“Sometimes nothing looks like something. It happens, Leo.”
He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze moving to a point somewhere behind her.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. Was there something he didn’t want to say?
He looked at her then, giving his head the smallest of shakes. As if to say “Not now, not here.”
She understood. Besides, he and his daughter needed some time alone.
And she needed to talk to Malone. She intended to convince him she was right.
She excused herself, grabbed her purse and car keys and headed outside. As she climbed into her car, she called Malone from her cell.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Home.” He sounded as tired as Leo had looked.
“Where’s home?”
“Why?”
“We need to talk.”
For a long moment he was silent. “I’m talked out, Killian.”
“Alice told me more about the game.” A tiny exaggeration, but one she could live with. “And my short-term memory’s not so great.”
He rattled off his address and hung up.
CHAPTER 51
Friday, March 18, 2005
10:30 p.m.
Stacy made Malone’s Irish Channel address in no time at all. He lived in an in-the-process-of-being-renovated Creole cottage, which made her wonder if he was doing the work himself. And if he was, when he found the time.
The front door opened just before she knocked. Malone leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. His soft, worn T-shirt pulled across his shoulders.
“Going to ask me in?”
“Do I have to?”
“Asshole.”
He laughed and stepped aside.
She entered his house and he shut the door behind her. He’d been eating a pizza, she saw. Out of the box. In front of the TV. ESPN.
Typical guy.
“Beer?” he asked.
“Thanks.”
He got one for both of them, handed her hers, then turned off the television. Facing her, he asked, “The kid had information?”
“Insight, really.”
He cocked an eyebrow; she suspected he was onto her already-that she was not here with information, but to plead her case. Again.
She set the stage, anyway, explaining how Alice had described Wonderland being a spiral and about the King and Queen being at its epicenter. “Each death brought the killer, through Alice, a step closer to them.”
“So?”
“So, it makes sense that Danson-”
“The ex-partner thing again?”
“What can I say, I’m a one-note song.”
“Right.” One corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement. “Shoot.”
“Alice is playing the game, but none of the deaths has been by chance. The drawings you recovered from Pogo’s studio prove that all the deaths are predestined. The White Rabbit is executing his very well-thought-out plan in an effort to terrorize.”
“Or create a smoke screen.”
She ignored that. “Obviously, to be able to control the game the way he has required someone with superior knowledge of the game. A master player.”
He opened his mouth to comment; she stopped him. “He also has to be someone who had no hesitation about involving Alice in murder.”
“And her father wouldn’t?”
“Think about it, Spencer. A father involving his daughter in the murder not just of others, but of her mother, as well. That’d make him-”
“A monster?”
“Yes.”
“If not a monster, how do you describe someone who’s willing to kill for nothing more than financial gain? Where do you draw the line?”
“Hear me out. Danson’s the game’s co-inventor. He and Leo parted acrimoniously. Leo went on to wealth and celebrity and Danson-”
“Killed himself.”
“Or not. He’s brilliant. He concocts a plan to punish Leo-”
“You’re beautiful when you’re determined.”
“Don’t try to distract me.”
“Why not? It worked.”
She made a sound of frustration.
“You always have to be right, Killian? You always have to be in the driver’s seat?”
“Don’t make this personal.”
He set his beer bottle on the kitchen counter. “All right, the facts. Leo’s also co-inventor. He’s the one who received the first messages from the White Rabbit. He had personal knowledge of each of the victims. He’s the one with the most to gain from Kay’s death.”
“Says you.”
“Consider this, Stacy. The drawings we recovered from Pogo’s, there were drawings of all the major characters, except the King of Hearts. What do you think that means?”
That he was a better cop than she had given him credit for.
She decided to defy logic, anyway. “Perhaps the artist simply hadn’t started that drawing.”
“That’s bullshit. And you know it. No drawing means the King of Hearts’ death wasn’t predestined. Because he’s the killer.”
It all made sense. Perfect sense. Why couldn’t she buy into it?
“Leo’s on Gallery 124’s mailing list,” he added. “Put on about the time of Pogo’s show.”
No wonder they had been closing in on Leo, even before Kay disappeared. “What about Cassie? What’s the connection there?”
“There’s not,” he said flatly. “We arrested Bobby Gautreaux this morning. We charged him with the three UNO rapes. And plan to charge him with Cassie Finch’s and Beth Wagner’s murders soon.”
She caught her breath. “On what evidence?”
“DNA. He left a hair at the scene. We swabbed him and got a match. I checked it against the blood your attacker left in the library-”
“And got a match,” she finished for him.
“Yup. From the blood left there…and the semen from the rapes.”
He took a swallow of his beer. “In addition, he left a print at the Finch and Wagner scene. He threatened and stalked Cassie. We found her hair on his clothing. And he warned you to keep your nose out of the investigation.”
She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Bobby Gautreaux had been the one who attacked her. He was a serial rapist. And he’d left solid physical evidence tying himself to the murder scene. It was shaping up to be a strong case.
She was glad. Relieved.
Her goal had been to ensure Cassie’s killer would be caught.
But it didn’t feel right. Why?
“What’s he saying?” she asked.
“That he’s innocent. That he was there that night, but he didn’t kill her. What he whispered in your ear, you were correct about it. He was warning you to keep your nose out of the investigation. Because he’d been there. But he claims he didn’t kill either of the women.”
Same thing they all said. “Why’d he go to Cassie’s that night?”
“Wanted to talk to her. About their relationship.”
“They had no relationship. They hadn’t in nearly a year.”
“Of course they didn’t. He’s lying. That’s what snakes like Bobby Gautreaux do. What was he supposed to tell me, he went there to murder her?”
“You think he went there intending to kill her?”
“I like it. With intent means the state can go for murder one.”
“Find the weapon?”
He frowned slightly. “No.”
She took a long drink of her warming beer. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“This doesn’t change my thoughts on Leo’s inno-”
“Maybe this will.” He took a step toward her. “Remember how I accused Leo of creating an elaborate smoke screen to get away with killing his wife? That after meeting you, he handpicked you to help him?”
“How could I forget?”
He took another step closer. “He’s writing a screenplay, Stacy. About a game inventor who rece
ives threatening cards depicting the deaths of characters from his most famous creation.”
She felt as if Spencer had punched her.
“You’re in the story, Stacy,” he said softly, crossing to stand behind her. “The emotionally wounded ex-cop who’s running from her past.”
Leo had manipulated her from the get-go.
The past was repeating itself.
She turned away from him, crossed to the window, stared out at the darkness. What? Did she have a sign on her forehead proclaiming Easy Mark. Stupid, Gullible Fool?
“And ultimately,” he continued, “she can’t resist the inventor’s charms and falls willingly into his arms-”
“Stop it, Spencer.” She whirled to face him. “Just shut up.”
She held his gaze, even as she struggled to keep what he was saying in perspective. To fit all the pieces of the puzzle together, including this one.
Struggling to separate herself from the feeling of betrayal threatening to strangle her.
Leo had been writing a screenplay. The whole time. He’d planned this, used her.
“You uncovered it in today’s search.”
It wasn’t a question; he answered, anyway. “Yes. Locked in his desk.”
“You questioned him about it?”
“Yes. Claimed he just started it. That he recognized its ‘narrative potential.’”
That’s what Leo’s guilty expression had been about tonight. The reason why he had avoided meeting her eyes and shifted uncomfortably.
“Narrative potential,” she repeated, hearing the bitter edge in her own voice. “People are dying.”
“For a brilliant man,” Spencer said softly, “he sure is stupid.”
“Leaving such potentially damning evidence hardly seems the work of a supergenius, does it?”
“Stupid to cross such a smart, beautiful woman,” he corrected.
She made a sound of pain. “I surely don’t feel either of those things right now. Try gullible idiot.”
Several moments passed. He swore, then cupped her face in his palms. “Strong. Smart. Determined.”
As she gazed at him, something inside her turned over. Or opened up. Without pausing to think it through, she kissed him. After a moment, she broke the contact. “I thought you wouldn’t make a pass at me because I’d kick your ass?”
“You made the pass. All ass-kicking is off.”
Stacy smiled. “I can live with that.”
CHAPTER 52
Saturday, March 19, 2005
7:15 a.m.
Stacy awakened early. She moaned, stretched and realized in a galvanizing jolt where she was. And what she had done.
Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.
What was wrong with her?
She cracked open her eyes. Spencer lay next to her-sleeping. He’d half kicked off the blanket and she saw that he was naked. Gloriously, fabulously naked.
She squeezed her eyes shut. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his bedroom abilities. The man was so hot, he could melt butter on his backside.
What had he thought about her?
No. She didn’t care what he thought. Last night had been a big, stupid mistake. Another to add to her fast-growing list of screwups.
Once upon a time, she had been so smart. So capable.
She could barely remember what that had been like.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slid toward the edge of the bed. She figured she could slide off it, gather up her stuff and get out before he woke up.
That’d give her time to prepare her “let’s forget this ever happened” speech.
She eased toward the edge. The angle at which she lay facilitated a head-and-hands-first escape. Her hands found the floor; her torso eased over the side.
As she prepared to make her final descent, his hand clamped around her ankle, trapping her.
Shit. Shit. Damn. Damn.
He was awake. And here she was, hanging half off the bed. Naked. Backside up.
“Could you let me go, please?” she managed to say.
“Do I have to?” She heard the amusement in his voice and grimaced. “The view’s spectacular.”
“Thanks. But yes, you do.”
“Pretty please?”
She groaned and he let her go. She slid off the bed, landing in an inelegant heap.
He leaned over the side of the bed and smirked at her. “Moving mighty quietly this morning, Killian. Tired? Too sore to stand?”
Her face heated. “I was just heading…going to-”
“The bathroom.”
“Home.”
“Sneaking out without so much as a goodbye? Or a thanks for the good time? Tacky, Killian. Extremely.”
She yanked the sheet free, wrapped it around her and stood. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “This is difficult?”
“You know what I mean. Awkward. Embarrassing.”
“Oh, sure.” He threw back the bit of blanket still covering him and climbed out of bed. And stood buck naked in front of her. “I know just what you mean. Totally embarrassing.”
The man deserved to die, she decided. Unfortunately, she’d left her Glock back at the Noble place.
She went for the next best thing, a bed pillow. She flung it at him as he made his way to the bathroom. She missed and it hit the bathroom door casing, then dropped to the floor.
His laughter ringing in her ears, she snatched up her panties and tugged them on, careful to hold on to the sheet. She found her bra, made certain the bathroom door was still shut, then dropped the sheet. From there, she went for her trousers.
She retrieved them from where they hung half on and half off the dresser, her cheeks heating as she remembered shimmying out of them, then flinging them over her shoulder.
Her cell phone, clipped to the waistband of her pants, buzzed. She’d set it to mute, she remembered. Unclipping it, Stacy saw that she had a new text message waiting.
The game’s exciting, isn’t it? It will be more so for you.
Soon, Stacy. Very soon.
She reread the message, blood humming in her ears. From the White Rabbit, she acknowledged. A warning.
She was next.
Stacy glanced at her watch. It read 7:20 a.m. The game’s clock was still ticking. In slightly more than seven hours Alice had to make her move. Against the Cheshire Cat.
Who had sent the message? Leo? Danson?
Or neither?
The bathroom door opened; Spencer stepped out. He’d wrapped a bath towel around his waist. It did little to cover him, but she appreciated the effort.
“Nice getup,” he said, referring to her panties and bra.
“We have contact.”
“Excuse me?”
“A text message on my phone. Take a look.”
He crossed to stand behind her, then read the message over her shoulder. When he’d finished, he shifted his gaze to hers. “Want to give him a call back?”
“I’d love to.”
She punched in the number. It rang once, then clicked over to voice mail. She angled the phone so Spencer could hear it as well.
“Hi. You’ve reached Kay Noble of Wonderland Creations. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Stacy ended the call. “Not a good turn of events.”
“No shit.” He strode across to the bed, snatched up his own cell phone and punched in a number. “Rise and shine, Pasta Man. We’ve got mail.”
While he spoke to his partner, Stacy scooped up the rest of her clothing and headed to the bathroom to finish dressing. When she returned to the bedroom, Spencer was fully dressed and strapping on his shoulder holster.
She remembered when she’d had a shoulder holster. Remembered the weight of it, the way it had hugged her side. The way wearing it had made her feel.
“Tony’s working on getting the location that call came from. At the least, the cell company will be able to triangulate a position. At best, with GP
S technology, they’ll pinpoint the exact location. I’m predicting the latter. I seriously doubt Kay Noble was carrying anything but the most up-to-the-moment cell technology.”
“You think she’s dead, don’t you?”
He stilled, looked at her. “I hope to hell she’s not.”
But it didn’t look good. Not for Kay Noble.
And not for her.
Six hours, forty-five minutes. And counting.
“I need a favor,” she said.
He cocked an eyebrow in question.
“I want to talk to Bobby.”
“That’s going to be tough, he’s in the Old Parish Prison. I doubt he’d put you on his visitor list.”
“You could get me in.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you owe me?”
“After last night, I would have thought it the other way around.”
He had a point, she thought, a smile tugging at her mouth. She held her ground, anyway. “If I hadn’t injured young Mr. Gautreaux, you wouldn’t have had the blood to link him to me, then to the three coeds.”
Spencer folded his arms across his chest. “True.”
“Look, I just want to talk to him. I want to hear it from his own lips. That he didn’t kill Cassie and Beth.”
He paused, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But you have until two o’clock this afternoon to do your thing.”
“Then what? I turn into a pumpkin?”
“I put about a dozen men trailing you. If this guy makes a move on you, we’ll be there.”
CHAPTER 53
Saturday, March 19, 2005
8:10 a.m.
Malone made a couple of calls and managed to get her on the prison admit list. But before she paid Bobby a visit, she needed to check on Alice.
“How’re things there?” Stacy asked when Mrs. Maitlin answered the phone.
“I’ve never seen Mr. Leo so subdued.”
“How about Alice?”
“Quiet.”
“May I speak with her?”
The woman agreed and went in search of the teenager. Moments later the girl greeted her. “Stacy? Where are you?” she asked.
“Checking out a lead. Are you all right?”
“Fine. The police sent someone over. He’s out front, guarding the place.”
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