Killer Takes All (10 page)

Tuesday, March 8, 2005
9:30 p.m.

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

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

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

So much for a lighthearted romp.

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

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

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

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

No. Never.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You startled me,” she said, annoyed.

“Sorry.”

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

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

“God help me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bullshit.”

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

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

“Above your head?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about its structure?”

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

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

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

“Malone.”

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

The call was business.

“Got it,” he said. “Be right there.”

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

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

She nodded. “Go.”

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

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

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

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

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

He was already gone.

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

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

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

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

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

But if he had been, why?

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

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

She would have to be very careful.

Tuesday, March 8, 2005
11:15 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Livin’ large in the Big Easy.”

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

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

“That you do. Present company included.”

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

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

“Why’d you call us and not DIU?”

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

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

“No.”

“What about the other neighbors?”

“Nothing.”

“Crime-scene guys called?”

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

“Touch anything?”

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

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

“If you want to die. No problem.”

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

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

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

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

“Maybe it’s in the bedroom.”

“Maybe.”

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

The unit had one bathroom, located at the back of the apartment, between the bedroom and the kitchen. An inch of water stood on the black-and-white checked tile floor. Nothing looked out of place—save for the slippered feet and bony legs sticking out of the end of the claw-footed tub.

Spencer skimmed his gaze over the room. A virgin scene told tales, in a whisper, drowned out by too many warm bodies. Not always. But sometimes…if they were lucky.

Spencer stepped into the room. And he felt it, a kind of presence. A kind of echo of the act that made his skin crawl.

He swept his gaze over the room, hardly big enough for the tub, nestled against the far wall. The vinyl curtain, mounted on a circular rod, had been pushed to the backside of the tub.

They crossed to the tub. Tony muttered something about his shoes being ruined. Spencer didn’t acknowledge him. He couldn’t take his eyes from the woman.

She stared up at him from her watery grave, her eyes a faded blue. Had they faded with age? he wondered. Or death? Her hair circled her head like gray sea grass, weightless. Her mouth was open.

She wore a chenille robe, the same color as her eyes. A white cotton gown underneath. The pink fuzzy slippers perched on her feet were dry.

Those eyes, her unseeing gaze, called to him. Seemed to beg him to listen.

Spencer leaned closer.
Tell me. I’m listening.

She’d been ready for bed. Reading. Enjoying a cup of tea and a cookie. Judging by the condition of the bathroom and the dry slippers, she hadn’t fought her attacker.

Her hands, hovering helplessly below the water’s surface, looked clean.

“This is a strange one,” Tony said. “Where’s that calling card?”

“Good question. Let’s check—”

“Smile, boys, you’re on
Candid Camera.
”

They turned. The camera’s flash popped, and the tech-squad photographer grinned at them. Employed by the NOPD but not sworn officers, some of the tech guys were downright bizarre, Ernie Delaroux among them. Spencer had heard rumors that the man kept a personal album of photos from every scene he’d shot—his own little book of horrors.

“Screw off, Ernie.”

The man only laughed and splashed noisily into the room, like a five-year-old through a puddle.

Chasing away the whispers, Spencer thought. Before he’d had the chance to make them out.

“Loopy bastard,” Tony muttered, making room for the man to get his shots.

“I heard that,” he called, sounding almost gleeful.

“Hello, boys.”

The greeting came from Ray Hollister. “Hello, Ray. Welcome to the party.”

“A dubious honor.” He squinted at the floor. “This is going to ruin my shoes. I liked these shoes.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Tony said.

The Orleans Parish coroner employed six pathologists. Those six, also called coroner’s investigators, visited the scene of every death in the parish. At the scene with them was a driver, also employed by the Coroner’s Office, whose duty it was to secure and load the body—and to photograph the scene. Not only did the Coroner’s Office want their own photographic record, but the dual records often proved invaluable in court.

It was imperative that the photos be taken before the body was disturbed.

Ray waited while the two men snapped their shots. “What happened here?” he asked.

“We were hoping you’d tell us.”

“Sometimes there’s a rabbit in my hat, sometimes there’s not.”

Spencer nodded. Any cop worth his salt knew that’s the way it worked. Some cases closed so easily and quickly, it was as if by magic. Others presented one brick wall after another—no matter how skilled or conscientious the crime-scene team.

The nature of the beast.

“Victim appears to have drowned,” Spencer said. “Position of legs and feet indicate a homicide, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Weird.”

“I’ve seen weirder, Detective Malone.” Both photographers finished and went on to capture the rest of the scene on film. Ray fitted on gloves and crossed to the tub. “Evidence is going to be a bitch, because of the water.”

“Tell us something we don’t know.”

“I’ll try, Detectives. Give me a few minutes.”

Spencer and Tony made their way to the front room. The fingerprint techs were already at work. Spencer and Tony circled around them and into the bedroom. Bed neatly turned back. Dirty clothes in a hamper. Untouched glass of water on the bedside table; a small white pill waiting beside it.

Nothing out of order. Not a single sign of anything amiss.

Like a stage set, Spencer thought. A moment frozen in time. It gave him the creeps.

They thumbed through the closets and drawers, then headed for the small kitchen. It was in good order like the rest of the apartment. A tin of butter cookies sat on the counter. A box of tea beside it. Sleepytime, Spencer saw.

“Love those cookies,” Tony said. “Wife refuses to buy ’em anymore. Too much fat, she says.”

Spencer looked at his partner. “She’s a smart lady, Pasta Man. You should listen to her.”

“Kiss mine, Slick.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Big hairy butts aren’t my thing.”

Tony chuckled. “So what do you think? What happened to Rosie?”

“She was ready for bed. Robe, slippers, bed turned back.”

Tony nodded and took over. “She’s sitting on the couch, having a cup of tea and a cookie, reading a few pages before turning in.”

“The doorbell rings. She answers and bam! Goodbye, Rosie.”

“Knew the guy, I’m thinking. That’s why she opens the door in her robe, lets the guy in. That’s why there’s no struggle.”

“But wouldn’t she have resisted when she realized the situation was going south? It still doesn’t work for me.”

“He incapacitates her, my friend.”

“How?”

“Maybe Ray can tell us that.”

When they reached the bathroom, they saw Ray already had the victim’s hands bagged.

“Hands look clean,” the man said, not looking at them. “No blood, no bruising. Nothing appears broken. I suspect we’ll find water in her lungs.”

“No sign of a blow to the head, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

“Can you give me anything, Ray?”

He looked over his shoulder at them. “Got yourself a real mystery, boys. Take a look at this.”

He pushed the shower curtain away from the back wall. Spencer sucked in a sharp breath. Tony whistled.

The calling card. A message scrawled on the tile wall behind the curtain, in what appeared to be lipstick. A god-awful shade of orange.

Poor Little Mouse. Drowned in a pool of tears.