Killer Takes All

by Erica Spindler

  “Missing. Taken either as a trophy or to cover his ass.”

  “You’re certain it was hers?”

  Tony leaned forward. “Affirmative, Captain. Acquaintances all confirmed orange was her shade.”

  Spencer took over, filling in his superior on Allen’s connection to Noble, the cards Noble had received and Spencer’s theory that a fanatic had begun to play the game for real.

  When he finished, she stared at him, eyes glassy. “You don’t look so good, Captain,” he said.

  “Damn allergies,” she said. “Everything’s in bloom.”

  “Including your nose.” Tony grinned. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

  She snatched a second tissue from the box. “Not at all. If you don’t mind working Traffic.”

  “Backing down, Captain. I’m too old and too fat for that detail.”

  A hint of a smile touched her mouth. “This game, tell me about it.”

  “Ever heard of Dungeons amp; Dragons? It got a lot of media attention a few years ago.”

  She nodded. “Worked a case back in ’85, involved a couple kids heavily into D amp; D. They were romantically involved and killed themselves in a suicide pact. Media had a field day with it. Claimed ‘research’ about the game brainwashing the kids. Leading them to murder and suicide.

  “It all came to little more than hype. The girl had been diagnosed as clinically depressed and the parents had threatened to break the couple up. The whole gaming angle complicated things, made it tough to do our jobs.”

  Typical media. “This game’s darker than D amp; D. From what I gather, the most violent of the lot. Based on the book Alice in Wonderland. ”

  She muttered something about nothing being sacred as she blew her nose again.

  “This game’s scenario is kill or be killed. The White Rabbit’s the ultimate assassin.”

  “Now come to life,” Captain O’Shay said, moving her gaze between her two detectives.

  “That’s Noble’s theory,” Spencer agreed.

  “For God’s sake, keep it from the media.” The captain grimaced. “That’s all we need, a repeat of the ’85 circus.”

  “The Nobles claim they didn’t even know the vic’s name,” Tony said. “The mister didn’t even recognize her from a photo.”

  “Just one of the countless many who serve,” Spencer said dryly. “According to the ex-Mrs. Noble, the woman dealt mostly with the housekeeper, Mrs. Maitlin.”

  “You spoke with her?”

  “Yup. Didn’t have much to bring to the party.” He checked his notes. “Hardly knew her. Found her through an ad. The woman agreed to come to the house for fittings, which isn’t customary. The housekeeper described her as a mousy woman. Her words.”

  Patti O’Shay frowned. “Interesting.”

  “We thought so,” Tony offered. “Checking the National Crime Information Center for priors. On Maitlin. The rest of the household as well.”

  “None of them recalled seeing her. They could be lying, of course.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Good news. Got a break in the Finch and Wagner murders. A fingerprint match from the scene.”

  “Gautreaux?”

  “Bingo. Also got a strand of her hair from his jacket. And a strand of hair consistent with his from her T-shirt. Not enough to charge him, because of their past relationship, but-”

  “Enough to get a court-ordered DNA swab. If the hair proves to be his, he’s ours.” She pressed a tissue to her nose. “Call Judge-”

  “Already done. Should have it within the hour.”

  “Good work, Detectives. Keep me informed.”

  Her phone rang; she reached for it, signaling their meeting had ended. Spencer and Tony stood and headed for the door. There, Spencer stopped and turned back toward his aunt, waiting for her to finish the call.

  She hung up and looked at him in question. The dark circles under her eyes concerned him. He told her so.

  She smiled wanly. “No need to be. Hard to sleep when you can’t breathe. It’s taking its toll.”

  “You certain that’s all that’s going on?”

  “Absolutely.” She straightened, her expression becoming all business. “I heard something I didn’t like this morning.”

  Spencer stiffened slightly. “From?”

  “From isn’t the pertinent question here. What would be more appropriate.”

  “I’ll bite. What did you hear?”

  “That you were partying at Shannon ’s until closing. The night before an important stakeout.”

  He felt his temper rise and worked to hold it in check. “I was off duty.”

  “Yeah, you were off duty. But three hours later you were on duty.” She rose to look him directly in the eye. “On my time. Hungover.”

  “I did my job,” he countered defensively.

  “Use your head, Spencer. Think about what made you vulnerable to Lieutenant Moran.”

  He wanted to argue. He was angry. Pissed at whoever had gone running to her.

  But mostly at himself.

  Palms on her desk, she leaned toward him. “You’re not going to screw up under my command. I’ll transfer you first. Understand?”

  Back to DIU. Or worse. She had the power. No doubt she was under the microscope, being pressured by the same folks who had appeased him by assigning him to ISD.

  They wanted him out. They’d figured he wouldn’t last.

  That’s why they’d offered him this juicy plum. Got the department off the legal string-and it cost them nothing.

  He straightened. Furious. Feeling betrayed by those he had trusted. “Understood, Captain. Don’t worry about me, my eyes are open now.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Thursday, March 10, 2005

  11:45 a.m.

  On her first trip to the French Quarter, Stacy had learned that finding a parking spot on the street was damn near impossible. She had cruised the network of narrow one-way streets, only to give up after thirty minutes and pull into one of the Quarter’s exorbitantly priced lots.

  Today she didn’t even bother trying to look for a spot. She turned into the first lot she came upon, took a ticket and handed the attendant her keys.

  New Orleans still amazed her. She felt like a stranger in a strange land. Dallas was relatively young; locals were proud when they could trace their roots back to 1922. New Orleans, on the other hand, was a historic city. One that boasted rich social traditions based on one’s lineage, beautifully crumbling architecture and hundred-year-old cockroaches. Or so she had been told.

  And New Orleans was a city that reveled in its own excesses. Big meals. Raucous laughter. Too much drink. All perfectly acceptable in the city whose motto-Let The Good Times Roll-was more than a Department of Tourism tagline.

  It was a way of life.

  And nowhere was that attitude more apparent than in the French Quarter. Strip clubs and bars, restaurant upon restaurant, souvenir and antique shops, music clubs, hotels and residences all coexisted in the seventy-eight-square-block area that made up this, the original settlement of New Orleans.

  In addition, the Quarter boasted dozens of poster shops and art galleries. Not big art, not the high-end pieces that carried price tags in the tens of thousands, but small, commercial art for the masses.

  The reason for her visit today.

  She intended to hunt down possible sources of Leo’s postcards. One was obviously mass-produced and probably sold at better than a hundred outlets in the Quarter alone. The other two, she suspected, were unique.

  Stacy stood on the sidewalk, at the corner of Decatur and St. Peter Streets. All manner of people streamed by her, from men in business suits to a cross-dresser wearing fishnet stockings and a red leather miniskirt.

  Stacy figured the cards were a limited edition by a local artist and sold at a limited number of shops. Leo had given her the card depicting the White Rabbit leading Alice down the rabbit hole. Spencer had taken the other as evidence. If it had been her case, she w
ould have confiscated both.

  Lucky for her it wasn’t.

  She started up the block, walking until she reached the corner of Royal Street and a poster shop called Picture This. She stepped inside.

  The clerk, a kid with a mop of wild, curly hair, stood at the counter, talking on a cell phone. When he saw her, he ended his call and crossed to her. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Hi.” She smiled. “This card was sent to a friend, and I was trying to find one like it.”

  He glanced at the card and shook his head. “We don’t have it.”

  “Do you have any that are similar?”

  “Nope.”

  She held it out again. “Any idea where I might look?”

  Another customer entered the shop. He looked her way, then back at Stacy. “Nope. Sorry.”

  The next half-dozen shops proved near carbon copies of the first. Stacy cut over to the opposite side of Royal, heading back toward Canal Street. A poster shop called Reflections sat on the closest corner. She ducked inside, she saw immediately that the shop’s merchandise was more varied than the last stores she had visited, and ran more toward unique and one-of-a-kind items.

  “Can I help you?” a man asked from the doorway to the back room. She saw that he had been eating his lunch.

  “I hope so.” Stacy sent him a winning smile as she crossed the shop. “I’m wondering if you carry these?” She showed him the card.

  “Sorry.”

  She couldn’t quite hide her disappointment. “I was afraid you were going to stay that.”

  “May I?” He held a hand out. She gave him the card. He studied the illustration, eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown. “Interesting imagery. Where’d you get this?”

  “Several were sent to a friend. I’m a big fan of Alice in Wonderland and thought I’d buy a box, if they weren’t too expensive.”

  He rubbed a corner between his index finger and thumb. “No one carries these by the box, I’m afraid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is an original, not a print. “ He held it up to the light, squinting. “Pen and ink.” He ran his thumb along the card’s ruffled edge. “Good paper-one hundred percent rag. Acid-free. The artist knows what he, or she, is doing.”

  “Do you recognize the artist?”

  “I might.”

  “Might?”

  “I’ve never seen this image before, but the artist’s hand reminds me of a local artist. Pogo.”

  “Pogo?” she repeated. “You’re serious?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t name him. He creates images like these. Disturbing. In pen and ink. He’s had a few shows, gotten good reviews. But never took off.”

  “Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Sorry.” He handed the card back. “But the curator over at Gallery 124 might. If memory serves, 124 hosted Pogo’s last show. On the corner of Royal and Conti.”

  Stacy smiled and started backing toward the shop’s entrance. “Thanks so much for your help and time. I really appreciate it.”

  “You won’t get them cheap,” he called after her. “I could show you something similar-”

  “Thanks,” she said again, over her shoulder. “But I have my heart set on these.”

  She stepped out onto the French Quarter sidewalk and headed toward Conti. Gallery 124 was just where the man had said it would be.

  Stacy checked traffic, then darted across the street. As she entered the gallery, the bell above the door jingled. The too-cold air-conditioning spilled over her. Followed by the realization that she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was.

  Malone had beat her there.

  He stood at the back of the gallery, obviously waiting to speak with the curator, a woman in a dangerously short skirt and a brilliantly colored gypsy blouse. Her short hair was bleached almost white and worn in a spiky boy cut.

  The word that came to mind was hip. With a capital H. Stacy had seen dozens just like her attending Jane’s openings over the years.

  Malone looked her way. Their gazes met. And he smiled.

  Or rather, smirked. Cocky bastard.

  She closed the distance between them. “Well, wonders never cease,” she said. “Detective Spencer Malone, in an art gallery. It just doesn’t seem like your style.”

  “Really? I’m a big fan of art. In fact, I own several good pieces.”

  “On black velvet?”

  He laughed. “I heard about an artist I’m certain I’m going to be interested in. A guy named Pogo.”

  She glanced toward the spiky-haired girl, then back at him. “How’d you beat me here?”

  “Better investigative skills.”

  “My ass. You cheated.”

  Before he could respond, the woman finished with her customer and started toward them, cool smile fixed in place. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

  Spencer showed her his ID. “Detective Malone, NOPD. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Her expression registered surprise, then unease. Stacy stepped in before the woman could respond. “I’m in a bit of a rush. Should I come back another time?”

  “Excuse me? You’re not together? I assumed-”

  “That’s quite okay.” Stacy turned to Spencer, smiling apologetically. “Do you mind? I’m on my lunch break.”

  He arched one dark eyebrow, clearly amused. “Please. Take your time.”

  “Thanks, Detective. You’re the best.” She swung back to the salesperson. “I understand you represent an artist named Pogo.”

  “Pogo? We did, but we haven’t in better than a year.”

  “No. I’m so disappointed. I had my heart set on one of his pieces.”

  The woman perked up, no doubt calculating if she could somehow make the sale, anyway. “One of his prints?”

  “A drawing. Pen and ink. Imagery based on Alice in Wonderland. Very dark. Powerful. I saw one and absolutely fell in love with it.”

  “Sounds like Pogo’s work. When he was producing.”

  “When he was producing?”

  “Pogo’s his own worst enemy. Gifted but unreliable.”

  “Are you familiar with his ‘ Alice ’ series?”

  “No. They must be new.” She paused, as if weighing her options. “I could call him? Have him bring his portfolio by?”

  “So he’s local?”

  “Yes. Lives right here in the Quarter. If I’m able to reach him, I bet he could be here in ten minutes.”

  Stacy glanced at her watch, working to look torn.

  “He lives really close,” the woman added quickly. “Barracks near Dauphine.”

  “I don’t know. I wanted something that would be a good investment…but if he’s unreliable…” As the woman opened her mouth, no doubt to assure her that her earlier statement wasn’t quite accurate, Stacy shook her head. “I’ll think about it. Do you have a card?”

  She did. Stacy thanked her and strolled past Spencer, waggling her fingers at him. “Thank you, Detective.”

  She exited the gallery, stepped out of the doorway and waited. Exactly two and a half minutes later, Spencer emerged from the shop.

  He ambled over to her. “Sneaky, Killian. Brilliant performance.”

  “Thanks. Was she pissed when you asked about Pogo?”

  “Confused, mostly. I got his address from her, but I’d like to see you play this out. Tag along.”

  She laughed. “You’ve surprised me, Detective. And I don’t surprise easily.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Strut your stuff, Killian.”

  “Barracks and Dauphine, you familiar with the area?”

  He nodded and they fell into step together. After a block, she angled a glance him. “So, how’d you pinpoint Gallery 124 so quickly?”

  “My sister Shauna studied art. I showed her the card, she didn’t recognize it but directed me to Bill Tokar, the head of the New Orleans Arts Council. He suggested Gallery 124.”

  “And the rest is history.”

/>   “Is that grudging respect I hear in your voice?”

  “Absolutely not.” She smiled. “Is Shauna your only sibling?”

  “Nope. One of six.”

  She stopped. Looked at him. “You have six siblings?”

  He laughed at her disbelief. “I’m from a good Irish Catholic family.”

  “The Lord said, be fruitful and multiply.”

  “So did the pope. And my mother takes the pope’s directives very seriously.” They fell back into an easy stroll. “What about you?” he asked.

  “Just me and Jane. What’s it like? Being part of such a big family?”

  “Crazy. Sometimes irritating. Always loud.” He paused. “But really great.”

  The affection in his tone made her ache to see her sister. To hold her new niece.

  They reached the cross streets. The area was a shabby mix of retail and residential space. The eighteenth-century buildings stood side-by-side in various states of disrepair. All part of the Quarter’s charm.

  “Okay.” She slid him an amused glance. “Bet you a cup of coffee I’ll have Mr. Pogo’s address in ten minutes.”

  “That’s a no-brainer, Killian. Make it five and you’re on.”

  She took the bet and scanned the street. Small grocery with lunch counter. Seedy bar. Souvenir shop.

  She pointed toward the grocery. “You wait. Don’t want to scare the straights.”

  “Funny.” Smirking, he looked at his wrist. “Clock’s ticking.”

  Stacy headed into the grocery, stopping just inside the door. It appeared to be a mom-and-pop family business. A sixtyish-looking man stood behind the lunch counter, a like-aged woman at the cash register. Whom to approach? Aware of the minutes ticking past, she decided on the woman.

  Stacy crossed to her. “Hi.” She infused her voice with what she hoped was the right combination of sincerity and friendliness. “I hope you can help me.”

  The woman returned her smile. “I’ll try.” She had the raspy voice of a lifetime smoker.

  “I’m looking for an artist who lives right around here. Pogo.”

  The woman’s expression altered in a way that suggested there was no love lost between the two.

  She held the card out. “I bought this card from him last year and I’d like to buy some more. I tried his phone, but it’s out of order.”