Killer Takes All (21 page)

Two gangly young men, their lives before them. Nothing in Dick Danson’s smile or eyes hinted at a man capable of the violence Leo described. Brown hair, worn long and shaggy. Wire-rimmed glasses and a scruffy goatee. He’d yet to fill out his frame.

She gazed at the man’s image, frustrated. Disappointed. She had hoped she would recognize him. That she would recall having seen him.

She didn’t. It had been a long shot, admittedly. But one she wasn’t quite ready to give up on.

“Can I hang on to this for a while?”

“I suppose.
If
you tell me why.”

She changed tack. “Do you have the legal papers that turned the game rights over to you?”

“Sure.”

“Could I see them?”

“They’re in a safe deposit box. At a bank downtown. I assure you, they’re for real.”

She looked down at the photo again. “I’ve got a question for you. Could Dick Danson still be alive?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Dead serious. Pardon the pun.”

“Highly unlikely, don’t you think?” When she simply stared at him, he laughed. “Okay, sure, it’s possible. I mean, I didn’t see the body.”

“Maybe nobody did? Some coroners are pretty lax, especially ones who reside in quiet little hamlets. Like Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

“But why play dead? Why give up the rights to projects we produced jointly? It doesn’t make sense.”

This time it was she who laughed, though grimly. “It makes absolute sense, Leo. What better way to seek revenge than from beyond the grave?”

Wednesday, March 16, 2005
10:00 a.m.

S
tacy waited until the Café Noir morning rush would have ended to pay Billie a visit. She couldn’t let go of the idea that Cassie’s death and White Rabbit were linked. And Billie never forgot a customer’s face. If Danson had been in the coffee house, Billie would remember.

She entered the coffee shop, Leo’s old yearbook tucked under her arm. It smelled of fresh brew and baking cookies. Her mouth watered. She’d already eaten, but it would be damn hard to turn down a cookie. Especially a chocolate chip, warm from the oven.

Billie was sure to offer one. The woman was a master at upselling.

She’d spoken only briefly with her friend since visiting the shop with Alice. She’d called to assure her she was fine and to tell her about Pogo. Billie had sounded distracted and they had ended the call.

Billie and Paula stood at the pastry case, rearranging the goodies, showcasing those that sold best midmorning. Her friend saw her and smiled. “I knew you’d be in this morning.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m psychic.”

Stacy started to laugh, then stopped. Something in her friend’s expression suggested she was serious. “Another of your many talents?”

“Absolutely.”

Stacy crossed to the counter and ordered a cappuccino. She worked to keep herself from looking at the cookies. “You have a minute to powwow?”

“You got it. Cookie to go with that powwow? Chocolate chip?”

“No, thanks. I don’t care for one.”

“Yes, you do.”

“And you would know this how?”

“Because I’m psychic.”

She made a face. “I hate you.”

Billie laughed. “Grab a table, I’ll be right over.”

She brought the coffee and the cookie, still warm and gooey from the oven. Stacy couldn’t resist and broke off a piece. “I really do hate you, you know.”

Her friend laughed and helped herself to the cookie. “Stand in line, girlfriend.”

After washing down the bite with a sip of the cappuccino, Stacy opened the yearbook and slid it across the table to her friend. She tapped Danson’s photo. “Ever seen this man before?”

Billie studied the photo for a few moments before shaking her head. “Sorry.”

“You sure he’s never been in the shop? He’d be twenty-five years older now.”

Billie narrowed her eyes. “I have a great memory for faces, and I don’t recall his.”

Stacy frowned. “I hoped you would recognize him as a customer.”

“Sorry. Who is he?”

“Leo’s former business partner.”

“And?”

“He’s dead. Supposedly.”

A slow smile curved Billie’s mouth. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She broke off another piece of cookie. “Explain.”

Stacy leaned forward. “Most attribute the title of Supreme White Rabbit to Leo—”

“The inventor of the game.”

“Right. But he didn’t invent it alone. He had a co-inventor.”

“This guy.”

“Yes. Drove off a cliff in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, three years ago. Leo and Kay learned about it through a lawyer. His death freed up the rights to some of their joint projects.”

“Interesting. Go on.”

She posed a question instead. “The person behind the letters and murders, why is he doing it?”

“Because he’s a total whack job?”

“Besides that.”

“Anger? Revenge?”

“Exactly. It seems there was plenty of bad blood between the Nobles and Danson, the partner.”

“I get it. This Danson fakes his own death, so he can rain some seriously twisted shit down on Noble.”

“Bingo.” Stacy’s gut told her she was onto something. The instinct that had made her solve record one of the best in the DPD. “The lawyer who visited could have been a fake, someone paid to lie. Even if the papers are legal, giving up the rights to the projects would be nothing compared to the pleasure of destroying Leo’s life.”

“Maybe even taking it,” Billie said softly.

“Probably taking it,” Stacy corrected, reaching for her coffee, hoping the hot liquid would ward off her sudden chill. “And Kay’s, too. Maybe Alice’s. And getting away with it. After all, he’s already dead.”

“An ingenious plan.”

“Not that brilliant. After all, I’m onto him.”

“You have your cell phone?”

She wore it in a holster, clipped to her belt—a habit acquired on the job. And one she couldn’t seem to shake. “Sure. Why?”

“Hand it over.”

She did, though not without asking what for. Billie held up a finger, indicating she should wait, flipped open the phone, then punched in a number.

“Connor, it’s Billie.” She laughed, the sound husky and sexy as hell. “Yes,
that
Billie. How are you?”

Stacy listened incredulously as her friend chatted with the man on the other end of the line, flirting and cajoling.

The woman was a professional man-eater.
How did one learn that skill? Did somebody offer a degree in it?

“I have a friend here who needs a bit of information. Her name’s Stacy. I’ll put her on. Thanks, love, you’re a sweetheart.” Another laugh from Billie, followed by a murmured, “I will, I promise.”

She held out the phone. “Chief Connor Battard.”

“Chief?”

“Of police, silly. Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

Stacy took the phone, doubly amazed. Did the woman know everyone? “Chief Battard, Stacy Killian. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

“Anything for Billie. How can I help you?”

“I’m investigating a death that occurred three years ago. Dick Danson.”

“Danson’s death, sure I remember it. Drove off Hurricane Point. ’Bout three and a half years ago.”

“I understand the death was classified an accident.”

“A suicide.”

“A suicide,” she repeated, surprised. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. He had a full propane gas tank in the trunk of his 1995 Porsche Carrerra, another in the back seat. He wanted to do the job well, and he did.”

“A very big boom, I’m guessing.”

“Yup. The trunk in that Porsche is in the front of the car, and there’s nothing but a fire wall between it and the fuel tank. The vehicle hit nose first. The medical examiner identified Danson by his dental records.”

“You didn’t see the body?”

“I saw what was left of it.”

“Can you remember anything unusual about the incident?”

“Other than the propane tanks and the warrant for his arrest, not a thing.”

“A warrant? What for?”

“The case is closed, so I’d be happy to share the file with you.
If
you and Billie were to make a trip out.”

In other words, give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want.

Mutual cooperation made the world go ’round.

After thanking the man, she handed the phone back to Billie. The two spoke another moment or two, then Billie ended the call.

“And how do you know Chief Battard?” Stacy asked, reholstering the phone.

“I lived there for a few years. Connor’s a sweetie.” She sighed. “He was in love with me.”

Stacy cocked an eyebrow.
Weren’t they all? And judging by the man’s response to the call, there was nothing past tense about his feelings for the woman.

“Does he know you’re married?”

Billie lifted a shoulder. “Suspects, I’m sure. I almost always am.”

“Would you like to see him again?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Road trip?”

“I’d like to see that file. He offered it.” Stacy smiled. “Though, he made it clear I wouldn’t be welcome without you.”

“Rocky’s being such a pain in the ass right now, a road trip would be the perfect attitude adjuster.”

Thursday, March 17, 2005
9:00 a.m.

S
tacy and Billie quickly put together a travel itinerary. They found nonstop flights to San Francisco for the next day. Billie insisted that they should rent a car there and drive to the Monterey Coast. Waiting for a connection to the tiny regional airport would have taken longer than the two-hour drive. And besides, to miss such a beautiful drive would be a sin.

Especially made in a convertible. Something sleek and European. Or, so said Billie.

Billie believed in traveling in style.

Stacy had decided to make the trip, with or without Leo’s blessing. However, when she’d presented him with her plan, he had not only given her his blessing, he had agreed to pay for the trip.

A good thing, since booking at the last minute had sent the airfare from exorbitant to utterly ridiculous.

Which Billie could easily afford. And Stacy could not.

An exploding credit card was not a pretty sight.

Stacy zipped her carry-on, into which she had stuffed enough for a two-day stay. She quickly scanned the bedroom, then bath to make certain she hadn’t forgotten anything.

That done, she hoisted her bag. As she stepped into the hallway, Stacy glanced left, toward Alice’s room. She thought of her crying the night before. The girl was most likely in class. Acting on instinct, she crossed to the closed door and tapped on it. Clark answered.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” she said, “but could I speak with Alice? It’ll just take a moment.”

He lowered his eyes to her bag, then returned them to hers. “Sure.”

A moment later Alice appeared. “Hey,” she said, not quite meeting Stacy’s eyes.

“I have to go out of town for a couple days. If you need me for anything, call me.” She scrawled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “If you need
anything,
Alice. I mean that.”

The girl stared at the paper and its scrawled number, throat working. When she lifted her gaze to Stacy’s, her eyes were bright with tears. Without a word, she turned and went back into the schoolroom. As the door swung shut, Clark looked at Stacy.

She met his eyes just before the door closed.

She stood rooted to the spot as the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

The doorbell sounded.

Billie.
Stacy paused a moment more, then readjusted the bag and headed down to meet her friend.

Traffic proved to be on their side, and the trip to Louis Armstrong International Airport took just under twenty minutes. A good thing, because unlike her single carry-on, Billie had two bags to check. Big bags.

“What,” Stacy asked, “could you possibly have in there that you’ll need in the next forty-eight hours?”

“My essentials,” the woman answered breezily, smiling at the skycap. The man, ignoring several people in line in front of them, asked if he could help her.

Amazingly, no one complained.

Not so amazingly, the skycap totally ignored Stacy, leaving her to schlep her own bag.

As they proceeded to the gate, her cell phone rang. Stacy saw from the display that it was Malone.

“You going to answer that?” Billie asked.

Was she? If she told him what she was up to, he could skewer her meeting with Chief Battard, Billie or no Billie. All he had to do was claim she was interfering with an active investigation, and the file the chief had offered would be sealed shut.

Besides, this was the first time she had heard from Spencer since Saturday. Clearly, he had cut her out. She was cutting him out, as well.

She smiled to herself. “Nope,” she said, hitting the device’s power button.

Thursday, March 17, 2005
10:25 a.m.

“Y
ou filed your taxes yet, Slick?” Tony said as they slammed the car doors and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Crime-scene tape stretched across the front of the ironwork-laced French Quarter apartment building. Located just down the block from two of New Orleans’ most popular gay bars, Oz and the Bourbon Pub and Parade, clusters of men stood around the scene, some crying, some comforting and others stony-faced with fury or shock.

“Nope. Got a month still. I like to wait to the last minute. It’s an act of defiance,” Spencer answered.

“Death and taxes, man. Can’t get around ’em.”

Death would be the reason for this particular tête-à-tête.

Double homicide. Called in by a friend who discovered the bodies.

That would be him, Spencer thought as he caught sight of a man huddled on a bench in the building’s lush courtyard.

Spencer and Tony crossed to the first officer and signed in. The kid looked a bit green.

The two detectives exchanged glances.
Not a good sign.

“What’ve we got?”

“Two males.” His voice shook slightly. “One black. One Hispanic. In the bathroom. Been dead awhile.”

“Great,” Tony muttered, digging a bottle of Vicks from his jacket pocket. “Another stinker.”

“How long?” Spencer asked. “Your best guess.”

“A couple of days. But I’m no pathologist.”

“Names?”

“August Wright and Roberto Zapeda. Interior designers. Nobody had seen them for a couple of days, their friend over there was concerned. Came to check on them.”

Spencer scanned the sign-in. Techs hadn’t made it yet; neither had the coroner’s office.

“Going up,” he said, then motioned toward the bench and the two men. “Keep your eyes on our friends there. We’ll be back to question them.”

The kid nodded. “Will do.”

They made their way to the second-floor apartment. Another officer stood outside the door. Guy named Logan. Spent a lot of time at Shannon’s.

Spencer nodded at him as they passed. He looked hungover. No surprises there.

Just beyond the apartment, Tony handed Spencer the open jar of Vicks. Spencer smeared some under his nose and handed it back.

They stepped into the apartment. The smell rushed over Spencer in a stomach-churning wave. He forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose and counted to ten, then twenty. Between the Vicks and his fatiguing olfactory glands, the smell became tolerable.

The front room appeared undisturbed. Elegantly appointed with a combination of new and antique pieces, richly patterned art and stunning floral arrangements.

“Classy,” Tony said, moving his gaze over the room. “Those gay boys got the gift, you know?”

Spencer angled him a glance. “They were interior designers, Pasta Man. What did you expect?”

“Ever see that show?
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?
” Spencer indicated he hadn’t. “They take a regular guy like me and transform him into a
GQ
dude. It’s something.”

“A guy like you?”

The older man arched his eyebrows, indignant. “You don’t think they could spiff me up?”

“I think they’d take one look at you and kill themselves.”

Before his partner could comment, the techs arrived. “Hey,” Tony called. “You guys ever see that
Queer Eye
show?”

“Sure,” Frank, the photographer, answered. “Hasn’t everybody?”

“Junior here says they’d take one look at me and kill themselves. Think that’s true?”

“Pretty much,” one of the other guys answered, smirking. “If I was your wife,
I’d
kill myself.”

“We’re burning daylight, boys,” Spencer interrupted. “Do you mind?”

They all turned their attention to the scene, a few of them grumbling. Not a magazine or bric-a-brac out of place. He always found it bizarre that there could be such calm only feet from horrendous violence.

And horrendous it was, he discovered moments later. The victims had been tied together and herded into the bathroom. Obviously instructed, or enticed, to climb into the claw-footed tub and kneel.

There, they had been killed.

But that wasn’t the part that was out of the ordinary. It was the blood.

Everywhere. The walls, the fixtures. The floor.

As if it had been painted on, with a house paintbrush. Or a roller.

“Holy shit,” Tony muttered.

“At least.” Spencer made his way to the tub, conscious of the sound his rubber-soled shoes made on the blood-streaked floor. Cursing any evidence that might be destroyed, but acknowledging no other option.

The victims faced each other, arms tied behind their backs. They appeared to have been in their thirties. In good shape. One wore only his skivvies, the other drawstring pajama bottoms.

They had both been shot in the back.

He frowned. But it didn’t appear either had put up a struggle. Why?

“What’re you thinking, Slick?”

He glanced at his partner. “Wondering why they didn’t put up a fight.”

“Probably thought not struggling would save their lives.”

Spencer nodded. “Guy had a gun. Herded them in here. Probably thought they were being robbed.”

“Why not shoot them out front? Why this elaborate stage?”

“Wanted the blood.” Spencer pointed to the tub. The killer had put the stopper in, to catch the blood. Some pooled in the bottom of the tub. “Part of a ritual maybe?”

“Detectives?”

They turned. Frank stood in the bathroom doorway. “Miss something?”

A plastic bag had been taped to the back of the door. Spencer looked at Tony. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That this is a bit too familiar?”

“Uh-huh.” Spencer fitted on his gloves, crossed to the door. “Got your shot?” When the photographer nodded, Spencer carefully peeled the bag off.

With a sense of déjà vu, he removed the note inside. It read simply:
The roses are red now.