Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“Cassie have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Any enemies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Was she into the bar scene?”

Stacy shook her head. “RPGs and school. That’s it.”

Malone frowned. “RPGs?”

“Role-playing games. Her favorites were Dungeons amp; Dragons and Vampire: the Masquerade, though she played others.”

“Pardon my ignorance,” Tony said, “are these board games? Video games?”

“Neither. Each game has set characters and a scenario, decided upon by the game master. The participants role-play the characters.”

Tony scratched his head. “It’s a live-action game?”

“Not really.” She smiled. “I don’t play, but the way Cassie explained it, RPGs are played with the imagination. The player is like an actor in a role, following an unfolding script, without costumes, special effects or sets. The games can be played real-time or by e-mail.”

“Why don’t you play?” Detective Malone said.

Stacy paused. “Cassie invited me to join her group, but her description of play didn’t appeal. Danger at every turn, living by your wits. I had no desire to role-play that, I lived it. Every day I spent on the force.”

“Know any of her fellow gamers?”

“Not really.”

Detective Malone cocked an eyebrow. “Not really. What does that mean?”

“She introduced me to several of them. I see them around the University Center sometimes. They occasionally play at Café Noir.”

Tony stepped in. “Café Noir?”

“A coffeehouse on Esplanade. Cassie spent a lot of time there. We both did. Studying.”

“When did you last see Ms. Finch?”

“Friday afternoon…out at scho-”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. It came flooding back, their last meeting. Cassie had been excited, she’d met someone who played a game called White Rabbit. This person had promised to hook her up with what she’d called a Supreme White Rabbit. Arrange a private meeting with him.

“Ms. Killian? Have you remembered something?”

She filled them in, but they appeared unimpressed.

“A Supreme White Rabbit?” Tony asked. “What in God’s name is that?”

“Like I said, I don’t play. But as I understand it, in RPGs there’s something called the game master. In D amp; D that person’s the Dungeon Master, who basically controls the game.”

“And in this new scenario, that person’s called the White Rabbit,” Tony said.

“Exactly.” She pressed on. “The thought of her meeting this guy struck me wrong. Cassie was really trusting. Too trusting. I reminded her that this person was a stranger and urged her to select a public place for their meeting.”

“What was her response to your warning?”

What do you think, some game geek’s going to get pissed off and shoot me?

“She laughed,” Stacy said. “Told me to lighten up.”

“So the meeting took place?”

“I don’t know.”

“She give you a name?”

“No. But I didn’t ask.”

“The person who promised the introduction, where’d she meet him?”

“She didn’t say and, again, I didn’t ask.” Stacy heard the frustration in her own voice. “I’m thinking it was a guy, though I’m not even certain of that.”

“Anything else?”

“I have a feeling about this.”

“Women’s intuition?” Malone asked.

She narrowed her eyes, irritated. “The instinct of a seasoned detective.”

She saw the older man’s mouth twitch, as if with amusement.

“What about her roommate?” Tony asked. “Beth? She play those games?”

“No.”

“Did your friend have a computer?” Malone asked.

She swung her gaze to him. “A laptop. Why?”

He didn’t answer. “She play these games on her computer?”

“Sometimes, I think. Mostly she played real time, with her game group.”

“So they can be played online.”

“I think so.” She shifted her gaze between the two. “Why?”

“Thank you, Ms. Killian. You’ve been helpful.”

“Wait.” She caught the older detective’s arm. “Her computer’s gone, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Stacy,” Tony murmured, sounding like he meant it. “We can’t say any more.”

She would have done the same; it pissed her off, anyway. “I suggest you check out this White Rabbit game. Ask around, see who’s playing. What the game involves.”

“We will, Ms. Killian.” Malone closed his notebook. “Thank you for your help.”

She opened her mouth to say more, to ask if they would update her on their progress, then shut it without speaking. Because she knew they wouldn’t. Even if they agreed to, it would be an empty platitude.

She didn’t have the right to the information, she acknowledged, watching the two walk away. She was a civilian. Not even family of the deceased. They weren’t required to give her anything but courtesy.

For the first time since leaving the force, she understood the ramifications of what she had done. Of what she was.

A civilian. Outside the blue circle.

Alone.

Stacy Killian wasn’t a cop anymore.

Monday, February 28, 2005

9:20 a.m.

Spencer and Tony entered police headquarters. Located in City Hall, at 1300 Perdido Street, the mirrored glass building housed not only the NOPD but the mayor’s office, the New Orleans Fire Department and city council, among others. The Public Integrity Division, the NOPD’s version of Internal Affairs, was housed outside headquarters, as was the crime lab.

They signed in and took the elevator to ISD. When the doors whooshed open, Tony headed for the box of breakfast pastries, Spencer for his messages.

“Hey, Dora,” he said to the receptionist. Though a civilian employed by the city, she wore a uniform. Her extra-large, top-heavy frame strained at the confines of the blue fabric, revealing glimpses of hot pink lace. “Any messages?”

The woman handed Spencer the yellow message slips, sliding her gaze over him appraisingly.

He ignored the look. “Captain in?”

“Ready and waiting, stud.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she cackled. “You white boys have no sense of humor.”

“No sense of style, either,” offered Rupert, another detective, sidling past them.

“That’s right,” Dora said. “Rupert here knows fine threads.”

Spencer glanced at the other man, taking in his sleek Italian suit, colorful tie and bright white shirt, then down at himself. Jeans, chambray shirt and tweedy jacket. “What?”

She groaned. “You’re working ISD now, top of the heap, baby. You need to be dressin’ the part.”

“Yo, Slick. Ready?”

Spencer turned and grinned at his partner. “Can’t. In the middle of a free fashion consultation.”

Tony returned the grin. “Lecture, you mean.”

“Don’t even go there.” Dora wagged her finger at the older man. “You’re hopeless. A fashion disaster.”

“What? Me?” He held his hands out. His gut protruded over the waist of his Sansabelt trousers, the fabric shiny from age, and strained the buttons of his short-sleeved plaid shirt.

The woman made a sound of disgust as she handed Tony his messages. Turning to Spencer, she said, “You just come see Miss Dora, baby. I’ll fix you right up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, sugar pie,” she called after him. “Ladies go for a man with style.”

“She’s right, sugar pie,” Tony teased. “Take it from me.”

Spencer laughed. “You’d know this how? The way the ladies stay away in droves?”

“Exactly.” They turned the corner, heading for the open door of their captain’s office.