Killer Takes All

by Erica Spindler

  Her father wasn’t the only one who was proud. “You’re a very bright young woman.”

  “Yes, I am.” She frowned. “I thought we should talk. Set the ground rules.”

  Intrigued, Stacy set down her book bag and thought of her class, conscious of time passing. “Shoot.”

  “I don’t care why you’re working for Dad. Just stay out of my way.”

  “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “Not at all. Dad has all sorts of hangers-on, and I’m not interested in getting to know any of them.”

  “Hangers-on?”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Dad’s rich. And charismatic. People flock to him. Some are starstruck. Some are sincere. The rest are merely leeches.”

  Stacy folded her arms across her chest, intrigued. “What about me? I accepted a job from him, does that constitute flocking?”

  “It’s not about you.” The girl lifted a shoulder. “He hooks up with someone new, is all excited about them, then it’s over. I’ve learned not to get attached.”

  Interesting. Seemed there had been a number of severed relationships in the Noble troupe. Could one of them be carrying a grudge?

  “Sounds like you’ve been here before.”

  “I have. Sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”

  The first thing approaching a smile touched the girl’s mouth. It softened her face. “I appreciate that.”

  She left the office, having to duck by her tutor on the way out. Clark Dunbar. Forty-something. Long, thin face. Bookish. Good looking in a professional way.

  He watched her go, then turned back to Stacy. “What was that all about?”

  Stacy smiled. “She was setting ground rules. Putting me in my place.”

  “I was afraid of that. Teenagers can be trying.”

  “Especially ones who are so bright.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, his tall, lanky frame seeming to fill it. She noticed how startlingly blue his eyes were and wondered if they were colored contacts. “Even the most wonderful gift can sometimes be a burden.”

  She had never thought of it quite that way, but it was true. “You’ve had experience with gifted kids?”

  “I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “More like Clark Dunbar, super tutor.”

  He laughed. “I always wondered what my parents were thinking, naming me after the mild-mannered stiff who never got the girl.”

  “What’s your middle name? Any help there?”

  He hesitated. “None, I’m afraid. It’s Randolf.”

  She laughed and waved him in. She sat on the edge of her desk; he in the big chair in front of it. “Have you always been a private tutor?”

  “Always been an educator,” he corrected. “Better pay and better hours in this. Better class of student.”

  “That surprises me. Where did you teach?”

  “Several universities.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “And you prefer this?”

  “It sounds hokey, but it’s a privilege to work with a mind like Alice ’s. And a thrill.”

  “But if you taught university, surely many of your students-”

  “Not like Alice. Her mind-” he paused, as if searching for the right description “-awes me.”

  Stacy didn’t know what to say. She supposed someone as ordinary as herself couldn’t comprehend such an intellect.

  He leaned slightly forward, expression almost mischievous. “Truth is, I’m a bit of a hippie throwback. I like the freedom private tutoring gives me. We set our own classes and times. Nothing is rote.”

  “Sometimes the expected is a good thing.”

  He nodded and leaned back in his seat. “You’re speaking of your own experiences now. A former homicide detective turned technical adviser? There’s a story in that, I’ll bet.”

  “Just a badass turned softie.”

  “Got tired of the blood and guts?”

  “Something like that.” She glanced at her watch and stood. “I hate to cut this short, but-”

  “You have a class,” he said. “And so do I.” He smiled, something about his expression wistful. “Perhaps we can discuss the Romantics sometime.”

  As they parted, she had the distinct feeling he wanted something more from her than a discussion of literature.

  But what?

  CHAPTER 19

  Tuesday, March 8, 2005

  9:30 p.m.

  Stacy sat at a table on the second floor of the UNO library, surrounded by books. One of them an edition of Alice in Wonderland. She’d read the story-a mere 224 pages-then begun picking through a half-dozen critical essays on the author and his most famous work.

  She had discovered that Lewis Carroll was considered by some to be the Leonardo da Vinci of his time. She found that interesting, as her new boss called himself a modern-day da Vinci. She tucked that away, and returned her attention to sifting through the things she had learned about the nineteenth-century author. Although simply a tale he’d made up to amuse a young girl during a park outing and only written down later, the story had become a classic.

  Not just a classic, but one that had been analyzed damn near to death. According to the essays, Alice in Wonderland was far from a childish fantasy about a girl who tumbles down a rabbit hole and into a bizarre world, and was rife with themes of death, abandonment, the nature of justice, loneliness, nature and nurture.

  So much for a lighthearted romp.

  Stacy wondered if critics and academics made up these things to justify their own existence. She frowned at her thoughts. Ones like that wouldn’t sit well with her professors.

  She had already managed to get herself on Professor Grant’s shit list. She’d been late for class and he’d been pissed. To top it off, she hadn’t been prepared, a fact the man had quickly ascertained and pounced on.

  He had made it clear that the department expected better from their grad students.

  Stacy tossed down her pen and rubbed the bridge of her nose, tired, hungry and disappointed in herself. Grad school was her chance to change her life. If she blew it, what would she do? Go back to police work?

  No. Never.

  But she had to nail the bastard who killed Cassie. Her friend deserved that from her. If it cost her brownie points-or grade points-so be it.

  She returned her attention to the essay in front of her. The underlying notion of a world where the sane was insane and the rules of-

  The print blurred. Her eyes burned. She fought the tears, the urge to cry. She hadn’t since that first night, when she found the bodies. And she wouldn’t. She was tougher than that.

  She suddenly became aware of how quiet the library was. A prickle of déjà vu tickling the back of her neck, she closed her fingers around her ballpoint.

  Stacy waited. Listened. As if in a replay of the previous Thursday night, a sound came from behind her. A footfall, a rustling.

  She leaped to her feet and spun around, pen out.

  Malone. Grinning at her like Carroll’s damned Cheshire Cat.

  He lifted his hands in surrender. He held a copy of Cliff’s Notes on Alice in Wonderland.

  Just great, the two of them were thinking alike. Now she would cry.

  Spencer motioned to the ballpoint. “Whoa. Back down. I’m unarmed.”

  “You startled me,” she said, annoyed.

  “Sorry.”

  He didn’t look sorry at all. She tossed the pen on the table. “What’re you doing creeping around the library?”

  He arched his eyebrows at her word choice. “Same as you, it seems.”

  “God help me.”

  He laughed, pulled out a chair, swung it around and straddled it, facing her. “I like you, too.”

  She felt herself flush. “But I never said I liked you, Malone.”

  Before he could respond, her stomach growled. He smiled. “Hungry?”

  She pressed a hand to her middle. “And tired with a killer
headache.”

  “Low blood sugar, no doubt.” He reached into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. He held it out. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

  She accepted the candy. Opening it, she took a bite and made a sound of pleasure. “Thanks for your concern, Malone, but I’m doing just fine.”

  She took another bite. The effect of the sugar on her headache was nearly immediate. “You always carry Snickers bars in your pocket?”

  “Always,” he said solemnly. “Payola for snitches.”

  “Or to coax information out of hungry, headachy women.”

  He leaned forward. “Rumor has it you’re spending a lot of time with Leo Noble. Mind telling me why?”

  “Who are you following?” she countered. “Me? Or Leo?”

  “So why has Noble hired a former homicide detective? Protection? From whom?”

  She didn’t deny she was working for the man. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway; Malone knew the truth. “Technical advice. He’s writing a novel.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She changed the subject, glancing at the book Malone was holding. “I’m impressed. It looks like you’re doing your homework. Even if it is Research Lite.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Don’t be too impressed. I haven’t read it yet.”

  “Above your head?”

  “Biting the hand that fed you isn’t nice. And there’s chocolate on your teeth.”

  “Where?” She ran her tongue over her teeth.

  “Do that again.” He rested his chin on his fist. “It’s turning me on.”

  She laughed despite herself. “You want something from me-” she held a hand up to hold off the smart-ass answer she felt certain was coming “-what is it?”

  “How does the game White Rabbit relate to the story of Alice in Wonderland?”

  Stacy thought of the cards Leo had received. “Simply, Noble used Carroll’s story as inspiration for his game. The White Rabbit controls play. The characters from the story are the game characters, though it’s all been morphed into something violent and disturbing.”

  He motioned to the material on the table in front of her. “If it’s so simple, why all this?”

  He had her there. Damn it. “From other gamers, I’ve learned White Rabbit’s a renegade scenario. Outside the gaming mainstream. Its enthusiasts are more cultish than other gamers. More secretive. It seems that’s part of the game’s allure.”

  “What about its structure?”

  “More violent, to be sure.” She paused, thinking of what she had learned. “The major difference in structure is in the role of game master. Most game masters are absolutely impartial. White Rabbit’s is not. He’s a character, playing to win. The objective for all the players,” she finished, “is kill or be killed.”

  “Or to survive by any means, depending on your perspective.”

  She opened her mouth to reply; his cell phone rang, cutting her off.

  “Malone.”

  She watched his face as he listened, noted the slight tightening of his mouth. The way his eyebrows drew together in a scowl.

  The call was business.

  “Got it,” he said. “Be right there.”

  He had to go, she knew. Somewhere, somebody was dead. Murdered.

  He reholstered the phone, met her eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Duty calls.”

  She nodded. “Go.”

  He did, without a backward glance. Everything about his posture and stride shouted purpose, determination.

  She watched him. For ten years she had gotten calls like that. She had hated them. Dreaded them. They had always come at the worst times.

  Then why did she feel this biting sense of loss now? This feeling of being on the outside looking in?

  She turned to collect her things. And saw Bobby Gautreaux, striding toward the stairs. She called his name, loudly enough, she knew, to be heard.

  He didn’t slow or look back. She shot to her feet, called his name again. Loudly. He started to run. She took off after him; hitting the stairs in seconds.

  He was already gone.

  She ran down the steps, anyway, earning a scowl from the librarian. A student worker, Stacy ascertained, crossing to her. “Did you see a dark-haired guy with an orange backpack just now? He was running.”

  The young woman skimmed her gaze over Stacy, expression openly hostile. “I see a lot of dark-haired guys.”

  Stacy narrowed her eyes. “The library’s not that busy. He was running. You want to change your answer?”

  The coed hesitated, then motioned to the main entrance doors. “He went that way.”

  Stacy thanked her, then headed back upstairs. She wouldn’t accomplish anything by going after him. First, she doubted she would find him. Second, what would it prove if she did? If he had been spying on her, he wouldn’t admit it.

  But if he had been, why?

  She reached the second floor, crossed to her table and began to collect her things, freezing as a thought occurred to her. Bobby was a big guy. Taller than she was. Not as tall as she’d guessed her attacker of the other night to have been, but considering the circumstances, she could have been wrong.

  Maybe Bobby Gautreaux hadn’t been spying on her at all. Maybe his intentions had been darker.

  She would have to be very careful.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tuesday, March 8, 2005

  11:15 p.m.

  Spencer stood on the sidewalk in front of the dilapidated fourplex, waiting for Tony. The other man had arrived just behind him, but had yet to emerge from his vehicle. He was on his cell phone; his conversation appeared to be a heated one. No doubt the infamous teenager Carly, Spencer thought. Back for round twelve.

  He turned his attention to the street, the rows of homes, most of them multifamily units. On a desirability scale, this Bywater neighborhood ranked no better than a three, though he supposed that depended on one’s perspective. Some would die to live here, others would kill themselves first.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile. And some, simply, would have death thrust upon them.

  He shifted his gaze to the fourplex. The first officers had cordoned off the area and yellow crime-scene tape was draped across the front porch. In its youth, the structure had been a nice middle-class home, roomy enough for a big family. Sometime during its life, as the area had slid into disrepair and disfavor, it’d been divided into a multifamily residence, its handsome facade replaced with that awful tar-paper siding popular after World War II.

  Spencer turned at the sound of a car door slamming. Tony had finished his conversation; though by his thunderous expression Spencer suspected it was far from over.

  “Have I told you I hate teenagers?” he said as he reached Spencer.

  “Repeatedly.” They fell into step together. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Any excuse to get out of the house these days.”

  “Carly’s not that bad,” Spencer said, grinning. “You’re just old, Pasta Man. ”

  Tony glowered at him. “Don’t mess with me, Slick. Not now. The kid’s pushed me to the breaking point.”

  “Cop goes postal. Sounds ugly. Very ugly.” Spencer lifted the crime-scene tape for Tony, then ducked under himself. A scrawny dog stood at the neighbor’s chain-link fence, watching them. He hadn’t barked the entire time, a fact Spencer found odd.

  They crossed to the first officer, a woman his brother Percy had dated. It hadn’t ended well. “Hello, Tina.”

  “Spencer Malone. I see you’ve moved up in the world.”

  “Livin’ large in the Big Easy.”

  “How’s that no-good brother of yours?”

  “Which one? I’ve got several who answer to that description.”

  “That you do. Present company included.”

  “No denials from me, Officer DeAngelo.” He smiled. “What’ve we got?”

  “Upper-right unit. Victim in the bathtub. Fully dressed. Rosie Allen’s her na
me. Lived alone. Tenant directly below called it in. Water dripping from the ceiling. She tried to rouse the woman, couldn’t and called us.”

  “Why’d you call us and not DIU?”

  “This one had ISD written all over it. Killer left us a calling card.”

  Spencer frowned. “The neighbor hear anything? See anything that seemed suspicious?”

  “No.”

  “What about the other neighbors?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Crime-scene guys called?”

  “On their way. Coroner’s rep as well.”

  “Touch anything?”

  “Checked her pulse and turned off the water. Moved the shower curtain. That’s it.”

  Spencer nodded; he and Tony started up the walk. When he reached the unit’s open door, he stopped and turned. “I’ll tell Percy you asked about him.”

  “If you want to die. No problem.”

  Chuckling, he and Tony climbed the stairs, which emptied into the unit’s living room. It had been converted into a workroom, complete with two sewing tables fitted with sewing machines, both commercial-quality machines, from the look of them. Baskets heaped with clothing sat along one wall, along another, racks of hanging garments, one entirely costumes. The kind that got big applause at the gay fashion show during Carnival. Lots of sparkle. Overdone to the extreme. Against the far wall sat an old couch. In front of it a battered coffee table. A stack of paperback novels sat on its top, one upside down, propped open. Beside it a pretty china teacup and saucer. Old-fashioned-looking. Feminine.

  Spencer crossed to the table. The cup was empty save for the dregs of the beverage. A half-eaten cookie perched on the saucer.

  He shifted his attention to the books. Romances. A few mysteries. Even a western. He didn’t recognize any of the titles.

  “No TV,” Tony said disbelievingly. “Everybody has a television.”

  “Maybe it’s in the bedroom.”

  “Maybe.”

  From behind them came the sound of the techs arriving. Like a herd of cattle tromping up the wooden stairs. Not waiting to greet their colleagues, Spencer motioned Tony toward the bathroom. They’d been the first to arrive; they’d earned the right to be first to examine the scene.