Saturday, March 12, 2005
2:00 p.m.
L
eo had been reluctant to play; said he’d left gaming behind years before. Kay had flatly refused. White Rabbit belonged to a time of their lives she would rather not relive.
Stacy had attempted to overcome Leo’s reluctance by explaining that Alice was absolutely right when she’d ascertained that they planned to use the game as a way to understand who they were up against. Getting into the head of a killer was a technique as old as crime and investigation, but perfected by the FBI in the 1980s.
The feds had dubbed the technique “profiling,” the investigators who specialized in the technique “profilers.” It was about as sexy as police work got. Lots of media coverage. Respect and awe from both the public and law enforcement. Some damn spectacular success stats.
Even so, in the end it’d been Alice who’d convinced her father. She’d begged him. She would set up the game. All he’d have to do was show up. It’d be fun.
So here she was. Alice met them at the door. She wore a bright patchwork vest—similar to the rabbit’s in Carroll’s story.
“Hurry,” the girl said. “We’re late. So very, very late.”
Stacy began to correct her—she was actually right on time—then realized that Alice was already in character.
“Follow me…follow me…”
She turned and hurried inside, leading them to the kitchen. It looked like a snack truck had exploded in the room. The center island was covered with bags and bowls of every snack food possible. A small cooler sat in the midst of the chips, pork rinds and M&M’s candies.
Stacy crossed to it and saw it was loaded with soda pops and coffee drinks.
The front doorbell rang and Alice hurried to answer, muttering about the time.
In the next moment, Alice scurried back into the room, shadowed by Spencer, Tony and Leo. All the while, Alice tapped her foot impatiently, muttering under her breath and repeatedly checking her pocket watch.
“Alice isn’t being rude,” Leo explained. “She’s IC. In character.”
“Exactly,” Alice said, grinning at her father. “And right now I’m OOC, out of character.”
“What’s with the junk food?” Tony asked, wandering to the island.
“It’s a gamer thing. Energy drinks, pork rinds, chips, the nastier the better.”
“My kind of game,” he said, reaching for the basket of barbecue cracklings.
“Energy drinks?” Stacy asked. “Mountain Dew?”
“Lots of caffeine. At Dad’s insistence, we also have Starbucks Double Shots.”
They did, indeed. Stacy helped herself to a can, popped the top and poured the coffee beverage over a cup of ice. When they had all helped themselves to a refreshment, they sat.
“Since you’re all newbies,” Alice began, “I figured we’d play a really basic version.”
Leo cleared his throat. “Newbie? Excuse me?”
She laughed. “Except for Dad, of course.” She continued, “There are a number of different scenarios, even a one-on-one, between a player’s character of choice and the White Rabbit.
“The basic story goes like this. The White Rabbit has taken control of Wonderland. Once a place where time had been turned on end, a place of maddening but benign beauty, he has turned it into a place of death. And of evil. Nature turned inside out. Using dark magic, he controls the creatures who reside in Wonderland. Alice and her band of heroes must destroy the White Rabbit, not only saving Wonderland and its king and queen—but the world above as well. For the White Rabbit is dangerously close to adapting his dark magic to our world.”
Leo stepped in. “Like any good book or film, the best RPGs have a narrative, its heroes a grand mission. The stakes are high, the clock ticking.”
“Jeez,” Tony said around a mouthful of cracklings, “and here I thought I was going to get to kick some fantasy creep’s ass.”
Leo laughed. “You will, Detective. But White Rabbit is more than a hack-and-slash scenario.”
“Hack and slash?” Spencer asked.
“A game that’s little more than the near endless slaughter of bad guys—and anything else in the players’ paths. I find that gets boring, but some players and GMs want nothing but.”
Leo glanced at his daughter. “Alice?”
She took over. “I chose a character for each of you, a job usually left to each player. The band of heroes includes Alice, of course. She’s the leader. The other members of today’s team are da Vinci, Nero and Angel.”
She retrieved a Crown Royal bag from the floor beside her, opened it, reached inside and drew out a miniature. Made of cardboard and hand-painted, it depicted a young girl. “Alice,” she said, and slid it across to Stacy. “You’re the group’s leader. You’re intelligent and brave, with superhuman strength. Besides your physical strength, you carry a crossbow. Alice has the heart of a warrior and the spirit of an adventurer.”
Alice retrieved a second figure from the bag. “Da Vinci,” she said, holding up a replica of da Vinci’s famous drawing “Vitruvian.” She snapped it into a plastic holder and slid it across to Spencer. “Da Vinci is a genius. He’s a master at spells and potions. He also possesses the ability to read minds, though he can be fooled. However, he is all brain and no brawn.”
One corner of Spencer’s mouth lifted. “Sexy.”
Alice withdrew another figure, a male wearing black jeans and T-shirt, dark glasses. “Nero,” she said.
Something in her tone piqued Stacy’s curiosity. “What’s his story?”
“Nero’s the most unpredictable of all the characters. The most dangerous.”
“Why?” Tony puffed up slightly, obviously assuming the character was his.
“He’s a necromancer.”
“A what?”
“A spell-wielding character who specializes in death magic. He can be hard to control and is often untrustworthy. I worried about throwing him in with an inexperienced band like yourselves.”
Stacy glanced at Spencer. She suspected he was thinking the same as she—that it was creepy the way Alice described the characters as if they were real and could think for themselves.
“There’s always a betrayer,” Leo added. “The Judas figure.”
“And I’m it?” Tony asked, not quite as puffed up now.
“No.” Alice fixed the miniature in its stand and slid it to her father.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
Tony frowned. “What about me?”
“I’ve reserved a very special character for you. Angel,” she said, drawing the miniature from the bag. She set the figure, a representation of a dark-haired woman outfitted in a skintight superhero costume.
Tony gazed at the figure, disgusted. “I’m a chick?”
Spencer hooted in amusement. Stacy chuckled and Alice smiled, obviously enjoying her moments as “God.”
“Not just any chick,” the girl said. “A powerful illusionist, she uses her power to defeat her enemies.”
Tony sulked. “A chick. Why me?”
“Overcome, Pasta Man,” Spencer said. “Have a few more pork rinds.”
“Four characters, four miniatures,” Stacy murmured. “Your heroes represent real-life people, don’t they?”
“Except for Alice. Lewis, who I chose not to use today, represents Lewis Carroll, Wonderland’s original creator. Da Vinci is Dad, and Nero is his old partner, the co-creator of the game. Angel is Mom, Dad’s nickname for her back then.”
Spencer frowned. “If those are the characters, how do the Dormouse, March Hare and Cheshire Cat come into play?”
Leo stepped in. “In all RPGs, the heroes must battle foes. In D & D the foes are monsters. In our game, they are the original creatures of Wonderland. They have turned to evil and are controlled by the White Rabbit.”
Stacy frowned. “But I thought this was a killer-takes-all scenario? If we’re a band of heroes, that means we must betray one another.”
Leo nodded. “Any of the characters can turn at any moment. Some are more susceptible, like Nero. Angel has been known to create the illusion of safety for her fellow comrades when a trap awaits.”
“And some—” Alice jumped in “—have been known to sacrifice themselves for the success of the mission. Or the safety of a friend.”
“Or,” Leo added, “to sacrifice a fellow hero to save the world.”
“So remember, only one will be left standing at the end of the game.” Alice paused for effect, moving her gaze among them. “Which of you will it be?”
Stacy felt herself being drawn into the scenario. She looked at each of her fellows, wondering who would be the one to save the world. Wanting to be the one, but determined to put the safety of all before her own heroic immortality.
Alice continued. “Your success, or defeat, is determined by your choices, your skills and the roll of the dice.”
“Explain,” Spencer said.
“We play with a 20-sided dice. Rolling a twenty is a critical hit, a one a critical miss.”
“Meaning?”
“A critical hit means your spell, move or whatever, was more effective than intended. For example, if you want to stop a monster’s advance and you get a critical hit, you’ll not just stop him but blow him to smithereens. A critical miss is just the opposite. The monster doesn’t just hurt you, he tears you into pieces, which he then eats and burps up for the next hour.”
“Lovely image,” Spencer murmured.
“What about something in between?” Stacy asked. “Say an eight?”
“The GM is God, remember? He decides how successful your action is.”
“Any other questions?”
There weren’t, and the teenager looked at each of them, expression serious. “A last word of caution. Choose wisely. Work together. The White Rabbit is wily indeed. Are we ready to begin?”
They all looked at Stacy. “You’re our leader. Are we ready?”
“Yes—it’s time to begin.”
The minutes passed quickly and it didn’t take long for them to get the hang of it, Stacy realized. She had to admit, it was enjoyable. And powerful. The scenario sucked her in and she no longer thought of her fellow players by their real identities but as their characters. The psychological pull was great, and Stacy understood why RPGs frightened many parents. And why Billie had said they were too powerful for people with a fragile grasp on reality.
They confronted the Mad Hatter, who critically wounded da Vinci before Alice had killed him with her crossbow. Nero had been trapped in the White Rabbit’s shrinking house, and they’d been forced to leave him behind.
Now they faced the most formidable foe to date: a caterpillar larger than all of them put together. He smoked a pipe; its curling green smoke a deadly poison to all it came in contact with.
Da Vinci offered an antidote potion. In his weakened state, less than a critical hit would kill him.
The game master prepared to roll. Kay appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Excuse me. Leo?”
Her voice trembled. The inventor looked up, smile dying on his lips. Stacy turned. Kay was as pale as a ghost. She seemed to be hanging on to the door frame to keep from toppling over.
Leo got to his feet. “My God, Kay. What’s wrong?”
The adults followed Leo to his feet. Stacy glanced at Alice. She sat frozen, staring at her mother.
“Come see… It’s—” She brought a hand to her mouth; Stacy saw that it shook. “Your office.”
“My office?” Leo said. “What—”
“Mrs. Maitlin found…she called me.”
“Leo,” Stacy said softly, touching his arm, “your daughter.”
He looked at Alice, as if just remembering her presence. “You stay,” he ordered.
“But, Dad—”
“Not a word. You stay.”
Stacy frowned. She wasn’t a parent, but it seemed a little more sensitivity might be in order. The teenager was obviously frightened.
They exited the kitchen. The housekeeper hovered outside Leo’s office door. She looked as shaken up as Kay.
Stacy glanced toward the foyer. Word that something was happening must have spread, because Troy stood in the doorway.
He looked her way. He wore mirrored sunglasses, which she always found disconcerting. She disliked not being able to see another’s eyes, but instead to see herself reflected back at her.
Freud would have had a field day with that.
“Stacy? Coming?”
That came from Leo. She tore her gaze from the driver. “Yes.”
Stacy followed Spencer and his partner into the office. Leo trailed behind her.
On the gleaming wooden floor the shape of a heart had been drawn. Inside it lay two oversize playing cards, the kind magicians and kids’ birthday clowns sometimes used, the Five and Seven of Spades. Both had been torn in half.
Beneath the heart, the intruder had scrawled a message.
The roses are red now.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
4:30 p.m.
S
pencer cleared the room. He ordered everyone to stay on the premises, including Kay and Leo.
He studied the scrawled message.
The roses are red now.
Judging by the fluid, uneven quality of the letters, Spencer judged the message to have been written with a paintbrush, dipped into paint or some other liquid.
He didn’t know for certain what it meant, but he had a pretty damn good idea.
Somebody, very probably, was dead.
“That blood?” Tony asked, referring to the substance used to write the message.
Spencer squatted and touched the
W
, then brought his finger to his nose. Earthy. Distinct. Not like paint. He nodded to his partner even as he rubbed it between his fingers, checking the viscosity.
“I’m thinking. See the way the color is darkening as it dries?”
“Could be animal blood,” Tony offered.
Could be. But his guess was no, it wasn’t.
“Get the techs over here, ASAP. I want this tested and in evidence. And I want the place dusted for prints.”
He turned. Stacy stood in the doorway. She motioned toward the message. “You saw a sketch for this, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “You’re thinking the playing cards are dead.”
“I have no proof—”
“We’re not talking proof. In the story
Alice in Wonderland,
Alice happens upon two playing cards, the Five and Seven of Spades, painting white roses red. Based on the pattern set with the dormouse that would mean that whoever represents these characters is dead.”
He didn’t reply. They both knew he didn’t need to. Of course that’s what he thought.
“If our artist is the killer, why leave the playing cards instead of the real deal?”
“Obviously, the drawing didn’t find its way into our perp’s hands. Because we got to Pogo first.”
Tony snapped his cell phone shut and crossed to Spencer. He spoke low, so only Spencer could hear. “If it is blood, the deoxidization process will help us narrow down the time this was done.”
Spencer nodded. “That’ll help us eliminate certain persons.”
“Exactly.”
“You want to question? Or should I?” Spencer asked.
“It’s your show, Slick. Go for it.”
They exited the office and crossed to Kay and Leo. They sat on the bottom stair, Leo’s arm around his ex-wife’s shoulder.
“I need to ask you a few questions. Are you up to that?”
She nodded. “I’ll try.”
Spencer opened his spiral notebook. “Who had access to the house today?”
“Who didn’t?” She dragged a hand through her hair. “This place is like Grand Central Station, even on a Saturday.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Sure.” She let out a long breath. “The family. You, your partner and Stacy. The full-time staff, Mrs. Maitlin and Troy. The yardman was here this morning as well. Barry.”
“How about Clark?”
“He’s off on the weekends.”
“Who else?”
She rattled off a list of people who had been in and out during the course of the day. Her personal trainer and manicurist. Postman had delivered. FedEx, too.
“On Saturday?”
“It’s a delivery option. Costs extra, of course.”
“Could anyone have gotten in and not have been noticed?”
Kay looked at Leo, cheeks pink. “I told you we should consider a video security system. How many times?”
“No one was hurt, Kay. If you’d just calm down—”
“Calm down? They were in the house, Leo!” Kay launched to her feet, her hands clenched into fists. Spencer sensed she was not only frightened but furious at her ex-husband as well. “How am I supposed to calm down?”
The man looked flustered. “They’re just trying to scare us.”
“Well, they’re succeeding!”
Spencer stepped in. “Take a deep breath, Mrs. Noble. We’ll figure this out.”
She nodded, visibly struggling to calm herself. “Go ahead.”
He questioned her a bit more, then turned to Leo. “How about you, Leo? When were you last in your office?”
He thought a moment. “Two this morning.”
“At 2:00 a.m.?”
“That’s right.”
Spencer frowned. “But not since then?”
“No. I slept late. I’m slow to wake up.”
“He rarely gets to his office before noon,” Kay said. “Today he didn’t bother because of the game.”
“And you didn’t enter his office this morning?” he asked Kay.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Why would I?”
“Deliver papers. Answer the phone. I can imagine any number of reasons, Mrs. Noble.”
“I’m not a secretary, Detective.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes, irritated by the woman’s haughty tone. He thought about pressing her, then discarded the thought, thanked them and turned his attention to the other members of the household, Mrs. Maitlin first.
“You doing okay?” She nodded. “I need you to retrace your steps this morning, leading up to you entering Mr. Noble’s office. Can you do that?”
She nodded again. “I was bringing fresh flowers to the office.”
“Is that something you do every Saturday?”
“No, usually on Friday. But I didn’t make it to the flower market yesterday.”
“So you went today?” She indicated she had. “You were out of the house how long?”
“An hour.” At his expression, she darted a quick peek at her boss. “I went through the Starbucks drive-thru. The line was long.”
“What time was that?”
She glanced nervously at her watch. “I don’t know, between nine-thirty and ten-thirty.”
“Had you entered the office at all this morning?”
“No.”
He noted that her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Not even to remove the old flowers?”
“I did that yesterday.” She clasped her hands together. “The blooms last a week, without fail. Mr. Noble doesn’t like wilted flowers.”
Who did? Lucky bastard.
“So you entered the office with the flowers?”
“Yes.”
Something in her tone and body language led him to believe she wasn’t being completely honest with him. “You carried the flowers to the office, then what?”
“Opened the door. Stepped inside and—” She pressed her lips together. “I saw the cards and drawing and went to get Mrs. Noble.”
“And where was Mrs. Noble?”
“In her office.”
“Where are they now?”
Her expression went blank. She blinked. “Pardon?”
“The flowers. They’re not on the desk.”
“I don’t know where…the kitchen. On the counter, I think.”
“We were playing White Rabbit in the kitchen. I don’t recall seeing them.”
“Mrs. Noble’s desk,” she said, sounding relieved. “I went to get her and set the vase on her desk. They were heavy.”
Spencer pictured the scenario as she’d described it. “Thank you, Mrs. Maitlin. I may need to ask you a few questions later.”
She nodded, started off, then stopped. “What did it mean? Those cards, the writing?”
“We’re not sure. Yet.”
The evidence techs arrived. Spencer greeted them and pointed toward the office. He glanced back at the housekeeper to find her staring at the team, expression pinched, cheeks pale.
She became aware of his gaze, spun on her heel and walked away. He watched her go and frowned. She was keeping something from him. But what? And why?
Spencer went in search of Troy, Leo’s driver and guy Friday. He found him washing the Mercedes. He caught sight of Spencer and straightened. “Yo,” he said.
“You have a minute?”
“Sure.” He tossed the chamois onto the car’s hood. “Needed a smoke, anyway.”
Spencer waited while the man shook out a cigarette, lit it and took a drag. He flashed him a bright white smile. “Filthy habit. But I’m still young, right?”
Spencer agreed he was. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary today?”
He sucked on the smoke, eyes narrowed in thought. “Nope.”
“See anybody who didn’t belong?” Again the man indicated he hadn’t. “You were out front all morning?”
“Washing and waxing the Benz. Do it every Saturday. Mr. Noble likes his wheels to look sharp.”
Spencer glanced toward his Camaro, parked at the curb, desperately in need of a wash.
“That your ride?” Troy asked, indicating the Camaro.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Sweet.” He snubbed out the cigarette. “I wasn’t here all morning. Mr. Noble sent me to fetch some things for your game.”
“When was that?”
“Between eight and ten-thirty. Give or take. I ran out for a sandwich around noon.”
For an hour this morning both the housekeeper and driver had been off the property.
“Thanks, Troy. You going to be around all day?”
He smiled and picked up the chamois. “Gotta be here in case the boss man wants me.”
“Slick?”
Spencer turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. He waited as Tony ambled up the walk. “Get anything?” he asked.
“Not that matters. Old lady across the street complained about comings and goings over here at all hours. Swore the Nobles were into something illegal.” He paused. “Or were aliens.”
“Great. And this morning?”
“Quiet as a tomb.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.” He glanced at his watch. “You done here?”
“Not quite. Need to question the yardman. Tag along?”
Tony agreed and they headed out back. The gardens were lush and well kept; the sheer volume of beds to tend, staggering. Certain times of the year, such as now, they probably required full-time attention to keep them looking the way they did.
At the moment, the yardman was on his knees in the southern-most corner of the property, planting annuals. Impatiens, Spencer saw as they reached the man.
“Barry?” Spencer asked. “Police. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Not a man, Spencer saw as the kid turned. Little more than a boy.
Barry frowned at them, then removed his headphones. “Hey.”
Spencer flashed his badge. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
Several emotions chased across the kid’s face: Suspicion. Curiosity. Fear. He nodded and stood, wiping his hands on his denim cutoffs. He was tall, gangly and thin. He’d yet to fill out his frame.
“What’s up?”
“You been here all day?”
“Since nine.”
“Talk to anybody?”
He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
“You don’t seem so sure.”
“No.” His cheeks turned pink. “I’m sure.”
“See anybody?”
“I was on my knees, facing the fence all day. Do you think I saw anybody?”
Touchy.
“These all planted today?” Spencer indicated the border of impatiens.
“Yeah.”
“Pretty.”
“I think so.” He smiled but the curving of his lips looked wooden.
“You go inside today, Barry?”
“No.”
“What’d you do, take a piss in the bushes?”
“Pool house.”
“What about water and food?”
“I bring everything I need.”
“Did you see anybody you didn’t recognize today?”
“Nope.” He glanced toward the house, then back at them. “Mind if I get back to work? If I don’t finish today, I gotta come back tomorrow.”
“Go ahead, Barry. We’ll be around…if you think of anything.”
The kid returned to his work. Spencer and Tony started toward the house. “He was awfully defensive for somebody who’d kept his nose in the dirt all day,” Tony said.
“My thoughts exactly.” Spencer’s cell rang; he picked up the call. “Malone here.”
He listened, then asked the dispatcher to repeat what she’d said. Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he wished he hadn’t.
“We’re on our way.”
He looked at Tony, who cursed. “What now? It’s friggin’ Saturday.”
“Walter Pogolapoulos is dead. Washed up on the banks of the Mississippi River.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Oh, it gets better. The Mississippi River at the Moonwalk. A tourist from Kansas City found him. Apparently, the mayor is shitting purple bricks.”