Killer Takes All

Praise for the bestselling novels of

ERICA SPINDLER

‘Suspenseful.’

—Publishers Weekly on All Fall Down

‘… a classic confrontation between

good and evil.’ —Publishers Weekly on Dead Run

‘… solid characters,

a great setting and a really good plot …’ —Globe and Mail on Dead Run

‘Spindler’s latest moves fast and takes no

prisoners. An intriguing look into the twisted mind of someone for whom murder is simply a business.’ —Publishers Weekly on Cause for Alarm

Readers will ‘be chilled … and pulled

inexorably onward by the question of the whodunit.’ —Publishers Weekly on In Silence.

Kiler Takes All

Erica Spindler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Thanks to all who helped in the completion of Killer Takes All, giving generously and enthusiastically of their time and expertise. I’d especially like to acknowledge:

Michelle Kraus, owner of Gamer’s Conclave, for making sense of the world of role-playing games. Your patience with this novice was astounding; thank you!

Judy Midgley, CRS Coldwell Banker Realty, Carmel-by-the-Sea, California for taking an entire day to show me properties from Carmel-by-the-Sea to Monterey. It was as fun as it was informative! Thanks, Judy!

Warren “Pete” Poitras, Detective Sergeant, City of Carmel-by-the-Sea Police Department, for the time, tour and insights; all were highly appreciated.

Thanks also to Frank Minyard, MD, Orleans Parish Coroner; Colonel Mary Baldwin Kennedy, Director of Communications, Orleans Parish Criminal Sheriff’s Office; NOPD Captain Roy Shakelford; Jason Blitz, Munchen Motors and John Lord, Jr, Arms Merchant, LLC.

In addition, thanks to those who make every day a good day: my agent Evan Marshall, my editor Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA crew, my assistants Rajean Schulze and Kari Williams. And last but always first, my family and my God.

Also by Erica Spindler

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE DEAD RUN BONE COLD ALL FALL DOWN CAUSE FOR ALARM SHOCKING PINK FORTUNE FORBIDDEN FRUIT RED

Monday, February 28, 2005 1:30 a.m.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Stacy Killian opened her EYES, FULLy awake. The sound that had awakened her came again.

Pop. Pop.

Gunshots.

She sat up and, in one fluid movement, swung her legs over the side of the bed and went for the Glock .40 that waited in the drawer of her nightstand. Ten years of police work had conditioned her to react to that particular sound without hesitation.

Stacy checked the gun’s magazine, crossed to the window and inched aside the drape. The moon illuminated the deserted yard. Several spindly trees, dilapidated swing set, dog pen minus Caesar, her neighbor Cassie’s Labrador retriever puppy. No sound. No movement.

Padding silently on bare feet, Stacy made her way out of the bedroom, into the adjoining study, weapon out. She rented one half of a hundred-year-old shotgun double, a style of home made popular in the era before air-conditioning.

Stacy swung left, then right, taking in every detail: the stacks of research books for the paper she was writing on Shelley’s “Mont Blanc,” her open laptop computer, the half-drunk bottle of cheap red wine. The shadows. Their depth, stillness.

As she expected, each room in the house proved a repeat of the last. The sound that had awakened her had not come from inside her apartment.

She reached the front door, eased it open and stepped out onto the front porch. The sagging wood creaked beneath her feet, the only sound on the otherwise deserted street. She shivered as the wet, chilly night enveloped her.

The neighborhood appeared to be asleep. Few lights shone from windows or porches. Stacy scanned the street. She noted several unfamiliar vehicles, which wasn’t unusual for an area inhabited mostly by university students. All the vehicles appeared empty.

Stacy stood in the shadow of her front door, listening to the silence. Suddenly, from nearby, came the sound of a trash barrel toppling over. Laughter followed. Kids, she realized. Practicing the urban equivalent of cow tipping.

She frowned. Could that have been the sound that awakened her? Altered by sleep and instincts she no longer trusted?

A year ago such a thought wouldn’t have crossed her mind. But a year ago she’d been a cop, a homicide detective with the Dallas P.D. She’d yet to endure the betrayal that had not only stripped her of her confidence but had galvanized her to act on her growing dissatisfaction with her life and job.

Stacy gripped the Glock firmly. She was already freezing her ass off, she might as well take this thing to its conclusion. She slipped into her muddy gardening clogs that were perched on a rack by the door. She made her way across the porch and down the steps to her side yard. Circling around to the backyard, she acknowledged that nothing appeared out of order.

Her hands shook. She fought the panic wanting to rise up in her. The fear that she had lost it, and gone totally around the bend.

This had happened before. Twice. The first time just after she moved in. She’d awakened to what she thought were shots fired and had roused all her neighbors within earshot.