Saturday, March 19, 2005
9:30 a.m.
S
tacy flipped her phone shut and ran for the front door. She darted through, locked it and jogged to her car, parked on the street. She stopped and swore when she saw it. She was wedged in. Both the car in front and behind her had squeezed into too-small spots, leaving her about three inches to maneuver with.
Not enough.
Leo’s place wasn’t much more than a half a mile away. She could make it on foot in six or seven minutes—without denting any fenders.
She started off, urgency pushing her. She dialed Malone. He picked up right away. “Malone.”
“Run a background check on Alice’s tutor, Clark Dunbar,” she said.
“Hello to you, too, Killian. A little intense this morning, aren’t we?”
“Just do it.”
He became all business. “Ran him through the NCIC already. No priors.”
“Take it a step further.”
“What’s going on?”
“Clark Dunbar’s the White Rabbit.” A car sped by, windows open, hip-hop blaring. “I can’t go into it now, just trust me.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to Leo’s. On foot.” She paused at a crosswalk, looked both ways, then darted across—earning the scream of a horn. “Don’t ask. Let me know what you find out.”
She hung up before he responded and dialed Leo’s cell number. “Leo, Stacy. I think Clark’s the White Rabbit. If you see him, stay away. Call me when you get this.”
She called the mansion next. Mrs. Maitlin answered.
“Valerie, have you heard anything from Clark?”
“Stacy? Are you all right? You sound—”
“I’m fine. Have you? Heard from Clark?”
“He’s here.”
Stacy’s heart dropped. “He’s there? I thought he was out of town for the weekend.”
“He was. I was so surprised to see him. Something about a reservation mixup, he said. Hold on a second.”
Stacy heard a male voice in the background, then the housekeeper’s reply. In the next instant, the woman returned. “So sorry. Where were—”
Stacy cut her off. “Just now, was that Clark?”
“No. Troy.”
“Valerie, this is important. Where’s Clark now?”
“Outside. With Alice.”
God, no.
The crossing light changed and Stacy darted across the City Park Avenue and Wisner Boulevard intersection, cutting over to Esplanade. To her left stood City Park with its tennis and golf complexes, lagoons and the New Orleans Museum of Art.
“What about the police officer?” she asked. “Is he still there?”
“Out front.”
“Good. I want you to get Alice,” she said, working to keep her voice even. “Call her to the phone. Do not mention my name to Clark. Understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“When Alice is inside and safe, get the officer. Have him stay by Alice’s side until I get there.”
“What’s going on?” The woman sounded rattled. “Should I call—”
“Just get Alice. Now, Valerie.”
Stacy heard the woman lay down the phone as she went after the teenager. She counted the seconds as they ticked past, heart thundering in her ears, praying the man didn’t catch wind that they were onto him and hurt Alice.
Just as she began to sweat, Alice came on the line. “Stacy, what—”
“Clark’s the one, Alice. The White Rabbit. Mrs. Maitlin is getting the police officer, and I’m just two blocks away.”
“Clark? That can’t—”
“It is.” Alice sounded terrified. “Stay put, do you understand? Until the officer comes inside, pretend you’re still on the phone.”
Alice agreed; Stacy reholstered her cell and broke into a run. It made perfect sense. Clark, with unfettered access to the household. To everyone in it, their schedules and routines. As Alice’s tutor, access to her thoughts and feelings. Her computer. As Kay’s lover, he had been privy to the woman’s most intimate thoughts.
The night she disappeared, Kay had welcomed him into the guest house. That’s why there’d been no sign of forced entry.
Until the bedroom, where he’d attacked her. Until the point she realized he wasn’t who he professed to be.
He had played them all. Expertly.
But that’s what a game master did.
Spencer and Tony arrived at the Nobles only a moment behind her. She waited for them at the front gate.
“Clark’s here,” she said, without greeting the two men. She filled them in on her call to the mansion.
“Good work,” Tony said.
“Thanks.” She glanced at Spencer. “You ran a background check on Dunbar?”
“Clark Dunbar doesn’t exist. Bogus social. Not registered at the DMV. How much you want to bet the Nobles never checked even one of his references?”
It never ceased to amaze Stacy how trusting people were. Even ones with as much to lose as Leo Noble.
“How did you know?”
“Billie. She learned that Danson’s real name wasn’t Dick. It was Charles Richard Danson. Guess what Clark’s middle name begins with?”
“An R.”
“Bingo. Billie also learned that the murdered dentist who identified Danson by his dental records volunteered his services to the poor and disenfranchised.”
“The ‘poor and disenfranchised,’” he repeated. “The kind of folks who can go missing without anyone sounding an alarm.”
“Give the man a gold star.”
“So, he faked his own death, changed his appearance with plastic surgery—”
“And headed down to New Orleans to rain a little bizarre justice down on his former partner and ex-girlfriend.”
They reached the front door, which, as usual, was opened by Mrs. Maitlin. Alice stood with her, clinging to the woman’s arm. “He’s gone,” Mrs. Maitlin cried. “When I called Alice inside, he walked to his car, climbed in and drove off. I realized what had happened and got Officer Nolan, but it was too late.”
“Where is Nolan?”
“He went after Clark.”
Spencer swung to Tony. “Get him on the radio!”
The other man sprang to action. Stacy wouldn’t have guessed Tony could move so fast. She indicated to Spencer that she would take care of Alice and Mrs. Maitlin. He nodded and she herded them inside.
They waited in the kitchen. Mrs. Maitlin made herself busy baking cookies, distracting Alice by enlisting her help. Just as the delicious aroma from the first batch began to fill the room, Spencer appeared at the doorway. He motioned to her.
“Don’t eat them all while I’m gone,” Stacy teased, forcing lightness into her tone.
Spencer led her out to the foyer. “Nolan lost him. We put out a broadcast for Danson and his car. A search warrant for his quarters is on the way.”
Her cell buzzed. She saw it was Leo. She mouthed the man’s name to Spencer, then picked up the call. “Leo, where are you?”
“Downtown.” The connection crackled. “I got your message. Clark’s the White Rabbit? My God, how did you—”
“There’s more, Leo. Clark is Danson.”
“Dick? You can’t mean—”
“I do. He faked his own death. Must have changed his appearance with plastic surgery, intent on punishing you for how he imagined you cheated him.”
Leo went silent, so silent Stacy thought the call had been dropped. “Leo? Are you still—”
“Yes, I’m here. Just digesting. It’s hard to believe—” His words broke on a sound of surprise. “What the…my God, you’re—”
Stacy heard a loud
pop.
A gunshot.
“Leo!” she shouted. “Shit, Leo—”
Spencer grabbed the phone. “Mr. Noble? This is Detective Malone. Are you all right? Mr. Noble?”
Stacy watched Spencer, hoping, knowing her hope was futile.
He looked at her, expression grim. “I don’t want the kid to be alone,” he said, handing her the phone.
She looked at its display.
Call ended.
9:57 a.m.
Stacy swallowed hard, hurting for the teenager. “I’ll stay with her.”
“Better yet, I’ll send her over to Tony’s. She’ll be safer there.”
Saturday, March 19, 2005
5:20 p.m.
N
ew Orleans’ central business district at 5:00 p.m. on Saturday resembled a movie set more than a bustling commercial district. Dusk had begun to settle over the tops of the skyscrapers, although calling them skyscrapers was a little like calling a donut a beignet. The two had elements in common, but the donut lacked the
Ahh
quality of a beignet.
Spencer stood on the sidewalk just beyond the established perimeter, a narrow alley across the street from the International House Hotel. Tony pulled up, parking his Ford behind the Camaro.
They’d located Leo. He and Tony had gotten the call just as they finished the search of Danson’s quarters and storage locker. The preliminary search had uncovered little, besides proof that Clark really was Dick Danson. Spencer hoped they had better luck here.
Leo had been shot once. Right between the eyes.
“How’s the kid?” Spencer asked, referring to Alice.
“Scared,” Tony answered. “Carly’s taken her under her wing.”
“Did you hear from the aunt?”
“Not yet. Left a message.”
Alice hadn’t been told about her dad—yet. Spencer prayed her mother was alive to comfort her, but he didn’t hold out much hope.
They crossed to the first officer, signed in, then ducked under the crime scene tape. The crime-scene guys and the photographer were doing their thing; they spared little more than a glance and nod in acknowledgment of Spencer and Tony’s arrival.
They crossed to the body, located not twenty-five feet from the entrance of the alley.
Noble lay flat on his back, eyes open, staring blankly up. Judging by the wound, he’d been shot at close range, probably with a small caliber pistol. Cell phone and briefcase beside the body.
Tony squatted beside Noble. “Still wearing his Rolex. Briefcase looks intact.”
Spencer snapped on latex gloves and checked for the man’s wallet. He found it; eased it out and flipped it open. “Three hundred bucks. Credit cards. Motive certainly wasn’t robbery.”
“You surprised by that?”
Spencer smiled grimly. “I look surprised, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Brazen son-of-a-bitch. Did it in broad daylight. Downtown, just off Camp Street.”
Spencer visually inspected the contour of the body, then moved his gaze outward. “Where’s his calling card?”
As if on cue, one of the techs called, “Yo fellas, you might want to take a look at this.”
They crossed to the man. He had his flashlight beam pointed at a doorway, at several pieces of debris the wind had pushed into the corner.
Spencer saw immediately what had caught the tech’s attention: a Ziploc plastic bag.
Spencer bent and carefully retrieved the bag. The killer had drawn a smiley face on it. Inside he’d placed a single item. The King of Hearts card.
Tony absently rubbed his five o’clock shadow. “I like a psycho who clearly tells us it’s his crime. Takes the guesswork out of the job.”
“Let’s bag it and tag it,” Spencer said to the tech.
“If it’s Dunbar, he knows we’re onto him. He wants to get the job done, even if it means getting nailed.”
“Figures he’s made already.” Spencer narrowed his eyes. “I’m glad the kid’s squared away. Until this asshole’s in custody, she’s a mark.”
“Maybe our guy just wanted to take out the big kahunas?”
“Uh-uh. Remember Pogo’s drawing of Alice hanging by the neck, quite obviously dead.”
“Right. But no King of Hearts, and he got whacked.”
Spencer glanced up at the rapidly darkening sky, then back at his partner. “Stacy had a theory on that. The artist simply hadn’t gotten to that illustration. I wasn’t buying that then. Am now.”
“Smart lady. Maybe you should let her know what’s going on?”
“That wouldn’t exactly be by the book.”
“Screw the book. She’s one of the good guys.” Tony motioned to the first officer. “I’ll get a canvas of the area started. Maybe somebody in one of these businesses saw something.”
Spencer nodded and watched his partner walk away. Stacy
was
one of the good guys.
But that wasn’t why he wanted to call her.
He unclipped his cell and dialed Stacy. “Hey,” he said when she answered. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Is Leo—”
“Yes. Dead—shot between the eyes.”
“The White Rabbit?”
“If a certain playing card here at the scene is any indication.”
“Shit. Poor Alice. You’ve got to find Kay.”
“We’re doing our best.” He glanced over his shoulder; the coroner’s investigator and his driver had arrived. “Got to go, Killian. Call you later.”
Saturday, March 19, 2005
8:45 p.m.
S
pencer did one better than calling Stacy. He went to see her.
He rang the bell.
Stacy answered the door after a couple of rings. He couldn’t be certain, but he suspected she had been crying.
“Haven’t you heard? Game’s over. Leo’s dead.”
He held up a takeout sack. “I brought Subway. Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“How about some company?”
“Why not?” She turned and headed into the double. He followed her, shutting the door behind them.
They ended up in the kitchen. He saw a bottle of beer on the table, her Glock beside it.
She crossed to the fridge, got another beer and handed it to him.
“Thanks.” He twisted off the cap and took a long swallow, watching as she returned to her table and took another drink.
“None of this is your fault,” he said softly.
“No? You’re sure?” Her voice vibrated with a combination of grief and fury. “Leo’s dead. Kay’s most probably dead. They hired me to keep them safe. And if so, Alice—” her voice broke “—is an orphan now. I did a great job, didn’t I?”
“You did the best job you could.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” She balled her hands into fists. “He was right under my nose. This whole time, he—”
Spencer crossed to her, drew her to her feet and cupped her face in his hands. “He was under all our noses the whole time. You’re the only one who had a clue what was really going on.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “A lot of bloody good it did anybody.”
She was trying so hard to be tough. To focus on her anger. To pretend she didn’t hurt. Didn’t feel helpless.
He trailed his thumbs across her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop it. Stop looking at me that way.”
“Sorry, Killian. No can do.”
He bent and kissed her. Her lips trembled beneath his. He tasted the saltiness of her tears.
She flattened her hands against his chest. “Stop it,” she said again. “Stop making me feel weak.”
“Because you have to be strong.”
She tilted up her chin. “Yes.”
“So you can stand up to the bad guys. Kick their asses, maybe even save the world.”
She stepped away from him. “I think you should go.”
“So it can be just you and Mr. Glock?”
“Yes.”
“Your choice, Stacy. If you change your mind, you have my number.”
He drained his beer, collected the take-out and left her. He crossed to the NOPD cruiser parked in front of the duplex. He bent and greeted the officers inside. “Keep a close eye on the place. I’m going to catch a few hours’ shut-eye, then I’ll be back.”