Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

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?”

“Missing. Taken either as a trophy or to cover his ass.”

“You’re certain it was hers?”

Tony leaned forward. “Affirmative, Captain. Acquaintances all confirmed orange was her shade.”

Spencer took over, filling in his superior on Allen’s connection to Noble, the cards Noble had received and Spencer’s theory that a fanatic had begun to play the game for real.

When he finished, she stared at him, eyes glassy. “You don’t look so good, Captain,” he said.

“Damn allergies,” she said. “Everything’s in bloom.”

“Including your nose.” Tony grinned. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

She snatched a second tissue from the box. “Not at all. If you don’t mind working Traffic.”

“Backing down, Captain. I’m too old and too fat for that detail.”

A hint of a smile touched her mouth. “This game, tell me about it.”

“Ever heard of Dungeons amp; Dragons? It got a lot of media attention a few years ago.”

She nodded. “Worked a case back in ’85, involved a couple kids heavily into D amp; D. They were romantically involved and killed themselves in a suicide pact. Media had a field day with it. Claimed ‘research’ about the game brainwashing the kids. Leading them to murder and suicide.

“It all came to little more than hype. The girl had been diagnosed as clinically depressed and the parents had threatened to break the couple up. The whole gaming angle complicated things, made it tough to do our jobs.”

Typical media. “This game’s darker than D amp; D. From what I gather, the most violent of the lot. Based on the book Alice in Wonderland. ”

She muttered something about nothing being sacred as she blew her nose again.

“This game’s scenario is kill or be killed. The White Rabbit’s the ultimate assassin.”

“Now come to life,” Captain O’Shay said, moving her gaze between her two detectives.

“That’s Noble’s theory,” Spencer agreed.

“For God’s sake, keep it from the media.” The captain grimaced. “That’s all we need, a repeat of the ’85 circus.”

“The Nobles claim they didn’t even know the vic’s name,” Tony said. “The mister didn’t even recognize her from a photo.”

“Just one of the countless many who serve,” Spencer said dryly. “According to the ex-Mrs. Noble, the woman dealt mostly with the housekeeper, Mrs. Maitlin.”

“You spoke with her?”

“Yup. Didn’t have much to bring to the party.” He checked his notes. “Hardly knew her. Found her through an ad. The woman agreed to come to the house for fittings, which isn’t customary. The housekeeper described her as a mousy woman. Her words.”

Patti O’Shay frowned. “Interesting.”

“We thought so,” Tony offered. “Checking the National Crime Information Center for priors. On Maitlin. The rest of the household as well.”

“None of them recalled seeing her. They could be lying, of course.”

“Anything else?”

“Good news. Got a break in the Finch and Wagner murders. A fingerprint match from the scene.”

“Gautreaux?”

“Bingo. Also got a strand of her hair from his jacket. And a strand of hair consistent with his from her T-shirt. Not enough to charge him, because of their past relationship, but-”

“Enough to get a court-ordered DNA swab. If the hair proves to be his, he’s ours.” She pressed a tissue to her nose. “Call Judge-”

“Already done. Should have it within the hour.”

“Good work, Detectives. Keep me informed.”

Her phone rang; she reached for it, signaling their meeting had ended. Spencer and Tony stood and headed for the door. There, Spencer stopped and turned back toward his aunt, waiting for her to finish the call.

She hung up and looked at him in question. The dark circles under her eyes concerned him. He told her so.

She smiled wanly. “No need to be. Hard to sleep when you can’t breathe. It’s taking its toll.”

“You certain that’s all that’s going on?”

“Absolutely.” She straightened, her expression becoming all business. “I heard something I didn’t like this morning.”

Spencer stiffened slightly. “From?”

“From isn’t the pertinent question here. What would be more appropriate.”

“I’ll bite. What did you hear?”

“That you were partying at Shannon ’s until closing. The night before an important stakeout.”

He felt his temper rise and worked to hold it in check. “I was off duty.”

“Yeah, you were off duty. But three hours later you were on duty.” She rose to look him directly in the eye. “On my time. Hungover.”

“I did my job,” he countered defensively.

“Use your head, Spencer. Think about what made you vulnerable to Lieutenant Moran.”

He wanted to argue. He was angry. Pissed at whoever had gone running to her.

But mostly at himself.

Palms on her desk, she leaned toward him. “You’re not going to screw up under my command. I’ll transfer you first. Understand?”

Back to DIU. Or worse. She had the power. No doubt she was under the microscope, being pressured by the same folks who had appeased him by assigning him to ISD.

They wanted him out. They’d figured he wouldn’t last.

That’s why they’d offered him this juicy plum. Got the department off the legal string-and it cost them nothing.

He straightened. Furious. Feeling betrayed by those he had trusted. “Understood, Captain. Don’t worry about me, my eyes are open now.”

Thursday, March 10, 2005

11:45 a.m.

On her first trip to the French Quarter, Stacy had learned that finding a parking spot on the street was damn near impossible. She had cruised the network of narrow one-way streets, only to give up after thirty minutes and pull into one of the Quarter’s exorbitantly priced lots.

Today she didn’t even bother trying to look for a spot. She turned into the first lot she came upon, took a ticket and handed the attendant her keys.

New Orleans still amazed her. She felt like a stranger in a strange land. Dallas was relatively young; locals were proud when they could trace their roots back to 1922. New Orleans, on the other hand, was a historic city. One that boasted rich social traditions based on one’s lineage, beautifully crumbling architecture and hundred-year-old cockroaches. Or so she had been told.

And New Orleans was a city that reveled in its own excesses. Big meals. Raucous laughter. Too much drink. All perfectly acceptable in the city whose motto-Let The Good Times Roll-was more than a Department of Tourism tagline.

It was a way of life.

And nowhere was that attitude more apparent than in the French Quarter. Strip clubs and bars, restaurant upon restaurant, souvenir and antique shops, music clubs, hotels and residences all coexisted in the seventy-eight-square-block area that made up this, the original settlement of New Orleans.

In addition, the Quarter boasted dozens of poster shops and art galleries. Not big art, not the high-end pieces that carried price tags in the tens of thousands, but small, commercial art for the masses.