Killer Takes All

by Erica Spindler

  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 rec
ognition.

  “He lives in New Orleans. Heard him talk at CoastCon. 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.r />
  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.