“Says you.”

“Consider this, Stacy. The drawings we recovered from Pogo’s, there were drawings of all the major characters, except the King of Hearts. What do you think that means?”

That he was a better cop than she had given him credit for.

She decided to defy logic, anyway. “Perhaps the artist simply hadn’t started that drawing.”

“That’s bullshit. And you know it. No drawing means the King of Hearts’ death wasn’t predestined. Because he’s the killer.”

It all made sense. Perfect sense. Why couldn’t she buy into it?

“Leo’s on Gallery 124’s mailing list,” he added. “Put on about the time of Pogo’s show.”

No wonder they had been closing in on Leo, even before Kay disappeared. “What about Cassie? What’s the connection there?”

“There’s not,” he said flatly. “We arrested Bobby Gautreaux this morning. We charged him with the three UNO rapes. And plan to charge him with Cassie Finch’s and Beth Wagner’s murders soon.”

She caught her breath. “On what evidence?”

“DNA. He left a hair at the scene. We swabbed him and got a match. I checked it against the blood your attacker left in the library-”

“And got a match,” she finished for him.

“Yup. From the blood left there…and the semen from the rapes.”

He took a swallow of his beer. “In addition, he left a print at the Finch and Wagner scene. He threatened and stalked Cassie. We found her hair on his clothing. And he warned you to keep your nose out of the investigation.”

She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Bobby Gautreaux had been the one who attacked her. He was a serial rapist. And he’d left solid physical evidence tying himself to the murder scene. It was shaping up to be a strong case.

She was glad. Relieved.

Her goal had been to ensure Cassie’s killer would be caught.

But it didn’t feel right. Why?

“What’s he saying?” she asked.

“That he’s innocent. That he was there that night, but he didn’t kill her. What he whispered in your ear, you were correct about it. He was warning you to keep your nose out of the investigation. Because he’d been there. But he claims he didn’t kill either of the women.”

Same thing they all said. “Why’d he go to Cassie’s that night?”

“Wanted to talk to her. About their relationship.”

“They had no relationship. They hadn’t in nearly a year.”

“Of course they didn’t. He’s lying. That’s what snakes like Bobby Gautreaux do. What was he supposed to tell me, he went there to murder her?”

“You think he went there intending to kill her?”

“I like it. With intent means the state can go for murder one.”

“Find the weapon?”

He frowned slightly. “No.”

She took a long drink of her warming beer. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“This doesn’t change my thoughts on Leo’s inno-”

“Maybe this will.” He took a step toward her. “Remember how I accused Leo of creating an elaborate smoke screen to get away with killing his wife? That after meeting you, he handpicked you to help him?”

“How could I forget?”

He took another step closer. “He’s writing a screenplay, Stacy. About a game inventor who receives threatening cards depicting the deaths of characters from his most famous creation.”

She felt as if Spencer had punched her.

“You’re in the story, Stacy,” he said softly, crossing to stand behind her. “The emotionally wounded ex-cop who’s running from her past.”

Leo had manipulated her from the get-go.

The past was repeating itself.

She turned away from him, crossed to the window, stared out at the darkness. What? Did she have a sign on her forehead proclaiming Easy Mark. Stupid, Gullible Fool?

“And ultimately,” he continued, “she can’t resist the inventor’s charms and falls willingly into his arms-”

“Stop it, Spencer.” She whirled to face him. “Just shut up.”

She held his gaze, even as she struggled to keep what he was saying in perspective. To fit all the pieces of the puzzle together, including this one.

Struggling to separate herself from the feeling of betrayal threatening to strangle her.

Leo had been writing a screenplay. The whole time. He’d planned this, used her.

“You uncovered it in today’s search.”

It wasn’t a question; he answered, anyway. “Yes. Locked in his desk.”

“You questioned him about it?”

“Yes. Claimed he just started it. That he recognized its ‘narrative potential.’”

That’s what Leo’s guilty expression had been about tonight. The reason why he had avoided meeting her eyes and shifted uncomfortably.

“Narrative potential,” she repeated, hearing the bitter edge in her own voice. “People are dying.”

“For a brilliant man,” Spencer said softly, “he sure is stupid.”

“Leaving such potentially damning evidence hardly seems the work of a supergenius, does it?”

“Stupid to cross such a smart, beautiful woman,” he corrected.

She made a sound of pain. “I surely don’t feel either of those things right now. Try gullible idiot.”

Several moments passed. He swore, then cupped her face in his palms. “Strong. Smart. Determined.”

As she gazed at him, something inside her turned over. Or opened up. Without pausing to think it through, she kissed him. After a moment, she broke the contact. “I thought you wouldn’t make a pass at me because I’d kick your ass?”

“You made the pass. All ass-kicking is off.”

Stacy smiled. “I can live with that.”

CHAPTER 52

Saturday, March 19, 2005

7:15 a.m.

Stacy awakened early. She moaned, stretched and realized in a galvanizing jolt where she was. And what she had done.

Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.

What was wrong with her?

She cracked open her eyes. Spencer lay next to her-sleeping. He’d half kicked off the blanket and she saw that he was naked. Gloriously, fabulously naked.

She squeezed her eyes shut. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his bedroom abilities. The man was so hot, he could melt butter on his backside.

What had he thought about her?

No. She didn’t care what he thought. Last night had been a big, stupid mistake. Another to add to her fast-growing list of screwups.

Once upon a time, she had been so smart. So capable.

She could barely remember what that had been like.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slid toward the edge of the bed. She figured she could slide off it, gather up her stuff and get out before he woke up.

That’d give her time to prepare her “let’s forget this ever happened” speech.

She eased toward the edge. The angle at which she lay facilitated a head-and-hands-first escape. Her hands found the floor; her torso eased over the side.

As she prepared to make her final descent, his hand clamped around her ankle, trapping her.

Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.

He was awake. And here she was, hanging half off the bed. Naked. Backside up.

“Could you let me go, please?” she managed to say.

“Do I have to?” She heard the amusement in his voice and grimaced. “The view’s spectacular.”

“Thanks. But yes, you do.”

“Pretty please?”

She groaned and he let her go. She slid off the bed, landing in an inelegant heap.

He leaned over the side of the bed and smirked at her. “Moving mighty quietly this morning, Killian. Tired? Too sore to stand?”

Her face heated. “I was just heading…going to-”

“The bathroom.”

“Home.”

“Sneaking out without so much as a goodbye? Or a thanks for the good time? Tacky, Killian. Extremely.”

She yanked the sheet free, wrapped it around her and stood. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”