“Bullshit.”

She changed the subject, glancing at the book Malone was holding. “I’m impressed. It looks like you’re doing your homework. Even if it is Research Lite.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Don’t be too impressed. I haven’t read it yet.”

“Above your head?”

“Biting the hand that fed you isn’t nice. And there’s chocolate on your teeth.”

“Where?” She ran her tongue over her teeth.

“Do that again.” He rested his chin on his fist. “It’s turning me on.”

She laughed despite herself. “You want something from me-” she held a hand up to hold off the smart-ass answer she felt certain was coming “-what is it?”

“How does the game White Rabbit relate to the story of Alice in Wonderland?”

Stacy thought of the cards Leo had received. “Simply, Noble used Carroll’s story as inspiration for his game. The White Rabbit controls play. The characters from the story are the game characters, though it’s all been morphed into something violent and disturbing.”

He motioned to the material on the table in front of her. “If it’s so simple, why all this?”

He had her there. Damn it. “From other gamers, I’ve learned White Rabbit’s a renegade scenario. Outside the gaming mainstream. Its enthusiasts are more cultish than other gamers. More secretive. It seems that’s part of the game’s allure.”

“What about its structure?”

“More violent, to be sure.” She paused, thinking of what she had learned. “The major difference in structure is in the role of game master. Most game masters are absolutely impartial. White Rabbit’s is not. He’s a character, playing to win. The objective for all the players,” she finished, “is kill or be killed.”

“Or to survive by any means, depending on your perspective.”

She opened her mouth to reply; his cell phone rang, cutting her off.

“Malone.”

She watched his face as he listened, noted the slight tightening of his mouth. The way his eyebrows drew together in a scowl.

The call was business.

“Got it,” he said. “Be right there.”

He had to go, she knew. Somewhere, somebody was dead. Murdered.

He reholstered the phone, met her eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Duty calls.”

She nodded. “Go.”

He did, without a backward glance. Everything about his posture and stride shouted purpose, determination.

She watched him. For ten years she had gotten calls like that. She had hated them. Dreaded them. They had always come at the worst times.

Then why did she feel this biting sense of loss now? This feeling of being on the outside looking in?

She turned to collect her things. And saw Bobby Gautreaux, striding toward the stairs. She called his name, loudly enough, she knew, to be heard.

He didn’t slow or look back. She shot to her feet, called his name again. Loudly. He started to run. She took off after him; hitting the stairs in seconds.

He was already gone.

She ran down the steps, anyway, earning a scowl from the librarian. A student worker, Stacy ascertained, crossing to her. “Did you see a dark-haired guy with an orange backpack just now? He was running.”

The young woman skimmed her gaze over Stacy, expression openly hostile. “I see a lot of dark-haired guys.”

Stacy narrowed her eyes. “The library’s not that busy. He was running. You want to change your answer?”

The coed hesitated, then motioned to the main entrance doors. “He went that way.”

Stacy thanked her, then headed back upstairs. She wouldn’t accomplish anything by going after him. First, she doubted she would find him. Second, what would it prove if she did? If he had been spying on her, he wouldn’t admit it.

But if he had been, why?

She reached the second floor, crossed to her table and began to collect her things, freezing as a thought occurred to her. Bobby was a big guy. Taller than she was. Not as tall as she’d guessed her attacker of the other night to have been, but considering the circumstances, she could have been wrong.

Maybe Bobby Gautreaux hadn’t been spying on her at all. Maybe his intentions had been darker.

She would have to be very careful.

CHAPTER 20

Tuesday, March 8, 2005

11:15 p.m.

Spencer stood on the sidewalk in front of the dilapidated fourplex, waiting for Tony. The other man had arrived just behind him, but had yet to emerge from his vehicle. He was on his cell phone; his conversation appeared to be a heated one. No doubt the infamous teenager Carly, Spencer thought. Back for round twelve.

He turned his attention to the street, the rows of homes, most of them multifamily units. On a desirability scale, this Bywater neighborhood ranked no better than a three, though he supposed that depended on one’s perspective. Some would die to live here, others would kill themselves first.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile. And some, simply, would have death thrust upon them.

He shifted his gaze to the fourplex. The first officers had cordoned off the area and yellow crime-scene tape was draped across the front porch. In its youth, the structure had been a nice middle-class home, roomy enough for a big family. Sometime during its life, as the area had slid into disrepair and disfavor, it’d been divided into a multifamily residence, its handsome facade replaced with that awful tar-paper siding popular after World War II.

Spencer turned at the sound of a car door slamming. Tony had finished his conversation; though by his thunderous expression Spencer suspected it was far from over.

“Have I told you I hate teenagers?” he said as he reached Spencer.

“Repeatedly.” They fell into step together. “Thanks for coming.”

“Any excuse to get out of the house these days.”

“Carly’s not that bad,” Spencer said, grinning. “You’re just old, Pasta Man. ”

Tony glowered at him. “Don’t mess with me, Slick. Not now. The kid’s pushed me to the breaking point.”

“Cop goes postal. Sounds ugly. Very ugly.” Spencer lifted the crime-scene tape for Tony, then ducked under himself. A scrawny dog stood at the neighbor’s chain-link fence, watching them. He hadn’t barked the entire time, a fact Spencer found odd.

They crossed to the first officer, a woman his brother Percy had dated. It hadn’t ended well. “Hello, Tina.”

“Spencer Malone. I see you’ve moved up in the world.”

“Livin’ large in the Big Easy.”

“How’s that no-good brother of yours?”

“Which one? I’ve got several who answer to that description.”

“That you do. Present company included.”

“No denials from me, Officer DeAngelo.” He smiled. “What’ve we got?”

“Upper-right unit. Victim in the bathtub. Fully dressed. Rosie Allen’s her name. Lived alone. Tenant directly below called it in. Water dripping from the ceiling. She tried to rouse the woman, couldn’t and called us.”

“Why’d you call us and not DIU?”

“This one had ISD written all over it. Killer left us a calling card.”

Spencer frowned. “The neighbor hear anything? See anything that seemed suspicious?”

“No.”

“What about the other neighbors?”

“Nothing.”

“Crime-scene guys called?”

“On their way. Coroner’s rep as well.”

“Touch anything?”

“Checked her pulse and turned off the water. Moved the shower curtain. That’s it.”

Spencer nodded; he and Tony started up the walk. When he reached the unit’s open door, he stopped and turned. “I’ll tell Percy you asked about him.”

“If you want to die. No problem.”

Chuckling, he and Tony climbed the stairs, which emptied into the unit’s living room. It had been converted into a workroom, complete with two sewing tables fitted with sewing machines, both commercial-quality machines, from the look of them. Baskets heaped with clothing sat along one wall, along another, racks of hanging garments, one entirely costumes. The kind that got big applause at the gay fashion show during Carnival. Lots of sparkle. Overdone to the extreme. Against the far wall sat an old couch. In front of it a battered coffee table. A stack of paperback novels sat on its top, one upside down, propped open. Beside it a pretty china teacup and saucer. Old-fashioned-looking. Feminine.