me, Bobby.”
He looked from her hand on his arm to her eyes. The expression in them must have convinced him she meant business. “White Rabbit is a game of survival of the fittest. The smartest, most capable. Last man standing takes all.”
“Takes all?”
“Kill or be killed, doll. Game’s not over until only one character is left alive.”
“How do you know so much about the game when you’ve never played it?”
He shook off her hand. “I’ve got connections.”
“You know someone who plays?”
“Maybe.”
“Cute. Do you or don’t you?”
“I know the big man. The Supreme White Rabbit.”
Bingo. “Who is he?”
“The game inventor himself. A dude named Leonardo Noble.”
“Leonardo Noble,” she repeated, searching her memory for recognition.
“He lives in New Orleans. Heard him talk at CoastCon. He’s pretty cool but kind of manic. You want to know about the game, go to him.”
She took a step back. “I will. Thanks for your help, Bobby.”
“Don’t mention it. Always happy to help a friend of Cassie’s.”
She found something about his smile almost reptilian. She moved around him to get to the door.
“Have you heard?” he called as she stepped through it. “Cassie went and got herself killed.”
Stacy stopped in the doorway and turned slowly to face him. “What did you say?”
“Somebody whacked Cassie. That dyke girlfriend of hers, Ella, called me up, hysterical. Accused me of doing it.”
“Did you?”
“Screw you.”
Stacy shook her head, amazed at his attitude. “Are you really that stupid? You’re going to cop an attitude? Don’t you get it? You’re the front-runner right now. I suggest you lose the ’tude, my friend, because the police don’t need an excuse.”
Two minutes later, she stepped out into the gray, breezy day. Coming toward her were Detective Malone and his partner. “Hello, boys,” she said cheerfully.
Malone scowled as he recognized her. “What are you doing here?”
“Just stopped by to see a friend of a friend. That’s not against the law, is it?”
Tony muffled a chuckle; Malone’s scowl deepened. “Interfering in an investigation is.”
“Did someone say I was?”
“It’s just a warning.”
“Received and noted.” She smiled and started off, feeling both men’s gazes on her back. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at them. “Check the bulletin board over the desk,” she called. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
CHAPTER
9
Tuesday, March 1, 2005
1:40 p.m.
S pencer’s lunch, a hot roast beef po’boy from Mother’s Restaurant, grew cold on the desk in front of him. At first Bobby Gautreaux had been defiant. He’d tossed a shitload of bad attitude their way—until they pointed out the bull’s-eye photograph. Then the defiance had become trepidation, which had transformed into pasty-faced terror when they’d announced they were taking him in for further questioning.
On the strength of Cassie Finch’s friends’ statements and the incriminating photographs, they’d requested a search warrant for Gautreaux’s dorm room and car. Unlike in some states, Louisiana police were required to officially charge a suspect to hold him. With the exception of drug cases, which had to be expedited in twenty-four hours, they then had thirty days to submit their case to the D.A.’s office.
Unless the search yielded something stronger, they’d be forced to release him.
“Yo, Slick.” Tony ambled over, then settled his large frame into the chair in front of the desk.
“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
He looked from her hand on his arm to her eyes. The expression in them must have convinced him she meant business. “White Rabbit is a game of survival of the fittest. The smartest, most capable. Last man standing takes all.”
“Takes all?”
“Kill or be killed, doll. Game’s not over until only one character is left alive.”
“How do you know so much about the game when you’ve never played it?”
He shook off her hand. “I’ve got connections.”
“You know someone who plays?”
“Maybe.”
“Cute. Do you or don’t you?”
“I know the big man. The Supreme White Rabbit.”
Bingo. “Who is he?”
“The game inventor himself. A dude named Leonardo Noble.”
“Leonardo Noble,” she repeated, searching her memory for recognition.
“He lives in New Orleans. Heard him talk at CoastCon. He’s pretty cool but kind of manic. You want to know about the game, go to him.”
She took a step back. “I will. Thanks for your help, Bobby.”
“Don’t mention it. Always happy to help a friend of Cassie’s.”
She found something about his smile almost reptilian. She moved around him to get to the door.
“Have you heard?” he called as she stepped through it. “Cassie went and got herself killed.”
Stacy stopped in the doorway and turned slowly to face him. “What did you say?”
“Somebody whacked Cassie. That dyke girlfriend of hers, Ella, called me up, hysterical. Accused me of doing it.”
“Did you?”
“Screw you.”
Stacy shook her head, amazed at his attitude. “Are you really that stupid? You’re going to cop an attitude? Don’t you get it? You’re the front-runner right now. I suggest you lose the ’tude, my friend, because the police don’t need an excuse.”
Two minutes later, she stepped out into the gray, breezy day. Coming toward her were Detective Malone and his partner. “Hello, boys,” she said cheerfully.
Malone scowled as he recognized her. “What are you doing here?”
“Just stopped by to see a friend of a friend. That’s not against the law, is it?”
Tony muffled a chuckle; Malone’s scowl deepened. “Interfering in an investigation is.”
“Did someone say I was?”
“It’s just a warning.”
“Received and noted.” She smiled and started off, feeling both men’s gazes on her back. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at them. “Check the bulletin board over the desk,” she called. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
CHAPTER
9
Tuesday, March 1, 2005
1:40 p.m.
S pencer’s lunch, a hot roast beef po’boy from Mother’s Restaurant, grew cold on the desk in front of him. At first Bobby Gautreaux had been defiant. He’d tossed a shitload of bad attitude their way—until they pointed out the bull’s-eye photograph. Then the defiance had become trepidation, which had transformed into pasty-faced terror when they’d announced they were taking him in for further questioning.
On the strength of Cassie Finch’s friends’ statements and the incriminating photographs, they’d requested a search warrant for Gautreaux’s dorm room and car. Unlike in some states, Louisiana police were required to officially charge a suspect to hold him. With the exception of drug cases, which had to be expedited in twenty-four hours, they then had thirty days to submit their case to the D.A.’s office.
Unless the search yielded something stronger, they’d be forced to release him.
“Yo, Slick.” Tony ambled over, then settled his large frame into the chair in front of the desk.
“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
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