“You’re the parent, of course. But in my experience, the known is much less frightening than the unknown.”
He was quiet a moment, then nodded. “Kay and I will discuss it.”
“Good.” She checked her watch. “I’m beat. If you don’t mind, I’m heading home.”
“Go ahead.” He stopped her when she reached the door. “Stacy?”
She looked back at him in question.
“Thank you.”
The gratitude in his expression made her smile. She exited the office. As she passed through the foyer, she saw Alice hovering at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met, but before Stacy could call goodbye, Kay appeared behind the girl.
Obviously, the older woman hadn’t seen Stacy. Judging by the way Alice turned quickly away, Stacy sensed the teenager didn’t want her to. Stacy hesitated a moment more, then left the mansion.
Within minutes, she was on her way home. Hungry, she stopped at the Taco Bell and picked up an enchilada bowl. As she waited for her food, she thought about Spencer and wondered if he had caught up with Pogo. She glanced at her cell phone, confirming that it was on and that she hadn’t missed a call.
Stacy parked in front of her place, shut off the engine and headed inside. She dropped the bag of fast food in the kitchen, checked her recorder for messages-and saw that she had none-then crossed to the bathroom.
Pajamas, she decided. She would take a long hot shower, put on her pj’s and eat in front of the TV. If Spencer hadn’t called her by ten o’clock, she would call him.
She reached into the shower and turned on the hot water. While it heated, she undressed. Steam billowed from behind the curtain, and she inched it aside to add cold water. She frowned. A thread of pink water mixed with the clear and swirled down the drain.
She pushed the curtain back. A sound flew to her throat. Part surprise. Part horror.
A cat’s head. Suspended from the ceiling above the tub with nylon fishing line. A tabby, the creature’s mouth stretched into a bizarre snarl.
It appeared to be smiling at her.
She turned away, struggling to calm herself. She breathed deeply through her nose. Divorce yourself from it, Killian. It’s a scene. Like the dozens, hundreds, of others you’ve worked.
Do the job.
She grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, slipped into it, then retrieved her gun from the nightstand. She began a systematic search of the apartment, from the bedroom forward.
In the kitchen she discovered how the perp had entered: he’d broken a pane of glass in the kitchen door, reached inside and unlocked the dead bolt. Looked like he’d cut himself doing it, a sloppy mistake.
But good for the home team.
The rest of her search revealed nothing unexpected. Nothing appeared to have been taken or disturbed. No sign of the rest of the cat, poor thing. Clearly, the perp’s intention had been to frighten her.
She returned to the bathroom. Swallowing hard, she studied the creature, the way it had been suspended from the ceiling. Nothing fancy, but it had taken a bit of both ingenuity and skill. She lifted her gaze. A cup hook screwed into the ceiling. Nylon fishing line attached to the hook and the cat’s head.
Stacy ran her gaze along the lines-there were two-the end of each fitted with a fish hook. The hooks attached to the animal’s ears.
She lowered her eyes to the tub floor. A plastic bag had been taped to the tub directly under the cat’s head. The resealable kind, used for food storage.
She saw that there was something in the bag. A note. Or notecard-sized envelope.
Stacy stared at the bloodied bag, pulse pounding in her head. She forced herself to breathe. To think clearly.
Leave it. Call Spencer.
Even as the thought registered, she turned and headed for the kitchen. To the sink and the rubber gloves she stored underneath. She bent, retrieved the package and drew out a pair.
She fitted them on and returned to the bathroom. Bending, she carefully freed the bag, unzipped it and eased the notecard out.
It said, simply: Welcome to the game. It was signed the White Rabbit.
CHAPTER 27
Thursday, March 10, 2005
8:15 p.m.
Spencer sped through the Metairie Road, City Park Avenue and I-10 intersection, making the turn onto City Park, cherry lights bouncing crazily off the underpass walls. Stacy’s first call had come in while he and Tony had been in with the captain. The second one while he was on his way home. He’d made a U-turn, heading back toward central city, before he had even ended the call.
Spencer tightened his grip on the wheel, weaving around vehicles that didn’t get out of his way fast enough. Stacy had said little besides “Get over here, ASAP.” But he’d heard the strain in her voice-the hint of a quiver-and had reacted without question.
He’d decided to make the call solo. Assess what had happened and who was needed. Give Tony a chance to eat the meal waiting for him at home. Spencer had learned the hard way that coming between the Pasta Man and his food wasn’t pretty.
He reached Stacy’s double. She sat on her porch step, waiting. He parked in the fire zone, climbed out of his vehicle and headed up to meet her.
As he neared, he saw her Glock was resting across her knees.
He stopped before her. She lifted her face. “Sorry to call you out like this. I remember what it was like.”
“No problem.” He searched her expression, concerned. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and stood. “Tony coming?”
“Nope. Thought I’d give him a chance to eat dinner. Pasta Man’s like a grizzly if you get in between him and his next meal. What’ve you got?”
She crossed to the door, opened it for him. “See for yourself.”
Her voice lacked inflection. Whether with shock or the effort to keep her emotions at bay, he didn’t know.
He followed her inside. She led him from the front of the double to the back, to the single bathroom.
He saw the creature immediately. He stopped short, no doubt about what he was looking at.
The Cheshire Cat, its bloody head floating above its body.
Pogo’s sketch brought to life.
“How did he get in?” he asked, tone sounding gruff to his own ears.
“Kitchen door. Broke one of the panes of glass, reached inside and unlocked the door. Cut himself, left some blood.”
“You touch anything?”
“Just that.” She indicated the bloody plastic bag and note card on the floor. Beside them were a pair of bright yellow Playtex gloves. The kind he had seen his mother use when washing dishes.
As if she read his mind, she said, “So I didn’t contaminate anything. If you’re worried, they were new.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
She frowned as if with thought. “I was heating the water for a shower. I just reached in…without looking. In the process some evidence might have been washed away.”
He glanced sideways. Saw the khaki capris she had been wearing earlier, the white short-sleeved sweater. A lacy bra in a delicate lavender color.
He looked quickly away, feeling like a Peeping Tom.
“Sorry,” she muttered, crossing to the garments and scooping them up. “I wasn’t thinking. I threw on a robe and…”
Her words trailed off. He shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize. This is your home, I shouldn’t have looked.”
She laughed then, one perfectly timed, infectious laugh. “You’re an investigator. Seems to me, that’s your job.”
It broke the awkwardness of the moment. He chuckled. “You have a point. I’ll remember that.”
He fitted on a pair of gloves, crossed to the note card and picked it up. The message was as simple as it was chilling.