Killer Takes All (22 page)

Thursday, March 17, 2005
Monterey Coast, California
3:15 p.m.

B
illie hadn’t lied; after they’d gotten out of the city, the drive had been lovely. When they turned off Carmel Way and onto the famous Seventeen Mile Drive, Stacy caught her breath. The curving road, densely forested on both sides, wound its way through the breathtakingly beautiful hilly terrain. That stretch proved short-lived, transforming into a sinuous roadway, lined on both sides by fabulous estates and glimpses of the Pacific Ocean.

Billie’s friend had booked them into the Lodge at Pebble Beach—the Pebble Beach of golf fame—which even Stacy had heard of, though she’d never played golf. Excluding the goofy variety, of course. She’d been pretty damn good at that, championship material, if she said so herself.

Somehow, she didn’t think that’d hold much sway here.

She leaned toward Billie. “What? The local no-tell-motel couldn’t fit us in?”

“Hush,” Billie said as a man hurried toward them. Tall, beautifully dressed and handsome, with silvering temples. The hotel manager, Stacy decided.

“Max, my love,” Billie said as he caught her hands, “thank you so much for making room at the inn.”

“How could I not?” He kissed her cheeks. “You’ve been away too long.”

“And I’ve been despondent every moment of that time.” She smiled. “My dear friend, Stacy Killian. It’s her first visit to the Lodge.”

He greeted her, motioned to the bellman, then turned his attention back to Billie. “Are you planning to golf?”

“Regrettably, no.”

“The pro will be devastated.” The bellman appeared; Max handed Billie over to his care—after he had coaxed her to promise to call if anything didn’t meet her expectations. Anything at all. No matter how small.

After they had been seated in a golf cart modified for passengers and were on their way to their rooms, Stacy looked at Billie. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask me to walk behind the cart.”

Billie laughed. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

“I can’t. Your friend Max, he knows I’m a fraud.”

“A fraud?”

“I don’t belong here.”

“Don’t be silly. If you can pay your bill, you belong.”

“But I can’t.”

“Leo’s paying for you. Same thing.”

She frowned, unconvinced. “You golf?”

“Quite well, actually.”

“I got that impression.” The cart stopped in front of an alcove shielded by a camellia tree covered with pink blossoms. “How well, by the way?”

“I was the U.S. Junior Amateur champion three years running. Gave up the game for love. Eduardo.”

Eduardo. Jeez.

They climbed out of the cart and followed the bellman. They had side-by-side rooms, both accessible from the alcove. The bellman opened Billie’s first—no surprises there—and they stepped inside.

“My God,” Stacy said. The room was large, complete with a sitting area and big stone fireplace. Sliding glass doors led to a shady patio. The pillows on the king-size bed had the look of down.

Billie brought her hands together in girlish delight. “I knew you’d love it!”

How could she not? She might be uncomfortable with wealth and luxury, but she was human, after all.

The bellman opened Stacy’s room, accepted Billie’s exorbitant tip and left them alone.

Stacy took in the room, stopping on the set fireplace, then glanced back at Billie, standing in her doorway, expression pleased. “I don’t want to know what this place costs a night.”

“No, you don’t. But Leo can afford it.”

“This just seems all so…extravagant. And unnecessary. Cops don’t live like this.”

“First off, sweetie, you’re not a cop anymore. Second, extravagance is never unnecessary. I know this. Trust me.”

Before Stacy could argue, she added, “I promised I’d call Connor the minute we’d checked in. Do you mind?”

She didn’t and used the opportunity to go to the bathroom. While there, she checked her cell and found that Malone had tried her again. He hadn’t left a message either time.

When she emerged, she found Billie waiting by the door, expression that of a cat presented with a saucer of cream.

“Good news. He’s free now.”

No surprise there either—the carrot was Billie, for heaven’s sake.

The trip from the Lodge to downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea took less than fifteen minutes, including parking the Jaguar at a meter on Ocean Avenue.

Carmel-by-the-Sea was as picturesque as Stacy had imagined it would be. More so, actually. Like a town out of a fairy tale, but inhabited by humans instead of fairies, elves and hobbits.

As she and Billie strolled up Ocean Avenue, her friend filled her in on all things uniquely Carmel. Billie explained that there were no street addresses in Carmel. Everyone had a post office box that served not only as a place to receive mail, but also as a social hub. Many a piece of news had been shared—then disseminated—from the post office.

“What about ambulances?” Stacy asked, disbelievingly. “Or FedEx deliveries?”

“All done by direction, description or association. For example—” she pointed to Junipero Avenue “—the third house from the corner of Ocean and Junipero.” She pointed toward another. “Or, the house across the street from the Eastwood place on Junipero.”

Stacy shook her head. In today’s high-tech world, it seemed impossible that any community still operated this way.

Stacy glanced at her friend. “By the way, when you say Eastwood, you don’t mean—”

“Clint? Of course I do. He’s a great guy. Very down-to-earth.”

A great guy. Very down-to-earth.
Billie said this as if they were personal acquaintances. Buddies, even.

She wasn’t even going to ask.

They reached police headquarters; the officer at the information desk called the chief, who directed them to his office.

Chief Connor Battard was waiting. A big, handsome man with a head of dark silvering hair, he held his hand out when Billie made the introductions.

Stacy took it. “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Chief Battard.”

“Happy to help.”

Although his words were directed to her, he could hardly take his eyes off Billie.

“As I explained on the phone, I’m looking into Dick Danson’s death.”

“I have the file here. You’re welcome to it.” He slid it across the desk to her. “I’m sorry, but it can’t leave the building.”

Of course. Standard operating procedure.
Stacy didn’t move to pick it up. She preferred to ask questions first. “On the phone, you mentioned a warrant for his arrest. What for?”

“Embezzlement. From a company he was doing game designs for.”

“Think the charge would have stuck?”

“Point’s moot now, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

The chief frowned. “What are you thinking?”

She shook her head, not ready to share her theory. Yet. She wasn’t in the mood to be laughed out of the room.

“How certain are you that it was a suicide?”

“Pretty damn certain. We had a warrant for his arrest. A search of his property turned up, considering the circumstances, the notable lack of an outdoor grill. Or any other device requiring portable propane. Those canisters were in his car for one reason only—to cause a really big explosion.

“He drove off Hurricane Point. Again, in terms of getting things done, he picked the right spot. And most damning, he left a note saying he had nothing to live for.”

“Did your investigation back that up? Did he have financial or emotional problems?”

The chief narrowed his eyes, obviously growing annoyed with her questions. She supposed she didn’t blame him.

“Frankly,” he said, “the case was open and shut. We had a positive ID. A suicide note. And a pending arrest. Danson was seeing a shrink. Let’s just say the man wasn’t shocked by the news. I didn’t see a need to dig deeper. It’s all in the file.”

“Thanks,” she said, disappointed. She’d been so certain she was onto something, now she felt like an idiot. And one who had blown a lot of time and money on an unsound hunch.

Her instincts
had
turned to shit. She picked up the file. “Why don’t you and Billie go catch up. Get dinner. I’ll review the file.”

“Great.” He rubbed his hands together in what Stacy was certain was anticipation of being alone with Billie.

“I’ll get you set up in one of the interrogation rooms.”

Stacy spent the next couple of hours alone with the file, a Coke and bag of corn chips from the vending machine. Long after the chips and a soft drink were history, she was still reading.

And learning little new. Sure, details. Times. But nothing that promoted her hunch.

Dick Danson was dead.

And she’d left Leo and his family alone with a killer.

She called Billie to let her know she was finished. She heard music in the background, people laughing. Connor offered to have one of his officers drive her back to the Lodge.

Apparently, the night was still young.

The officer, a nice young man barely out of his teens, dropped her off at the hotel. She lit the fire, ordered room service and slipped into her robe.

Her cell rang. She saw that it was Malone. Again. This time she answered, ready to grovel if need be. Admit to being a hunch-happy, burned-out, instincts-shot has-been.

She needed to hear his voice.

“Malone.”

“Where are you?”

He sounded tense. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “In California. The Lodge at Pebble Beach.”

A long silence followed. “You’re playing golf?”

She smiled at his obvious confusion. “No. Checking out a hunch. With Billie.”

“Man-eater Billie?”

Funny, she had thought of her that way, too. “The very one.”

“Can-do Killian. Girl Wonder. The hunch?”

“I’ve learned my lesson, actually. My hunches suck.”

He laughed, but the sound was tight. Humorless. “The playing cards are dead—August Wright and Roberto Zapeda. Partners. Professionally and personally.”

“Any connection to Leo?”

“His interior designers.”

“Shit.”

“I’d say. Your boss is knee-deep in it right now.”

“Leo? What—”

“Got to go.”

“No, wait—”

He ended the call. She flipped her cell shut and looked at the crackling fire. All this luxury was wasted on her.

Time to go home.

Friday, March 18, 2005
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
6:30 a.m.

“I’
m not ready to go home,” Billie said, sliding into the Jaguar’s passenger side seat. “I love that room. I love being waited on. I love the coast.”

“Stop whining. You have a business to watch over. Not to mention a husband.”

She made a face. “Rocky’s attitude won’t be changed yet. I need another couple of days for him to really appreciate me.”

From what she’d heard about Rocky St. Martin,
really
appreciating Billie would take more energy than the man had left. Even on a good day.

“Face it,” Stacy said, “the trip was a bust. Not only that, while I was here, living in the lap of luxury, the playing cards turned up dead.”

“Now who’s whining?”

Stacy scowled at her. “Stay if you’d like, I’m going home.”

Billie sighed dramatically, slipped on her sunglasses and leaned her head back against the rest. “Connor will be despondent.”

Stacy angled her a glance as she started the car. “And you?”

“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?”