Killer Takes All (15 page)

Friday, March 11, 2005
9:20 a.m.

S
tacy awakened to the sound of the toilet flushing. Spencer. Moaning, she rolled onto her side to see the clock. She stared at the numbers a moment, struggling to think.

Today was Friday. Malone’s shift probably started around 7:30 a.m., standard for most P.D.’s detective units.

She flopped onto her back. What did she have today?
Professor Schultze’s class. Introduction to Graduate Studies in English. About as exciting as watching grass grow.

She might as well head back to Texas. She was probably going to be booted out of grad school.

Stacy stared at the ceiling. A long crack ran diagonally across it, nearly from corner to corner. Should she? Tuck tail and run back to Dallas?

And do what? She’d given up her job. Sold her house. She could move in with Jane and Ian for a couple of weeks, then what? And to what end?

She believed what she had told Spencer, that the White Rabbit would follow her. That he not only knew her identity, but that he knew
her.
She based that belief on nothing but her gut—and what she had been told about the game.

Who was the White Rabbit? Why was he playing the game? Most murders were motivated by love or hate, by greed, by a desire for revenge or jealousy.

The serial killer, on the other hand, was a different animal. He usually preyed on strangers; he killed to fulfill some sick need within himself.

Who were they dealing with? And why had she been included in his game?

For a specific reason, she was certain. One other than the fact that she had poked her nose into what he considered his private business. She interested him. He wanted to play with her.

Hide and seek. Cat and mouse.

She frowned and sat up, her head filling with the image of the beheaded cat. Its obscene grin.

Was she the cat? Stacy brought a hand to her throat. Did he mean for her to die in that gruesome way?

If the Allen murder set the pattern for more to come, the answer to that question was yes.

They needed to get into his head, Stacy acknowledged. Figure out what made him tick.

There was only one way to do that: play the game.

She scrambled out of bed and slipped into her robe before heading to the kitchen. She found Spencer, his back to her, making coffee.

She gazed at him a moment, remembering her tears of the night before, wondering what he thought of her now. If he would be able to take her seriously.

Like a dope, she had revealed how badly the White Rabbit’s visit had shaken her. How upset she was.

She’d revealed that she was a big fake. Hard as nails Stacy Killian was like one of those Tootsie Roll Pops—hard shell, soft, chewy center.

Once a guy knew the center could be chewed, that’s what they did. Chewed you up and spit you out. Or swallowed you, bite by bite. Goodbye respect. Goodbye self-esteem.

She had been down this road before. It didn’t lead anywhere she wanted to go.

Though Malone seemed different. He could be funny. And kind. Certainly not the Bubba she had first pegged him to be.

Which meant exactly nothing. Cops were off-limits, period.

As if sensing her presence, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Morning. I was going to let you sleep a bit more.”

“I have a class.” She returned his smile. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The coffeemaker sputtered as it finished brewing and he turned back to it. She saw that he’d found the mugs already; she watched as he filled two.

He held one out for her. She crossed to him, took it and went about adding milk and sweetener. That done, she took a sip, then looked at him over the rim of her mug. “It occurred to me that we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“Going about what the wrong way? Our romance?”

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She shook it off and crossed to a chair and sat. “Get a grip, Romeo. Catching the White Rabbit.”

“Last I checked, you were a civilian and I was the detective. There is no ‘we’ in that scenario.”

She ignored that. “It seems to me, if we played the game, we’d have a better handle on what we’re up against. And who we’re up against.”

“Get into this Rabbit’s head.”

“Exactly. If the killer really is someone who’s begun playing the game for real, what better way to predict his moves?”

He gazed at her a moment, then nodded. “I’m in. So’s Tony.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Leo about setting it up. After all, who better to help understand the White Rabbit than the man who created him?”

He nodded again, drained his mug and set it on the counter. He started for the doorway, stopping and looking back at her when he reached it. “Call me when you have the details. And Stacy?”

“Hmm?”

“If you don’t get that door fixed, I’m sleeping over again tonight. That’s a promise.”

She watched him go, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
She had to admit, a part of her would like to test that promise.

Friday, March 11, 2005
10:30 a.m.

“’M
orning, Mrs. Maitlin,” Stacy said as the woman opened the door of the Noble mansion. “How are you today?”

The woman frowned slightly. “Mr. Leo isn’t up yet. But Mrs. Noble is in the kitchen.”

Which didn’t answer her question. But did reveal the difference in the way the housekeeper felt about her employers. Stacy thanked her and started for the kitchen. The Nobles’ was a big, old-fashioned country kitchen, with a brick floor and exposed beam ceiling. Kay sat at the large butcher-block-style table, reading the newspaper and sipping orange juice. Sunlight fell across her, accenting the inky highlights in her dark hair.

She looked up when Stacy entered the kitchen and smiled. “’Morning, Stacy. I thought Friday mornings you were at school.”

The woman had a mind like a steel trap.

“I overslept,” Stacy fibbed, crossing to their coffeemaker, a newfangled, high-tech machine that ground the beans and brewed one perfect serving at a time—from a single shot to a full eight-ounce cup.

She coveted the machine. She figured she’d have to sell her soul to afford to buy one.

“Overslept?” Kay repeated, sounding disapproving. “Something you and Leo have in common.”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m being dissed here?”

They both turned. Leo stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, his hair standing on end. Obviously, he had just rolled out of bed and into a T-shirt and pair of rumpled khakis.

The mad scientist returns, Stacy thought, turning back to the pot to hide her grin. She pressed the appropriate buttons and the machine whirred to life, grinding, brewing and dispensing a perfect double shot.

The smell filled the air.

“Leo,” Stacy said. “There’s something I need to—”

“Coffee,” he croaked, coming up behind her.

Kay made a sound of disgust. “For God’s sake, you’re like Pavlov’s dog.”

He wasn’t the only one.
Stacy handed him the cup, then brewed herself another. When she reached the table, he was slouched in a chair, slurping the beverage. He’d managed to make a mess—sugar on the table, dribbled cream, used spoon. Like a small tornado—or Dennis the Menace—he came into a room and stirred things up.

Stacy sat. “Leo, there’s something we need—”

“Not yet,” he said, holding up a hand. “One more sip.”

“You should sleep at night,” Kay said. “Then we wouldn’t have to go through this every morning.”

“I’m best at night.”

“That’s just an excuse to get your own way.”

She glanced at her watch, then at Stacy. “The man would be a pauper if not for me. The rest of the world doesn’t operate on Leo time.”

“Quite true.” Leo leaned over and kissed his ex-wife’s cheek. “I owe everything to you.”

The woman’s expression softened. She laid a hand against his cheek and looked affectionately at him. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “That’s why you divorced me.”

As if on cue, they turned their full attention on her. She blinked, slightly embarrassed, as if she had just witnessed an intimate moment meant for only them.

Stacy collected her thoughts. “As of yesterday,” she began, “I’m in the game.” She quickly described the cat, how she had found it and the note she had been left.

Welcome to the game.

“My God.” Leo stood and crossed to the counter, visibly upset. There, he stopped, as if uncertain what to do next.

“I don’t understand,” Kay murmured. “Why is this happening?”

“You tell me.”

She looked startled. “Excuse me?”

“It seems to me both of you might have a better idea why this is happening than I would. I’m a late addition.”

Leo spread his hands. “Someone’s obsessed with the game.”

“Or with you,” Stacy countered. “Because of the game.”

“But why?” he asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“The very nature of obsession defies logic.”

Mrs. Maitlin appeared at the kitchen doorway. “Excuse me, Mr. Noble, those detectives from the other day are here. They say they need to speak with you.”

“Send them back, Valerie.”

He looked at Stacy in question. She saw what she thought was fear in his eyes. She shook her head. “As far as I know, nobody’s dead.”

Mrs. Maitlin showed them in. After a round of greetings, Spencer began. “We identified the artist who created the cards you received. A local guy named Walter Pogolapoulos, Pogo for short. Do you know him?”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Heard the name before?”

Again, they indicated they hadn’t.

Tony showed them a picture. “Ever seen him? Hanging around the neighborhood? At the mall, in the park? Anything like that?”

“No,” Leo said, sounding frustrated. “Kay?”

She stared at the photo, then hugged herself. “No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. Is he the one who…killed that woman?”

“We don’t know,” Tony said, sliding the photo back into his pocket. “He could be. Or he simply could have been hired to create the drawings.”

“We’ve yet to question him,” Spencer said. “But we will.”

Leo looked confused. “If you’ve identified him, why haven’t you questioned—”

“He got wind of us and disappeared.”

“But don’t worry,” Tony added. “We’ll get him.”

The couple didn’t look convinced. Stacy couldn’t blame them.

“Have you received another card?” Spencer asked.

“No.” Leo frowned. “Do you expect us to?”

Spencer was silent a long moment. Stacy knew he was deciding what he should say and what he should keep to himself.

He began. “We found sketches of the cards you received as well as several others, in various stages of completion.”

“Others?” the man repeated.

Stacy stepped in, though she knew doing so might earn her Spencer’s ire. “One of the cards depicted the Cheshire Cat, its bloody head floating above its body.”

“Dear God.” Kay clasped her hands together.

“If the Allen murder set the pattern, the chances are good that I’m the Cheshire Cat.”

Spencer sent her an irritated glance, then continued. “In addition to the Cheshire Cat, we found cards depicting the deaths of the Five and Seven of Spades, the March Hare, the Queen of Hearts and Alice.”

“Alice,” Kay repeated weakly. “You don’t think that’s our—”

“Of course it’s not our Alice,” Leo exclaimed, voice gruff. “What a thought, Kay!”

Spencer and Tony exchanged glances. “Is it so far from the realm of possibility, Mr. Noble?”

They all knew it wasn’t. Leo frowned. “Let’s just say, I refuse to accept it as a possibility. I have no clue what any of this is about.”

Kay turned to her husband, obviously upset. “How can you take that blindly optimistic approach? It very well could be our Alice. For all we know, I could be the Queen of Hearts!”

The room fell silent. Stacy studied the others. Malone and his partner were already thinking ahead, to the next bullet on their agenda. Leo and Kay, on the other hand, were scrambling to figure out how much danger they were in.

“I don’t like this,” Kay said, breaking the silence. “Maybe I should take Alice and go somewhere. Call it a holiday, a mother and daughter excurs—”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They all turned. Alice stood in the doorway, ramrod straight, hands balled into fists. “I mean it. I’m not.”

Leo took a step toward her, hand out. “Alice, sweetheart, now’s not the time to discuss this. Go to your room and—”

“It is the time! I’m not a baby, Dad. When are you going to get that?”

“Go to your room!”

She held her ground. “No.”

Leo’s mouth dropped, as if he couldn’t even imagine such defiance coming from his daughter’s lips.

“I know something’s going on.” She turned to Stacy. “You’re not a technical consultant. You’re interested in Dad’s game, White Rabbit.

“And you two—” she indicated Malone and Sciame “—are cops. You were here the other night and again now. Why?”

Kay and Leo exchanged glances. Kay nodded and Leo turned back to his daughter. “The police are asking our help in tracking down a killer. He claims to be the White Rabbit.”

“That’s why they were here the other night,” Alice said. “Because someone had been murdered.”

“Yes.”

She moved her gaze between the adults, as if deciding whether they were being truthful. “But why take me away?”

Kay took a step toward her. “Because your father…he might…he’s—”

“In danger?” The words seem to catch in the girl’s throat. She suddenly looked younger than her sixteen years. And as vulnerable as any child.

Leo crossed to her and hugged her. “We don’t know that for certain, pumpkin. But we’re not taking any chances.”

She seemed to digest that. “Am I in danger?”

Spencer stepped in. “At this moment, we don’t have a strong reason to believe so.”

The girl was silent. When she spoke, the vulnerability was gone. “If I’m not in danger, why send me away? Seems to me, Dad’s the one who should consider running.”

“We don’t want to expose you to danger,” Kay said. “If some crazy person has targeted your—”

“I’m not leaving Dad.”

Leo sighed. Kay looked frustrated. Stacy felt for them. She turned to Spencer. “Do you think it’s safe for Alice here?”

He frowned, then nodded. “For the moment, yes. That could change.”

Stacy looked at the teenager. “If it did, would you go then?”

“Maybe,” she said. “We could talk about it.”

She sounded like an adult. Had the intellect to reason like one. But she wasn’t an adult. She was a child. And one who didn’t live in the real world. Because of her intellect. And because of her wealth.

Alice squared her shoulders and looked directly at Spencer. “I want to help. What can I do?”

Leo pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Pumpkin, I’m sure the detectives appreciate your offer, but you’re—”

Stacy cut him off. The teenager knew enough to be afraid. Helping might ease those fears.

“Detective Malone and I have an idea,” she said. “It’s something you might be able to help with, Alice.”

The girl turned eagerly toward her. Stacy ignored the Nobles’ shocked expressions. “We figure we need to get into this guy’s head. He claims to be a White Rabbit, so—”

“You want to play the game,” Alice said. “Of course. What better way to anticipate his moves?”