Читать книгу Killer Takes All - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 14

Tuesday, March 1, 2005 1:40 p.m.

Spencer’s lunch, a hot roast beef po’boy from Mother’s Restaurant, grew cold on the desk in front of him. At first Bobby Gautreaux had been defiant. He’d tossed a shitload of bad attitude their way—until they pointed out the bull’s-eye photograph. Then the defiance had become trepidation, which had transformed into pasty-faced terror when they’d announced they were taking him in for further questioning.

On the strength of Cassie Finch’s friends’ statements and the incriminating photographs, they’d requested a search warrant for Gautreaux’s dorm room and car. Unlike in some states, Louisiana police were required to officially charge a suspect to hold him. With the exception of drug cases, which had to be expedited in twenty-four hours, they then had thirty days to submit their case to the D.A.’s office.

Unless the search yielded something stronger, they’d be forced to release him.

“Yo, Slick.” Tony ambled over, then settled his large frame into the chair in front of the desk.

“Pasta Man. How’s the kid doing?”

“Not well. Pacing. Looking like he’s going to puke.”

“He ask for a lawyer?”

“Called daddy. Daddy’s getting one.” He eyed the sandwich. “You going to eat that?” “You didn’t get lunch?”

He made a face. “Rabbit food. A salad with fat-free dressing.”

“Betty’s got you on another diet.”

“For my own good, she says. She can’t understand why I’m not losing weight.”

Spencer cocked an eyebrow. Judging by the powdered sugar on the front of his partner’s shirt, he’d hit the doughnuts again this morning. “I’m thinking it could be the Krispy Kremes. I could call her and—”

“Do and die, Junior.”

Spencer laughed, suddenly starving. He pulled his sandwich closer and made a great show of taking a large bite. Gravy and mayonnaise oozed out the sides of the French bread.

“You’re a nasty little prick, you know that?”

He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. “Yeah, I know. But never say little and prick in the same sentence, it’s just not cool. At least when you’re talking to a guy.”

Tony laughed loudly. A couple of the other guys glanced their way. “What do you think about Gautreaux?” “Besides the fact that he’s a spoiled punk?” “Yeah, besides that.”

Spencer hesitated. “He’s a good suspect.” “I’m hearing a ‘but’ in your voice.” “It’s too easy.”

“Easy’s good, pal. It’s a gift. Take it with a ‘Thank you, God’ and a smile.”

Spencer moved aside the sandwich to access the file folder beneath it. Inside were the toxicology and autopsy reports on Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Notes from the scene. Photographs. Names of family, friends and acquaintances.

Spencer motioned to the folder. “Autopsy confirmed the bullet killed her. No sign of sexual assault or other body trauma. Nails were clean. She never saw it coming. Pathologist set the TOD at 11:45 p.m.”

“Toxicology?”

“No alcohol or drugs.”

“Stomach contents?”

Spencer flipped open the file. “Nothing significant.” Tony leaned back in the chair; the frame creaked. “Trace?”

Spencer knew he referred to trace evidence. “Some fiber and hair. Lab’s got it now.”

“The shooter deliberately offed her,” Tony said. “It fits with Gautreaux.”

“But why would he openly stalk and threaten her, kill her, then leave such damning evidence tacked to his bulletin board?”

“Because he’s stupid.” Tony leaned toward him. “Most of ‘em are. If they weren’t, we’d be in a world of hurt.”

“She let him in. It was late. Why would she do that if she was as frightened of him as her friends have claimed?”

“Maybe she was stupid, too.” Tony glanced away, then back. “You’ll learn, Slick. Mostly, the bad guys are stupid brutes and the victims are naive, trusting fools. And that’s what gets ‘em whacked. Sad but true.”

“And Gautreaux took the computer because he sent her love letters or angry threats.”

“You got it, my friend. In Homicide, what you see is likely what you’re gonna get. We keep the pressure on Gautreaux and hope the lab results give us a direct link between him and the victim.”

“Open and shut,” Spencer said, reaching for his po’boy. “Just the way we like it.”