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?”
As she had expected, a look of surprise crossed the woman’s face, followed by one of curiosity. She nodded and stepped aside so Stacy could enter. “One moment, please,” she said, closing the door behind them.
While Stacy waited, she studied the home’s interior. A huge, curved staircase rose from the foyer to the second floor. To her left lay a double parlor, to her right a formal dining room. Dead ahead, the foyer opened to a wide hallway, which most probably led to the
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?”
As she had expected, a look of surprise crossed the woman’s face, followed by one of curiosity. She nodded and stepped aside so Stacy could enter. “One moment, please,” she said, closing the door behind them.
While Stacy waited, she studied the home’s interior. A huge, curved staircase rose from the foyer to the second floor. To her left lay a double parlor, to her right a formal dining room. Dead ahead, the foyer opened to a wide hallway, which most probably led to the
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