Her words trailed off as she became aware of a commotion in front of the grocery store.
The man from inside, she saw. He stood with a long-haired, bearded man, motioning her way.
No, she realized. Not her way. At her.
Pogo.
The man looked from her to Spencer. She saw the moment he realized they were the law. “Spencer, quick—”
Too late, the artist bolted in the opposite direction. Spencer swore and took off after him, Stacy on his heels.
Pogo obviously knew the area well. He darted down side streets and cut through alleys. He was fast, too. A small guy, thin and wiry. Within minutes, Stacy lost sight of both men.
She stopped, panting. She was out of shape, she acknowledged, bending at the waist, resting her hands on her knees. Damn. She needed to start working out.
When she caught her breath, she headed back to the grocery. She saw that sometime during his chase, Spencer had called for backup. Two cruisers sat double-parked in front of the artist’s building. One of the cops was questioning the grocer and his wife. The others were nowhere to be seen.
Fanning the area for Pogo, no doubt. Questioning the artist’s neighbors.
She ducked behind the rack of postcards outside a souvenir shop. She didn’t want the grocer to spot her and send the cop her way. Spencer wouldn’t appreciate her part in today’s debacle being in anyone’s official report.
Tony pulled up, angled his car into the fire lane and climbed out. She thought about calling to him, then decided against it. She would let Malone call the shots.
Spencer returned. He was sweating. And looked pissed off.
Pogo had gotten away.
Damn it.
He crossed to Tony’s side. They exchanged words, then he turned, scanning the area. For her, Stacy knew. She stepped out from behind the rack. He caught sight of her, and she signaled for him to call her, then turned and walked away.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
2:00 p.m.
T
hey had a search warrant within the hour. Spencer handed it to the landlord, who in turn unlocked the artist’s apartment door. “Thanks,” Spencer told him. “Hang around, okay?”
“Sure.” The man shifted from one foot to the other. “What’d Walter get himself into?”
“Walter?”
“Walter Pogolapoulos. Everybody calls him Pogo.”
Weird. But it made sense.
“So what’d he do?”
“Sorry, we can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Of course. I understand.” He nodded his head vigorously. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
They entered the apartment. Tony grinned at him. “Ongoing investigation, indeed. Thought the guy was going to wet his pants at that.”
“Everybody’s got to have a hobby.”
“Good work, by the way,” Tony said.
“Haven’t you heard? He got away.”
“He’ll be back.”
He’d better be.
They’d have him now, if he had been upstairs waiting for the artist when he arrived home, instead of out front playing games with Stacy, arguing like some damn rookie instead of doing his job correctly.
“Was that Killian I saw downstairs?”
“I don’t want to hear that name.”
Tony leaned toward him, “Killian,” he murmured three times, then laughed.
Spencer made a great show of flicking him off, then turned to the task at hand. Pogo’s was a typical, old New Orleans apartment. Sixteen-foot ceilings, windows with the original glass, cypress moldings that didn’t exist in new construction, even for the wealthy.
The apartment also sported cracked plaster walls and ceilings. Peeling paint, probably chockful of lead. Bathroom and kitchen fixtures from the fifties—no doubt the last time the place had been updated. The musty smell of damp walls; the sound of cockroaches scurrying inside those walls.
Pogo’s living room smelled of turpentine. And no wonder, art dominated every room. Drawings and paintings in every stage of completion were tacked or taped to walls, laid across tables and propped up in corners. Art supplies littered the apartment. Brushes and paint. Pencils, pens, pastels. Other tools as well, ones Spencer couldn’t name.
Interesting, Spencer thought, looking over the room again. No family photos or curios, no evidence of life outside himself and his art.
Damn lonely, he would think.
“Over here, Slick,” Tony called.
He crossed to where the other man stood, a drafting table in the corner. He followed the direction of the other man’s gaze.
Spread across the top of the table were a half-dozen “Alice” death scenes, in various stages of completion. The most complete depicted the playing card characters, the Five and Seven of Spades, torn in half. Another appeared to be the March Hare slumped over a table, blood leaking from his head and pooling on the table.
Spencer met Tony’s gaze. “Holy shit.”
“Looks like we hit the jackpot, my friend.”
Spencer grabbed a tissue, using it to keep from contaminating the evidence as he thumbed through them. The Queen of Hearts, impaled on a fork. The Cheshire Cat, its bloody head floating above its body. And finally, Alice, hanging by the neck, face a bloated distortion. At the bottom of a stack, some rough sketches for the cards Leo had already received.
“If this isn’t our guy,” Tony said, “he knows who is.”
And he should have had him. He’d blown it.
“I want to know everything about Walter Pogolapoulos, ASAP.” Spencer motioned to one of the uniforms. “Call in the techs,” he said. “I want a full search of the apartment. Access to the man’s bank and phone records. Cell, too. I want to know who he’s been talking to. Canvass the neighborhood. Let’s find out who his friends are and where he hangs out.”
“Want a broadcast?” Tony asked, referring to a bulletin put out on all police channel radios.
“You bet your ass I do. Mr. Pogo’s not going to slip through my fingers again.”
Thursday, March 10, 2005
5:40 p.m.
S
tacy pulled up in front of her apartment. She’d left the French Quarter to race out to the university. She’d made her class, though late and unprepared. The professor had been annoyed by the former and furious when he’d discovered the latter.
He’d chastened her in front of the entire class and again after, in his office. They expected better of their grad students, he’d told her. She had better get it together.
She hadn’t made excuses. Hadn’t brought up Cassie’s death or the fact that she had discovered the body. Truth was,
she
expected better of herself.
Stacy shut off the engine and climbed out of the car, acknowledging being mentally and emotionally exhausted. Maybe she should let this whole thing go. Tell Leo she’d had enough; the police were legitimately involved now. Malone had proved himself more capable than she had given him credit for. Hell, he’d beat her to Pogo.
But what about finding Cassie’s killer? She couldn’t let go until she knew for certain Malone was on the right track.
A movement on the front porch caught her eye. Alice Noble, she saw. Sitting on her front step.
Curiouser and curiouser.
“Hello, Alice.”
The girl stood, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. “Hello.”
Stacy reached the steps. She smiled at the young woman. “What’s up?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“I see that. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“A couple hours.” She hiked up her chin. “No big deal.”
“Come on up. These books are heavy.” Stacy climbed the three stairs to the porch, crossed to the door and dropped her backpack. “Want something to drink?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“The truth,” she repeated. “About what?”
“You’re not helping dad write a book.”
Stacy wouldn’t lie. It felt wrong. And Alice Noble was too old and too smart for glib reassurances.
“You were at the house last night. Late. With a couple men. Police, is my guess.”
“You need to talk to your parents about this. Not me.”
She looked suddenly upset. “Are Mom and Dad in some sort of trouble? Are they in danger?” When Stacy didn’t reply, she fisted her fingers. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Stacy held a hand out. “It’s not my place, Alice. I’m not your parent. Go to them. Please.”
“You don’t understand! They won’t tell me.” Her tone turned adult—and bitter. “They treat me like I’m a baby. Like I’m six instead of sixteen. I can drive a car, but they’re afraid to trust me with real life.”
“It’s not a matter of trust,” Stacy said softly.
“Of course it is.” She met Stacy’s gaze evenly. “Somebody died, didn’t they?”
Stacy stilled. “Why do you say that?”
“That’s the only time people call in the middle of the night. Right? With bad news that can’t wait.” Alice grabbed her hand, squeezing it with a force that surprised Stacy. “If those men were the police, what does it mean? Was someone murdered? Kidnapped? What does it have to do with my family?”
“Alice,” Stacy said softly, “did you eavesdrop on our conversation last night?”
She didn’t reply. The lack of response told her that she had—hearing only enough to terrify her.
“Please tell me,” Alice whispered. “Dad and Mom don’t have to know you did.”
Stacy hesitated. On the one hand, Alice was a teenager, too old to be kept in the dark the way a young child would be. And certainly too intelligent. She seemed more than capable of handling this; in Stacy’s opinion, she should be included for her own well-being. The monster you know is less terrifying than the one you don’t.
On the other hand, Stacy wasn’t her parent. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.
“You drove here?” Stacy asked.
“Walked.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter-looking grimace. “Remember, I have my own car, but I have to ask permission to use it. And it practically takes an act of God to get permission.”
“Look, I’m on your side in this. But I don’t have the right to tell you. I won’t go against your parents’ wishes.”
“Whatever.”
She turned to go; Stacy caught her arm. “Wait. I’ll drive you home. If your dad’s there, I’ll speak with him and try to convince him to tell you. Okay?”
“For all the good it’ll do.”
Stacy left the backpack, then the two stood and crossed to Stacy’s car. They climbed in, buckled their safety belts, and Stacy started the car. They drove in silence, the girl slumped in her seat, the picture of adolescent misery.
Stacy parked in front of the mansion; they both climbed out. Alice didn’t wait for Stacy, simply darted for the house, disappearing through the front door as Stacy reached the porch.
She followed the girl into the house. Leo stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. On the second floor, a door slammed.
He looked at Stacy, perplexed. “I thought she was upstairs.”
“She was at my apartment.”
“Your apartment?” His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t understand.”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
He led her to his study, closed the door behind them and waited.
“When I got home, I found Alice on my doorstep. She said she’d been there a couple hours.”
“A couple hours? Good God, why—”
“She’s scared, Leo. She knows something’s going on. That I’m not a technical adviser. She wanted me to tell her the truth.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not. She’s your daughter, and you asked me not to.”
“I don’t want her frightened.”
“She already is. She saw Malone and Sciame here last night. She heard at least a portion of what was discussed.”
He paled. “She should have been asleep. In the guest house.”
“Well, she wasn’t. She guessed, correctly, that they were police. She even suspected it had to do with a murder.”
“But how?” He pushed away from the desk, face creased with worry.
Stacy lifted her shoulders. “She’s a bright girl, she put two and two together. As she said, people only call in the middle of the night when somebody’s died.”
A reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “She never ceases to amaze me.”
“She’s afraid you and Kay are in danger. You need to reassure her. She’s sixteen, Leo. Think back. What were you like at sixteen?”
He ran a hand across his face. “You don’t know Alice. She’s high-strung. The gifted often are. She needs more guidance than most kids her age.”
“You’re the parent, of course. But in my experience, the known is much less frightening than the unknown.”
He was quiet a moment, then nodded. “Kay and I will discuss it.”
“Good.” She checked her watch. “I’m beat. If you don’t mind, I’m heading home.”
“Go ahead.” He stopped her when she reached the door. “Stacy?”
She looked back at him in question.
“Thank you.”
The gratitude in his expression made her smile. She exited the office. As she passed through the foyer, she saw Alice hovering at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met, but before Stacy could call goodbye, Kay appeared behind the girl.
Obviously, the older woman hadn’t seen Stacy. Judging by the way Alice turned quickly away, Stacy sensed the teenager didn’t want her to. Stacy hesitated a moment more, then left the mansion.
Within minutes, she was on her way home. Hungry, she stopped at the Taco Bell and picked up an enchilada bowl. As she waited for her food, she thought about Spencer and wondered if he had caught up with Pogo. She glanced at her cell phone, confirming that it was on and that she hadn’t missed a call.
Stacy parked in front of her place, shut off the engine and headed inside. She dropped the bag of fast food in the kitchen, checked her recorder for messages—and saw that she had none—then crossed to the bathroom.
Pajamas, she decided. She would take a long hot shower, put on her pj’s and eat in front of the TV. If Spencer hadn’t called her by ten o’clock, she would call him.
She reached into the shower and turned on the hot water. While it heated, she undressed. Steam billowed from behind the curtain, and she inched it aside to add cold water. She frowned. A thread of pink water mixed with the clear and swirled down the drain.
She pushed the curtain back. A sound flew to her throat. Part surprise. Part horror.
A cat’s head. Suspended from the ceiling above the tub with nylon fishing line. A tabby, the creature’s mouth stretched into a bizarre snarl.
It appeared to be smiling at her.
She turned away, struggling to calm herself. She breathed deeply through her nose.
Divorce yourself from it, Killian. It’s a scene. Like the dozens, hundreds, of others you’ve worked.
Do the job.
She grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, slipped into it, then retrieved her gun from the nightstand. She began a systematic search of the apartment, from the bedroom forward.
In the kitchen she discovered how the perp had entered: he’d broken a pane of glass in the kitchen door, reached inside and unlocked the dead bolt. Looked like he’d cut himself doing it, a sloppy mistake.
But good for the home team.
The rest of her search revealed nothing unexpected. Nothing appeared to have been taken or disturbed. No sign of the rest of the cat, poor thing. Clearly, the perp’s intention had been to frighten her.
She returned to the bathroom. Swallowing hard, she studied the creature, the way it had been suspended from the ceiling. Nothing fancy, but it had taken a bit of both ingenuity and skill. She lifted her gaze. A cup hook screwed into the ceiling. Nylon fishing line attached to the hook and the cat’s head.
Stacy ran her gaze along the lines—there were two—the end of each fitted with a fish hook. The hooks attached to the animal’s ears.
She lowered her eyes to the tub floor. A plastic bag had been taped to the tub directly under the cat’s head. The resealable kind, used for food storage.
She saw that there was something in the bag. A note. Or notecard-sized envelope.
Stacy stared at the bloodied bag, pulse pounding in her head. She forced herself to breathe. To think clearly.
Leave it. Call Spencer.
Even as the thought registered, she turned and headed for the kitchen. To the sink and the rubber gloves she stored underneath. She bent, retrieved the package and drew out a pair.
She fitted them on and returned to the bathroom. Bending, she carefully freed the bag, unzipped it and eased the notecard out.
It said, simply:
Welcome to the game.
It was signed the White Rabbit.