Killer Takes All

by Erica Spindler

  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 amp;D was at the height of its popularity. Dick and I were both gamers, but we grew bored with D amp;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.

  CHAPTER 11

  Thursday, March 3, 2005

  11:00 a.m.

  Spencer 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.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday, March 3, 2005

  3:50 p.m.

  “This is it,” Spencer said, indicating the Esplanade Avenue mansion Leonardo Noble called home. “Pull over.”

  Tony did, whistling long and low. “It appears there’s big money in fun and games.”

  Spencer grunted a response, eyes on the Noble residence. He’d done a search and discovered that Leonardo Noble, White Rabbit’s creator, did indeed live in New Orleans. He’d also learned the man had no priors, no outstandings, not so much as an unpaid parking ticket.

  That didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty as hell. Only that if he was, he was smart enough to get away with it.

  They crossed to the wrought-iron gate and let themselves through. No dogs barked. No alarms went off. He glanced at the house; not a burglar bar on even one window.

  Obviously Noble felt safe. Risky in a marginal neighborhood like this one, especially with such obvious wealth.

  They rang the bell and a woman in a black dress and crisp white apron answered. They introduced themselves and asked to see Leonardo Noble. In a matter of moments, a forty-something-looking man with an athletic build and a head of wild, wavy hair hurri
ed out to greet them.

  He held out a hand. “Leonardo Noble. How can I help you?”

  Spencer shook his hand. “Detective Malone. My partner, Detective Sciame. NOPD.”

  He looked at them expectantly, eyebrows raised in question.

  “We’re investigating the murder of a UNO coed.”

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “You haven’t told me anything yet, Mr. Noble.”

  The man laughed. “I’m sorry, I already spoke with your associate. Detective Killian. Stacy Killian.”

  It took a second for the man’s words to register and a split second more for Spencer’s temper to flare. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Noble. But you’ve been duped, there is no Stacy Killian at the NOPD.”

  The man stared at them, expression confused. “But I spoke with her. Yesterday.”

  “Did she show you her-”

  “Leo,” a woman said from behind them, “what’s going on?”

  Spencer turned. A beautiful, dark-haired woman crossed to stand beside Leonardo Noble.

  “Kay, Detectives Malone and Sciame. My business manager, Kay Noble.”

  She shook both their hands, smiling warmly. “His ex-wife as well, Detectives.”

  Spencer returned her smile. “That would explain the name.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  The inventor cleared his throat. “They say the woman who was here the other day wasn’t a police officer at all.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Did she show you a badge, ma’am?”

  “Not me, our housekeeper. I’ll get her. Excuse me a moment.”

  Spencer experienced a moment of pity for the housekeeper. Kay Noble didn’t look like the type of woman who tolerated mistakes.

  Moments later, she returned with the woman, who looked upset. “Tell the officers what you told me, Valerie.”

  The housekeeper-sixtyish with iron-gray hair swept up into a flattering French twist-clasped her hands in front of her. “The woman flashed a badge…or what I thought was a badge. She asked to speak with Mr. Noble.”