Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

But he didn’t. When she realized he was serious, she shook her head. “Call the police. Or hire a private investigator. Bodyguard work isn’t my line.”

“But investigation is your line.” He held up a hand as if anticipating her protest. “I haven’t been overtly threatened, what can the police do? Absolutely nothing. And if what I fear is true, a private dick is going to be way out of his depth.”

She narrowed her eyes, admitting to herself that she was intrigued. “And what exactly is it you fear, Mr. Noble?”

“That someone’s begun playing the game for real, Ms. Killian. And judging by these cards, I’m in the game, like it or not.”

He laid one of his business cards on the table and stood. “Maybe your friend was in the game, too. Maybe she was the first of the White Rabbit’s victims. Think about it. Then call me.”

Stacy watched him walk away, mind racing with the things he had told her, the things she had learned about the game. They turned to the man who had attacked her the night before.

He had warned her to “stay out of it.” Stay out of what? she wondered. The investigation? Or the game?

It’s not the game that’s dangerous, but obsession with the game.

Stacy stopped on that. What if someone had become so obsessed with the game, they’d begun to play for real? Begun to confuse fantasy and reality?

Could Cassie have gotten unwittingly pulled into that game?

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?”

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.”