“ Pasta Man. How’s the kid doing?”

“Not well. Pacing. Looking like he’s going to puke.”

“He ask for a lawyer?”

“Called daddy. Daddy’s getting one.” He eyed the sandwich. “You going to eat that?”

“You didn’t get lunch?”

He made a face. “Rabbit food. A salad with fat-free dressing.”

“Betty’s got you on another diet.”

“For my own good, she says. She can’t understand why I’m not losing weight.”

Spencer cocked an eyebrow. Judging by the powdered sugar on the front of his partner’s shirt, he’d hit the doughnuts again this morning. “I’m thinking it could be the Krispy Kremes. I could call her and-”

“Do and die, Junior.”

Spencer laughed, suddenly starving. He pulled his sandwich closer and made a great show of taking a large bite. Gravy and mayonnaise oozed out the sides of the French bread.

“You’re a nasty little prick, you know that?”

He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. “Yeah, I know. But never say little and prick in the same sentence, it’s just not cool. At least when you’re talking to a guy.”

Tony laughed loudly. A couple of the other guys glanced their way. “What do you think about Gautreaux?”

“Besides the fact that he’s a spoiled punk?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

Spencer hesitated. “He’s a good suspect.”

“I’m hearing a ‘but’ in your voice.”

“It’s too easy.”

“Easy’s good, pal. It’s a gift. Take it with a ‘Thank you, God’ and a smile.”

Spencer moved aside the sandwich to access the file folder beneath it. Inside were the toxicology and autopsy reports on Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner. Notes from the scene. Photographs. Names of family, friends and acquaintances.

Spencer motioned to the folder. “Autopsy confirmed the bullet killed her. No sign of sexual assault or other body trauma. Nails were clean. She never saw it coming. Pathologist set the TOD at 11:45 p.m.”

“Toxicology?”

“No alcohol or drugs.”

“Stomach contents?”

Spencer flipped open the file. “Nothing significant.”

Tony leaned back in the chair; the frame creaked. “Trace?”

Spencer knew he referred to trace evidence. “Some fiber and hair. Lab’s got it now.”

“The shooter deliberately offed her,” Tony said. “It fits with Gautreaux.”

“But why would he openly stalk and threaten her, kill her, then leave such damning evidence tacked to his bulletin board?”

“Because he’s stupid.” Tony leaned toward him. “Most of ’ em are. If they weren’t, we’d be in a world of hurt.”

“She let him in. It was late. Why would she do that if she was as frightened of him as her friends have claimed?”

“Maybe she was stupid, too.” Tony glanced away, then back. “You’ll learn, Slick. Mostly, the bad guys are stupid brutes and the victims are naive, trusting fools. And that’s what gets ’ em whacked. Sad but true.”

“And Gautreaux took the computer because he sent her love letters or angry threats.”

“You got it, my friend. In Homicide, what you see is likely what you’re gonna get. We keep the pressure on Gautreaux and hope the lab results give us a direct link between him and the victim.”

“Open and shut,” Spencer said, reaching for his po’boy. “Just the way we like it.”

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday, March 2, 2005

11:00 a.m.

Stacy pulled up in front of 3135 Esplanade Avenue, home of Leonardo Noble. Using the information she’d gotten from Bobby Gautreaux, she’d done an Internet search on Mr. Noble. She’d learned that he was, indeed, the man who had invented the game White Rabbit. And just as Gautreaux had claimed, he lived in New Orleans.

Only a matter of blocks from Café Noir.

Stacy shifted into Park, cut the engine and glanced toward the house once more. Esplanade Avenue was one of New Orleans ’ grand old boulevards, wide and shaded by giant live oak trees. The city, she had learned, was located eight feet below sea level, and this street, like many others in New Orleans, had once upon a time been a waterway, filled in to create a road. Why explorers had thought a swamp would be a good choice for a settlement eluded her.

But of course, the swamp had become New Orleans.

This end of Esplanade Avenue, close to City Park and the Fairgrounds, was called the Bayou St. John neighborhood. Although historically significant and beautiful, it was a transitional neighborhood because a meticulously restored mansion might sit next to one in disrepair, or to a school, restaurant or other commercial endeavor. The other end of the boulevard dead-ended at the Mississippi River, at the outermost edge of the French Quarter.

In between lay a wasteland-home to poverty, despair and crime.

Her online search had yielded some interesting information about the man who called himself a modern-day Leonardo da Vinci. He’d only lived in New Orleans two years. Before that, the inventor had called southern California home.

Stacy recalled the man’s image. California had fit in a way the very traditional New Orleans didn’t. His appearance was unconventional-equal parts California surfer, mad scientist and GQ entrepreneur. Not really handsome, with his wild and wavy blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses, but striking nonetheless.

Stacy mentally reviewed the series of articles she’d found on the man and his game. He had attended the University of California at Berkeley in the early eighties. It was there that he and a friend had created White Rabbit. Since then he’d created a number of other pop culture icons: ad campaigns, video games and even a bestselling novel that had become a hit movie.

She’d learned that White Rabbit had been inspired by Lewis Carroll’s fantasy novel, Alice ’s Adventures in Wonderland. Not a particularly original idea: a number of other artists had been inspired by Carroll’s creation, including the rock group Jefferson Airplane in their 1967 hit “White Rabbit.”

Stacy drew in a deep breath and pulled her thoughts together. She had decided to pursue the White Rabbit angle. She hoped Bobby Gautreaux was the one, but hope didn’t cut it. She knew how cops worked. By now, Malone and his partner would have focused all their energy and attention on Gautreaux. Why spend valuable time pursuing other, vague leads with such a good suspect in hand? He was the easy choice. The logical one. Many cases were solved because the one who looked most guilty was.

Most cases.

Not all.

Cops had lots of cases; they always hoped for a quick solve.

But she wasn’t a cop anymore. She had one case.

The murder of her friend.

Stacy opened the car door. If Bobby Gautreaux fell through, she planned to have another trail for the dynamic duo to follow, bread crumbs and all.

Stacy climbed out of the car. The Noble residence was a jewel. Greek Revival. Beautifully restored. Its grounds-which included a guest house-encompassed a full block. Three massive live oak trees graced the front yard, their sprawling branches draped in Spanish moss.

She crossed to the wrought-iron front gate. As she passed under the oak’s branches, she saw that they were beginning to bud. She’d heard that spring in New Orleans was something to behold and she was looking forward to judging that for herself.

Stacy climbed the stairs to the front gallery. She didn’t have a badge. There was no reason the Nobles should even speak with her, let alone reveal information that might lead to a killer.

She had no badge; she meant to create the illusion that she did.

She rang the bell, slipping into detective mode. It was a matter of stance and bearing. Expression. Tone of voice.

And the flash of imaginary police identification.

A moment later a domestic opened the door. Stacy smiled coolly and flipped open her ID, then snapped it shut. “Is Mr. Noble home?”