Praise for the bestselling novels of

ERICA SPINDLER

‘Suspenseful.’

—Publishers Weekly on All Fall Down

‘… a classic confrontation between

good and evil.’

—Publishers Weekly on Dead Run

‘… solid characters,

a great setting and a really good plot …’

—Globe and Mail on Dead Run

‘Spindler’s latest moves fast and takes no

prisoners. An intriguing look into the

twisted mind of someone for whom

murder is simply a business.’

—Publishers Weekly on Cause for Alarm

Readers will ‘be chilled … and pulled

inexorably onward by the question

of the whodunit.’

—Publishers Weekly on In Silence.

Kiler Takes All

Erica Spindler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thanks to all who helped in the completion of Killer Takes All, giving generously and enthusiastically of their time and expertise. I’d especially like to acknowledge:

Michelle Kraus, owner of Gamer’s Conclave, for making sense of the world of role-playing games. Your patience with this novice was astounding; thank you!

Judy Midgley, CRS Coldwell Banker Realty, Carmel-by-the-Sea, California for taking an entire day to show me properties from Carmel-by-the-Sea to Monterey. It was as fun as it was informative! Thanks, Judy!

Warren “Pete” Poitras, Detective Sergeant, City of Carmel-by-the-Sea Police Department, for the time, tour and insights; all were highly appreciated.

Thanks also to Frank Minyard, MD, Orleans Parish Coroner; Colonel Mary Baldwin Kennedy, Director of Communications, Orleans Parish Criminal Sheriff’s Office; NOPD Captain Roy Shakelford; Jason Blitz, Munchen Motors and John Lord, Jr, Arms Merchant, LLC.

In addition, thanks to those who make every day a good day: my agent Evan Marshall, my editor Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA crew, my assistants Rajean Schulze and Kari Williams. And last but always first, my family and my God.

Also by Erica Spindler

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

DEAD RUN

BONE COLD

ALL FALL DOWN

CAUSE FOR ALARM

SHOCKING PINK

FORTUNE

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

RED

CHAPTER 1

Monday, February 28, 2005 1:30 a.m.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Stacy Killian opened her EYES, FULLy awake. The sound that had awakened her came again.

Pop. Pop.

Gunshots.

She sat up and, in one fluid movement, swung her legs over the side of the bed and went for the Glock .40 that waited in the drawer of her nightstand. Ten years of police work had conditioned her to react to that particular sound without hesitation.

Stacy checked the gun’s magazine, crossed to the window and inched aside the drape. The moon illuminated the deserted yard. Several spindly trees, dilapidated swing set, dog pen minus Caesar, her neighbor Cassie’s Labrador retriever puppy. No sound. No movement.

Padding silently on bare feet, Stacy made her way out of the bedroom, into the adjoining study, weapon out. She rented one half of a hundred-year-old shotgun double, a style of home made popular in the era before air-conditioning.

Stacy swung left, then right, taking in every detail: the stacks of research books for the paper she was writing on Shelley’s “Mont Blanc,” her open laptop computer, the half-drunk bottle of cheap red wine. The shadows. Their depth, stillness.

As she expected, each room in the house proved a repeat of the last. The sound that had awakened her had not come from inside her apartment.

She reached the front door, eased it open and stepped out onto the front porch. The sagging wood creaked beneath her feet, the only sound on the otherwise deserted street. She shivered as the wet, chilly night enveloped her.

The neighborhood appeared to be asleep. Few lights shone from windows or porches. Stacy scanned the street. She noted several unfamiliar vehicles, which wasn’t unusual for an area inhabited mostly by university students. All the vehicles appeared empty.

Stacy stood in the shadow of her front door, listening to the silence. Suddenly, from nearby, came the sound of a trash barrel toppling over. Laughter followed. Kids, she realized. Practicing the urban equivalent of cow tipping.

She frowned. Could that have been the sound that awakened her? Altered by sleep and instincts she no longer trusted?

A year ago such a thought wouldn’t have crossed her mind. But a year ago she’d been a cop, a homicide detective with the Dallas P.D. She’d yet to endure the betrayal that had not only stripped her of her confidence but had galvanized her to act on her growing dissatisfaction with her life and job.

Stacy gripped the Glock firmly. She was already freezing her ass off, she might as well take this thing to its conclusion. She slipped into her muddy gardening clogs that were perched on a rack by the door. She made her way across the porch and down the steps to her side yard. Circling around to the backyard, she acknowledged that nothing appeared out of order.

Her hands shook. She fought the panic wanting to rise up in her. The fear that she had lost it, and gone totally around the bend.

This had happened before. Twice. The first time just after she moved in. She’d awakened to what she thought were shots fired and had roused all her neighbors within earshot.

And those times, like now, she’d uncovered nothing but a silent, sleeping street. The false alarm had not ingratiated her to her new neighbors. Most had been understandably pissed off.

But not Cassie. Instead, the other woman had invited her in for hot chocolate.

Stacy shifted her gaze to Cassie’s side of the double, to the light that shone from one of the rear windows.

She stared at the lit window, head filling with the memory of the sound that had awakened her. The shots had been too loud to have come from anywhere but right next door.

Why hadn’t she realized that right away?

Overcome with a feeling of dread, she ran for Cassie’s porch stairs. She reached them, stumbled and righted herself, a dozen different reassurances racing through her head: the sound had been a figment of her subconscious; seriously sleep deprived, she was imagining things; Cassie was in a deep, peaceful sleep.

She reached her friend’s door and pounded on it. She waited, then pounded again. “Cassie!” she called. “It’s Stacy. Open up!”

When the other woman didn’t respond, she grabbed the knob and twisted.

The door opened.

Gripping the Glock with both hands, she nudged the door open with her foot and stepped inside. Absolute quiet greeted her.

She called out again, hearing the hopeful note in her voice. The quiver of fear.

Even as she told herself her mind was playing tricks on her, she saw that it wasn’t.

Cassie lay facedown on the living room floor, half on and half off the oval rag rug. A large, dark stain haloed her body. Blood, Stacy acknowledged. A lot of blood.

Stacy began to tremble. Swallowing hard, she worked to quell the reaction. To step outside herself. Think like a cop.

She crossed to her friend. She squatted beside her, feeling herself slipping into professional mode. Separating herself from what had happened, who it had happened to.

She checked Cassie’s wrist for a pulse. When she found none, she moved her gaze over the body. It looked as if Cassie had been shot twice, once between the shoulder blades, the other in the back of the head. What was left of her blond, curly bob was matted with blood. She was fully dressed: denims, cloud-blue T-shirt, Birkenstocks. Stacy recognized the shirt; it was one of Cassie’s favorites. From memory she knew the front read: Dream. Love. Live.

Tears choked her; Stacy fought them. Crying wouldn’t help her friend. But keeping her cool just might help catch her killer.

A sound came from the back of the apartment.

Beth.

Or the killer.

Stacy firmed her grip on the Glock, though her hands shook. Heart thumping, she stood and, as quietly as possible, inched deeper into the apartment.

She found Beth in the doorway to the second bedroom. Unlike the other woman, Beth lay on her back, her eyes open, vacant. She wore pink cotton pajamas, patterned with gray-and-white kittens.

She’d also been shot. Twice in the chest.

Quickly, careful not to disturb any evidence, Stacy checked the woman’s pulse. As with Cassie, she found none.

She straightened, then swung in the direction from which the sound had come.

Whining, she realized. A snuffling at the bathroom door.

Caesar.

She made for the bathroom, softly calling the dog’s name. He responded with a yip and she carefully eased the door open. The Lab lunged at her feet, gratefully whining.

As she scooped the squirming puppy up, she saw that he had messed on the floor. How long had he been locked up? she wondered. Had Cassie done it? Or her killer? And why? Cassie crated the dog at night and when she wasn’t home.

Puppy tucked under her arm, Stacy made a quick but thorough search of the apartment to ensure the shooter was gone, though her gut told her he was.

She would guess he got out in the few minutes it had taken her to make her way from her own bedroom to the front porch. She hadn’t heard a car door slam or an engine start, which could mean he’d escaped on foot—or nothing at all.

She needed to call 911, but was loath to hand the investigation over before she absorbed all she could of the crime scene. She glanced at her watch. A 911 homicide call would yield an immediate cruiser if one was in the area. Three minutes or less from the time dispatch received the call, she guessed, turning back to the scene. If not, she could be looking at fifteen minutes.

Judging by what she saw, Stacy felt certain Cassie had been killed first, Beth second. Beth had probably heard the first two shots and gotten out of bed to see what was happening. She wouldn’t have immediately recognized the sound as a gun discharging. And even if she had suspected gunshots, she would have convinced herself otherwise.

That explained the phone, untouched, on the nightstand by the bed. Stacy crossed to it and, using the edge of her pajama top, picked up the receiver. The dial tone buzzed reassuringly in her ear.

Stacy ran through the possibilities. The place didn’t appear to have been robbed. The door had been unlocked, not broken into. Cassie had invited the killer inside. He—or she—was a friend or an acquaintance. Someone she had been expecting. Or someone she knew. Perhaps the killer had asked her to lock up the dog?

Tucking her questions away for later, she dialed 911. “Double homicide,” she said to the operator, voice shaking. “1174 City Park Avenue.” And then, cuddling Caesar to her chest, Stacy sat on the floor and cried.

CHAPTER 2

Monday, February 28, 2005 1:50 a.m.

Detective Spencer Malone drew his 1977, cherry-red, mint-condition Chevy Camaro to a stop in front of the City Park neighborhood double. His older brother John had bought the car new. It had been his baby, his pride and joy until he’d gotten married and had babies to tote to and from daycare and birthday parties.

Now the Camaro was Spencer’s pride and joy.

Spencer shifted into Park and peered through the windshield at the double. The first officers had secured the scene; yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the slightly sagging front porch. One of the officers stood just beyond, signing in those who arrived, noting the time of their entrance.

Spencer narrowed his eyes, recognizing the officer as a third-year rookie and one of his staunchest accusers. Connelly. The prick.

Spencer took in a deep breath, working to control his temper, the short fuse that had gotten him in too many brawls to count. The hot head that had held him back professionally, that had contributed to the ease with which everyone had bought into the accusations that had almost ended his career.

Hot tempered and a major league fuckup. An ugly combination.

He shook the thoughts off. This scene was his. He was lead man. He wasn’t going to screw it up.

Spencer opened the car door and climbed out just as Detective Tony Sciame wheeled to a stop in front of the double. In the New Orleans Police Force, detectives didn’t have set partners, per se, they worked a rotation. When a case came in, whoever was next in line got it. That detective chose another to assist, and the factors involved in that choice were availability, experience and friendship.

Most of the guys tended to find someone they clicked with, a kind of symbiotic “partnership.” For a number of reasons, he and Tony worked well together, filling in the other’s blanks, so to speak.

Spencer had a hell of a lot more blanks to fill than Tony did.

A thirty-year veteran of the force, twenty-five of it in Homicide, Tony was an old-timer. Happily married for thirty-two years—and a pound overweight for each of those years—he had four kids, one grown and on his own, one still at home, and two at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, one mortgage and a scruffy dog named Frodo.

Although their partnership was new, they’d already been likened to Mutt and Jeff, Frick and Frack, and Laurel and Hardy. Spencer preferred a Gibson and Glover comparison—with him being the good-looking, renegade Mel Gibson character—but their fellow officers weren’t going for it.

“Yo, Slick,” Tony said.

“Pasta Man.”

Spencer liked to rag Tony about his pasta gut; his partner returned the favor by addressing him as Slick, Junior or Hotshot. Never mind that Spencer, at thirty-one and a nine-year veteran of the force, was neither rookie nor kid, he was new both to rank of detective and to Homicide, which in the culture of the NOPD made him a mark for ribbing.

The other man laughed and patted his middle. “You’re just jealous.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Spencer motioned to the crime-scene van. “Techs beat us to the scene.”

“Eager-beaver assholes.”

They fell into step together. Tony squinted up at the starless sky. “I’m getting too old for this shit. Call caught me and Betty in the middle of busting our youngest for staying out past curfew.”

“Poor Carly.”

“My ass. That girl’s a menace. Four kids and the last one is hell on wheels. See this?” He indicated the nearly bald top of his head. “They’ve all contributed, but Carly … Just wait, you’ll see.”

Spencer laughed. “I grew up with six siblings. I know what kids are like. That’s why I’m not having any.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself. By the way, what was her name?”

“Whose?”

“Tonight’s date.”

Truth was, he’d been out with his brothers Percy and Patrick. They’d had a couple of beers and a burger at Shannon’s Tavern. The closest he’d gotten to scoring was sinking the eight ball in the corner pocket to defeat Patrick, the family pool shark.

But Tony didn’t want to hear that. The Malone brothers were legends in the NOPD. Handsome, hard-partying hotheads with reputations as lady-killers.

“I don’t kiss and tell, partner.”

They reached Connelly. Spencer met his eyes and it all came rushing back. He’d been working the Fifth District Detective Investigative Unit, in charge of a kitty of informant money. Fifteen hundred bucks, not that much in today’s world. But enough to be raked over the coals when it turned up missing. Suspended without pay, charged, then indicted.

Charges had been dropped, his name cleared. Turned out Lieutenant Moran, his immediate superior and the one who had placed the kitty in his care, had set him up. Because he “trusted him.” Because he believed “he was up to the responsibility” even though he’d only worked DIU six months.

More like, Moran believed Spencer was a patsy.

If it hadn’t been for his family refusing to accept his guilt, the bastard would have gotten away with it. If Spencer had been found guilty, not only would he have been kicked off the force, he would have done jail time.

As it was, he’d lost a year and a half of his life.

Thinking about it still chapped his ass. Remembering how many of his brothers in arms had turned against him—including this little weasel—infuriated him. Up until then, he had thought of the NOPD as his extended family, his fellow officers as his brothers and sisters.

And until then, life had been one big party. Laissez les bon temps rouler, New Orleans-style.

Lieutenant Moran had changed all that. The man had made his life a living hell; he’d destroyed Spencer’s illusions about the force and about being a cop.

The parties weren’t as much fun now. He saw the consequences of his actions.

To keep Spencer from suing, the department had reinstated him with back pay and bumped him up to ISD.

Investigative Support Division. His dream job.

In the late nineties the department had decentralized, taking detective units, such as Homicide and Vice, out of headquarters and positioning them in the eight district stations throughout the city. They bundled them into a multitask Detective Investigative Unit. The detectives in DIU didn’t specialize; they handled everything from burglary to vice to rubber-stamp homicides.

However, for the top homicide detectives—the ones with the most experience and training, the cream of the crop—they’d created ISD. Located in headquarters, they handled cold-case homicides—ones unsolved after a year—and all the juicy stuff as well: sex crimes, serial murders, child abductions.

Some touted decentralization a huge success. Some called it an embarrassing failure—especially in terms of homicide. In the end, one thing was certain, it saved the department money.

Spencer had accepted the department’s obvious bribe because he was a cop. More than a job, it was who he was. He’d never considered being anything else. How could he have? Police work was in his blood. His father, uncle and aunt were all cops. So were several cousins and all but two of his siblings. His brother Quentin had left the force after sixteen years to study law. Even so, he hadn’t strayed far from the family business. A prosecutor with the Orleans Parish D.A., he helped convict the guys the other Malones busted.

“Hello, Connelly,” Spencer said tightly. “Here I am, back from the dead. Surprised?”

The other officer shifted his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean, Detective.”

“My ass.” He leaned toward the other man. “You going to have a problem working with me?”

The officer took a step backward. “No problem. No, sir.”

“Good thing. Because I’m here to stay.” “Yes, sir.”

“What’ve we got?”

“Double homicide.” The rookie’s voice shook slightly. “Both female. UNO students.” He glanced at his notes. “Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Neighbor there called it in. Name’s Stacy Killian.”

Spencer glanced in the direction he indicated. A young woman, cradling a sleeping puppy in her arms, stood on the porch. Tall, blond and, from what he could see, attractive. It looked as if she was wearing pajamas under her denim jacket. “What’s her story?”

“Thought she heard gunshots and went to investigate.”

“Now, there was an intelligent move.” Spencer shook his head in disgust. “Civilians.”

They started toward the porch. Tony angled him a glance. “Way to set the record, Slick. Stupid little prick.”

Tony had never succumbed to the Malone bashing that had become the favorite pastime of many in the NOPD. He’d stood by Spencer and the entire Malone clan’s belief in Spencer’s innocence. That hadn’t always been easy, Spencer knew, particularly when the “evidence” had begun to stack up.

There were some who still didn’t buy Spencer’s innocence—or Lieutenant Moran’s guilt. Despite the department’s reinstatement or Moran’s confession and suicide. They figured the Malone family had “fixed” it somehow, used their considerable influence within the department to make it all go away.

It pissed him off. Spencer hated that he had been involved, albeit innocently, in the sullying of his family’s reputation, hated the speculative glances, the whispers.

“It’ll get better,” Tony murmured, as if reading his mind. “Cops’ memories aren’t that good. Lead poisoning, in my humble opinion.”

“You think?” Spencer grinned at him as they climbed the steps. “I was leaning toward excessive exposure to blue dye.”

They crossed the porch. He was aware of the neighbor’s gaze on him; he didn’t meet it. There would be time later for her distress and questions. Now was not it.

They entered the double. The techs were at work. Spencer skimmed his gaze over the scene, experiencing a small rush of excitement.

He had wanted Homicide for as long as he could remember. As a kid, he’d listened to his dad and Uncle Sammy discuss cases. And later, had watched his brothers John and Quentin with awe. When the department had decentralized, he’d wanted ISD.

ISD was the big time. Top of the heap.

He’d been too much of a screwup to earn the appointment. But here he was. Payoff for his cooperation and goodwill.

He hadn’t been proud enough to turn it down.

Spencer returned his attention to the scene before him. Typical college student’s apartment, Spencer saw. Junky, third- and fourth-hand furniture, overflowing ashtrays and about two dozen diet Coke cans littered the room. An all-chick place, Spencer thought. If a guy lived here, the cans would be Miller Lite. Or maybe south Louisiana’s own Abita Beer.

The first victim lay facedown on the floor, the back of her head partially blown off. The coroner’s investigator had already bagged her hands.

Spencer shifted his gaze to a young detective he recognized as being from the Sixth District. He couldn’t remember his name.

Tony did. “Yo, Bernie. You the one who dragged us out tonight?”

“Sorry about that. This is no rubber stamp, figured the sooner you guys got involved the better.”

The young detective looked nervous. He was new to DIU, probably hadn’t handled anything but gangbanger shootings.

“My partner, Spencer Malone.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Spencer figured the other cop had heard of him. “Bernie St. Claude.”

They shook hands. Ray Hollister, the Orleans Parish coroner’s investigator, glanced up. “I see the gang’s all here.”

“The midnight riders,” Tony said. “Lucky us. You worked with Malone yet, Ray?”

“Not this Malone.” The officer nodded in his direction. “Welcome to the late-night homicide club.”

“Glad to be here.”

That brought a groan from a couple of the techs.

Tony shot Spencer a grin. “The scary thing is, he means it. Back way off on the enthusiasm, Slick. People will talk.”

“Kiss my ass,” Spencer said good-naturedly, then returned his attention to the coroner’s representative. “What do you have so far?”

“Looks pretty straightforward right now. Shot twice. If the first bullet didn’t kill her, the second sure as hell did.”

“But why was she shot?” Spencer wondered aloud. “That’s your job, kid. Not mine.” “Sexual assault?” Tony asked. “I’m thinking no, but autopsy will tell the tale.” Tony nodded. “We’re going to take a look at the other victim.”

“Have a ball.”

Spencer didn’t move; he stared at the fanlike spray of blood on the wall adjacent to the victim. Turning to his partner, he said, “The shooter was sitting.”

“How do you figure?”

“Check it out.” Spencer circled around the body, crossing to the wall. “Blood splatter sprays up, then out.”

“I’ll be damned.”

Hollister weighed in. “Wounds are consistent with that theory.”

Excited, Spencer glanced around. His gaze settled on a desk and chair. “Shooter was there,” he said, crossing to the chair. Not wanting to disturb possible evidence, he squatted beside it. He visualized the event: shooter sitting, the victim turning her back on him, then: Bang. Bang.

What had they been doing? Why had he wanted her dead?

He shifted his gaze again, to the dusty desktop. It bore a subtle outline, about the size and shape of a laptop computer. “Take a look, Tony. I’m thinking there was a computer here.” The desk’s location supported the theory: the adjacent wall sported both an electrical outlet and a phone jack.

Tony nodded. “Could be. Might’ve been books, notebooks or newspaper.”

“Maybe. Whatever it was, it’s gone now. And, it appears, quite recently.” He fitted on a pair of latex gloves and ran a finger across the rectangular space. Finding it dust free, he motioned the photographer over and instructed him to get a shot of the desk, its top and chair.

“Let’s make sure they dust that area well.”

Spencer knew his partner meant dust for prints and nodded. “Done.”

He and Tony moved on. They found the second victim. She had also been shot. The scenario, however, was totally different. She had been tagged twice in the chest and lay on her back, straddling the bedroom doorway. The front of her pj’s were bloody, a ring of red circled her body.

Spencer crossed to her, checked her pulse, then glanced back at Tony. “She was in bed, heard the shots and got up to see what was going on.”

Tony blinked and shifted his gaze from the vic to Spencer, his expression strange. “Carly has those same pajamas. She wears ‘em all the time.”

A meaningless coincidence, but one that touched too close to home. “Let’s nail this bastard.”

Tony nodded and then finished examining the body.

“Robbery wasn’t a motive,” Tony said. “Neither was sexual assault. No sign of a break-in.”

Spencer frowned. “Then why?” “Maybe Ms. Killian can help.” “You or me?”

“You’re the one who has a way with the ladies.” Tony smiled. “Go for it.”

CHAPTER 3

Monday, February 28, 2005 2:20 a.m.

Stacy shivered and adjusted Caesar against her chest. The pup, barely old enough to have been weaned, whimpered a protest. She should have crated him, Stacy thought. Her arms ached; any moment he would awaken and want to play.

But she hadn’t been able to let go. She still couldn’t.

She rubbed her cheek against his soft, silky head. Between the time she’d made the call and the first officers arrived, she had returned to her apartment, stashed her Glock and grabbed a coat. She carried a permit for the gun but knew from experience that an armed civilian at the scene of a homicide would be at worst suspect, at best a distraction.

She’d never been on this side of the process before—the helpless bystander, loved one of the deceased—though she had come terrifyingly close last year. Her sister Jane had narrowly escaped a murderer’s grasp. In those moments, when Stacy had thought she’d lost her, she’d decided she’d had enough. Of the badge. What went along with it. The blood. The cruelty and death.

It had become clear to Stacy that she yearned for a normal life, a healthy relationship. Eventually, a family of her own. And that it wasn’t going to happen while she was in the job. Police work had marked her in a way that made “normal” and “healthy” impossible. As if she wore an invisible S. One that stood for shit. The worst life had to offer. The ugliest, man’s inhumanity to man.

She had acknowledged that nobody could change her life but her.

Now, here she was again. Death had followed her.

Only this time, it had found Cassie. And Beth.

Sudden anger surged through her. Where the hell were the detectives? Why were they moving so slowly? At this rate the killer would be in Mississippi before these two finished processing the scene.

“Stacy Killian?”

She turned. The younger of the two detectives stood behind her. He flashed his shield. “Detective Malone. I understand you called this in?”

“I did.”

“Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?” “No, I’m okay.”

He motioned to Caesar. “Cute pup. Lab?”

She nodded. “But he’s not … he was … Cassie’s.” She hated the way her voice thickened and fought to steady it. “Look, could we just get on with this?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by her brusque response. He probably thought her cold and uncaring. He couldn’t know how far from the truth that assessment was—she cared so much, she could hardly breathe.

He took out his notebook, a pocket-size spiral bound identical to the kind she had used. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

“I was sleeping. Thought I heard gunshots and went to check on my friends.”

Something flickered across his face and was gone. “You live here?” He indicated her unit.

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I’m not sure that’s important, but yes, I live alone.” “How long?”

“I moved in the first week of January.” “And before that?”

“Dallas. I moved to New Orleans to attend graduate school at UNO.”

“How well did you know the victims?”

Victims. She winced at the label. “Cassie and I were good friends. Beth just moved in a week or so ago. Cassie’s original roommate dropped out of school, went home.”

“You categorize the two of you as good friends? You only knew each other a matter of what, a couple months?”

“We shouldn’t have been, I suppose. But we just … clicked.”

He looked unconvinced. “You say you were awakened by gunshots and went to check on your friends? What made you so certain? Couldn’t the sound have been firecrackers? A car back-firing?”

“I knew they were gunshots, Detective.” She looked away, then back at him. “I was a cop for ten years. In Dallas.”

Again, his eyebrows lifted slightly; obviously the information had altered his original opinion of her. “What happened next?”

She explained about heading out front, circling the property and seeing Cassie’s light on. “That’s when I realized the sound … it had come from next door.”

The other detective emerged from the doorway behind him. Detective Malone followed her gaze and turned. She used the opportunity to study the two men. The aging cop partnered with the hotshot novice, a duo depicted in any number of Hollywood films.

In her experience, she’d found the fictionalized coupling much more effective than its real life inspiration. Too often, the older of the two was a burnout or a coaster, the younger a swaggerer.

The man crossed to them. “Detective Sciame,” he said.

At the sound of the other man’s voice, Caesar opened his eyes and wagged his tail. She set the puppy down and held out a hand. “Stacy Killian.”

“Ms. Killian here is a former cop.”

Detective Sciame turned his gaze back to her, warm brown eyes friendly. And intelligent. He may be a coaster, she decided, but he was a smart one. “That so?” he said, shaking her hand. “Detective First Grade. Homicide, Dallas PD. Call me Stacy.”

“Tony. What are you doing in our beautiful city?” “Graduate school at UNO. English lit.” He nodded. “Had enough of the job, huh? Thought about leaving myself, a number of times. Got retirement in sight now, no sense making a change.” “Why grad school?” Malone asked.

“Why not?”

He frowned. “English lit seems a world away from law enforcement.” “Exactly.”

Tony motioned to Cassie’s half of the double. “You take a good look at the scene?”

“I did.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“Cassie was killed first. Beth when she got up to investigate. Robbery was not a motive. Neither was sexual assault, though the pathologist will make the final determination. I’m thinking the killer was either a friend or acquaintance of Cassie’s. She let him in, locked up Caesar.”

“You were a friend of hers.” This came from Malone. “True. But I didn’t kill her.” “So you say. First to the scene—” “Is always a suspect. Standard operating procedure, I know.”

Tony nodded. “You carry a gun, Stacy?”

She wasn’t surprised the man asked the question. She was grateful, actually. It gave her confidence this might get solved.

“A Glock .40.”

“Same bad boy we carry. You got a permit?”

“Of course. Would you like to see both?”

He said he would and she scooped up the puppy and headed inside. They followed. She didn’t protest. Again, standard operating procedure. Because she was first to the scene, she was—if only momentarily—a suspect. No detective worth his or her salt would allow a possible suspect to disappear into their home to retrieve a gun. Or anything else, for that matter. Nine times out of ten, said suspect would disappear out the back door. Or come back out the front, gun blazing.

After leaving Caesar in her bedroom, she produced the gun and permit. Both detectives inspected them. Obviously, the Glock hadn’t been fired recently and Tony handed it back.

“Cassie have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Any enemies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Was she into the bar scene?”

Stacy shook her head. “RPGs and school. That’s it.”

Malone frowned. “RPGs?”

“Role-playing games. Her favorites were Dungeons & Dragons and Vampire: the Masquerade, though she played others.”

“Pardon my ignorance,” Tony said, “are these board games? Video games?”

“Neither. Each game has set characters and a scenario, decided upon by the game master. The participants role-play the characters.”

Tony scratched his head. “It’s a live-action game?”

“Not really.” She smiled. “I don’t play, but the way Cassie explained it, RPGs are played with the imagination. The player is like an actor in a role, following an unfolding script, without costumes, special effects or sets. The games can be played real-time or by e-mail.”

“Why don’t you play?” Detective Malone said.

Stacy paused. “Cassie invited me to join her group, but her description of play didn’t appeal. Danger at every turn, living by your wits. I had no desire to role-play that, I lived it. Every day I spent on the force.”

“Know any of her fellow gamers?”

“Not really.”

Detective Malone cocked an eyebrow. “Not really. What does that mean?”

“She introduced me to several of them. I see them around the University Center sometimes. They occasionally play at Café Noir.”

Tony stepped in. “Café Noir?”

“A coffeehouse on Esplanade. Cassie spent a lot of time there. We both did. Studying.”

“When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

“Friday afternoon … out at scho—”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. It came flooding back, their last meeting. Cassie had been excited, she’d met someone who played a game called White Rabbit. This person had promised to hook her up with what she’d called a Supreme White Rabbit. Arrange a private meeting with him.

“Ms. Killian? Have you remembered something?”

She filled them in, but they appeared unimpressed.

“A Supreme White Rabbit?” Tony asked. “What in God’s name is that?”

“Like I said, I don’t play. But as I understand it, in RPGs there’s something called the game master. In D & D that person’s the Dungeon Master, who basically controls the game.”

“And in this new scenario, that person’s called the White Rabbit,” Tony said.

“Exactly.” She pressed on. “The thought of her meeting this guy struck me wrong. Cassie was really trusting. Too trusting. I reminded her that this person was a stranger and urged her to select a public place for their meeting.”

“What was her response to your warning?” What do you think, some game geek’s going to get pissed off and shoot me?

“She laughed,” Stacy said. “Told me to lighten up.”

“So the meeting took place?”

“I don’t know.”

“She give you a name?”

“No. But I didn’t ask.”

“The person who promised the introduction, where’d she meet him?”

“She didn’t say and, again, I didn’t ask.” Stacy heard the frustration in her own voice. “I’m thinking it was a guy, though I’m not even certain of that.”

“Anything else?”

“I have a feeling about this.”

“Women’s intuition?” Malone asked.

She narrowed her eyes, irritated. “The instinct of a seasoned detective.”

She saw the older man’s mouth twitch, as if with amusement.

“What about her roommate?” Tony asked. “Beth? She play those games?”

“No.”

“Did your friend have a computer?” Malone asked. She swung her gaze to him. “A laptop. Why?” He didn’t answer. “She play these games on her computer?”

“Sometimes, I think. Mostly she played real time, with her game group.”

“So they can be played online.”

“I think so.” She shifted her gaze between the two.

“Why?”

“Thank you, Ms. Killian. You’ve been helpful.”

“Wait.” She caught the older detective’s arm. “Her computer’s gone, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Stacy,” Tony murmured, sounding like he meant it. “We can’t say any more.”

She would have done the same; it pissed her off, anyway. “I suggest you check out this White Rabbit game. Ask around, see who’s playing. What the game involves.”

“We will, Ms. Killian.” Malone closed his notebook. “Thank you for your help.”

She opened her mouth to say more, to ask if they would update her on their progress, then shut it without speaking. Because she knew they wouldn’t. Even if they agreed to, it would be an empty platitude.

She didn’t have the right to the information, she acknowledged, watching the two walk away. She was a civilian. Not even family of the deceased. They weren’t required to give her anything but courtesy.

For the first time since leaving the force, she understood the ramifications of what she had done. Of what she was.

A civilian. Outside the blue circle. Alone.

Stacy Killian wasn’t a cop anymore.

CHAPTER 4

Monday, February 28, 2005 9:20 a.m.

Spencer and Tony entered police headquarters. Located in City Hall, at 1300 Perdido Street, the mirrored glass building housed not only the NOPD but the mayor’s office, the New Orleans Fire Department and city council, among others. The Public Integrity Division, the NOPD’s version of Internal Affairs, was housed outside headquarters, as was the crime lab.

They signed in and took the elevator to ISD. When the doors whooshed open, Tony headed for the box of breakfast pastries, Spencer for his messages.

“Hey, Dora,” he said to the receptionist. Though a civilian employed by the city, she wore a uniform. Her extra-large, top-heavy frame strained at the confines of the blue fabric, revealing glimpses of hot pink lace. “Any messages?”

The woman handed Spencer the yellow message slips, sliding her gaze over him appraisingly. He ignored the look. “Captain in?” “Ready and waiting, stud.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she cackled. “You white boys have no sense of humor.”

“No sense of style, either,” offered Rupert, another detective, sidling past them.

“That’s right,” Dora said. “Rupert here knows fine threads.”

Spencer glanced at the other man, taking in his sleek Italian suit, colorful tie and bright white shirt, then down at himself. Jeans, chambray shirt and tweedy jacket. “What?”

She groaned. “You’re working ISD now, top of the heap, baby. You need to be dressin’ the part.”

“Yo, Slick. Ready?”

Spencer turned and grinned at his partner. “Can’t. In the middle of a free fashion consultation.”

Tony returned the grin. “Lecture, you mean.” “Don’t even go there.” Dora wagged her finger at the older man. “You’re hopeless. A fashion disaster.”

“What? Me?” He held his hands out. His gut protruded over the waist of his Sansabelt trousers, the fabric shiny from age, and strained the buttons of his short-sleeved plaid shirt.

The woman made a sound of disgust as she handed Tony his messages. Turning to Spencer, she said, “You just come see Miss Dora, baby. I’ll fix you right up.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, sugar pie,” she called after him. “Ladies go for a man with style.”

“She’s right, sugar pie,” Tony teased. “Take it from me.”

Spencer laughed. “You’d know this how? The way the ladies stay away in droves?”

“Exactly.” They turned the corner, heading for the open door of their captain’s office.

Spencer tapped on the casing. “Captain O’Shay? Got a minute?”

Captain Patti O’Shay looked up, waved them in. “‘Morning, Detectives. It’s been a busy one already, I hear.”

“We got a double,” Tony said, lowering himself into one of the chairs across from her.

Patti O’Shay, a trim, no-nonsense woman, was one of only three female captains in the NOPD. She was smart, tough but fair. She’d worked her ass off to get where she was, twice as hard as any man, overcoming doubt, chauvinism and the good old boy network. She’d been bumped up to ISD this past year and some predicted she’d make deputy chief one day.

She also happened to be Spencer’s mother’s sister.

It was hard for Spencer to reconcile this woman with the one who had called him “Boo” growing up. The one who’d slipped him cookies when his mother hadn’t been looking. She was his godmother, a special relationship for Catholics. And one she took seriously.

However, she had made it clear his first day under her command that here she was his boss. Period.

She turned her miss-nothing gaze on him. “Think DIU jumped the gun by calling us in?”

He straightened, cleared his throat. “No way, Captain. This was no rubber stamp.”

She shifted her gaze to Tony. “Detective Sciame?”

“I agree. Better to get it now, before the trail’s cold.”

Spencer took over. “Both vics were shot.”

“Names?”

“Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. UNO students.”

“Wagner just moved in a week ago,” Tony offered. “Poor kid, talk about some bad fuckin’ luck.”

The woman didn’t seem to notice the language, but Spencer winced.

“Robbery doesn’t appear to have been the motive,” Spencer offered, “although her laptop is missing. Neither does rape.”

“What, then?”

Tony stretched his legs out in front of him. “Crystal ball’s not working this morning, Captain.”

“Clever,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt she found it to be anything but. “How about a theory, then? Or is that asking a bit much after only a couple doughnuts?”

Spencer jumped in. “Looks like Finch was killed first. We figure she knew her killer, let him in. Probably killed Wagner because she was there. Of course, it’s speculation so far.”

“Leads?”

“A few. We’re going to pay a visit to the university, the places both women hung out. Talk to their friends, professors. Boyfriends, if any.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Canvas of the neighborhood’s complete,” Spencer continued. “With the exception of the woman who phoned it in, nobody heard a thing.”

“Her story checks out?”

“Seems legit. She’s a former cop. Dallas PD Homicide.”

She frowned slightly. “That so?”

“I’m going to run her through the computer. Call the Dallas PD.” “Do that.”

“Coroner notified the next of kin?” “Done.”

She reached for her phone, signaling their meeting was over. “I don’t like double homicides in my jurisdiction. I like them even less when they’re unsolved. Understood?”

They agreed they did, stood and started toward the door. The captain stopped Spencer before he reached it. “Detective Malone?”

He looked back.

“Watch that temper of yours.”

He flashed her a smile. “Under control, Aunt Patti. Altar boy’s honor.”

As he walked away, he heard her laugh. Probably because she remembered what a total failure he had been as an altar boy.

CHAPTER 5

Monday, February 28, 2005 10:30 a.m.

Spencer stepped into Café Noir. The scent of coffee and baking cookies hit him hard. It’d been a long time since breakfast—a sausage biscuit from a drive-thru window just as the sun cracked the horizon.

He just didn’t get the whole coffeehouse thing. Three bucks for a cup of fancy coffee with a foreign-sounding name? And what was with the whole tall, grande, supergrande thing? What was wrong with small, medium and large? Or even extra large? Who did they think they were fooling?

He’d made the mistake of ordering an americano once. Thought it would be a good, old-fashioned cup of American coffee. It had proved to be anything but.

Shots of espresso and water. Tasted like burned piss.

He decided to save his money and wait until he got back to HQ for a cup. Glancing around, he saw that from what he knew of coffeehouses, this one was pretty typical. Deep, earthy colors, groupings of comfy, oversize furniture interspersed with tables for conversing or studying. The building, located on a triangular sliver of land called neutral ground in New Orleans, even sported a big old fireplace.

For all the good it would be, he thought. This was New Orleans, after all. Hot and humid, twenty-four/seven, nine months out of twelve.

Spencer crossed to the counter and asked the girl at the cash register for the owner or manager. The girl, who looked to be college-age, smiled and pointed at a tall, willowy blonde restocking the buffet. “The owner.

Billie Bellini.”

He thanked her and crossed to the woman. “Billie Bellini?” he asked.

She turned and looked up at him. She was gorgeous. One of those flawlessly beautiful women who could—and probably did—have their pick of men. The kind of woman one didn’t expect to see managing a coffeehouse.

He’d be a liar or a eunuch to say he was immune, though he could honestly claim she wasn’t his type. Too damn high maintenance for a regular Joe like him.

A smile touched the corners of her full lips. “Yes?” she said.

“Detective Spencer Malone. NOPD,” he said as he flashed his badge.

One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “Detective? How can I help you?”

“You know a woman named Cassie Finch?”

“I do. She’s one of the regulars.”

“A regular. What exactly does that mean?”

“That she spends a lot of time in here. Everybody knows her.” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Why?”

He ignored her question and asked another of his own. “How about Beth Wagner?”

“Cassie’s roommate? Not really. She was in once. Cassie introduced us.”

“What about Stacy Killian?”

“Also a regular. They’re friends. But I suspect you already know that.”

Spencer dropped his gaze. The fourth finger of her left hand sported a major rock and a diamond studded gold band. That didn’t surprise him.

“When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

Concern leaped into her eyes. “What is this in reference to?” she asked. “Is Cassie okay?”

“Cassie Finch is dead, Ms. Bellini. She was murdered.”

She brought a hand to her mouth, which had pulled into a perfectly formed O. “There must be some mistake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me, I—” She fumbled behind her for a chair, then sank onto it. For long moments, she sat motionless, struggling, he suspected, to compose herself.

When she finally looked back up at him, it was without tears. “She was in yesterday afternoon.”

“For how long?”

“A couple of hours. From about three to five.” “Was she alone?”

“Yes.”

“She talk to anyone?”

The woman clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Yes. All the usual suspects.” “Pardon?”

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Other regulars. The usual crew was in.”

“Was Stacy Killian in yesterday?”

Again, her expression tightened with alarm. “No. Is Stacy … is she all right?”

“As far as I know, she’s fine.” He paused. “It would help us immensely if I could get the names of the people Cassie hung out with. The regulars.”

“Of course.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

“No. I can’t imagine she did, anyway.”

“Altercations with anyone?”

“No.” Her voice shook. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I understand she was into fantasy role-playing games.” He paused; when she didn’t disagree, he went on. “She always have her laptop with her?”

“Always.”

“Never saw her without it?” “Never.”

He nodded. “I’d like to speak with your employees, Ms. Bellini.”

“Of course. Nick and Josie are coming in at two and five, respectively. That’s Paula. Shall I call her over?” He nodded and retrieved a business card from his jacket pocket. He handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

It turned out Paula knew even less than her boss had, but Spencer gave her a business card as well.

He stepped out of the coffeehouse and into the cool, bright morning. Channel 6’s meteorologist had predicted the mercury would top seventy today, and judging by the warmth already, she’d been right.

Loosening his tie, he started for his car, which was parked at the curb.

“Detective Malone, wait!”

He stopped, turned. Stacy Killian slammed her car door and hurried toward him. “Hello, Ms. Killian.”

She motioned to the coffeehouse. “Did you get everything you needed here?”

“For the moment. How can I help you?”

“I was wondering, have you looked into White Rabbit yet?”

“Not yet.”

“May I ask what’s taking so long?”

He looked at his watch, then back at her. “By my calculations, this investigation is only eight hours old.”

“And the probability of it being solved lessens with each passing hour.”

“Why’d you leave the Dallas force, Ms. Killian?”

“Excuse me?”

He noticed the way she subtly stiffened. “It was a simple question. Why’d you leave?”

“I needed a change.” “That the only reason?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Detective.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I just wondered since you seem pretty anxious to do my job.”

Color flooded her cheeks. “Cassie was my friend. I don’t want her killer to get away.”

“Neither do I. Back off and let me do my job.”

He started past her; she caught his arm. “White Rabbit is the best lead you have.”

“Says you. I’m not convinced.”

“Cassie had met someone who promised to introduce her to the game. They had planned to meet.”

“Could be a coincidence. We meet people all the time, Ms. Killian. They come and go in our lives, strangers who cross our paths on a daily basis, making deliveries, speaking to us in the checkout line, offering to pick up something we’ve dropped. But they don’t kill us.”

“Most of the time they don’t,” she corrected. “Her computer was gone, wasn’t it? Why do you think that is?”

“Her killer took it as a trophy. Or decided he needed one. Or it’s at the repair shop.”

“Some games are played online. Maybe White Rabbit is one of them?”

He shook off her hand. “You’re stretching, Ms. Killian. And you know it.”

“I was a detective for ten years—”

“But you’re not now,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re a civilian. Don’t get in my way. Don’t interfere with this investigation. I won’t ask you so nicely next time.”

CHAPTER 6

Monday, February 28, 2005 11:10 a.m.

Stacy strode into Café Noir, fuming. Stupid, arrogant, swaggerer. In her experience, bad cops fell into three categories. Top of the list sat the dishonest cop. No explanation necessary. Next came the coaster. Cops who were content to do the minimum for whatever reason. Then came the swaggerers. For this group, the job was all about how it made them look. They endangered their partners by showing off; they jeopardized cases by refusing to see anything but their own glory.

Or by refusing to follow a hunch that was somebody else’s.

Sure, that’s all it was. A hunch. Based on a coincidence and a gut feeling.

Over the years she had learned to trust her hunches. And she wasn’t going to allow some cocky, still-wet-behind-the-ears gun jockey to blow this case. She would not sit back and do nothing while Cassie’s killer went free.

Stacy drew a deep breath, working to calm herself, shifting her thoughts from the past meeting to the one ahead.

Billie. She would be crushed.

Her friend stood at the counter. Six feet tall, blond and beautiful, she turned heads everywhere she went. Stacy had discovered her to be exceptionally smart—and exceptionally funny as well, in a dry, acerbic way.

Billie looked up, met Stacy’s eyes. She had been crying.

Stacy closed the distance between them and held out a hand. “I’m devastated, too.”

Billie clasped her hand tightly. “The police were here. I can’t believe it.”

“Me, neither.”

“They asked me about you, Stacy. Why—”

“I’m the one who found her. And Beth. I called it in.”

“Oh, Stacy … how horrible.”

Tears flooded Stacy’s eyes. “Tell me about it.”

Billie waved her employee over. “Paula, I’ll be in my office. Call me if you need me.”

The young woman looked from one to the other, eyes watery, face pale. No doubt Malone had questioned her as well. “Go ahead,” she said, voice thick, shaky. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the bar.”

Billie ushered Stacy through the stockroom to her office. When they reached it, she partially shut the door. “How are you holding up?”

“Just dandy.” Stacy heard the edge in her voice but knew it would be pointless to try to soften it. She hurt. She itched to take her anger and despair out on someone.

Cassie had been one of the sweetest people she had ever met. Her death wasn’t only a senseless loss, how she’d died was an affront to life.

Stacy faced Billie. “I could have saved her.”

“What? You couldn’t—”

“I was right next door. I have a gun, I’m a former cop. Why didn’t I know?”

“Because,” Billie said gently, “you’re not a psychic.”

Stacy fisted her fingers, knowing Billie was right but finding more comfort in blame than helplessness. “She told me about this White Rabbit. I had a feeling about it. I warned her to be careful.”

Billie cleared off the small office’s single chair. “Sit. Back up. Tell me everything.”

Stacy recounted the story. Billie listened, eyes growing wet. When she finished, Stacy saw her friend struggle to compose herself and speak. When she did, her voice quivered.

“It’s just too awful. It’s—Who would do this? Why? Cassie is … she—”

Was.

Past tense now.

Billie choked the words back. It hurt too much, Stacy knew, to say them aloud. She took over. “This game, White Rabbit, you ever heard of it?”

Billie shook her head.

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Cassie was really excited,” Stacy continued. “She said this person agreed to set up a meeting between her and an expert at the game.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I was rushing to class and thought we would see each other—” Her voice cracked; she couldn’t finish.

Later. She had thought they would see each other later.

This time Billie stepped in. “And you think she met with this person and that he might have had something to do with her death?”

“It’s possible. Cassie was so trusting. It would have been totally like her to invite a stranger into her house.”

Billie nodded. “The whole White Rabbit thing could have been a ruse. This person, whoever he is, might have known she was a gamer and used the lure of a new game scenario to get into her house.”

“But why?” Stacy stood and began to pace, too agitated to stay still. “The way it looked to me, Cassie was killed first. Beth simply because she was there. It didn’t look as if they’d been robbed or raped.”

She paused, glanced back at Billie. “The police asked if she had a computer.”

“They asked me about it, too.”

“What else did they ask you?”

“Who Cassie hung out with. About her game group. If she had any enemies. Run-ins with anybody.” Standard stuff.

“Did they ask about White Rabbit?” “No.”

Stacy brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her head throbbed. “I’m thinking they asked about the computer because they didn’t see one.”

“She took it everywhere with her. I asked her once if she slept with it.” Billie’s eyes filled. “She laughed. Said she did.”

“Exactly. Which means her killer took it. The question is, why?”

“Because he didn’t want the police to see something on it?” Billie offered. “Something that would lead them to him. Or her.”

“That’s my theory. Which leads me back to this person she was meeting with.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Ask around about it. Talk to Cassie’s gamer friends. See if they know anything about this White Rabbit. Find out if it’s played on the computer or real time. Maybe she told them about this White Rabbit person.”

“I’ll ask around, too. A lot of gamers come in here, somebody’s bound to know something.”

Stacy caught her friend’s hand. “Be careful, Billie. You get any negative vibes, call me or Detective Malone right away. We’re trying to expose someone who’s killed two people already, two that we know of. Believe me, he won’t hesitate to do it again to protect himself.”

CHAPTER 7

Tuesday, March 1, 2005 9:00 a.m.

The University of New Orleans sat squarely on 195 acres of prime Lake Pontchartrain-fronted property. Established in 1956 on a former U.S. navy air station, UNO catered mostly to those living in the metro region of Louisiana’s largest city.

The campus couldn’t compare to the state’s flagship school, Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, or to the ivy-covered prestige of uptown New Orleans’ Tulane University, but it had managed to secure itself a solid reputation of quality for a medium-size university. The schools of Maritime Engineering, Hotel and Restaurant Management and of all things, Film, were particularly highly rated.

Stacy parked in the student lot closest to the University Center. The uc was the hub of social activity on campus, particularly since most of the students lived off campus and commuted. If a student wasn’t in class or at the library studying, they were shooting the breeze in the uc.

It was there, Stacy was certain, she would run across Cassie’s friends.

She entered the building, found a table and dumped her backpack before scanning the cavernous room. She hadn’t expected a crowd this early, and she didn’t get one. Numbers would begin to swell after the first classes of the day concluded, reaching maximum capacity at midday, when students stopped for a bite of lunch.

She bought a cup of coffee and a muffin and carried them back to her table. She sat, unpacked Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, the novel she was reading for her class on Later Romantics, but didn’t open it.

Instead, she sweetened her coffee and took a sip, thoughts scrolling forward to her goal for the day. Make contact with Cassie’s friends. Question them about White Rabbit and the night of Cassie’s death. Get something solid to move forward on.

She had spoken with Cassie’s mother the night before. She’d called to express her condolences and to make arrangements for Caesar. The woman had been in shock and her responses to Stacy’s questions had been robotic. She’d told Stacy that as soon as the coroner’s office released Cassie’s body, she planned to take her home to Picayune, Mississippi, for burial. She’d asked Stacy if she would help arrange a memorial service. She thought it would be best to hold it at the Newman Religious Center on campus.

Stacy had agreed. Cassie had had a lot of friends; they would want the opportunity to say goodbye.

And the police would want an opportunity to see who attended the service.

Killers, particularly thrill killers, were known to attend their victims’ funerals. They also had a proclivity for visiting their victims’ graves or revisiting the scene of their crime. Through those activities they relived the sick thrill they had derived from the act.

Had Cassie and Beth’s murders been thrill kills? Stacy didn’t think so. Neither shooting had the ritualistic aspects of most thrill kills, but that didn’t exclude the possibility. She’d found that for every rule, there was an exception—especially when it came to human behavior.

Stacy caught sight of two members of Cassie’s game group. Ella and Magda, she remembered. They were laughing as they made their way from the concession line to a table, their expressions carefree.

They hadn’t heard yet.

She stood and crossed to their table. They looked up and smiled, recognizing her. “Hey, Stacy. What’s up?”

“May I sit down? I need to ask you something.”

At her expression, their smiles slipped. They motioned to one of the empty chairs and she sank onto it. She decided to ask about the game first. Once she told them about Cassie, the chance of getting a coherent answer was slim.

“Have either of you heard of a game scenario called White Rabbit?”

The two women exchanged glances. Ella spoke up first. “You’re not a gamer, Stacy. Why so interested?”

“So you have heard of it.” When they didn’t respond, she added, “It’s really important. It has to do with Cassie.”

“Cassie?” The woman frowned and looked at her watch. “I expected her to be here already. She e-mailed us both Sunday night. Said to be here by nine this morning, she had a surprise.”

A surprise.

White Rabbit.

Stacy leaned toward them. “What time did she e-mail?”

Both women thought a moment; Ella answered first. “Around 8:00 p.m. for me. Magda?”

“The same, I guess.”

“Have you heard of the game?”

They glanced at each other again, then nodded. “Neither of us has played, though,” Magda offered.

Ella jumped in. “White Rabbit is … sort of radical. It’s totally underground. Passed from gamer to gamer. To learn the game, you have to know someone who plays. As a group, they’re really clannish.”

“And secretive,” Magda added.

“What about the Internet? Surely you can find information about it there?”

“Information,” Ella murmured, “sure. But a player’s bible, not that I’ve seen. You, Mag?” She looked at the other woman, who shook her head.

No wonder Cassie had been so excited. What a coup.

“Is it played online? Or real time?”

“Both, I guess. Like most.” Ella frowned slightly. “Real time is Cassie’s favorite. We all like getting together as a group to game.”

“It’s more social that way,” Magda offered. “Playing on the computer is for the folks who can’t find a group to play with or who don’t have the time to devote to real play.”

Ella jumped in. “Or are in it simply for the thrill of it.”

“Which is?”

“Outmaneuvering and outwitting their opponents.”

“Did Cassie mention meeting someone who played?”

“Not to me.” Ella looked at Magda. “You?”

The other girl shook her head once more.

“What else can you tell me about it?”

“Not much.” Ella looked at her watch again. “It’s weird that Cassie hasn’t shown up.” She looked at her friend. “Check your cell pho—”

Just then another of their group, Amy, called their names. They turned to see her making her way toward them. Judging by the girl’s face, she had heard about Cassie. Stacy braced herself for the scene to come.

“Y’all, oh my God!” she said when she reached the table. “I just heard the most horrible thing! Cassie’s … I can’t … she’s—” She brought a shaking hand to her mouth, eyes filling with tears.

“What?” Magda asked. “What’s wrong with Cassie?”

Amy began to cry. “She’s … dead.”

Ella launched to her feet, sending her chair skidding backward. People at the surrounding tables looked their way. “That can’t be true, I just talked to her!”

“Me, too!” Magda cried. “How—”

“The police came by the dorm this morning. They want to talk to you guys, too.”

“The police?” Magda said, looking panicked. “I don’t understand.”

Amy sank onto a chair, dissolving once again into tears.

“Cassie was murdered,” Stacy said quietly. “Sunday night.”

Magda simply stared. Ella rounded on her, face pinched with anger and grief. “You’re lying! Who would hurt Cassie?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

For a moment the three were silent. They stared blankly at her. Then understanding crept into Ella’s expression. “That’s why you were asking all those questions about White Rabbit. You think—”

“The game?” Amy asked, through tears.

“I saw Cassie Friday,” Stacy explained. “She said she met someone who played. He was going to introduce her to a Supreme White Rabbit. Did she say anything to you about it, Amy?”

“Uh-uh. I talked to her Sunday night. She said she was going to have a surprise for us this morning. She sounded really happy.”

“We got an e-mail saying the same thing,” Magda offered.

“Anything else?”

“She had to go. Said someone was at the door.” Stacy’s heart beat faster. Someone. Her killer? “She give you a name?”

“No.”

“Did she indicate whether this person was a man or a woman?”

Amy shook her head, looking miserable. “What time was this?”

“Like I told the police, I don’t remember exactly, but I’m thinking it was around nine-thirty.”

At nine-thirty Stacy had been deep into her research paper. Her sister Jane had called; they’d chatted for about twenty minutes about the baby, the amazing little Apple Annie. Stacy hadn’t heard or seen anything.

“Are you certain she didn’t say anything else? Anything at all?”

“No. Now I wish … if only I’d—” Amy’s words broke on a sob.

Ella turned to Stacy, face red. “How do you know so much?”

Stacy explained about waking to what she thought were gunshots and going to investigate. “I found her.

And Beth.”

“You used to be a cop, right?” “I used to be, yes.”

“And now you’re playing cop? Reliving your glory days?”

The accusation in the other woman’s words took her by surprise. “Hardly. To the police Cassie’s just another victim. She was much more than that to me. I intend to make certain whoever did this doesn’t get away with it.”

“Her murder had nothing to do with role-playing games!”

“How do you know?”

“Everybody’s always pointing fingers at us.” Ella’s voice shook. “Like role-playing games turn kids into zombies or killing machines. It’s stupid. You’d do better to talk to that freak Bobby Gautreaux.”

Stacy frowned. “Do I know him?”

“Probably not.” Magda was hugging herself and rocking back and forth. “He and Cassie dated last year. She broke up with him. He didn’t take it well.”

Ella looked at Magda. “Didn’t take it well? At first he threatened to kill himself. Then he threatened to kill her!”

“But that was last year,” Amy whispered. “Surely, that threat was made in the heat of the moment.”

“Don’t you remember what she told us a couple weeks ago?” Ella asked. “She thought he’d been following her.”

Amy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, I’d forgotten.”

“Me, too,” Magda admitted. “What do we do now?”

They turned to her, three young women whose lives had just taken an irrevocable turn. One precipitated by a dose of very ugly realism.

“What do you think?” Magda asked, voice shaking.

That this changed everything. “You have to call the police and tell them exactly what you told me. Do it right away.”

“But Bobby really loved her,” Amy said. “He wouldn’t hurt her. He cried when she ended it. He—”

Stacy cut her off as gently as possible. “Believe it or not, as many murderers are motivated by love as by hate. Maybe more. Statistically, more men kill than women, and in cases of domestic violence, women are almost always the victim. In addition, more men stalk their previous partners and have restraining orders filed against them.”

“You think Bobby’s been stalking her? But why wait a year before—” She choked on the words, obviously unable to bring herself to say them.

But they hung heavily in the air.

Before killing her.

“Some of these guys are mindless brutes who strike immediately. Others think it through, lying in wait for the right moment. They refuse to let go of their fury. If he was stalking her, Bobby Gautreaux would fall into the latter category.”

“I feel sick,” Magda moaned, dropping her head into her hands.

Amy leaned close and gently rubbed her friend’s back. “It’s going to be okay.”

But of course it wasn’t. And they all knew it.

“Where can I find this Bobby Gautreaux?” Stacy asked.

“He’s an engineering student,” Ella offered. “I think he lived in one of the dorms,” Amy said. “At least he did last year.”

“Are you certain he’s still a UNO student?” Stacy asked.

“I’ve seen him around campus this year,” Amy said. “Just the other day, in fact. Here, in the UC.”

Stacy stood and started packing up her things. “Call Detective Malone. Tell him what you told me.”

“What are you going to do?” Magda asked.

“I’m going to see if I can find Bobby Gautreaux. I want to ask him a few questions before the police do.”

“About White Rabbit?” Ella asked, an edge in her voice.

“Among other things.” Stacy hefted her backpack to her shoulder.

Ella followed her to her feet. “Drop the gaming angle. It’s a dead end.”

She found it odd that one of Cassie’s supposedly good friends seemed more concerned about gaming’s reputation than catching her friend’s killer. Stacy met the other woman’s gaze directly. “It may be. But Cassie’s dead. And I’m not dropping anything until we know who killed her.”

Ella’s defiance seemed to melt. She sank to her chair, expression defeated.

Stacy gazed at her a moment, then turned to go. Magda stopped her. Stacy looked back.

“Don’t leave it up to the police, okay? We’ll help you in any way we can. We loved her.”

CHAPTER 8

Tuesday, March 1, 2005 10:30 a.m.

Being a university that catered to commuters, UNO had only three residence facilities, and one of those exclusively housed students with families. Since Bobby Gautreaux hailed from Monroe, Stacy figured he lived in one of the residences for single students, either Bienville Hall or Privateer Place.

She also figured she’d get nowhere in an attempt to wheedle an address out of the registrar’s office, but she might do some good at the engineering department.

She quickly formulated a plan and assembled the pieces she needed to carry it out, then made her way to the engineering building, located on the opposite side of the campus from the UC.

Every department had its own secretary. That person knew her department inside and out, and was familiar with every student major, knew each faculty member, complete with their peculiarities. They also tended, within their respective domains, to be more powerful than God.

Stacy had also learned that if they liked you, they would move heaven and earth to help you solve a problem. But if they didn’t, if you crossed them, you were screwed.

The woman in charge of the engineering department fiefdom, Stacy saw, had a face as round as the moon and a big broad smile.

One of the motherly ones. Good.

“Hi,” she smiled, and crossed to the woman’s desk. “I’m Stacy Killian, a grad student from the English department.”

The woman returned her smile. “How can I help you?” “I’m looking for Bobby Gautreaux.” The woman frowned slightly. “I haven’t seen Bobby today.”

“He doesn’t have an engineering class on Tuesdays?”

“I believe he does. Let me check.” She swung toward her computer terminal, accessed the student records, then typed in Bobby’s name.

“Let’s see. He did have a class earlier, though I didn’t see him. Maybe I can help you?”

“I’m a family friend from Monroe. I was there this past weekend, visiting my folks. Bobby’s mom asked if I would bring this to him.” She held up the card she’d just purchased at the bookstore, now marked “Bobby” on the envelope.

The woman smiled and held out a hand. “I’ll be happy to give it to him.”

Stacy held back. “I promised I’d give it directly to him. She was pretty insistent about that. He lives in Bienville Hall, doesn’t he?”

Stacy saw a wariness creep into the secretary’s expression. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Could you check?” Stacy leaned closer, lowering her voice. “There’s money in it. A hundred dollars. If I leave it and something happens … I’d never forgive myself.”

The woman pursed her lips. “I certainly can’t take the responsibility for cash.”

“That’s just the way I feel,” Stacy agreed. “The sooner I hand it to Bobby, the better.”

The woman hesitated a moment more, gazing at her, seeming to size her up. After a moment, she nodded. “Let’s see if I have that information.”

She returned her attention to the computer screen, tapped in some information, then turned back to Stacy. “It is Bienville Hall. Room 210.”

“Room 210,” Stacy repeated, smiling. “Thanks. You’ve been a lot of help.”

Bienville Hall, a graceless but utilitarian high-rise dormitory built in 1969, was located directly across the commons from the engineering department.

She entered the building. The days of lockdown, single-gender dorms had gone the way of the dinosaur, and none of the students she passed paid any attention to her.

She took the stairs to the second floor, then made her way to room 210. When no one responded to her first knock, she knocked again.

Still no response. She glanced around her, saw she was alone in the hall, then nonchalantly reached out and tried the door.

It swung open.

She stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind her. What she was doing was illegal, though less of an offense now that she was no longer the law. Bizarre but true.

Stacy moved her gaze quickly over the small, pin-neat room. Interesting, she decided. Single guys were not known for their tidiness. What other norms did Bobby Gautreaux defy?

She crossed to the desk. Three neat piles graced its top. She thumbed through each, then eased open the desk drawer. She poked through its contents.

Finding nothing that looked incriminating, she shut the drawer, her attention going to a photo tacked to the corkboard above the desk. Of Cassie. Wearing a bikini, smiling at the camera.

He’d drawn a bull’s-eye over her face.

Excited, she shifted her gaze. There were several other snapshots of the woman, one he’d adorned with devil’s horns and a pointed tail, another with Burn in hell, Bitch.

He was either innocent—or incredibly stupid. If he had killed her, he had to know the police were going to come calling. Leaving those photos on the bulletin board assured him a lot of heat.

“What the hell?”

She turned. The young man in the doorway looked like he’d had a very bad night. He could be a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous.

Or a walking, talking mug shot.

“The door was open.”

“Bullshit. Get out.”

“Bobby, right?”

His hair was wet; he had a towel looped over his shoulders. He moved his gaze over her. “Who wants to know?”

“A friend.”

“Not of mine.”

“I’m a friend of Cassie’s.”

Something ugly crossed his face. He folded his arms across his chest. “Big friggin’ deal. I haven’t talked to Cassie in ages. Get the fuck out.”

Stacy closed the distance between them. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “Funny, I got the impression from her that the two of you had spoken quite recently.”

“Then she’s not only a bitch. But a liar, too.”

Stacy bristled, offended. She swept her gaze over him. He had dark, curly hair and dark brown eyes, a gift from his French Acadian ancestors. If not for his surliness, he would have been quite handsome.

“She said you might know something about the game White Rabbit.”

His expression altered subtly. “What about White Rabbit?”

“You know the game, right?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Ever played it?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“You sound like a cop.”

She narrowed her eyes, deciding there was little to like about the young man. He was a punk, through and through. She’d dealt with them daily in her years on the Dallas force.

Busting toads like him had been the best part of the job. She wished she had a badge now; she’d like to see him pee his pants.

Imagining just that, a smile touched her mouth. “Like I said, I’m just a friend. Doing a little research. Tell me about White Rabbit.”

“What do you want to know?”

“About the game. What it’s like. How you play. Things like that.”

He curled his lip. She supposed it was his sleazy version of a smile. “It’s not an ordinary game. It’s dark. And it’s violent.”

He paused, his expression seeming to come alive. “Think Dr. Seuss meets Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. Wonderland is the setting. It’s crazy. A bizarre world.”

Sounded like a big barrel of laughs. “You say it’s darker. What does that mean?”

“You’re not a gamer, are you?”

“No.”

“Then fuck you.”

He turned away; she caught his arm. “Humor me, Bobby.”

He looked from her hand on his arm to her eyes. The expression in them must have convinced him she meant business. “White Rabbit is a game of survival of the fittest. The smartest, most capable. Last man standing takes all.”

“Takes all?”

“Kill or be killed, doll. Game’s not over until only one character is left alive.”

“How do you know so much about the game when you’ve never played it?”

He shook off her hand. “I’ve got connections.”

“You know someone who plays?”

“Maybe.”

“Cute. Do you or don’t you?”

“I know the big man. The Supreme White Rabbit.” Bingo. “Who is he?”

“The game inventor himself. A dude named Leonardo Noble.”

“Leonardo Noble,” she repeated, searching her memory for recognition.

“He lives in New Orleans. Heard him talk at Coast-Con. He’s pretty cool but kind of manic. You want to know about the game, go to him.”

She took a step back. “I will. Thanks for your help, Bobby.”

“Don’t mention it. Always happy to help a friend of Cassie’s.”

She found something about his smile almost reptilian. She moved around him to get to the door.

“Have you heard?” he called as she stepped through it. “Cassie went and got herself killed.”

Stacy stopped in the doorway and turned slowly to face him. “What did you say?”

“Somebody whacked Cassie. That dyke girlfriend of hers, Ella, called me up, hysterical. Accused me of doing it.”

“Did you?”

“Screw you.”

Stacy shook her head, amazed at his attitude. “Are you really that stupid? You’re going to cop an attitude? Don’t you get it? You’re the front-runner right now. I suggest you lose the ‘tude, my friend, because the police don’t need an excuse.”

Two minutes later, she stepped out into the gray, breezy day. Coming toward her were Detective Malone and his partner. “Hello, boys,” she said cheerfully.

Malone scowled as he recognized her. “What are you doing here?”

“Just stopped by to see a friend of a friend. That’s not against the law, is it?”

Tony muffled a chuckle; Malone’s scowl deepened. “Interfering in an investigation is.” “Did someone say I was?” “It’s just a warning.”

“Received and noted.” She smiled and started off, feeling both men’s gazes on her back. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at them. “Check the bulletin board over the desk,” she called. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

CHAPTER 9

Tuesday, March 1, 2005 1:40 p.m.

Spencer’s lunch, a hot roast beef po’boy from Mother’s Restaurant, grew cold on the desk in front of him. At first Bobby Gautreaux had been defiant. He’d tossed a shitload of bad attitude their way—until they pointed out the bull’s-eye photograph. Then the defiance had become trepidation, which had transformed into pasty-faced terror when they’d announced they were taking him in for further questioning.

On the strength of Cassie Finch’s friends’ statements and the incriminating photographs, they’d requested a search warrant for Gautreaux’s dorm room and car. Unlike in some states, Louisiana police were required to officially charge a suspect to hold him. With the exception of drug cases, which had to be expedited in twenty-four hours, they then had thirty days to submit their case to the D.A.’s office.

Unless the search yielded something stronger, they’d be forced to release him.

“Yo, Slick.” Tony ambled over, then settled his large frame into the chair in front of the desk.

“Pasta Man. How’s the kid doing?”

“Not well. Pacing. Looking like he’s going to puke.”

“He ask for a lawyer?”

“Called daddy. Daddy’s getting one.” He eyed the sandwich. “You going to eat that?” “You didn’t get lunch?”

He made a face. “Rabbit food. A salad with fat-free dressing.”

“Betty’s got you on another diet.”

“For my own good, she says. She can’t understand why I’m not losing weight.”

Spencer cocked an eyebrow. Judging by the powdered sugar on the front of his partner’s shirt, he’d hit the doughnuts again this morning. “I’m thinking it could be the Krispy Kremes. I could call her and—”

“Do and die, Junior.”

Spencer laughed, suddenly starving. He pulled his sandwich closer and made a great show of taking a large bite. Gravy and mayonnaise oozed out the sides of the French bread.

“You’re a nasty little prick, you know that?”

He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. “Yeah, I know. But never say little and prick in the same sentence, it’s just not cool. At least when you’re talking to a guy.”

Tony laughed loudly. A couple of the other guys glanced their way. “What do you think about Gautreaux?” “Besides the fact that he’s a spoiled punk?” “Yeah, besides that.”

Spencer hesitated. “He’s a good suspect.” “I’m hearing a ‘but’ in your voice.” “It’s too easy.”

“Easy’s good, pal. It’s a gift. Take it with a ‘Thank you, God’ and a smile.”

Spencer moved aside the sandwich to access the file folder beneath it. Inside were the toxicology and autopsy reports on Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Notes from the scene. Photographs. Names of family, friends and acquaintances.

Spencer motioned to the folder. “Autopsy confirmed the bullet killed her. No sign of sexual assault or other body trauma. Nails were clean. She never saw it coming. Pathologist set the TOD at 11:45 p.m.”

“Toxicology?”

“No alcohol or drugs.”

“Stomach contents?”

Spencer flipped open the file. “Nothing significant.” Tony leaned back in the chair; the frame creaked. “Trace?”

Spencer knew he referred to trace evidence. “Some fiber and hair. Lab’s got it now.”

“The shooter deliberately offed her,” Tony said. “It fits with Gautreaux.”

“But why would he openly stalk and threaten her, kill her, then leave such damning evidence tacked to his bulletin board?”

“Because he’s stupid.” Tony leaned toward him. “Most of ‘em are. If they weren’t, we’d be in a world of hurt.”

“She let him in. It was late. Why would she do that if she was as frightened of him as her friends have claimed?”

“Maybe she was stupid, too.” Tony glanced away, then back. “You’ll learn, Slick. Mostly, the bad guys are stupid brutes and the victims are naive, trusting fools. And that’s what gets ‘em whacked. Sad but true.”

“And Gautreaux took the computer because he sent her love letters or angry threats.”

“You got it, my friend. In Homicide, what you see is likely what you’re gonna get. We keep the pressure on Gautreaux and hope the lab results give us a direct link between him and the victim.”

“Open and shut,” Spencer said, reaching for his po’boy. “Just the way we like it.”

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday, March 2, 2005 11:00 a.m.

Stacy pulled up in front of 3135 Esplanade Avenue, home of Leonardo Noble. Using the information she’d gotten from Bobby Gautreaux, she’d done an Internet search on Mr. Noble. She’d learned that he was, indeed, the man who had invented the game White Rabbit. And just as Gautreaux had claimed, he lived in New Orleans.

Only a matter of blocks from Café Noir.

Stacy shifted into Park, cut the engine and glanced toward the house once more. Esplanade Avenue was one of New Orleans’ grand old boulevards, wide and shaded by giant live oak trees. The city, she had learned, was located eight feet below sea level, and this street, like many others in New Orleans, had once upon a time been a waterway, filled in to create a road. Why explorers had thought a swamp would be a good choice for a settlement eluded her.

But of course, the swamp had become New Orleans.

This end of Esplanade Avenue, close to City Park and the Fairgrounds, was called the Bayou St. John neighborhood. Although historically significant and beautiful, it was a transitional neighborhood because a meticulously restored mansion might sit next to one in disrepair, or to a school, restaurant or other commercial endeavor. The other end of the boulevard dead-ended at the Mississippi River, at the outermost edge of the French Quarter.

In between lay a wasteland—home to poverty, despair and crime.

Her online search had yielded some interesting information about the man who called himself a modern-day Leonardo da Vinci. He’d only lived in New Orleans two years. Before that, the inventor had called southern California home.

Stacy recalled the man’s image. California had fit in a way the very traditional New Orleans didn’t. His appearance was unconventional—equal parts California surfer, mad scientist and GQ entrepreneur. Not really handsome, with his wild and wavy blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses, but striking nonetheless.

Stacy mentally reviewed the series of articles she’d found on the man and his game. He had attended the University of California at Berkeley in the early eighties. It was there that he and a friend had created White Rabbit. Since then he’d created a number of other pop culture icons: ad campaigns, video games and even a bestselling novel that had become a hit movie.

She’d learned that White Rabbit had been inspired by Lewis Carroll’s fantasy novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Not a particularly original idea: a number of other artists had been inspired by Carroll’s creation, including the rock group Jefferson Airplane in their 1967 hit “White Rabbit.”

Stacy drew in a deep breath and pulled her thoughts together. She had decided to pursue the White Rabbit angle. She hoped Bobby Gautreaux was the one, but hope didn’t cut it. She knew how cops worked. By now, Malone and his partner would have focused all their energy and attention on Gautreaux. Why spend valuable time pursuing other, vague leads with such a good suspect in hand? He was the easy choice. The logical one. Many cases were solved because the one who looked most guilty was.

Most cases.

Not all.

Cops had lots of cases; they always hoped for a quick solve.

But she wasn’t a cop anymore. She had one case. The murder of her friend.

Stacy opened the car door. If Bobby Gautreaux fell through, she planned to have another trail for the dynamic duo to follow, bread crumbs and all.

Stacy climbed out of the car. The Noble residence was a jewel. Greek Revival. Beautifully restored. Its grounds—which included a guest house—encompassed a full block. Three massive live oak trees graced the front yard, their sprawling branches draped in Spanish moss.

She crossed to the wrought-iron front gate. As she passed under the oak’s branches, she saw that they were beginning to bud. She’d heard that spring in New Orleans was something to behold and she was looking forward to judging that for herself.

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

“You didn’t take a good look at her identification?” “No. I—” The woman cut her eyes toward her employer. “She looked like the police and sounded like …” Her words trailed off; she cleared her throat. “I’m very sorry this happened. I promise it won’t again.”

Before Kay Noble could comment, Spencer stepped in. “Let me assure you, I don’t believe any harm’s been done. She was a friend of the deceased and is also an ex-cop. Not NOPD.”

“It’s no wonder you were fooled,” Tony added, “she’s got the whole cop schtick down pat.”

The housekeeper looked relieved; Kay Noble furious. Leonardo surprised them all by laughing loudly.

“I hardly find this funny, Leo,” Kay snapped.

“Of course it is, love,” he said. “It’s all funny.”

Color flooded her face. “But she could have been anybody. What if Alice—”

“Nothing happened. Like the officer said, no harm done.” He gave her a quick hug, then turned to Spencer. “So, Detectives, how can I help you?”

A half hour later, Spencer and Tony thanked Leonardo Noble and headed for their car. The inventor had answered all their questions. He hadn’t known Cassie Finch. Had never been to either UNO or Café Noir. Nor did he know, or was he in contact with, any local White Rabbit players. He explained that he and a friend had invented the game, that they’d never published it and that his co-inventor was dead.

The two detectives didn’t speak until they had settled inside, safety belts fastened, motor idling. “What do you think?” Spencer asked.

“Babe one, Slick zero.”

“Kiss my ass, Pasta Man.”

Tony laughed. “I’ll pass. Frankly, I’m not into that.” “I was talking about Noble, by the way. What did you think?”

“He’s a little different. And that thing about working with his ex-wife. No way I could work with mine.”

“You and Betty have been married forever.”

“Yeah, but if we weren’t, she’d drive me crazy.”

“You think he’s on the up-and-up?”

“Struck me that way, but hard to tell without the element of surprise.”

“Killian,” Spencer muttered. “She’s in my way.”

“What’re you going to do about it, hotshot?”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Café Noir is just up the street. Let’s see if the meddling Ms. Killian is there.”

CHAPTER 13

Thursday, March 3, 2005 4:40 p.m.

Stacy looked up to see Detectives Malone and Sciame heading across the coffeehouse toward her. Malone looked really pissed.

He had found out about her visit with Leonardo Noble.

Sorry, fellas. Free country.

“Hello, Detectives,” she said as they neared her table. “Coffee break? Or social call?”

“Impersonating a police officer is a crime, Ms. Killian,” Spencer began.

“I know that.” She smiled sweetly and shut her laptop. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Don’t bullshit me. We talked to Noble.”

“Leonardo Noble?”

“Of course, Leonardo Noble. Creator of the game White Rabbit and considered by fans to be the Supreme White Rabbit.”

“Glad to see you’ve been paying attention.”

Behind Spencer, Tony cleared his throat. She saw he struggled not to laugh. She decided she liked Tony Sciame. A sense of humor was a good thing in the job.

“Still,” she continued, “I don’t understand what this has to do with me?”

“You told him you were a NOPD detective.”

“No,” she corrected, “he assumed I was. His housekeeper, actually.”

“Which was exactly what you wanted.”

She didn’t deny it. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t against the law. Unless law here in Louisiana is a lot different than in Texas.”

“I could haul you in and charge you with obstruction.”

“But you won’t. Look …” She stood so she could stand nose to nose with him. “You could take me in, keep me for a few hours, give me a hard time. But at the end of the day you wouldn’t arrest me because it wouldn’t stick.”

“She’s got a point, Slick,” Tony said. He shifted his focus to her. “Here’s the deal, Stacy. Can’t have you questioning potential suspects before we do. We need to get ‘em cold, so we can gauge their reactions to our questions. You know this, you were a cop. You know we can’t have you leading a witness. Putting thoughts in their heads that weren’t there before. It taints their testimony. I’d define that as obstruction.”

“I can help,” she said. “And you know it.”

“You don’t have a badge. You’re out of it. Sorry.” She wouldn’t be dissuaded. Not until she felt certain the investigation was on solid footing. But she wasn’t about to let them know that. “Consider me a source, then. Like a snitch.”

Tony nodded, expression pleased. “Good. You get a lead, you pass it to us. I have absolutely no problem with that. You, Slick?”

Stacy cut her eyes to the younger detective. He wasn’t falling for her submissive routine. Smarter than the average bear, after all.

“No problem with that,” he said, not looking at his partner.

“Glad that’s settled.” The older cop rubbed his hands together. “So, what do they have here that’s good?”

“I’m particularly fond of the cappuccinos, but it’s all good.”

“I think I’ll try one of those frozen thingies that all the teenagers are drinking. Want anything?”

Spencer shook his head, still not taking his gaze from Stacy.

“What?” she asked as Tony walked away.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you why. At the memorial service.”

“It’s not smart, Stacy. Involving yourself in this investigation. You’re not a cop anymore. You were first to the scene. You very well may have been the last person to see Cassie Finch alive.”

“Surely not the last. That would make me a murderer. And you and I both know I’m not.”

“I know no such thing.”

She made a sound of frustration. “Give me a break, Malone.”

“I have, Stacy. But the game’s over.” He leaned slightly toward her. “The fact is, I’m the law and you’re not. This is the last time I’ll ask nicely. Stay out of my way. “

Stacy watched him walk away, joining his partner just as he took his first sip of the frozen coffee-and-chocolate concoction he’d ordered. She smiled to herself.

May the best investigator win, fellas.

CHAPTER 14

Friday, March 4, 2005 10:30 p.m.

The Earl K. Long Library stood at the center of the UNO campus, facing the quad. Two hundred thousand square feet and four floors, like most buildings at the university, the library had been built in the 1960s.

Stacy sat at a table on the fourth floor. The fourth housed the Multimedia Center, which included microfilm and microfiche, video and audio collections. She’d been researching RPGs since she’d left her afternoon class. Tired and hungry, she sported a splitting headache.

She was loath to go home, anyway. The information she’d uncovered about role-playing games, and White Rabbit in particular, was fascinating.

And disturbing. Article after article linked role-playing games to suicides, death pacts and even murder. Claims from gamers’ parents of dramatic behavior transformation in their children, of obsession with playing so intense they feared for their children’s mental health. A number of parent groups had formed in the attempt to alert others to the dangers of role-playing games and to force manufacturers to label the games with warnings.

The circumstantial evidence against the games had proved so impressive that several politicians had gotten involved in the fray, although to date nothing had come of it.

In all fairness, a number of other researchers discounted such findings, calling them unproved and alarmist. But they, too, acknowledged that in the wrong hands the material could be a powerful tool.

It wasn’t the game that was dangerous, but the obsession with the game.

A variation on Leo Noble’s “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people” schtick.

Stacy brought a hand to her temple and absently rubbed, longing for a cup of strong coffee or a chocolate chip cookie. Each—or both—would knock out her headache. She glanced at her watch. The library closed at eleven; she might as well stick it out until then.

She returned her attention to the material in front of her. The most written-about game was Dungeons & Dragons. It had been first on the market and had remained the most popular. But even though White Rabbit sat way outside the mainstream, Stacy had found several references to the game. One parent group labeled it “unholy,” another “deplorably violent.”

A movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention. Someone leaving, she supposed, noting the library was almost deserted. A straggler like herself. The other students had retired their pursuit of knowledge—or grades, for they were at times mutually exclusive—and headed home for TV or out for drinks with friends.

At eleven campus security would begin clearing the building, starting on the fourth floor and working their way to the first.

She had closed the library many times already in her short tenure as a grad student.

Her thoughts drifted to Spencer Malone. Their confrontation. She was lucky he hadn’t hauled her in. In the same position, she probably would have. Just on principle.

What was it about Detective Malone that caused her to lash out?

Something about him reminded her of Mac.

At thoughts of her former DPD partner and lover, her chest grew tight. With hurt? Or was it longing? Not for him, for the man she loved hadn’t even existed. But for what she thought they’d had. Love. Companionship. Commitment.

She sucked in a sharp breath. That part of her life was over. She had survived Mac’s betrayal; it had been the catalyst that forced her to take hold of her life. Change it. She was stronger for it.

She didn’t need a man, or love, to make her happy.

Doggedly, she returned to her research. Various studies provided a picture of the typical gamer: a higher-than-average IQ, creative with a vivid imagination. Otherwise, gamers crossed all social, economic and racial borders. The games, it seemed, were outlets for fantasy. They offered excitement and an opportunity for players to experience things they could never hope to in real life.

A sound came from the stacks behind her. Stacy lifted her head and turned in that direction. The sound came again, like a pent-up breath expelled.

“Hello,” she called. “Anybody there?”

Silence answered. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She’d been a cop long enough to sense when something wasn’t right. Call it a cop’s sixth sense or heightened instinct for self-preservation, it rarely let her down.

Adrenaline pumping, Stacy got slowly to her feet, automatically reaching for her weapon.

No shoulder holster. No weapon.

Not a cop anymore.

Stacy’s gaze landed on her ballpoint pen, a lethal weapon when used accurately and without hesitation. And most effective when the blow was delivered to the base of the skull, the jugular or an eye. She picked it up and curled her right hand around it.

“Anyone there?” she called again, forcefully.

She heard the rumble of the elevator, on its way to the fourth floor. Campus security, she realized. Clearing the building. Good. Backup, in case she needed it.

She started toward the stacks, heart pounding, pen ready. A sound came from the opposite direction. She whirled. The lights went off. The stairwell door flew open and light spilled out as a figure darted through.

Before she could shout for him to stop, she was grabbed from behind and dragged against a broad chest. With one arm he held her tightly against him, arms pinned. With the other, he covered her mouth and immobilized her head.

A man, she determined, tabling her terror. Tall. Several inches taller than she, which would put him at better than six feet. One who knew what he was doing; the angle he held her head made breaking her neck relatively easy. He had size and strength on his side; struggling would be both futile and a waste of precious energy.

Stacy tightened her fingers on the pen, waiting for the right moment. Knowing it would come. He had used the element of surprise to trap her; she would return the favor.

“Stay out of it,” he whispered, voice thick, muffled by design, she was certain. He pressed his mouth closer, then speared his tongue in and out of her ear. Bile rose in her throat, threatening to gag her.

“Or I won’t,” he finished. “Understand?”

She did. He was threatening to rape her.

The bastard would regret that threat.

Her moment came. Reassured by what he no doubt thought her immobilizing fear, he shifted. He intended to shove her, she realized. Then run. As the realization registered, she reacted. Shifting her own weight, then spinning around, she grasped hold of him with her left hand and plunged the ballpoint into his stomach with her right. She felt his blood on her fingers.

He howled in pain and stumbled backward. She did, too, falling into a cart of books. The cart tipped, the books crashed to the floor.

A flashlight beam sliced through the dark. “Who’s there?”

“Here!” she called, fighting to right herself. “Help!”

Her attacker got to his feet and ran. He reached the stairwell door a moment before the campus cop found her.

“Miss, are you all ri—”

“The stairs,” she managed to say, pointing. “He ran that way.”

The man didn’t waste time on words. He darted in that direction, radio out, calling for backup.

Stacy stood, legs wobbly. She heard the cop’s feet pounding on the stairs, though she doubted he would catch the man. Even wounded, he’d had too great a head start.

The lights came on. Stacy blinked at the sudden change. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the books and toppled cart, the trail of blood leading to the stairwell.

A woman rushed toward her, expression alarmed. “Are you all—My God, you’re bleeding!”

Stacy looked down at herself. Her shirt and right hand were bloody. “It’s his blood. I stabbed him with my ballpoint.”

The woman went white. Afraid she might faint, Stacy led her to a chair. “Put your head between your knees. It’ll help.”

When the woman did as she instructed, she added, “Now breathe. Deeply, through your nose.”

After several moments, the woman lifted her head. “I feel so silly. You’re the one who should be—”

“Never mind that. Are you okay now?”

“Yes, you—” she breathed deeply several times “—you were really lucky.”

“Lucky?” she repeated.

“You could have been raped. Those other girls—” “Weren’t so lucky.”

Stacy turned. The campus cop who had come to her aid was back. He was young, she saw. Probably twenty-five. “You didn’t catch him, did you?”

He looked frustrated. “No. I’m sorry.” His motioned to her hand and bloodstained shirt. “Are you hurt?”

“She stabbed him with her pen,” the librarian supplied.

The campus cop looked at her, his expression a combination of admiration and disbelief. “You did?”

“I was a cop for ten years,” she said. “I know how to defend myself.”

“It’s a good thing you do,” he said. “There’ve been three rapes on campus this year, all during the fall term. We thought maybe he’d moved on.”

Stacy had heard about the rapes, had been warned by her adviser to be careful. Especially at night. She didn’t believe the man who’d attacked her was this rapist. If his intention had been rape, why the warning “To stay out of it”? Why had he been prepared to let her go? He would have dragged her to the floor, tried to get at her clothing.

No. It didn’t add up.

Stacy told him so.

“The MO’s the same. He’s attacked women alone at night on campus. All three have occurred between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m. The first right here in the library.”

“This wasn’t that guy. His intention wasn’t rape.” She relayed the sequence of events. How he whispered in her ear to stay out of it. “He was about to let me go. That’s when I made my move.”

“Are you certain of what you heard?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The cop didn’t look convinced. “That fits the rapist’s MO as well. He whispered into each one of his victims’ ears.”

Stacy frowned. “Then why let me go with a warning?”

The cop and librarian exchanged glances. “You’re upset. Understandably. You’ve had a shock—”

“And I’m not thinking clearly?” she finished for him. “I worked Homicide for ten years. I’ve been through shit a lot more shocking than this. I’m not mistaken about what I heard.”

The young officer’s face reddened; he took a step back from her. She supposed using the S word had put him off, but damn it, she’d been making a point.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said coolly. “I’ve got to call the NOPD. Get someone over here to collect evidence. Tell your story to them.”

“Ask for Detective Spencer Malone,” she said. “ISD. Tell him it’s about the Finch case.”

CHAPTER 15

Saturday, March 5, 2005 12:30 a.m.

Spencer greeted the officer standing sentinel at the door of the UNO library. He was an old-timer. “How’s it going?”

The other man shrugged. “Okay. Wish spring’d get here. It’s still too damn cold for these old bones.”

Only a New Orleanian would gripe about nighttime temperatures in the sixties.

The man held out a clipboard; Spencer signed in. “Upstairs?”

“Yeah. On four.”

Spencer found the elevator. He had been asleep when he’d gotten the call. At first he thought he’d misunderstood the dispatcher. Nobody was dead. An attempted rape. But the victim claimed it had something to do with the Finch murder.

His investigation.

So he’d dragged his butt out of bed and headed what seemed like halfway across the world to the UNO campus.

The elevator reached four; he stepped off and followed the sound of voices. The group came into view. He stopped. Killian. Her back was to him, but he recognized her, anyway. Not just by her glorious blond hair, but something about the way she held herself. Erectly. With a kind of confidence that had been earned.

To her left stood a couple of the campus cops and John Russell, from DIU, Third District.

Spencer closed the distance between them. “Trouble follows you, doesn’t it, Ms. Killian?”

The three men looked his way. She turned. He saw that her shirt was bloodstained.

“It’s starting to seem so,” she said.

“Do you need medical attention?”

“No. But he might.”

He wasn’t surprised she’d gotten the best of him. He motioned toward the library table nearest her. They crossed to it, then sat.

He took the spiral notebook from his pocket. “Tell me what happened.”

Russell wandered over. “Attempted rape,” he began. “Same MO as three earlier, unsolved—”

Spencer held up a hand. “I’d like to hear Ms. Killian’s version of events first.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t an attempted rape.”

“Go on.”

“I was working late.”

He glanced at the material on the table, scanning titles. “Research?”

“Yes.”

“On role-playing games?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Yes. The library was deserted, or seemed to be. I heard someone, behind the stacks. I called out. Got no answer and went to investigate.”

She paused. Smoothed her hands over her thighs, her only outward sign of nerves. “When I reached the stacks, the lights went off. The stairwell door flew open and someone darted through. I started to go after him. That’s when I was grabbed from behind.”

“So there were two people besides you here?”

Her expression registered something akin to surprise. He’d only repeated her words in a different way; clearly she hadn’t put the two together.

She nodded. He looked at the other officers. “Any of the other victims report more than one attacker at the scene?”

“No,” the youngest of the university officers replied.

Spencer returned his gaze to hers. “He grabbed you from behind?”

“Yes. And held me in a way that indicated he knew what he was doing.”

“Show me.”

She nodded, stood and motioned to the campus cop. “Do you mind?” He said no, and she demonstrated. A moment later, she released him and returned to her seat.

“He was several inches taller than me. And quite strong.”

“So how did you get away?”

“Drove a ballpoint pen into his belly.”

“We’ve got the pen,” Russell offered. “Bagged and tagged.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.