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.

CHAPTER 25

Thursday, March 10, 2005

2:00 p.m.

They 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.”

CHAPTER 26

Thursday, March 10, 2005

5:40 p.m.

Stacy 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.”