Killer Takes All (6 page)

Wednesday, March 2, 2005
11:00 a.m.

S
tacy pulled up in front of 3135 Esplanade Avenue, home of Leonardo Noble. Using the information she’d gotten from Bobby Gautreaux, she’d done an Internet search on Mr. Noble. She’d learned that he was, indeed, the man who had invented the game White Rabbit. And just as Gautreaux had claimed, he lived in New Orleans.

Only a matter of blocks from Café Noir.

Stacy shifted into Park, cut the engine and glanced toward the house once more. Esplanade Avenue was one of New Orleans’ grand old boulevards, wide and shaded by giant live oak trees. The city, she had learned, was located eight feet
below
sea level, and this street, like many others in New Orleans, had once upon a time been a waterway, filled in to create a road. Why explorers had thought a swamp would be a good choice for a settlement eluded her.

But of course, the swamp had become New Orleans.

This end of Esplanade Avenue, close to City Park and the Fairgrounds, was called the Bayou St. John neighborhood. Although historically significant and beautiful, it was a transitional neighborhood because a meticulously restored mansion might sit next to one in disrepair, or to a school, restaurant or other commercial endeavor. The other end of the boulevard dead-ended at the Mississippi River, at the outermost edge of the French Quarter.

In between lay a wasteland—home to poverty, despair and crime.

Her online search had yielded some interesting information about the man who called himself a modern-day Leonardo da Vinci. He’d only lived in New Orleans two years. Before that, the inventor had called southern California home.

Stacy recalled the man’s image. California had fit in a way the very traditional New Orleans didn’t. His appearance was unconventional—equal parts California surfer, mad scientist and
GQ
entrepreneur. Not really handsome, with his wild and wavy blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses, but striking nonetheless.

Stacy mentally reviewed the series of articles she’d found on the man and his game. He had attended the University of California at Berkeley in the early eighties. It was there that he and a friend had created White Rabbit. Since then he’d created a number of other pop culture icons: ad campaigns, video games and even a bestselling novel that had become a hit movie.

She’d learned that White Rabbit had been inspired by Lewis Carroll’s fantasy novel,
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Not a particularly original idea: a number of other artists had been inspired by Carroll’s creation, including the rock group Jefferson Airplane in their 1967 hit “White Rabbit.”

Stacy drew in a deep breath and pulled her thoughts together. She had decided to pursue the White Rabbit angle. She hoped Bobby Gautreaux was the one, but hope didn’t cut it. She knew how cops worked. By now, Malone and his partner would have focused all their energy and attention on Gautreaux. Why spend valuable time pursuing other, vague leads with such a good suspect in hand? He was the easy choice. The logical one. Many cases were solved because the one who looked most guilty was.

Most cases.

Not all.

Cops had lots of cases; they always hoped for a quick solve.

But she wasn’t a cop anymore. She had one case.

The murder of her friend.

Stacy opened the car door. If Bobby Gautreaux fell through, she planned to have another trail for the dynamic duo to follow, bread crumbs and all.

Stacy climbed out of the car. The Noble residence was a jewel. Greek Revival. Beautifully restored. Its grounds—which included a guest house—encompassed a full block. Three massive live oak trees graced the front yard, their sprawling branches draped in Spanish moss.

She crossed to the wrought-iron front gate. As she passed under the oak’s branches, she saw that they were beginning to bud. She’d heard that spring in New Orleans was something to behold and she was looking forward to judging that for herself.

Stacy climbed the stairs to the front gallery. She didn’t have a badge. There was no reason the Nobles should even speak with her, let alone reveal information that might lead to a killer.

She had no badge; she meant to create the illusion that she did.

She rang the bell, slipping into detective mode. It was a matter of stance and bearing. Expression. Tone of voice.

And the flash of imaginary police identification.

A moment later a domestic opened the door. Stacy smiled coolly and flipped open her ID, then snapped it shut. “Is Mr. Noble home?”

As she had expected, a look of surprise crossed the woman’s face, followed by one of curiosity. She nodded and stepped aside so Stacy could enter. “One moment, please,” she said, closing the door behind them.

While Stacy waited, she studied the home’s interior. A huge, curved staircase rose from the foyer to the second floor. To her left lay a double parlor, to her right a formal dining room. Dead ahead, the foyer opened to a wide hallway, which most probably led to the kitchen.

Fitting her original impression of Leonardo Noble being both surfer dude and mad scientist, the interior was a mishmash of the comfortable and the formal, the modern and classic. The art, too, was bizarrely eclectic. A large Blue Dog painting, by Louisiana artist George Rodrigue, graced the stairwell; next to it, a traditional landscape. In the dining room hung an antique portrait of a child, one of those hideous representations of a child as a miniature adult.

“The portrait came with the house,” a woman said from the top of the stairs. Stacy looked up. The woman, of obvious mixed Asian descent, was gorgeous. One of those cool, self-possessed beauties Stacy admired and despised—both for the same reason.

Stacy watched as she descended the stairs. The woman crossed to her and extended her hand. “It’s quite awful, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?”

“The portrait. I can hardly bear to look at it, but for some obscure reason Leo’s grown attached.” She smiled then, the curving of her lips more practiced than warm. “I’m Kay Noble.”

The wife.
“Stacy Killian,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Mrs. Maitlin said you’re a police officer?”

“I’m investigating a murder.”
That much was true.

The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “How can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak with Mr. Noble. Is he available?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not. However, I’m his business manager. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”

“A woman was murdered several nights ago. She was heavily into fantasy role-playing games. The night she died she was meeting someone to play your husband’s game.”

“My ex-husband,” she corrected. “Leo’s the creator of a number of RPGs. Which one?”

“The game that refuses to die, I’ll bet.”

Stacy turned. Leonardo Noble stood in the doorway to the parlor. The first thing she noted was his height—he was considerably taller than he had appeared in his press photo. The boyish grin made him look younger than the forty-five she’d read his age to be.

“Which one would that be?” she asked.

“White Rabbit, of course.” He bounded across the foyer and stuck out his hand. “I’m Leonardo.”

She took it. “Stacy Killian.”

“
Detective
Stacy Killian,” Kay added. “She’s investigating a murder.”

“A murder?” His eyebrows shot up. “Here’s an unexpected twist to the day.”

Stacy took his hand. “A woman named Cassie Finch was killed this past Sunday night. She was an avid fan of role-playing games. The Friday before her death, she told a friend she had met someone who played the game White Rabbit, and he had arranged a meeting between her and a Supreme White Rabbit.”

Leo Noble spread his hands. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

She took a small spiral notebook from her jacket pocket, the same type of notebook she had carried as a detective. “Another gamer described
you
as the Supreme White Rabbit.”

He laughed, then apologized. “Of course, there’s nothing about this situation that’s funny. It’s the comment…a Supreme White Rabbit. Really.”

“As the game’s creator, aren’t you?”

“Some say so. They hold me up as some sort of mystical being. A god of sorts.”

“Is that the way you view yourself?” she asked.

He laughed again. “Certainly not.”

Kay stepped in. “That’s why we call it the game that refuses to die. The fans are obsessed.”

Stacy moved her gaze between the unlikely pair. “Why?” she asked.

“Don’t know.” Leonardo shook his head. “If I did, I’d re-create the magic.” He leaned toward her, all boyish enthusiasm. “Because it is, you know. Magic. Touching people in a way that’s so personal. And so intense.”

“You never published the game. Why?”

He glanced at his ex-wife. “I’m not the sole creator of White Rabbit. My best friend and I created it back in 1982, while we were grad students at Berkeley. D&D was at the height of its popularity. Dick and I were both gamers, but we grew bored with D&D.”

“So you decided to create your own scenario.”

“Exactly. It caught on and quickly spread by word of mouth from Berkeley to other universities.”

“It became clear to them,” Kay offered quietly, “that they had done something special. That they had a viable commercial success at their fingertips.”

“His name?” Stacy asked.

Leonardo took over once more. “Dick Danson.”

She made a note of the name as the man continued. “We formed a business partnership, intending to publish White Rabbit and other projects we had in the works. We had a falling out before we could.”

“A falling out?” Stacy repeated. “Over what?”

The man looked uncomfortable; he and his ex-wife exchanged a glance. “Let’s just say, I discovered Dick wasn’t the person I thought he was.”

“They dissolved the partnership,” Kay said. “Agreed not to publish anything they worked on together.”

“That must have been difficult,” Stacy said.

“Not as difficult as you might think. I had lots of opportunities. Lots of ideas. So did he. And White Rabbit was already out there, so we figured we weren’t losing that much.”

“Two White Rabbits,” she murmured.

“Pardon?”

“You and your former partner. As co-creators, you could both go by the title of Supreme White Rabbit.”

“That would be true. Except that he’s dead.”

“Dead?” she repeated. “When?”

He thought a moment. “About three years ago. Because it was before we moved here. He drove off a cliff along the Monterey coast.”

She was silent a moment. “Do you play the game, Mr. Noble?”

“No. I gave up role-playing games years ago.”

“May I ask why?”

“Lost interest. Grew out of them. Like anything done to excess, after a while the endeavor loses its thrill.”

“So you went looking for a different thrill.”

He sent her a big, goofy smile. “Something like that.”

“Are you in contact with any local players?”

“None.”

“Have any contacted you?”

He hesitated slightly. “No.”

“You don’t seem certain of that.”

“He is.” Kay glanced pointedly at her watch; Stacy saw the sparkle of diamonds. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” she said, standing, “but Leo’s going to be late for a meeting.”

“Of course.” Stacy got to her feet, tucking her notebook into her pocket as she did.

They walked her to the front door. She stopped and turned back after she had stepped through it. “One last question, Mr. Noble. Some of the articles I read suggested a link between role-playing games and violent behavior. Do you believe that?”

Something passed across both their faces. The man’s smile didn’t waver, yet it suddenly looked forced.

“Guns don’t kill people, Detective Killian. People kill people. That’s what I believe.”

His answer seemed practiced; no doubt he had been asked that question many times before.

She wondered when he had begun to doubt his answer.

Stacy thanked the pair and made her way to her vehicle. When she reached it, she glanced back. The couple had disappeared into the house. Odd, she decided. She found something about them very odd.

She gazed at the closed door a moment, reviewing their conversation, assessing her thoughts about it.

She didn’t think they had been lying. But she was certain they hadn’t been telling the whole truth. Stacy unlocked her car, opened the door and slid behind the wheel. But why?

That’s what she meant to find out.

Thursday, March 3, 2005
11:00 a.m.

S
pencer stood at the back of the Newman Religious Center’s chapel and watched Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner’s friends file out. Located on the UNO campus, the multidenominational chapel, like every other building on site, looked grimly utilitarian.

The chapel had proved too small to accommodate the many who had come to pay their last respects to Cassie and Beth. It had been filled to overflowing.

Spencer shook off crushing fatigue. He had made the mistake of meeting some friends at Shannon’s the night before. One thing had led to another and he’d closed the place at 2:00 a.m.

He was paying the price today. Big time.

He forced himself to focus on the rows of faces. Stacy Killian, expression stony, accompanied by Billie Bellini. The members of Cassie’s game group, all of whom he had spoken with, Beth’s friends and family as well. Bobby Gautreaux.

He found that interesting. Very interesting.

The kid had acted remorseless a couple of days ago; now he presented the picture of despair.

Despairing over the fate of his own ass, no doubt.

The search of his car and dorm room hadn’t turned up a direct link—yet. The crime-lab guys were working their way through the hundreds of prints and trace lifted from the scene. He wasn’t giving up on Gautreaux. The kid was the best they had so far.

From across the room he caught the eye of Mike Benson, one of his fellow detectives. Spencer nodded slightly at Benson and pushed away from the wall. He followed the students out into the bright, cool day.

Tony had been stationed out front during the service. Police photographers with telephoto lenses had been planted, capturing the faces of all the mourners on film, a record they would cross-reference against any suspects.

Spencer moved his gaze over the group. If not Gautreaux, was the real killer here? Watching? Secretly excited? Reliving Cassie’s death? Or was he amused? Laughing at them, congratulating himself on his cleverness?

He didn’t have a sense either way. No one stood out. No one looked like they didn’t belong.

Frustration licked at him. A feeling of inadequacy. Ineptitude.

Damn it, he didn’t belong in charge of this. He felt like he was drowning.

Stacy separated herself from friends and crossed to him. He nodded at her, slipping into the good ol’ boy role that fit him so well. “’Morning, former-cop Killian.”

“Save the charm for somebody else, Malone. I’m beyond it.”

“That so, Ms. Killian? Down here we call it manners.”

“In Texas we call it bullshit. I know why you’re here, Detective. I know what you’re looking for. Anybody stand out?”

“No. But I didn’t know all her friends. Anyone jump out at you?”

“No.” She made a sound of frustration. “Except for Gautreaux.”

He followed her glance. The young man stood just outside the circle of friends. The man beside him, Spencer knew, was his lawyer. It seemed to Spencer the kid was working damn hard to look devastated.

“That his lawyer with him?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“I thought maybe the little weasel would be in jail.”

“We don’t have enough to charge him. But we’re still looking.”

“You got a search warrant?”

“Yes. We’re still waiting on print and trace reports from the lab.”

Part of her had hoped for better: the weapon or some other incontrovertible evidence. She glanced at the young man, then back at Spencer. She was angry, he saw. “He’s not sorry,” she said. “He’s acting all broken up, but he’s not. That pisses me off.”

He touched her arm lightly. “We’re not going to give up, Stacy. I promise you.”

“You really expect me to be reassured by that?” She looked away, then back. “You know what I told the bereaved friends and family of every victim I ever worked? That I wouldn’t give up. I promised. But it was bullshit. Because there was always another case. Another victim.”

She leaned toward him, voice tight with emotion, eyes bright with unshed tears. “This time I’m
not
giving up.”

She turned and walked away. He watched her go, reluctant admiration pulling at him. She was a hard-ass, no doubt about it. Determined to a fault. Pushy. Cocky in a way few women were, down here, anyway.

And smart. He’d give her that.

Spencer narrowed his eyes slightly. Maybe too damn smart for her own good.

Tony ambled over. He followed the direction of Spencer’s gaze. “The prickly Ms. Killian give you anything?”

“Besides a headache? No.” He looked at his partner. “How about you? Anybody jump out?”

“Nope. But that doesn’t mean the bastard wasn’t here.”

Spencer nodded, turning his attention back to Stacy. She stood with Cassie’s mother and sister. As he watched, she clasped the older woman’s hand, leaned close. She said something to her, expression almost fierce.

He swung back toward his partner. “I suggest we keep an eye on Stacy Killian.”

“You think she knows something she’s not telling?”

About Cassie’s murder, he didn’t. But he did believe she had the ability and determination to uncover information they needed. And in a way that might attract attention. The wrong kind. “I think she’s too smart for her own good.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. She just might solve this thing for us.”

“Or get herself killed.” He met the older man’s eyes once more. “I want to follow up the White Rabbit angle.”

“What changed your mind?”

Killian. Her brains.

And her balls.

But he wasn’t about to tell Tony that; he’d hear never-ending shit about it.

Instead, he shrugged. “Nowhere else to go. Might as well.”