Killer Takes All (4 page)

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

S
pencer 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, super-grande 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.”

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

S
tacy 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.”

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

T
he 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.”