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.
S tacy 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
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.
S tacy 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
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