“Stop whining. You have a business to watch over. Not to mention a husband.”
She made a face. “Rocky’s attitude won’t be changed yet. I need another couple of days for him to really appreciate me.”
From what she’d heard about Rocky St. Martin, really appreciating Billie would take more energy than the man had left. Even on a good day.
“Face it,” Stacy said, “the trip was a bust. Not only that, while I was here, living in the lap of luxury, the playing cards turned up dead.”
“Now who’s whining?”
Stacy scowled at her. “Stay if you’d like, I’m going home.”
Billie sighed dramatically, slipped on her sunglasses and leaned her head back against the rest. “Connor will be despondent.”
Stacy angled her a glance as she started the car. “And you?”
“I love my husband.”
She said it as if she meant it, and Stacy felt her mouth drop in surprise.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just…I-”
“Thought I’d married him for his money? Because he’s so much older than I am? Why would I do that? I have money of my own.”
“Sorry,” Stacy murmured, easing away from the curb, “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t. But if I’m going to be monogamous, which I am, at least give me credit for it.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Thank you.” She sighed again. “Damn, I’m going to miss the coast.”
Shaking her head, Stacy opened her cell, punched in Malone’s number.
He answered right away. “Malone here.”
“I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Miss me that much, do you?”
“What did you mean about Leo being hip deep in-”
“That was knee-deep. As in looking guilty as hell.”
“Leo guilty? That’s not right.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” His voice took on an edge. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait! How good’s the evidence?”
“Let’s put it this way, doll. By the time you touch down in Louisiana, you may be unemployed.”
He ended the call, and she frowned. “That’s wrong.”
“What?” Billie asked.
“Malone says they’ve got evidence that Leo’s guilty.”
“Of what? Really bad hair?”
“I like his hair.”
“You do not!” Billie faced her, aghast. “He looks like he stuck a finger in an electrical socket.”
“Does not. It’s all crazy and windblown. Like a surfer’s.”
“Or a deranged killer’s-”
Billie bit the word back, realizing how inappropriate it was in light of the situation. “Bad hair or not, the man seems pretty harmless to me.”
“Me, too.”
Stacy fell silent. She glanced at the clock on the Jag’s dash and swore. She needed to speak to Chief Battard, ASAP. “You don’t happen to know Connor’s home number?”
“Sure I do. Have it right here in my cell.”
“Could you call him? I need to ask one last question. I think it’s important.”
Billie did as she asked; several moments later Stacy greeted the sleepy-sounding police chief. “I apologize for calling so early, but I have one last question. I didn’t see the answer in the file.”
“Shoot,” he said, yawning.
“What was Danson’s dentist’s name? Do you remember?”
“Sure,” he said. “Dr. Mark Carlson. Great guy.”
She glanced at the Jag’s dashboard clock. They had plenty of time until their flight; even with the drive and returning the rental car. Enough, anyway, for a quick call on a dentist. “Do you think there’s any way I could speak with him before I leave?”
“It’d be damn difficult, Ms. Killian. Dr. Mark’s dead. He was killed during a robbery.”
“When?”
“Last year.” He paused. “It was Carmel’s only murder in 2004. We never solved it.”
A moment later, Stacy ended the call. “Gotcha, asshole,” she said, pulling off the road to turn around.
“What?”
“Remember when you told me you’d always wanted to be a spy?” Billie turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You bet I do.”
“How would you feel about spending a few more days in paradise?”
CHAPTER 45
Friday, March 18, 2005
New Orleans
9:10 a.m.
Spencer 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?”
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.”
CHAPTER 46
Friday, March 18, 2005
11:10 a.m.
When 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.”
CHAPTER 47
Friday, March 18, 2005
3:30 p.m.
Spencer 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.
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