Erica Spindler - Killer Takes All

“Kay?” He frowned. “You have IDs, Detectives?”

After inspecting them, the man ushered them into his office. None of them sat.

Spencer noted the framed diplomas; the photographs on the desk, credenza and walls. One, he saw, depicted the lawyer skiing, another at the beach. No wonder the guy was so brown.

Tony looked around, openly admiring the office. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“You have an interesting name, Mr. Coppola.”

“English mother, Italian father. I’m a bit of a mutt, actually.”

“Any relationship to Francis Ford?”

“Sadly, no. Now, about Noble?”

“She’s missing. We have reason to believe she’s in harm’s way.”

“My God. When-”

“Last night.”

“How can I help?”

“When did you see her last?”

“Early this week.”

“May I ask what the meeting was about?”

“A licensing agreement.”

“How’s business? Their business?”

“Very good.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m sure you understand I can’t share confidential information.”

“Actually, you can. We have a warrant.” Spencer produced the document; the attorney looked it over, then handed it back.

“First off, this document does not release me from attorney-client privilege. It allows you access to Leonardo Noble’s home and vehicle, and financial and business records you might find there.

“Second, as a lawyer, I understand the significance of the warrant and your underlying reasons for obtaining it.” He leaned toward them. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. If something’s happened to Kay, Leo had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“They’re devoted to each other.”

“They divorced, Mr. Coppola.”

“Let go of all your notions about what that means. They’d worked all that out. They are friends. Partners in raising their daughter and in their business ventures.”

“And how is their business?” Spencer asked, repeating his earlier question.

“Very good, actually. Leo and Kay just signed several big licensing agreements.”

“For really big money?” Tony asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“How big?” Spencer pressed. “Are we talking millions?”

“Yes, millions.”

“Who pays your bill, Mr. Coppola?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bill, who pays it? Leo or Kay?”

Red stained his cheeks. “That question offends me, Detective.”

“But I’m certain the money doesn’t.”

“Noble’s not just a client, but also a friend. Billable hours have nothing to do with that. Or with how I answered your questions. I’m sorry, but I’m out of time.”

Spencer stuck out his hand. “Thanks for speaking with us. We’ll be in touch.”

Tony handed him a card. “If you think of anything, give us a call.”

The attorney showed them out. Trish sat at her desk but was too busy to do more than look up and smile as they passed. The moment the door of the elevator whooshed shut, Tony looked at Spencer. “Interesting how rich people always claim money’s not important. If it’s not important, why do they work so hard to hang on to it?”

Spencer nodded, recalling how Leo Noble had claimed money didn’t mean that much to him. “I’m thinking that Coppola believes Leo’s the power behind the empire. Did you get that?”

“Yeah, I got that. You think that influenced his answers?”

“Maybe. He’s a lawyer, after all.”

For the most part, cops didn’t think highly of lawyers. Except for prosecutors, like Spencer’s brother Quentin.

The elevator reached the first floor; the doors opened and they stepped off. “You’re married, Pasta Man, give me some perspective.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m a little muddy about this whole ‘they still love and respect each other’ thing. This ‘I owe it all to her, so I’m giving her half’ thing. Let’s say the missus divorces you. How are you going to feel about that?”

They reached the car. Spencer unlocked it and they climbed in. Tony buckled his safety belt and looked at Spencer. “I’ve been married thirty-two years and I don’t get it, either. We love and respect each other, fight and disagree, but we stay together. It’s the fact that we made a commitment to each other that keeps us together, working at it. If she divorced me, I’d be pretty pissed off.”

“And if, after she divorced you, she got half of everything you made-past and future. How would you feel about that? Could you still be friends?”

“It wouldn’t happen, dude.”

“Why not?”

“After you sleep with a woman, you can’t be friends.”

“Neanderthal.”

“And how many of those friends do you have?”

Spencer drew his eyebrows together in thought. Exactly…none.

He glanced at Tony, then pulled away from the curb. “Everybody who knows them is singing the same song. Friends. Employees. Daughter.”

“And you think it’s an act.”

It wasn’t a question; instead of answering, he asked one of his own. “Who stands to gain the most by Kay Noble dying?”

“Leo Noble.”

“Damn right, he does. Call for a couple uniforms to meet us at Leo’s. It’s time for the games to begin.”

Friday, March 18, 2005

4:45 p.m.

Stacy’s plane landed in New Orleans exactly on schedule. As it taxied toward the gate, she reviewed the events of the day. After learning the dentist who had identified Dick Danson had been murdered, she had U-turned and headed back to the Lodge. Billie had reregistered, getting her room back before it had even been cleaned. From there, they had called Chief Battard-to inform him that Billie was staying and to ask if Stacy could meet with him quickly to explain why.

And to ask for his help.

On their way, Stacy had filled Billie in on what she wanted her to do: look into any missing-persons cases in the area at the time of Danson’s suicide, and if one appeared, to somehow uncover if he had been a patient of Dr. Mark Carlson’s. She also wanted her to find a way to gain access to the dentist’s records and cross-reference them against the ones used to ID Danson’s corpse.

Chief Battard would be instrumental in making that happen. Medical records were damn near impossible to access without official authorization.

They’d met Chief Battard in his office at headquarters. Stacy had run her theory by him and asked for his help. To his credit, he hadn’t laughed.

And he’d agreed to help.

Stacy suspected the prospect of a few more days with the sultry Billie had something to do with his equanimity.

Stacy exited the plane. She was right about one thing-she was certain of it.

Dick Danson was alive. He was the White Rabbit.

And he was a killer.

As soon as she had cleared the terminal, she turned on her phone. She had three messages waiting. Judging by the callback numbers, all three were from Leo.

She’d spoken with him first thing that morning, had told him the trip had been a bust and that she was flying home.

A lot had happened since she’d made that call.

More, apparently, than she’d even realized.

While she made her way to the parking garage, she checked the messages. The first call was, indeed, from Leo. He was upset. His voice shaking.

Kay’s…gone. She’s…someone…the White Rabbit…she may be dead. Call me as soon as you touch down.

The second was from Alice, not her father. She was crying, so hard Stacy could barely make out what she was saying. Her message, in essence, mirrored her father’s. She was scared.