Judging by what she saw, Stacy felt certain Cassie had been killed first, Beth second. Beth had probably heard the first two shots and gotten out of bed to see what was happening. She wouldn’t have immediately recognized the sound as a gun discharging. And even if she had suspected gunshots, she would have convinced herself otherwise.

That explained the phone, untouched, on the nightstand by the bed. Stacy crossed to it and, using the edge of her pajama top, picked up the receiver. The dial tone buzzed reassuringly in her ear.

Stacy ran through the possibilities. The place didn’t appear to have been robbed. The door had been unlocked, not broken into. Cassie had invited the killer inside. He-or she-was a friend or an acquaintance. Someone she had been expecting. Or someone she knew. Perhaps the killer had asked her to lock up the dog?

Tucking her questions away for later, she dialed 911. “Double homicide,” she said to the operator, voice shaking. “ 1174 City Park Avenue.” And then, cuddling Caesar to her chest, Stacy sat on the floor and cried.

Monday, February 28, 2005

1:50 a.m.

Detective Spencer Malone drew his 1977, cherry-red, mint-condition Chevy Camaro to a stop in front of the City Park neighborhood double. His older brother John had bought the car new. It had been his baby, his pride and joy until he’d gotten married and had babies to tote to and from daycare and birthday parties.

Now the Camaro was Spencer’s pride and joy.

Spencer shifted into Park and peered through the windshield at the double. The first officers had secured the scene; yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the slightly sagging front porch. One of the officers stood just beyond, signing in those who arrived, noting the time of their entrance.

Spencer narrowed his eyes, recognizing the officer as a third-year rookie and one of his staunchest accusers.

Connelly. The prick.

Spencer took in a deep breath, working to control his temper, the short fuse that had gotten him in too many brawls to count. The hot head that had held him back professionally, that had contributed to the ease with which everyone had bought into the accusations that had almost ended his career.

Hot tempered and a major league fuckup. An ugly combination.

He shook the thoughts off. This scene was his. He was lead man. He wasn’t going to screw it up.

Spencer opened the car door and climbed out just as Detective Tony Sciame wheeled to a stop in front of the double. In the New Orleans Police Force, detectives didn’t have set partners, per se, they worked a rotation. When a case came in, whoever was next in line got it. That detective chose another to assist, and the factors involved in that choice were availability, experience and friendship.

Most of the guys tended to find someone they clicked with, a kind of symbiotic “partnership.” For a number of reasons, he and Tony worked well together, filling in the other’s blanks, so to speak.

Spencer had a hell of a lot more blanks to fill than Tony did.

A thirty-year veteran of the force, twenty-five of it in Homicide, Tony was an old-timer. Happily married for thirty-two years-and a pound overweight for each of those years-he had four kids, one grown and on his own, one still at home, and two at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, one mortgage and a scruffy dog named Frodo.

Although their partnership was new, they’d already been likened to Mutt and Jeff, Frick and Frack, and Laurel and Hardy. Spencer preferred a Gibson and Glover comparison-with him being the good-looking, renegade Mel Gibson character-but their fellow officers weren’t going for it.

“Yo, Slick,” Tony said.

“ Pasta Man. ”

Spencer liked to rag Tony about his pasta gut; his partner returned the favor by addressing him as Slick, Junior or Hotshot. Never mind that Spencer, at thirty-one and a nine-year veteran of the force, was neither rookie nor kid, he was new both to rank of detective and to Homicide, which in the culture of the NOPD made him a mark for ribbing.

The other man laughed and patted his middle. “You’re just jealous.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Spencer motioned to the crime-scene van. “Techs beat us to the scene.”

“Eager-beaver assholes.”

They fell into step together. Tony squinted up at the starless sky. “I’m getting too old for this shit. Call caught me and Betty in the middle of busting our youngest for staying out past curfew.”

“Poor Carly.”

“My ass. That girl’s a menace. Four kids and the last one is hell on wheels. See this?” He indicated the nearly bald top of his head. “They’ve all contributed, but Carly… Just wait, you’ll see.”

Spencer laughed. “I grew up with six siblings. I know what kids are like. That’s why I’m not having any.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself. By the way, what was her name?”

“Whose?”

“Tonight’s date.”

Truth was, he’d been out with his brothers Percy and Patrick. They’d had a couple of beers and a burger at Shannon ’s Tavern. The closest he’d gotten to scoring was sinking the eight ball in the corner pocket to defeat Patrick, the family pool shark.

But Tony didn’t want to hear that. The Malone brothers were legends in the NOPD. Handsome, hard-partying hotheads with reputations as lady-killers.

“I don’t kiss and tell, partner.”

They reached Connelly. Spencer met his eyes and it all came rushing back. He’d been working the Fifth District Detective Investigative Unit, in charge of a kitty of informant money. Fifteen hundred bucks, not that much in today’s world. But enough to be raked over the coals when it turned up missing. Suspended without pay, charged, then indicted.

Charges had been dropped, his name cleared. Turned out Lieutenant Moran, his immediate superior and the one who had placed the kitty in his care, had set him up. Because he “trusted him.” Because he believed “he was up to the responsibility” even though he’d only worked DIU six months.

More like, Moran believed Spencer was a patsy.

If it hadn’t been for his family refusing to accept his guilt, the bastard would have gotten away with it. If Spencer had been found guilty, not only would he have been kicked off the force, he would have done jail time.

As it was, he’d lost a year and a half of his life.

Thinking about it still chapped his ass. Remembering how many of his brothers in arms had turned against him-including this little weasel-infuriated him. Up until then, he had thought of the NOPD as his extended family, his fellow officers as his brothers and sisters.

And until then, life had been one big party. Laissez les bon temps rouler, New Orleans-style.

Lieutenant Moran had changed all that. The man had made his life a living hell; he’d destroyed Spencer’s illusions about the force and about being a cop.

The parties weren’t as much fun now. He saw the consequences of his actions.

To keep Spencer from suing, the department had reinstated him with back pay and bumped him up to ISD.

Investigative Support Division. His dream job.

In the late nineties the department had decentralized, taking detective units, such as Homicide and Vice, out of headquarters and positioning them in the eight district stations throughout the city. They bundled them into a multitask Detective Investigative Unit. The detectives in DIU didn’t specialize; they handled everything from burglary to vice to rubber-stamp homicides.

However, for the top homicide detectives-the ones with the most experience and training, the cream of the crop-they’d created ISD. Located in headquarters, they handled cold-case homicides-ones unsolved after a year-and all the juicy stuff as well: sex crimes, serial murders, child abductions.