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.
CHAPTER 21
Wednesday, March 9, 2005
2:00 a.m.
The ringing phone dragged Stacy from sleep. She opened her eyes, disoriented. Dispatch. She blinked, fighting to shake off the fog. Somebody’s dead. Got to-
The device screamed again and she snatched up the receiver, answering as she had on the job.
“Killian here.”
“Got a question.”
Malone, she realized, fog clearing. Not dispatch. New Orleans, not Dallas. She shifted her gaze to the bedside clock.
2:05.
A.M.
“It’d better be a good one.”
“In Alice in Wonderland, does a mouse drown? In a pool of tears?”
Stacy sat up, instantly, fully awake. She recalled the pen-and-ink drawing Leo had received, of the creature in a pool of what had looked like blood.
She pushed the hair out of her face. “Why?”
“I’ve got a homicide. Killer left us a message. Poor little mouse, drowned in-”
“A pool of tears,” she finished for him.
“Is it in the story?”
“Not exactly,” she said, glancing at the clock once more, calculating how
long it would take her to dress and get to Leo’s. “But yes.”
“Not exactly,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
“That it’s close enough for there to be a connection. Read the Cliff’s Notes, you’ll understand.”
“You know something about this, Killian. What is it?”
Great, now he gets perceptive. “It’s the middle of the night, Malone. Mind if I get back to my beauty sleep?”
“I’m going to want to talk to your boss.”
“Free country. Talk to you when the sun’s up.” She hung up before he could argue, then punched in Leo’s office number. The man claimed he never slept; she would put that claim to the test.
He answered on the second ring.
“Something’s happened,” she said. “I’m on my way over.”
“You’re headed over? Now?”
“No time to explain. I want to beat Malone and his partner.”
“Detective Malone?”
“Trust me, okay?” She scrambled out of bed and started toward the bathroom. “And get some coffee on.”
CHAPTER 22
Wednesday, March 9, 2005
2:55 a.m.
Fifteen minutes later, Stacy braked in front of Leo’s. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a light sweatshirt, taking the time for nothing else but pulling her hair back into a ponytail.
She climbed out of the car and hurried up the walk. The house was dark, save for the gas porch lights. Leo sat on the top step waiting for her.
He stood as she reached him. “There’s been another murder,” she said without preamble. “It appears to be related to Alice in Wonderland. And to one of the cards you received.”
He paled. “Which one?”
She quickly explained about Spencer’s call, sharing all she knew. “I fully expect him to show up here. I thought we should talk first.”
He nodded. “Let’s go inside.”
Leo led her to the kitchen. As she had requested, he had coffee waiting. He waited as she lightened and sweetened it.
Obviously a man who understood the powerful pull of caffeine.
“What does this mean?” he asked after she had taken a sip.
“There may be a connection between this murder and you.”
“The game. The White Rabbit.”
“I said there may be. You have to show the police the cards.”
“Did you tell Malone-”
“About the cards? No. I thought you should.”
“When will they come?”
“Any minute is my guess. Though they may wait until morning. Depends on what else they have and their sense of urgency.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Leo looked at her; she indicated he should answer and that she would wait in the kitchen.
Moments later he returned with the two detectives.
“Thought you’d be here,” Spencer said when he saw her.
She smiled slightly. “Ditto.”
“Coffee?” Leo asked.
The men both refused, though Tony reluctantly.
Spencer began. “Obviously, Ms. Killian filled you in.”
“Yes.” Leo glanced at her, then back at Malone. “But before we go on, there’s something you need to know.”
“What a surprise,” Spencer said, looking at her.
Stacy ignored his sarcasm. Leo continued. “In the past month, I’ve received three cards from someone claiming to be the White Rabbit. One depicts a mouse, drowned in a pool of tears. The cards are signed the White Rabbit.”
Spencer frowned. “From the game?”
“Yes.” Leo quickly explained about the role of the White Rabbit in his game and his fear that someone had begun to play the part for real. “I’ve gotten plenty of crank mail over the years,” he finished, “but these…something about them unnerved me.”
“That’s why he hired me,” Stacy said. “To find out who sent them. And if that person was dangerous.”
“I’d like to see the cards.”
“I’ll get them.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tony said, falling in step with the other man.
Stacy watched them go, then turned to Malone. “What?”
“Going into the private dick business?”
“Just helping a friend.”
“Noble?”
“Cassie. And Beth.”
“You think the cards are from their killer.”
It wasn’t a question; she answered, anyway. “They could be.”
“Or not.”
Leo and Tony returned then. Tony handed Spencer the cards, exchanging a telling glance with his partner. By his expression, Stacy knew he believed they were onto something.
Spencer studied the three cards. He lifted his gaze to Leo’s. “Why didn’t you call us about these?”
“And say what? I wasn’t overtly threatened. Nobody was dead.”
“Somebody’s dead now,” Spencer said. “Drowned in a pool of tears.” He took out a photo and handed it to Leo. “Her name was Rosie Allen. Know her?”
Leo stared at it, shook his head and handed it back.
“What’s going on?”
They turned. Kay stood in the doorway, looking fresher than she should for the hour.
“There’s been a murder,” Leo answered. “A woman named Rosie Allen.”
Kay frowned. “I don’t understand. What does this Rosie have to do with us?”
Spencer stepped in. “She was murdered in a manner similar to a card your ex-husband received.”
“The mouse in a pool of tears,” Leo said.
Spencer held out the photo. “Ever seen this woman before?”
The woman stared at the picture, her face going white. “It’s the sewing lady,” she whispered.
“You know her?”
“No…yes.” She brought a hand to her mouth. Stacy saw that it trembled. “She did some…mending and…alterations for us.”
Spencer and Tony exchanged glances. Stacy knew what the look meant: this was no coincidence. It was a connection.
Leo crossed to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and sank onto it. “What we feared, Kay. It’s true. Someone’s playing the game for real.”
The detectives ignored that. “When did you last see Rosie Allen?”
Kay looked blankly at Spencer. He repeated the question. Before she answered, she followed Leo’s lead and sat down. “Just the other day. A suit of mine needed alterations.”
“And she fitted you?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t know her name?”
“Mrs. Maitlin…she takes care of such things.”
Tony frowned. “Such things.”
“Taking care of the help. Arranging appointments. Paying for their services.”
“I’ll need to question her. And the rest of the household staff.”
“Of course. The staff arrives at eight. Will that be soon enough?”
Both detectives checked their watches, then nodded. Having been there herself, she recognized their thought processes. It was five-thirty now. They’d go home for a quick shower, then meet somewhere to grab some grub. That would put them back here just as the staff was arriving for the day.
After telling Leo she would call him later, Stacy followed the two detectives out, hurrying to catch up. She missed Tony, but stopped Malone as he unlocked his car door.
“Spencer!” she called.
He turned, waited. She reached him. “The murder tonight, any similarities to Cassie’s?”
“Nothing that I saw,” Spencer answered.
She fought disappointment. And frustration. “You’d tell me if there was, right?”
“You’ll be the first to know when there’s an arrest.”
“Nice evasion.”
“Damn decent, if you ask me. Don’t think I owe you more than that.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Malone. Mutual cooperation. I’ll share anything I get with you, if you do the same with me.”
“And why
would I want to do that, Killian? You’re not a cop. I am.”
“It’d be the smart thing to do. I’m determined. I’m working for Noble. I could help you.”
“The connection between Noble and Cassie is paper thin. If you don’t see that-”
“Believe me, I do. But it’s the only connection I’ve got, so I’m going with it.” She held out her right hand. “Mutual cooperation?”
He gazed at her outstretched hand a moment, then shook his head. “Nice try. But NOPD doesn’t make deals like that.”
“Their loss. And yours.”
He climbed in his car and drove off. She watched him go, then crossed to her own car. She unlocked it and slipped inside. He’d be back. He was arrogant but not stupid.
The name of the game was solving the case. He needed her to do that.
He just didn’t realize it. Yet.
CHAPTER 23
Wednesday, March 9, 2005
10:40 a.m.
“It took you two long enough to make it in this morning,” Captain O’Shay snapped, simultaneously plucking a tissue from the box on her desk.
“Couldn’t be helped, Captain,” Spencer said. “Interviewed a half dozen of the vic’s acquaintances since eight this morning.”
“Where are we?”
“Woman dead in the bathtub. One Rosie Allen. Ran an alteration business out of her home. Looks like she was drowned. Coroner’s report should be back this afternoon.”
“No sign of struggle,” Tony jumped in. “No defensive injuries, hands were clean. We’re figuring her killer subdued her, maybe with a stun gun.”
Spencer took over. “She’s ready for bed, in her robe and pj’s. Opens the door, anyway.”
The captain sneezed, then blew her nose. “She knew the person at the door.”
“That’s what we figure. But this is where the story gets interesting. Killer left us a nice little message. Poor Little Mouse, drowned in a pool of tears.”
“Written on the bathroom wall behind the tub,” Tony said. “Orange lipstick.”
“The lipstick?” Captain O’Shay asked.
“Atrocious, old-lady orange.” Tony made a face.
The captain looked irritated. “Status of?”
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