A powerful tool in the wrong hands.
So many things in life were. Power. Guns. Money. Almost anything.
She considered the scenario Leonardo had painted: some wacko playing a fantasy role-playing game for real. A game in which the only way to win was to kill off the other characters, then face the White Rabbit himself-face the one controlling the game, the ultimate trickster.
A real-life White Rabbit.
The connection between Cassie and the scenario Leonardo Noble painted was flimsy at best, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the two were related.
Stranger things had happened.
Last year in Dallas.
Billie sauntered over with a plate of samples. Chocolate chip muffins, Stacy saw. Rich, dark chocolate. Billie’s sample plate and the timing of its appearance was a running joke among the regulars. If there was trouble brewing or juicy dish to be had, the sample plate came out. Billie seemed to innately know the right moment-and the right pastry-to share.
Billie smiled the enigmatic smile that had helped her snare four husbands, including her present spouse, ninety-year-old millionaire Rocky St. Martin. “Muffin?”
Stacy helped herself to a piece of the pastry, knowing full well the treat wasn’t free. Billie expected payment-in the form of information.
Sure enough, Billie set the plate on the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “Who was he and what did he want?”
“Leonardo Noble. He wanted to hire me.”
Billie arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow and nudged the plate of muffin pieces closer to Stacy.
Stacy laughed, took another and slid the plate back toward the other woman. “It has to do with Cassie. Sort of.”
“I thought so. Explain.”
“Remember what I told you about Cassie having set up a meeting with a White Rabbit?” The other woman nodded. “That man, Leonardo Noble, is the inventor of the game.”
Stacy saw interest flare in her eyes. “Go on.”
“Since we talked last, I’ve found out more about the game. That it’s dark and violent. That the White Rabbit and the last player alive play to the death.”
“Charming.”
Stacy explained about the postcards the man had received, about his theory that someone had begun playing the game for real. “I know it sounds out there, but-”
“But it could happen,” Billie filled in for her. She leaned toward Stacy. “Studies have shown that in people for whom the line between fantasy and reality is blurred, fantasy role-playing games can be a dangerous tool. Throw a game like White Rabbit or Dungeons amp; Dragons into the mix, games in which the emotional and psychological involvement is intense…it can prove explosive.”
“How,” Stacy asked, “did you know that?”
“In a former life, I was a clinical psychologist.”
She should be surprised, she supposed. Or suspect the woman of being a pathological liar or con artist. After all, in the relatively short time she’d known Billie, the woman had mentioned four marriages, a stint as both a flight attendant and runway model. Now this. She wasn’t that old.
But Billie always had facts or authentic-sounding anecdotes to back up her claims.
Stacy shook her head, thoughts returning to Leonardo Noble and the events of the past days. “I’ve stepped on someone’s toes.”
She said it almost to herself, and Billie’s brow wrinkled in question. Quickly, Stacy told her about the night before. About being attacked, the words the man had murmured against her ear, that campus security believed he was the same man who had raped three coeds earlier in the school year.
“I didn’t mistake what I heard,” Stacy said.
For a long moment her friend said nothing, then she nodded. “I know you didn’t. You were a cop, those are the kinds of mistakes you wouldn’t make.”
Billie stood, taking the sample plate with her. She gazed down at Stacy. “I suggest you be very careful, my friend. I have no desire to go to your memorial service.”
Stacy watched her go, thoughts turning to what the woman had said. A blurred line between fantasy and reality. Could Cassie have unwittingly become involved with a madman who’d begun a role-playing game for real? Had she stepped on his toes, called attention to herself?
Damn it. She knew what she had to do. Stacy opened her cell phone and punched in Leonardo Noble’s cell number.
“I’ll take the job,” she said when he answered. “When do you want me to start?”
CHAPTER 17
Sunday, March 6, 2005
8:00 a.m.
Leonardo suggested the meeting time and Stacy picked the place-Café Noir.
Sunday mornings before ten tended to be quiet at the coffeehouse. Apparently, the regular clientele either worshipped early or enjoyed sleeping late.
“You’re here early,” Stacy said to Billie as she reached the counter.
“So are you.” Billie swept her gaze over Stacy. “You’re taking the job, aren’t you? The one that game inventor offered you?”
“Leonardo Noble. Yes.”
Her friend rang her sale up without inquiring what she wanted. She didn’t have to; Billie knew if she wanted anything other than her usual cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, she would say so.
Stacy handed her a twenty; Billie made her change, then crossed to the espresso machine. She drew the shots and frothed the milk without speaking.
Stacy frowned. “What?” she asked.
“I’m not sure I like this.”
“Tough.”
“Are you certain he’s even for real?”
“Meaning?”
“Seems to me, someone who invents games might like to play them.”
She had considered that. That Billie had as well, surprised her. “You’re one smart cookie, you know that?”
“And here I thought I was just another pretty face.”
Stacy laughed. When a woman looked the way Billie did, she was rarely appreciated for her brains. Hell, she was guilty of it. Upon meeting Billie, she had categorized her as a brainless blonde. She knew better now.
“I’m pretty good at finding things out,” she said. “You need a mole, call me.”
Billie Bellini, super spy. “You’d look damn good in a trench coat.”
“You bet your ass, I would.” She smiled. “And don’t forget it.”
She wouldn’t, Stacy acknowledged as she walked away from the espresso bar. No doubt Billie could easily uncover information others couldn’t pry free with a crowbar.
As long as the sources were male.
Stacy chose a table in back and sat. As she took her first sip of the hot drink, Leonardo Noble arrived. Alone. She’d thought he might bring Kay.
He scanned the room for her, smiling when he found her. He indicated he meant to get a coffee, then pointed to her in question. She lifted her cup, indicating she was already hooked up.
Espresso. The staff of life.
She watched as he ordered. He said something to Billie, who laughed. Was he for real? she wondered. Were the bizarre cards he’d received authentic? Or had he manufactured them?
Until she spent more time with him, she was reserving judgment on everything, including his honesty.
He approached the table, his usual energetic step replaced by a sleepy shuffle. He looked bleary-eyed. His hair was even wilder than usual.
“Not a morning person, I see,” she said.
“A night person,” he countered. “I only need a couple hours of sleep in a twenty-four-hour period.”
Stacy arched an eyebrow. “That’s not how it looks to me.”
He smiled, the first sign of life coming into his eyes. “Trust me.”
“Said the spider to the fly.”
He took a sip of his coffee. She noted that he’d gotten the super grande size. From the mountain of froth, she figured it was a cappuccino.
“So that’s what that look was about,” he said. “Distrust.”
“What look?” She took a swallow of her
own coffee.
“The one when I was ordering. I had the distinct impression you were dissecting me.”
“Your motives, yes. Goes with the territory.” She met his gaze, hers unflinching. “No one is beyond suspicion, Mr. Noble. Including you.”
Obviously unfazed, he laughed. “Which is exactly why I want to hire you. And call me Leo or the deal’s off.”
She laughed, too. “All right, Leo. Tell me more about your household.”
He looked at her over the top of his coffee cup. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. For example, your office is there?”
“Yes. Kay’s also.”
“Any other employees?”
“Housekeeper. Mrs. Maitlin. Troy, my driver and all-around guy Friday. Barry takes care of the grounds and pool. Oh, and my daughter’s tutor, Clark Dunbar.”
This was the first she’d heard of a daughter, which Stacy found odd. At her expression, he went on, “Kay and I have one child. Alice. She’s sixteen. Or, as she’s fond of saying, almost seventeen.”
“Does she live with you? Or Kay?”
“With both of us.”
“Both of you?”
“Kay lives in my guest house.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sort of lopsided-and winning-smile. “I see by your expression that you find our arrangement strange.”
“I’m not here to pass judgment on your personal life.”
As if he took her at her word, he moved on. “ Alice is the light of my life. Until recently, she-” He bit the thought back. “She’s gifted. Intellectually.”
“I suppose that makes sense. I hear you’re a modern day Leonardo da Vinci.”
He grinned. “I see I’m not the only one who knows how to do an Internet search. But Alice really is a genius. She makes both Kay and I look average.”
Stacy digested that. She wondered at the burden of that kind of intellect. How it must color every aspect of the teenager’s life, from intellectual pursuits to relationships. “Has she ever gone to regular school?”
“Never. We’ve always provided her with private tutors.”
“And it works well?”
“Yes. Until-” He laced his fingers, for the first time looking uneasy. “Until recently. She’s been agitating to go to university. She’s become defiant. I’m afraid she dishes poor Clark a lot of attitude.”
Sounded like typical teenage angst.
“University?” she said. “Like Tulane or Harvard?”
“Yes, intellectually she’s ready. She has been for some time. But emotionally…she’s young. Immature. The truth is, we’ve sheltered her. Too much, I fear.” He cleared his throat. “Plus, the divorce has been difficult on her. More difficult than either of us anticipated.”
Stacy couldn’t imagine navigating university life at sixteen. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Oil and water, that’s me and Kay. But we love each other. And we love Alice. So we settled on this arrangement.”
“For Alice?”
“For all of us, but Alice most of all.” He smiled then, a kind of loopy, boy-next-door grin. “Now you know all about our dysfunctional little troupe. Still willing to join up?”
She searched his expression, once again wondering if he was for real. How did a man achieve what he had without being ruthless? Without both withholding and exploiting information?
She leaned toward him, all business. “Here’s the deal, Leo. Anonymous letters like the ones you’ve received are almost always sent by someone within the circle of the recipient.”
“My circle? I don’t-”
She cut him off. “Yes, your circle. They’re sent in an effort to terrorize.”
“And what’s the point if they’re not close enough to witness that terror. Right?”
Smart man. “Right. The more frightened you are, the better.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. She noticed they were a light hazel. “So screw ’em. I’m not scared, they give up. Like the school bully who doesn’t get the reaction he’s looking for.”
“Maybe. If your note writer is typical of others of his ilk. They send notes and letters because they like to watch. They don’t want to get too close.”
“At heart they’re yellow.”
“Yes. Too afraid to fully confront their anger or hatred with a direct confrontation. So they’re a minimal threat.”
“That’s the typical. What’s the atypical?”
She looked away, thinking of her sister, Jane. Her terrorizer had been as atypical as they come. He’d had every step carefully planned, each bringing him closer to killing her. She returned her gaze to his. “Sometimes the letters or calls are simply foreplay for the main event.” At his blank expression, she leaned slightly forward. “They get close enough to touch, Leo.”
He sat silently a moment, as if digesting that. For the first time he looked shaken. “I’m so grateful you agreed to help-”
Stacy held up a hand, stopping him. “First things first. I’m not accepting this job to help you. I’m doing it for Cassie, on the off chance her murder and your postcards are related. Second, you understand that I’m in graduate school. My studies come first. They have to. Do you have a problem with either of those conditions?”
“Absolutely not. Where do we begin?”
“I begin by integrating into the household. Getting to know everyone. Earning their trust.”
“You think he’s there.”
“He or she,” she corrected. “It’s a possibility. A strong one.”
He nodded slowly. “If you want to earn everyone’s trust, we have to create a nonthreatening reason for you to be hanging around.”
“Any ideas?”
“Technical expertise. For a new novel. Starring a homicide detective with a major urban force.”
“Works for me.” She smiled slightly. “Are you really writing a novel?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“I expect you want your ex-wife and daughter informed of the real reason I’m around.”
“Kay, yes. Alice, no. I don’t want to frighten her.”
“Fine.” Stacy finished her coffee. “When do I start?”
He smiled. “Now’s good for me. How about you?”
Being a proactive kind of person, Stacy agreed. Leo jumped to his feet, eager to get home. As she followed him out of the coffee shop, she glanced at Billie to find the the woman watching her.
Something in her friend’s expression caused her steps to falter.
Leo glanced back. “Stacy? Something wrong?”
She shook off the sensation and smiled. “Nothing. Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 18
Tuesday, March 8, 2005
1:00 p.m.
After two days hanging around the Noble mansion, Stacy had a clear understanding of why Leo had used the word troupe to describe the mansion’s inhabitants-life in the house was like a three-ring circus, with people coming and going, all day long. Personal trainers, manicurists, delivery people, lawyers, business associates.
She had advised Leo to treat her the same as he would any new employee. She’d learned that meant a sort of sink-or-swim introduction to the household. He had given her an office that adjoined his, and she had spent a lot of the time wandering around, trying to look busy. As she ran across people, she’d introduced herself.
People’s responses to her had varied from cool, to curious, to friendly. In the three days she’d met everyone but Alice, which she found most interesting.
Especially since she had met the girl’s tutor, Clark Dunbar. He was quiet, in the way some intellectuals were, but seemed to her to always be watching and listening. Like a cat who’s seen but not heard.
Mrs. Maitlin avoided her. When their paths did cross, she acted jumpy. She looked everywhere but directly at Stacy. Even though Stacy had apologized for tricking the woman and claimed Leo had asked her to play the part, she suspected the woman knew she was here for a reason other than technical expertise. She
only hoped she kept her suspicions to herself.
Troy, Leo’s driver and guy Friday had been the friendliest of the lot-but also the nosiest. She wondered at his questions-was he simply curious or did he have darker motivations?
Barry had proved the quietest. As groundskeeper and pool man, he had plenty of opportunity to chat with people coming or going, but he never did. Instead, he kept to himself-although he seemed to see everything that went on.
Stacy glanced at her watch and collected her things. She’d attended her 8:00 a.m. class but needed to get back out to UNO to make her two-thirty medieval lit.
“Hello.”
Stacy turned. A teenage girl stood in the doorway to Leo’s office. She was small and slender, with her mother’s coloring and exotic features but her father’s wild, wavy hair.
Alice . Finally.
“Hi,” she said, smiling at the girl. “I’m Stacy.”
The girl looked bored. “I know. You’re the cop.”
“Former cop,” Stacy corrected. “I’m helping your dad with technical stuff.”
Alice arched an eyebrow and sauntered into the office. “Stuff,” she repeated. “Now that’s technical.”
This was no ordinary sixteen-year-old. She would do well to remember that. “I’m his technical adviser,” she corrected. “On all things associated with law enforcement.”
“And crime?”
“Yes, of course.”
“A crime expert. Interesting.”
Stacy ignored the gibe. “Some think so.”
“Dad’s been all over me to stop down here and introduce myself. You know who I am, right?”
“Alice Noble. Named for the most famous Alice.”
“The White Rabbit’s Alice.”
“That’s an odd way to put it. I would have said Lewis Carroll’s character.”
“But you’re not me.”
The girl crossed to the bookshelves that lined the walls. She picked up a framed photo of her and her parents. She gazed at it a moment, then glanced back at Stacy. “I’m smarter than them both,” she said. “Did Dad tell you that?”
“Yes. He’s very proud of you.”
“Only. 4 percent of people have an IQ of 140 and above. Mine’s 170. Only one in seven hundred thousand have an IQ that high.”
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