on a dentist. “Do you think there’s any way I could speak with him before I leave?”

“It’d be damn difficult, Ms. Killian. Dr. Mark’s dead. He was killed during a robbery.”

“When?”

“Last year.” He paused. “It was Carmel’s only murder in 2004. We never solved it.”

A moment later, Stacy ended the call. “Gotcha, asshole,” she said, pulling off the road to turn around.

“What?”

“Remember when you told me you’d always wanted to be a spy?” Billie turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You bet I do.”

“How would you feel about spending a few more days in paradise?”

CHAPTER 45

Friday, March 18, 2005

New Orleans

9:10 a.m.

Spencer tapped on his aunt’s hospital room door. He heard her inside, giving her doctor a tongue-lashing. He bit back a smile. She was insisting the man release her. Demanding to speak to someone with more authority. Someone who had actually earned a medical degree.

To the physician’s credit, he kept his cool. In fact, he actually sounded pleased.

Spencer stepped into the room. “’Morning, Aunt Patti,” he said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I’m telling this quack-”

“Dr. Fontaine,” the man said, stepping forward, hand out.

They shook hands. “Detective Spencer Malone. Patient’s nephew, godson and ISD whipping boy.”

She glared at him. She looked good, he thought. Healthy and strong. He told her so.

“Of course I’m healthy. As fit as a fiddle.”

“You want me to bust you out of here?” he asked her.

“God, yes.”

The physician shook his head, amused. “Soon, Patti, I promise.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

The moment the doctor had left the room, she ordered Spencer to pull up a chair and sit. She wanted news.

“Remember Bobby Gautreaux, the suspect in the Finch homicide?”

“Sure, kid was a worm.”

“The very one.” A smile tugged at Spencer’s mouth. “DNA came back this morning. The hair we found on Finch’s T-shirt was his.”

“Excellent.”

“There’s more. Cross-referenced the results against blood taken from the attack on Stacy Killian at the UNO library and got ourselves a solid match.”

She opened her mouth as if to question him more; he held up a hand, stopping her. “It gets better. They ran the results against the semen samples taken from the three UNO rape victims. Solid matches all.”

She looked pleased. “Good work.”

He thought so, too. “Stacy Killian was convinced the guy who attacked her was warning her away from poking her nose into the Finch investigation. That works now.”

“You didn’t buy it then.”

“We didn’t have the DNA link to Gautreaux then.”

She nodded. “You said she nailed him pretty good with the pen. He should still have the wound.”

“He does. Which we photographed, of course. In terms of the Finch and Wagner homicides, throw in his print from the scene, the strand of Finch’s hair we collected from his clothing and the threats he had made against the woman, we’ve got ourselves a compelling case.”

Mr. Gautreaux was going to spend the remainder of his youth behind bars.

“I agree. But you’re holding on the murder charge and moving forward on the rapes.”

He smiled. “You got it. Because of the serial nature of his crimes, the judge will deny bail, and we can take our sweet time amassing the evidence to put him away for murder one.”

She murmured her agreement. “No sense setting the judicial clock ticking until we have to. Is he in custody yet?”

“Being processed as we speak.”

“Good. What about the White Rabbit case?”

“The playing cards are dead.”

“I heard. Leads?”

“Working on one. The game inventor.”

“Keep me posted.” She sighed and glanced at the wall clock. “Damn, I’m ready to get out of here.”

“It won’t be much longer. How’s Uncle Sammy doing without you?”

“Eating pizza every night, the idiot. He’ll be in here with a clogged artery next.”

Chuckling, Spencer stood, bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll stop by later.”

“Wait.” She caught his hand. “Any trouble for you? Personally?”

He knew what she meant-had he heard from PID?

He shook his head. “No. Tony’s asked around, nobody’s heard anything. But I have this sensation at the back of my neck, like hot breath.”

She nodded, understanding. “By the book, Malone. Not one finger out of line.”

He saluted and headed out. As he stepped off the elevator on the first floor, his cell rang. He checked the display, saw that it was Tony.

“Pasta Man.”

“Where are you?”

“Just left Aunt Patti. Heading downtown now.”

“Don’t bother. Head for the Noble place instead.”

He stopped. The sensation at the back of his neck grew stronger. “What’s up?”

“Kay Noble’s missing.”