Free Killer Takes All by Erica Spindler

eyes slightly. Maybe too damn smart for her own good.

    Tony ambled over. He followed the direction of Spencer’s gaze. “The prickly Ms. Killian give you anything?”

    “Besides a headache? No.” He looked at his partner. “How about you? Anybody jump out?”

    “Nope. But that doesn’t mean the bastard wasn’t here.”

    Spencer nodded, turning his attention back to Stacy. She stood with Cassie’s mother and sister. As he watched, she clasped the older woman’s hand, leaned close. She said something to her, expression almost fierce.

    He swung back toward his partner. “I suggest we keep an eye on Stacy Killian.”

    “You think she knows something she’s not telling?”

    About Cassie’s murder, he didn’t. But he did believe she had the ability and determination to uncover information they needed. And in a way that might attract attention. The wrong kind. “I think she’s too smart for her own good.”

    “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. She just might solve this thing for us.”

    “Or get herself killed.” He met the older man’s eyes once more. “I want to follow up the White Rabbit angle.”

    “What changed your mind?”

    Killian. Her brains.

    And her balls.

    But he wasn’t about to tell Tony that; he’d hear never-ending shit about it.

    Instead, he shrugged. “Nowhere else to go. Might as well.”

CHAPTER
12

    Thursday, March 3, 2005
3:50 p.m.

    “T his is it,” Spencer said, indicating the Esplanade Avenue mansion Leonardo Noble called home. “Pull over.”

    Tony did, whistling long and low. “It appears there’s big money in fun and games.”

    Spencer grunted a response, eyes on the Noble residence. He’d done a search and discovered that Leonardo Noble, White Rabbit’s creator, did indeed live in New Orleans. He’d also learned the man had no priors, no outstandings, not so much as an unpaid parking ticket.

    That didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty as hell. Only that if he was, he was smart enough to get away with it.

    They crossed to the wrought-iron gate and let themselves through. No dogs barked. No alarms went off. He glanced at the house; not a burglar bar on even one window.

    Obviously Noble felt safe. Risky in a marginal neighborhood like this one, especially with such obvious wealth.

    They rang the bell and a woman in a black dress and crisp white apron answered. They introduced themselves and asked to see Leonardo Noble. In a matter of moments, a forty-something-looking man with an athletic build and a head of wild, wavy hair hurried out to greet them.

    He held out a hand. “Leonardo Noble. How can I help you?”

    Spencer shook his hand. “Detective Malone. My partner, Detective Sciame. NOPD.”

    He looked at them expectantly, eyebrows raised in question.

    “We’re investigating the murder of a UNO coed.”

    “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

    “You haven’t told me anything yet, Mr. Noble.”

    The man laughed. “I’m sorry, I already spoke with your associate. Detective Killian. Stacy Killian.”

    It took a second for the man’s words to register and a split second more for Spencer’s temper to flare. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Noble. But you’ve been duped, there is no Stacy Killian at the NOPD.”

    The man stared at them, expression confused. “But I spoke with her. Yesterday.”

    “Did she show you her—”

    “Leo,” a woman said from behind them, “what’s going on?”

    Spencer turned. A beautiful, dark-haired woman crossed to stand beside Leonardo Noble.

    “Kay, Detectives Malone and Sciame. My business manager, Kay Noble.”

    She shook both their hands, smiling warmly. “His ex-wife as well, Detectives.”

    Spencer returned her smile. “That would explain the name.”

    “Yes, I suppose so.”

    The inventor cleared his throat. “They say the woman who was here the other day wasn’t a police officer at all.”

    She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

    “Did she show you a badge,