Killer Takes All (23 page)

Friday, March 18, 2005
New Orleans
9:10 a.m.

S
pencer tapped on his aunt’s hospital room door. He heard her inside, giving her doctor a tongue-lashing. He bit back a smile. She was insisting the man release her. Demanding to speak to someone with more authority. Someone who had actually earned a medical degree.

To the physician’s credit, he kept his cool. In fact, he actually sounded pleased.

Spencer stepped into the room. “’Morning, Aunt Patti,” he said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I’m telling this quack—”

“Dr. Fontaine,” the man said, stepping forward, hand out.

They shook hands. “Detective Spencer Malone. Patient’s nephew, godson and ISD whipping boy.”

She glared at him. She looked good, he thought. Healthy and strong. He told her so.

“Of course I’m healthy. As fit as a fiddle.”

“You want me to bust you out of here?” he asked her.

“God, yes.”

The physician shook his head, amused. “Soon, Patti, I promise.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

The moment the doctor had left the room, she ordered Spencer to pull up a chair and sit. She wanted news.

“Remember Bobby Gautreaux, the suspect in the Finch homicide?”

“Sure, kid was a worm.”

“The very one.” A smile tugged at Spencer’s mouth. “DNA came back this morning. The hair we found on Finch’s T-shirt was his.”

“Excellent.”

“There’s more. Cross-referenced the results against blood taken from the attack on Stacy Killian at the UNO library and got ourselves a solid match.”

She opened her mouth as if to question him more; he held up a hand, stopping her. “It gets better. They ran the results against the semen samples taken from the three UNO rape victims. Solid matches all.”

She looked pleased. “Good work.”

He thought so, too. “Stacy Killian was convinced the guy who attacked her was warning her away from poking her nose into the Finch investigation. That works now.”

“You didn’t buy it then.”

“We didn’t have the DNA link to Gautreaux then.”

She nodded. “You said she nailed him pretty good with the pen. He should still have the wound.”

“He does. Which we photographed, of course. In terms of the Finch and Wagner homicides, throw in his print from the scene, the strand of Finch’s hair we collected from his clothing and the threats he had made against the woman, we’ve got ourselves a compelling case.”

Mr. Gautreaux was going to spend the remainder of his youth behind bars.

“I agree. But you’re holding on the murder charge and moving forward on the rapes.”

He smiled. “You got it. Because of the serial nature of his crimes, the judge will deny bail, and we can take our sweet time amassing the evidence to put him away for murder one.”

She murmured her agreement. “No sense setting the judicial clock ticking until we have to. Is he in custody yet?”

“Being processed as we speak.”

“Good. What about the White Rabbit case?”

“The playing cards are dead.”

“I heard. Leads?”

“Working on one. The game inventor.”

“Keep me posted.” She sighed and glanced at the wall clock. “Damn, I’m ready to get out of here.”

“It won’t be much longer. How’s Uncle Sammy doing without you?”

“Eating pizza every night, the idiot. He’ll be in here with a clogged artery next.”

Chuckling, Spencer stood, bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll stop by later.”

“Wait.” She caught his hand. “Any trouble for you? Personally?”

He knew what she meant—had he heard from PID?

He shook his head. “No. Tony’s asked around, nobody’s heard anything. But I have this sensation at the back of my neck, like hot breath.”

She nodded, understanding. “By the book, Malone. Not one finger out of line.”

He saluted and headed out. As he stepped off the elevator on the first floor, his cell rang. He checked the display, saw that it was Tony.

“Pasta Man.”

“Where are you?”

“Just left Aunt Patti. Heading downtown now.”

“Don’t bother. Head for the Noble place instead.”

He stopped. The sensation at the back of his neck grew stronger. “What’s up?”

“Kay Noble’s missing.”

Friday, March 18, 2005
11:10 a.m.

W
hen Spencer arrived at the Noble mansion, the first officer directed him to the guest house. He found Tony inside.

“Hey, Slick. Made good time.”

“A land speed record.” He looked over the tidy room, noting how tasteful it was. Like something out of
Southern Living
magazine. He wondered if the now-deceased designers, Wright and Zapeda, had done the decorating. “Fill me in.”

“Apparently, Kay didn’t show for breakfast this morning. The housekeeper didn’t think too much about it. Although the woman’s typically an early bird, once in a while she sleeps in. Suffers with migraines, too. Again, occasionally.”

He glanced at his notes. “Complained of one coming on the afternoon before.”

“Who finally sounded the alarm?”

“The kid.”

“Alice?”

“Yes. When Kay didn’t show by ten-thirty, Leo sent Alice over to check on her mom.”

“Door was unlocked?”

“Yup.”

“Why’d they call us? She could be taking a walk or out with friends.”

“Not likely. Take a look at this.”

His partner led him to the bedroom. Unlike the front room, which had been pin neat, this one showed signs of a violent struggle. Lamp toppled. Paintings askew. Bed torn apart.

Spencer’s gaze landed on the jumbled bedding. The periwinkle-blue-and-bone silk spread was marred by dark stains.

Blood.
He crossed to the bed. There wasn’t a tremendous amount, but more than could have been caused by a scratch or other small wound. More blood on the floor led to an arched doorway at the back of the room. At the archway, a bloody handprint stood in stark contrast to the light-hued wall.

Spencer crossed to it. He studied the print a moment, then looked at the other man. “Size is consistent with a woman’s.”

Tony nodded. “We should test it against the hands of other members of the household. See if the glass slipper fits.”

Might be the perp’s print, not the vic’s. It didn’t feel that way, but that didn’t necessarily mean squat.

Spencer motioned to the doorway.

“A study,” Tony said. “Patio beyond.”

Spencer nodded. Mindful not to destroy evidence, he picked his way around the trail of blood. Every drop would be collected and tested. Only testing would prove whether or not all of it was from the same person.

The study also showed signs of a struggle. Furniture at odd angles. Knickknacks toppled, broken. As if Kay had been struggling, grabbing onto furniture, putting up a fight.

A good thing. It meant Kay had still been alive.

The sliding glass doors that led to the patio stood open. More blood, on the door frame and glass panel.

He crossed to them and peered out. The patio was surrounded by shrubs, making it private, like a courtyard. The perp had known the guest house layout, had chosen this route to be away from prying eyes. He had wanted to keep the alarm from sounding as long as possible.

“Crime-scene techs on their way?” Spencer asked.

“Called ’em myself.”

“You talk to anybody yet?”

“Nope. Got it all from Jackson.”

DIU, Third District.
“So Noble called 911?”

“Yup. Communications contacted DIU first. The guys at the Third realized the connection to our case, called me.”

“Wonder why Noble didn’t call us directly?” Spencer murmured more to himself than Tony.

Maybe to delay that alarm.

“I want to interview everybody on the property. Let’s start with the big man himself.”

“You want us to stick together or split up?” Tony asked.

“Split up, we’ll cover ground more quickly. Start with the housekeeper, then move on from there. We’ll compare notes later.”

Tony agreed and headed for the kitchen. Spencer found Leo in his office. He sat at his desk, staring into space, expression flat. His daughter, on the other hand, huddled in the corner of the couch, knees to her chest. Unlike her dad, she looked devastated.

“I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Noble.”

“Leo,” he corrected. “Go ahead.”

“When did you last see your wife?”

“Ex-wife. Last night. About seven o’clock.”

“Working late?”

“We all had dinner together. Right, pumpkin?”

The teenager looked up, like a deer caught in headlights, and nodded. “We went for sushi.”

Her voice cracked and she pressed her forehead to her knees. Spencer motioned toward the doorway. “Perhaps we should talk in the hall?”

“Sure. Of course.” He crossed to his daughter. “Pumpkin?” She looked up. “The detective and I will be in the hall. Will you be okay alone?”

She nodded, looking terrified.

“Call me if you need me. Okay?”

She indicated she would, and the two men left the room, quietly shutting the door behind them.

“I thought it’d be better if she didn’t overhear us,” Spencer said softly. Which was true—just not for the reason Noble thought. He didn’t want the father’s answers to influence the daughter’s.

“I should have thought of that,” Leo said. “I sent her to get Kay. It’s my fault she saw—” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t I go myself?”

He sounded genuinely guilty. But over what? Inadvertently exposing his daughter to what very well may have been the scene of her mother’s death? Or for having involved her in his crime?

“Let’s go back to the previous evening,” Spencer said. “The name of the sushi restaurant?”

“Japanese Garden. Just up the street.”

Spencer made a note. “Do you do that often, have dinner together?”

“Several times a week. After all, we’re a family.”

“But not the typical family.”

“It’s a world filled with variation, Detective.”

“And you didn’t see her again after dinner?”

“No. I was out on the back porch around midnight—”

“Midnight?”

“Smoking a cigar. Her light was on.”

He said it as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “At dinner, she say anything about a headache?”

“A headache? Not that I recall. Why?”

Spencer ignored the question, sending another of his own. “Typically, she a night owl?”

“No. That’s my role.”

“She ever leave her door unlocked?”

“Never. I used to tease her, call her anal retentive about such things. She was always a detail person.”

Spencer jumped on his use of the past tense. “Was? Do you know something we don’t, Mr. Noble?”

The man flushed. “Of course not. I was referring to the years we were married. And her business abilities.”

“In terms of your business, what role does Kay play?”

“Basically, she’s my business manager. She works with the accountants and lawyers, reviews the contracts, stays on top of the employees…and generally leaves me to be creative.”

“To be creative,” Spencer repeated. “If you’ll pardon me, that sounds pretty self-indulgent.”

“To you, I suppose it does. Most people don’t understand the creative process.”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“The brain has two sides, the left and right. The left side controls organization and logic. It also controls language and speech, critical thinking and so forth.”

“So you had Kay to take care of all those left-brain details. Could you have hired someone else to do the job?”

He looked perplexed by the question. “Sure. But why would I?”

Spencer shrugged. “I suspect you would have to pay less. As your ex-wife, she probably feels entitled to half of everything you have.”

Leo flushed. “She is entitled. I’ve never made a secret of that. Without Kay, I wouldn’t have gotten where I am. She kept me focused, harnessed my enthusiasm and creativity in a way that allowed me to make money using my imagination.”

“You say she’s entitled to half. That’s what you give her?”

“Yes. Half.”

“Of everything?”

His expression altered, as with understanding. “You think I had something to do with this?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Of everything.” He flexed his fingers. “I’m not that kind of man, Detective.”

“What kind is that?”

“The kind who puts money before people. Money doesn’t mean that much to me.”

“I can tell.”

At Spencer’s sarcasm, color flooded Leo’s face. “I know who did this, and you should, too!”

“And who would that be, Mr. Noble?”

“The White Rabbit.”

Friday, March 18, 2005
3:30 p.m.

S
pencer dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and smiled. Kay Noble’s disappearance had convinced a judge to give them a search warrant for Leo’s home, office, vehicles, business and financial records.

He stood, stretched and started toward Tony’s desk. Between the two of them, they’d questioned everyone in the Noble household. Everyone’s answers pretty well mirrored Leo’s—with one exception. Only the housekeeper recalled Kay having a headache.

“Yo, Pasta Man.” His partner sat at his desk, staring at a small logbook. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, he made a growling noise.

Spencer frowned and indicated the logbook. “What’s that?”

“Points keeper.”

“Excuse me?”

“Weight Watchers. Wife signed me up.” He sighed. “Every food has an assigned point value. You log everything you eat and subtract it from your daily points limit.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I’ve already used up all my points.”

“For the day and night?”

“Yeah. And some of my weekly flex points.”

“Flex poin—” He bit the question back. “Forget about it. Let’s take a drive.”

“Where?”

“Noble’s. By way of the Criminal Courts Building.”

Tony grinned. “Judge granted a search warrant?”

“Bingo, baby.”

In the end, they picked up the warrant, and since they were downtown, paid a visit to Noble’s lawyer. Winston Coppola was a partner in Smith, Grooms, Macke and Coppola, located in the Place St. Charles building.

They parked in a tow zone—legal spots were few and far between in the Central Business District, and flipped down the visor to display their police ID. As they crossed the sidewalk to the building’s main entrance, the St. Charles Avenue streetcar rumbled past.

They found the law firm on the building’s directory, caught an elevator and headed for the tenth floor.

The pretty young woman at reception smiled when the two men approached her desk. “Spencer Malone, what a surprise.”

He returned the smile, not having a clue who she was. Luckily, he’d noted her name on the desk placard. “Trish? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“Gee, look at you. How long’s it been?”

“Too long. I changed my hair.”

“I see that. I like it.”

“Thanks.” She pouted. “You never called. We had so much fun that night at Shannon’s, I was certain you would.”

Shannon’s. No wonder.

Must have been back in his big drinking days.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said with what he hoped was just the right note of sincerity. He imagined Tony beside him, rolling his eyes. “I lost your number.”

“I can remedy that.”

She caught his hand and turned it palm up. She wrote the number across his palm, then closed his fingers around it. “Call me.”

Tony cleared his throat. “We’re here to see Winston Coppola. Is he in?”

“Mr. Coppola? Do you have an appointment?”

“This is official business.”

“Oh…I see,” she said, obviously flustered. “I’ll buzz him.”

She did, and a moment later, she replaced the receiver and directed them to the man’s office. As they made their way back, Tony leaned toward him, “Good save, Slick.”

“Thanks.”

“What a knockout. Are you going to call her?”

Truth was, calling the pretty Trish was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. Well, maybe not the furthest, but the need wasn’t pressing. “I’d be crazy not to. Right?”

Tony didn’t answer, because they had reached the attorney’s office; he was waiting at the door for them. Handsome, well-dressed, impeccably groomed, but with a slightly freaky George Hamilton tan, he appeared to be a smooth operator.

Spencer greeted him. “Detectives Malone and Sciame. We need to ask you a few questions about Kay Noble.”

“Kay?” He frowned. “You have IDs, Detectives?”

After inspecting them, the man ushered them into his office. None of them sat.

Spencer noted the framed diplomas; the photographs on the desk, credenza and walls. One, he saw, depicted the lawyer skiing, another at the beach. No wonder the guy was so brown.

Tony looked around, openly admiring the office. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“You have an interesting name, Mr. Coppola.”

“English mother, Italian father. I’m a bit of a mutt, actually.”

“Any relationship to Francis Ford?”

“Sadly, no. Now, about Noble?”

“She’s missing. We have reason to believe she’s in harm’s way.”

“My God. When—”

“Last night.”

“How can I help?”

“When did you see her last?”

“Early this week.”

“May I ask what the meeting was about?”

“A licensing agreement.”

“How’s business? Their business?”

“Very good.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m sure you understand I can’t share confidential information.”

“Actually, you can. We have a warrant.” Spencer produced the document; the attorney looked it over, then handed it back.

“First off, this document does not release me from attorney-client privilege. It allows you access to Leonardo Noble’s home and vehicle, and financial and business records you might find there.

“Second, as a lawyer, I understand the significance of the warrant and your underlying reasons for obtaining it.” He leaned toward them. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. If something’s happened to Kay, Leo had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“They’re devoted to each other.”

“They divorced, Mr. Coppola.”

“Let go of all your notions about what that means. They’d worked all that out. They are friends. Partners in raising their daughter and in their business ventures.”

“And how is their business?” Spencer asked, repeating his earlier question.

“Very good, actually. Leo and Kay just signed several big licensing agreements.”

“For really big money?” Tony asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“How big?” Spencer pressed. “Are we talking millions?”

“Yes, millions.”

“Who pays your bill, Mr. Coppola?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bill, who pays it? Leo or Kay?”

Red stained his cheeks. “That question offends me, Detective.”

“But I’m certain the money doesn’t.”

“Noble’s not just a client, but also a friend. Billable hours have nothing to do with that. Or with how I answered your questions. I’m sorry, but I’m out of time.”

Spencer stuck out his hand. “Thanks for speaking with us. We’ll be in touch.”

Tony handed him a card. “If you think of anything, give us a call.”

The attorney showed them out. Trish sat at her desk but was too busy to do more than look up and smile as they passed. The moment the door of the elevator whooshed shut, Tony looked at Spencer. “Interesting how rich people always claim money’s not important. If it’s not important, why do they work so hard to hang on to it?”

Spencer nodded, recalling how Leo Noble had claimed money didn’t mean that much to him. “I’m thinking that Coppola believes Leo’s the power behind the empire. Did you get that?”

“Yeah, I got that. You think that influenced his answers?”

“Maybe. He’s a lawyer, after all.”

For the most part, cops didn’t think highly of lawyers. Except for prosecutors, like Spencer’s brother Quentin.

The elevator reached the first floor; the doors opened and they stepped off. “You’re married, Pasta Man, give me some perspective.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m a little muddy about this whole ‘they still love and respect each other’ thing. This ‘I owe it all to her, so I’m giving her half’ thing. Let’s say the missus divorces you. How are you going to feel about that?”

They reached the car. Spencer unlocked it and they climbed in. Tony buckled his safety belt and looked at Spencer. “I’ve been married thirty-two years and I don’t get it, either. We love and respect each other, fight and disagree, but we stay together. It’s the fact that we made a commitment to each other that keeps us together, working at it. If she divorced me, I’d be pretty pissed off.”

“And if, after she divorced you, she got half of everything you made—past and future. How would you feel about that? Could you still be friends?”

“It wouldn’t happen, dude.”

“Why not?”

“After you sleep with a woman, you can’t be friends.”

“Neanderthal.”

“And how many of those friends do you have?”

Spencer drew his eyebrows together in thought.
Exactly…none.

He glanced at Tony, then pulled away from the curb. “Everybody who knows them is singing the same song. Friends. Employees. Daughter.”

“And you think it’s an act.”

It wasn’t a question; instead of answering, he asked one of his own. “Who stands to gain the most by Kay Noble dying?”

“Leo Noble.”

“Damn right, he does. Call for a couple uniforms to meet us at Leo’s. It’s time for the games to begin.”