Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

She indicated she would, and the two men left the room, quietly shutting the door behind them.

“I thought it’d be better if she didn’t overhear us,” Spencer said softly. Which was true-just not for the reason Noble thought. He didn’t want the father’s answers to influence the daughter’s.

“I should have thought of that,” Leo said. “I sent her to get Kay. It’s my fault she saw-” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t I go myself?”

He sounded genuinely guilty. But over what? Inadvertently exposing his daughter to what very well may have been the scene of her mother’s death? Or for having involved her in his crime?

“Let’s go back to the previous evening,” Spencer said. “The name of the sushi restaurant?”

“Japanese Garden. Just up the street.”

Spencer made a note. “Do you do that often, have dinner together?”

“Several times a week. After all, we’re a family.”

“But not the typical family.”

“It’s a world filled with variation, Detective.”

“And you didn’t see her again after dinner?”

“No. I was out on the back porch around midnight-”

“Midnight?”

“Smoking a cigar. Her light was on.”

He said it as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “At dinner, she say anything about a headache?”

“A headache? Not that I recall. Why?”

Spencer ignored the question, sending another of his own. “Typically, she a night owl?”

“No. That’s my role.”

“She ever leave her door unlocked?”

“Never. I used to tease her, call her anal retentive about such things. She was always a detail person.”

Spencer jumped on his use of the past tense. “Was? Do you know something we don’t, Mr. Noble?”

The man flushed. “Of course not. I was referring to the years we were married. And her business abilities.”

“In terms of your business, what role does Kay play?”

“Basically, she’s my business manager. She works with the accountants and lawyers, reviews the contracts, stays on top of the employees…and generally leaves me to be creative.”

“To be creative,” Spencer repeated. “If you’ll pardon me, that sounds pretty self-indulgent.”

“To you, I suppose it does. Most people don’t understand the creative process.”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“The brain has two sides, the left and right. The left side controls organization and logic. It also controls language and speech, critical thinking and so forth.”

“So you had Kay to take care of all those left-brain details. Could you have hired someone else to do the job?”

He looked perplexed by the question. “Sure. But why would I?”

Spencer shrugged. “I suspect you would have to pay less. As your ex-wife, she probably feels entitled to half of everything you have.”

Leo flushed. “She is entitled. I’ve never made a secret of that. Without Kay, I wouldn’t have gotten where I am. She kept me focused, harnessed my enthusiasm and creativity in a way that allowed me to make money using my imagination.”

“You say she’s entitled to half. That’s what you give her?”

“Yes. Half.”

“Of everything?”

His expression altered, as with understanding. “You think I had something to do with this?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Of everything.” He flexed his fingers. “I’m not that kind of man, Detective.”

“What kind is that?”

“The kind who puts money before people. Money doesn’t mean that much to me.”

“I can tell.”

At Spencer’s sarcasm, color flooded Leo’s face. “I know who did this, and you should, too!”

“And who would that be, Mr. Noble?”

“The White Rabbit.”

Friday, March 18, 2005

3:30 p.m.

Spencer dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and smiled. Kay Noble’s disappearance had convinced a judge to give them a search warrant for Leo’s home, office, vehicles, business and financial records.

He stood, stretched and started toward Tony’s desk. Between the two of them, they’d questioned everyone in the Noble household. Everyone’s answers pretty well mirrored Leo’s-with one exception. Only the housekeeper recalled Kay having a headache.

“Yo, Pasta Man.” His partner sat at his desk, staring at a small logbook. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, he made a growling noise.

Spencer frowned and indicated the logbook. “What’s that?”

“Points keeper.”

“Excuse me?”

“Weight Watchers. Wife signed me up.” He sighed. “Every food has an assigned point value. You log everything you eat and subtract it from your daily points limit.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I’ve already used up all my points.”

“For the day and night?”

“Yeah. And some of my weekly flex points.”

“Flex poin-” He bit the question back. “Forget about it. Let’s take a drive.”

“Where?”

“Noble’s. By way of the Criminal Courts Building.”

Tony grinned. “Judge granted a search warrant?”

“Bingo, baby.”

In the end, they picked up the warrant, and since they were downtown, paid a visit to Noble’s lawyer. Winston Coppola was a partner in Smith, Grooms, Macke and Coppola, located in the Place St. Charles building.

They parked in a tow zone-legal spots were few and far between in the Central Business District, and flipped down the visor to display their police ID. As they crossed the sidewalk to the building’s main entrance, the St. Charles Avenue streetcar rumbled past.

They found the law firm on the building’s directory, caught an elevator and headed for the tenth floor.

The pretty young woman at reception smiled when the two men approached her desk. “Spencer Malone, what a surprise.”

He returned the smile, not having a clue who she was. Luckily, he’d noted her name on the desk placard. “Trish? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“Gee, look at you. How long’s it been?”

“Too long. I changed my hair.”

“I see that. I like it.”

“Thanks.” She pouted. “You never called. We had so much fun that night at Shannon’s, I was certain you would.”

Shannon’s. No wonder.

Must have been back in his big drinking days.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said with what he hoped was just the right note of sincerity. He imagined Tony beside him, rolling his eyes. “I lost your number.”

“I can remedy that.”

She caught his hand and turned it palm up. She wrote the number across his palm, then closed his fingers around it. “Call me.”

Tony cleared his throat. “We’re here to see Winston Coppola. Is he in?”

“Mr. Coppola? Do you have an appointment?”

“This is official business.”

“Oh…I see,” she said, obviously flustered. “I’ll buzz him.”

She did, and a moment later, she replaced the receiver and directed them to the man’s office. As they made their way back, Tony leaned toward him, “Good save, Slick.”

“Thanks.”

“What a knockout. Are you going to call her?”

Truth was, calling the pretty Trish was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. Well, maybe not the furthest, but the need wasn’t pressing. “I’d be crazy not to. Right?”

Tony didn’t answer, because they had reached the attorney’s office; he was waiting at the door for them. Handsome, well-dressed, impeccably groomed, but with a slightly freaky George Hamilton tan, he appeared to be a smooth operator.

Spencer greeted him. “Detectives Malone and Sciame. We need to ask you a few questions about Kay Noble.”