Killer Takes All (8 page)

Saturday, March 5, 2005
12:30 a.m.

S
pencer greeted the officer standing sentinel at the door of the UNO library. He was an old-timer. “How’s it going?”

The other man shrugged. “Okay. Wish spring’d get here. It’s still too damn cold for these old bones.”

Only a New Orleanian would gripe about nighttime temperatures in the sixties.

The man held out a clipboard; Spencer signed in. “Upstairs?”

“Yeah. On four.”

Spencer found the elevator. He had been asleep when he’d gotten the call. At first he thought he’d misunderstood the dispatcher. Nobody was dead. An attempted rape. But the victim claimed it had something to do with the Finch murder.

His investigation.

So he’d dragged his butt out of bed and headed what seemed like halfway across the world to the UNO campus.

The elevator reached four; he stepped off and followed the sound of voices. The group came into view. He stopped.
Killian.
Her back was to him, but he recognized her, anyway. Not just by her glorious blond hair, but something about the way she held herself. Erectly. With a kind of confidence that had been earned.

To her left stood a couple of the campus cops and John Russell, from DIU, Third District.

Spencer closed the distance between them. “Trouble follows you, doesn’t it, Ms. Killian?”

The three men looked his way. She turned. He saw that her shirt was bloodstained.

“It’s starting to seem so,” she said.

“Do you need medical attention?”

“No. But he might.”

He wasn’t surprised she’d gotten the best of him.
He motioned toward the library table nearest her. They crossed to it, then sat.

He took the spiral notebook from his pocket. “Tell me what happened.”

Russell wandered over. “Attempted rape,” he began. “Same MO as three earlier, unsolved—”

Spencer held up a hand. “I’d like to hear Ms. Killian’s version of events first.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t an attempted rape.”

“Go on.”

“I was working late.”

He glanced at the material on the table, scanning titles. “Research?”

“Yes.”

“On role-playing games?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Yes. The library was deserted, or seemed to be. I heard someone, behind the stacks. I called out. Got no answer and went to investigate.”

She paused. Smoothed her hands over her thighs, her only outward sign of nerves. “When I reached the stacks, the lights went off. The stairwell door flew open and someone darted through. I started to go after him. That’s when I was grabbed from behind.”

“So there were two people besides you here?”

Her expression registered something akin to surprise. He’d only repeated her words in a different way; clearly she hadn’t put the two together.

She nodded. He looked at the other officers. “Any of the other victims report more than one attacker at the scene?”

“No,” the youngest of the university officers replied.

Spencer returned his gaze to hers. “He grabbed you from behind?”

“Yes. And held me in a way that indicated he knew what he was doing.”

“Show me.”

She nodded, stood and motioned to the campus cop. “Do you mind?” He said no, and she demonstrated. A moment later, she released him and returned to her seat.

“He was several inches taller than me. And quite strong.”

“So how did you get away?”

“Drove a ballpoint pen into his belly.”

“We’ve got the pen,” Russell offered. “Bagged and tagged.”

“And how does this relate to the Finch and Wagner murders?”

She made a sound of frustration. “He told me to stay out of it. Or else he wouldn’t. Then he poked his tongue in and out of my ear. And asked me if I understood.”

“Sounds like a direct threat of rape,” Russell said.

“He was warning me to keep my nose out of the investigation.” She jumped to her feet. “Don’t you see? I’ve stepped on somebody’s toes. Gotten too close.”

“Whose toes?”

“I don’t know!”

“We’ve alerted the infirmary to watch for a student who comes in with a puncture wound to be treated.”

Stacy made a sound of disbelief. “With at least two dozen doc-in-the-box clinics in the metro area, you think he’ll go to the infirmary?”

“Maybe,” the cop said defensively. “If he’s a student.”

“I’d say, that’s a mighty big ‘if,’ Officer.” Stacy looked at Spencer. “Can I go now?”

“Sure. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’ve got my car, thanks.”

He skimmed his gaze over her. If she was pulled over for some reason, the cop would take one look at her and haul her in for questioning.

Bloodstained shirts had that effect on police officers.

“I think, considering your present condition, I’ll follow.”

It looked as if she was going to protest. She didn’t. “Fine.”

Spencer followed her across town, angling his Camaro into the space by a fire hydrant. He flipped down his visor, revealing his NOPD identification and climbed out of the car.

Crime-scene tape still stretched across the Finch side of the double. He made a note to take it down before he left. The scene should have been cleared for cleanup days ago. He was surprised Stacy hadn’t busted him on it.

Stacy slammed her car door. “I can take it from here.”

“What? Not even a thank you?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “For what? Seeing me home? Or thinking I’m full of shit?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Your expression shouted it.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Shouted?”

“Forget it.”

She spun on her heel and started for her front steps. He caught her arm, stopping her. “What’s your problem?”

“Right now, you.”

“You’re pretty when you’re mad.”

“But not when I’m not?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Believe me, I couldn’t. I don’t know Bubba-speak.”

He gazed at her a moment, torn between frustration and amusement. Amusement won; he laughed and released her arm. “You have any coffee up there?”

“Are you making a pass at me?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Killian. Just figured I’d give your theory another chance.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it might have merit.” He grinned. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not that. The other. Why wouldn’t you dare make a pass at me?”

“Simple. You’d kick my ass.”

She stared at him a moment, then sent him a killer smile. “You’re right, I would.”

“We agree on something.” He brought a hand to his heart. “It’s a miracle.”

“Don’t push it, Malone. Come on.”

They climbed the stairs, then crossed the porch to the front door. She unlocked it, stepped inside and flipped on a light. He followed her in and to the kitchen, located at the back of the apartment.

She opened her refrigerator, peered inside, then glanced back at him. “Coffee’s not going to do the trick tonight. Not for me.” She held out a bottle of beer. “How about you?”

He took it, twisted off the cap. “Thanks.”

She followed suit, then took a swallow of the beverage. “I needed that.”

“Big night.”

“Big year.”

He had called the DPD and now he knew a little about her past. She was a ten-year veteran of the DPD. Highly regarded within the force. Resigned suddenly after cracking a big case that had involved her sister, Jane. The captain he’d spoken with had indicated some personal reasons for her resignation but hadn’t provided details. Spencer hadn’t pushed.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” She took another swallow.

“Why’d you leave the force?”

“Like I told your partner, I needed a change.”

He rolled the bottle between his palms. “It have anything to do with your sister?”

Jane Westbrook. Stacy’s half sister and only sibling. An artist of some renown. The target of a murderous plot. One that had damn near been successful.

“You checked out my story.”

“Of course.”

“The answer to your question is no. Leaving the force was about me.”

He brought the bottle to his lips and drank, never taking his gaze from hers.

She frowned. “What?”

“You ever hear the old saying, you can take the cop out of the job, but you can’t take the job out of the cop?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it. I don’t put much stock in old sayings.”

“Maybe you should.”

She checked her watch. “It’s getting late.”

“That it is.” He took another swallow of the beer, ignoring her not-so-subtle hint that he should go. Taking his time, he finished his beer. Set the bottle carefully on the table, then stood.

She folded her arms across her chest, annoyed. “I thought you wanted to hear my story one more time?”

“I lied.” He grabbed his leather jacket. “Thanks for the brew.”

She made a sound. Of outraged disbelief, Spencer guessed. He fought a smile, crossed to the door, then looked back at her. “Two things, Killian. First, clearly you have no idea what a ‘Bubba’ is.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “And second?”

“You might not be so full of shit after all.”

Saturday, March 5, 2005
11:00 a.m.

S
tacy worked to focus on the text in front of her. John Keats’s “Ode to Psyche.” She had chosen to study the Romantics because the sensibility was so foreign to today’s—and so far from the brutal reality she’d been a part of for the past ten years.

Today, however, the poem of beauty and spiritual love seemed overwrought and just plain silly.

She felt battered and punchy, though she wasn’t sure why. Beyond a couple of bruises, the man hadn’t hurt her. Truth be told, save for the adrenaline rush, she hadn’t even been frightened. She’d never felt the situation out of her control.

So why the shakes now?

Stay out of it. Or I won’t.

A warning. She had made someone very uncomfortable.

But whom? Bobby Gautreaux? It didn’t seem likely, because the police had already pinpointed him. Someone else she had spoken with about White Rabbit? Yes. But who?

The cops wouldn’t be any help. They were convinced her attacker was the same man who had raped those other coeds—that he had escalated his attacks.

She didn’t blame them; the MO of the encounter was nearly identical to that of the raped coeds. She reviewed what they’d told her about the campus rapist. A big man, he targeted women alone on campus at night, grabbed them from behind. They had nicknamed him Romeo because of the sweet nothings he murmured in his victims’ ears. Things like “I love you,” “We’ll be together forever,” and most damning, “Stay with me.”

You might not be so full of shit after all.

Did Malone believe her? Or was he simply tossing her a bone to shut her up?

I wouldn’t make a pass at you, Killian. You’d kick my ass.

The comment bothered her. Was she that intimidating? That much of a hard-ass? Somewhere along the line had she lost the ability to be approachable?

“Ball-buster Killian,” her DPD colleagues had called her. It appeared she was moving up in the world—she was an ass-kicker now. What next? Gut-crusher?

“Hello, Detective Killian.”

Stacy looked up. Leonardo Noble was headed across Café Noir for her table, in one hand a plate with a scone, in the other a cup of coffee. “I’m not a detective,” she said as he reached her. “But I suspect you already know that.”

Without asking if he could join her, he set his cup and plate on the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “But you are,” he said. “Homicide. Ten years with the Dallas force. Distinguished a number of times, including this past fall. You resigned in January to pursue a graduate degree in English literature.”

“All true,” she said. “You have a point?”

He ignored her question and took a leisurely sip of his coffee. “If not for you, your sister would be dead and her killer free. Her husband would no doubt be rotting in prison right now, and you’d be—”

She cut him off. She didn’t need to be reminded of where she would be. Or how close Jane had come to dying. “Enough with the dossier, Mr. Noble. I lived it. Once was enough.”

He sampled the scone, made a sound of pleasure, then returned his attention to her. “It’s incredible how much you can learn about someone these days with little more than a few keystrokes.”

“Now you know all about me. Bully for you.”

“Not all.” He leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. “Why, after all those years as a cop, did you resign? From what I read, seemed like you were born to do the job.”

Ever hear the old saying, You can take the cop out of the job, but you can’t take the job out of the cop?

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read. Besides, that would be my business, not yours.” She made a sound of irritation. “Look, I’m sorry you got the wrong idea the other day. I didn’t mean to—”

“Bullshit. Of course you did. You deliberately misled me. And let’s be honest, Ms. Killian, you’re not sorry. Not one damn bit.”

“All right.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not. I needed information, and I did what was necessary to get it. Satisfied?”

“Nope. I want something from you.” He took another bite of the scone, waiting for her reaction. When she didn’t give him one, he went on. “I wasn’t completely honest with you the other day.”

That
she didn’t expect. Surprised, she sat forward. “Your answer to my question about the potential of the game leading to violent behavior?”

“How did you know?”

“Like you said, I was a cop for ten years. I interrogated suspects on a daily basis.”

He inclined his head, as if with admiration. “You are good.” He paused. “What I said, about people killing people, I didn’t lie about that. I believe it. But even the most innocent thing in the wrong hands—”

He let the words, their meaning, hang between them a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket. He drew out two postcards and handed them to her.

The first was a pen-and-ink illustration, the image a dark, disturbing representation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice chasing the White Rabbit. Stacy turned the card over. She read the one word scrawled across the back.

Soon.

She shifted her attention to the second card. Unlike the first, it was a dime-store variety postcard depicting the French Quarter.

It read:
Ready to play?

She returned her gaze to Leonardo Noble’s. “Why are you showing me these?”

Instead of answering, he said, “I received the first one about a month ago. The second last week. And this one yesterday.”

He handed her a third card. Another pen-and-ink illustration, she saw. This one depicted what appeared to be a mouse, drowning in a pool or puddle. She flipped the card over.

Ready or not, game in play.

Stacy thought of the anonymous notes her sister had received. How the police, including her, had considered them more crank than threat. Until the end. Then they had realized them a serious threat indeed.

“White Rabbit is different from other role-playing games,” the man murmured. “In those, there’s a game master, a sort of referee who controls the game. He creates obstacles for the players, hidden doors, monsters and the like. The best game masters are completely neutral.”

“And in White Rabbit?” she asked.

“The White Rabbit is the game master. But his position is far from neutral. He beckons the players to follow him, down the rabbit hole, into his world. Once there, he lies. Plays favorites. He’s a trickster and a deceiver. And only the most cunning player can best him.”

“The White Rabbit has a big advantage.”

“Always.”

“I would think playing a stacked deck wouldn’t be much fun.”

“We wanted to turn the game on its edge. Upend the players. It worked.”

“I was told your game is the most violent. That it’s a winner-take-all scenario.”

“Killer takes all,” he corrected. “He pits the players against one another. Last man standing faces him.” He leaned toward her. “And once the game’s in play, it doesn’t end until all the players are dead but one.”

Killer takes all.
Unease slid up her spine. “Can the characters stand together to take him out?”

He looked surprised, as if no one had ever suggested such a thing. “That’s not the way it’s played.”

She repeated her original question. “Why are you showing me these?”

“I want to find out who sent them and why. I want you to determine if I should be afraid. I’m offering you a job, Ms. Killian.”

She stared at him a moment, momentarily nonplussed. Then she smiled, understanding. She had scammed him; he was returning the favor. “This is when you say ‘Gotcha,’ Mr. Noble.”

But he didn’t. When she realized he was serious, she shook her head. “Call the police. Or hire a private investigator. Bodyguard work isn’t my line.”

“But investigation
is
your line.” He held up a hand as if anticipating her protest. “I haven’t been overtly threatened, what can the police do? Absolutely nothing. And if what I fear is true, a private dick is going to be way out of his depth.”

She narrowed her eyes, admitting to herself that she was intrigued. “And what exactly is it you fear, Mr. Noble?”

“That someone’s begun playing the game for real, Ms. Killian. And judging by these cards, I’m in the game, like it or not.”

He laid one of his business cards on the table and stood. “Maybe your friend was in the game, too. Maybe she was the first of the White Rabbit’s victims. Think about it. Then call me.”

Stacy watched him walk away, mind racing with the things he had told her, the things she had learned about the game. They turned to the man who had attacked her the night before.

He had warned her to “stay out of it.” Stay out of what? she wondered. The investigation? Or the game?

It’s not the game that’s dangerous, but obsession with the game.

Stacy stopped on that. What if someone
had
become so obsessed with the game, they’d begun to play for real? Begun to confuse fantasy and reality?

Could Cassie have gotten unwittingly pulled into that game?

A powerful tool in the wrong hands.

So many things in life were. Power. Guns. Money. Almost anything.

She considered the scenario Leonardo had painted: some wacko playing a fantasy role-playing game for real. A game in which the only way to win was to kill off the other characters, then face the White Rabbit himself—face the one controlling the game, the ultimate trickster.

A real-life White Rabbit.

The connection between Cassie and the scenario Leonardo Noble painted was flimsy at best, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the two were related.

Stranger things had happened.

Last year in Dallas.

Billie sauntered over with a plate of samples. Chocolate chip muffins, Stacy saw. Rich, dark chocolate. Billie’s sample plate and the timing of its appearance was a running joke among the regulars. If there was trouble brewing or juicy dish to be had, the sample plate came out. Billie seemed to innately know the right moment—and the right pastry—to share.

Billie smiled the enigmatic smile that had helped her snare four husbands, including her present spouse, ninety-year-old millionaire Rocky St. Martin. “Muffin?”

Stacy helped herself to a piece of the pastry, knowing full well the treat wasn’t free. Billie expected payment—in the form of information.

Sure enough, Billie set the plate on the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “Who was he and what did he want?”

“Leonardo Noble. He wanted to hire me.”

Billie arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow and nudged the plate of muffin pieces closer to Stacy.

Stacy laughed, took another and slid the plate back toward the other woman. “It has to do with Cassie. Sort of.”

“I thought so. Explain.”

“Remember what I told you about Cassie having set up a meeting with a White Rabbit?” The other woman nodded. “That man, Leonardo Noble, is the inventor of the game.”

Stacy saw interest flare in her eyes. “Go on.”

“Since we talked last, I’ve found out more about the game. That it’s dark and violent. That the White Rabbit and the last player alive play to the death.”

“Charming.”

Stacy explained about the postcards the man had received, about his theory that someone had begun playing the game for real. “I know it sounds out there, but—”

“But it could happen,” Billie filled in for her. She leaned toward Stacy. “Studies have shown that in people for whom the line between fantasy and reality is blurred, fantasy role-playing games can be a dangerous tool. Throw a game like White Rabbit or Dungeons & Dragons into the mix, games in which the emotional and psychological involvement is intense…it can prove explosive.”

“How,” Stacy asked, “did you know that?”

“In a former life, I was a clinical psychologist.”

She should be surprised, she supposed. Or suspect the woman of being a pathological liar or con artist. After all, in the relatively short time she’d known Billie, the woman had mentioned four marriages, a stint as both a flight attendant and runway model. Now this. She wasn’t that old.

But Billie always had facts or authentic-sounding anecdotes to back up her claims.

Stacy shook her head, thoughts returning to Leonardo Noble and the events of the past days. “I’ve stepped on someone’s toes.”

She said it almost to herself, and Billie’s brow wrinkled in question. Quickly, Stacy told her about the night before. About being attacked, the words the man had murmured against her ear, that campus security believed he was the same man who had raped three coeds earlier in the school year.

“I didn’t mistake what I heard,” Stacy said.

For a long moment her friend said nothing, then she nodded. “I know you didn’t. You were a cop, those are the kinds of mistakes you wouldn’t make.”

Billie stood, taking the sample plate with her. She gazed down at Stacy. “I suggest you be very careful, my friend. I have no desire to go to your memorial service.”

Stacy watched her go, thoughts turning to what the woman had said. A blurred line between fantasy and reality. Could Cassie have unwittingly become involved with a madman who’d begun a role-playing game for real? Had she stepped on
his
toes, called attention to herself?

Damn it. She knew what she had to do. Stacy opened her cell phone and punched in Leonardo Noble’s cell number.

“I’ll take the job,” she said when he answered. “When do you want me to start?”