Leo Noble and Dick Danson, co-presidents of the university’s first FPRG club.
Two gangly young men, their lives before them. Nothing in Dick Danson’s smile or eyes hinted at a man capable of the violence Leo described. Brown hair, worn long and shaggy. Wire-rimmed glasses and a scruffy goatee. He’d yet to fill out his frame.
She gazed at the man’s image, frustrated. Disappointed. She had hoped she would recognize him. That she would recall having seen him.
She didn’t. It had been a long shot, admittedly. But one she wasn’t quite ready to give up on.
“Can I hang on to this for a while?”
“I suppose. If you tell me why.”
She changed tack. “Do you have the legal papers that turned the game rights over to you?”
“Sure.”
“Could I see them?”
“They’re in a safe deposit box. At a bank downtown. I assure you, they’re for real.”
She looked down at the photo again. “I’ve got a question for you. Could Dick Danson still be alive?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Dead serious. Pardon the pun.”
“Highly unlikely, don’t you think?” When she simply stared at him, he laughed. “Okay, sure, it’s possible. I mean, I didn’t see the body.”
“Maybe nobody did? Some coroners are pretty lax, especially ones who reside in quiet little hamlets. Like Carmel-by-the-Sea.”
“But why play dead? Why give up the rights to projects we produced jointly? It doesn’t make sense.”
This time it was she who laughed, though grimly. “It makes absolute sense, Leo. What better way to seek revenge than from beyond the grave?”
CHAPTER 40
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
10:00 a.m.
Stacy waited until the Café Noir morning rush would have ended to pay Billie a visit. She couldn’t let go of the idea that Cassie’s death and White Rabbit were linked. And Billie never forgot a customer’s face. If Danson had been in the coffee house, Billie would remember.
She entered the coffee shop, Leo’s old yearbook tucked under her arm. It smelled of fresh brew and baking cookies. Her mouth watered. She’d already eaten, but it would be damn hard to turn down a cookie. Especially a chocolate chip, warm from the oven.
Billie was sure to offer one. The woman was a master at upselling.
She’d spoken only briefly with her friend since visiting the shop with Alice. She’d called to assure her she was fine and to tell her about Pogo. Billie had sounded distracted and they had ended the call.
Billie and Paula stood at the pastry case, rearranging the goodies, showcasing those that sold best midmorning. Her friend saw her and smiled. “I knew you’d be in this morning.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m psychic.”
Stacy started to laugh, then stopped. Something in her friend’s expression suggested she was serious. “Another of your many talents?”
“Absolutely.”
Stacy crossed to the counter and ordered a cappuccino. She worked to keep herself from looking at the cookies. “You have a minute to powwow?”
“You got it. Cookie to go with that powwow? Chocolate chip?”
“No, thanks. I don’t care for one.”
“Yes, you do.”
“And you would know this how?”
“Because I’m psychic.”
She made a face. “I hate you.”
Billie laughed. “Grab a table, I’ll be right over.”
She brought the coffee and the cookie, still warm and gooey from the oven. Stacy couldn’t resist and broke off a piece. “I really do hate you, you know.”
Her friend laughed and helped herself to the cookie. “Stand in line, girlfriend.”
After washing down the bite with a sip of the cappuccino, Stacy opened the yearbook and slid it across the table to her friend. She tapped Danson’s photo. “Ever seen this man before?”
Billie studied the photo for a few moments before shaking her head. “Sorry.”
“You sure he’s never been in the shop? He’d be twenty-five years older now.”
Billie narrowed her eyes. “I have a great memory for faces, and I don’t recall his.”
Stacy frowned. “I hoped you would recognize him as a customer.”
“Sorry. Who is he?”
“Leo’s former business partner.”
“And?”
“He’s dead. Supposedly.”
A slow smile curved Billie’s mouth. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She broke off another piece of cookie. “Explain.”
Stacy leaned forward. “Most attribute the title of Supreme White Rabbit to Leo-”
“The inventor of the game.”
“Right. But he didn’t invent it alone. He had a co-inventor.”
“This guy.”
“Yes. Drove off a cliff in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, three years ago. Leo and Kay learned about it through a lawyer. His death freed up the rights to some of their joint projects.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
She posed a question instead. “The person behind the letters and murders, why is he doing it?”
“Because he’s a total whack job?”
“Besides that.”
“Anger? Revenge?”
“Exactly. It seems there was plenty of bad blood between the Nobles and Danson, the partner.”
“I get it. This Danson fakes his own death, so he can rain some seriously twisted shit down on Noble.”
“Bingo.” Stacy’s gut told her she was onto something. The instinct that had made her solve record one of the best in the DPD. “The lawyer who visited could have been a fake, someone paid to lie. Even if the papers are legal, giving up the rights to the projects would be nothing compared to the pleasure of destroying Leo’s life.”
“Maybe even taking it,” Billie said softly.
“Probably taking it,” Stacy corrected, reaching for her coffee, hoping the hot liquid would ward off her sudden chill. “And Kay’s, too. Maybe Alice’s. And getting away with it. After all, he’s already dead.”
“An ingenious plan.”
“Not that brilliant. After all, I’m onto him.”
“You have your cell phone?”
She wore it in a holster, clipped to her belt-a habit acquired on the job. And one she couldn’t seem to shake. “Sure. Why?”
“Hand it over.”
She did, though not without asking what for. Billie held up a finger, indicating she should wait, flipped open the phone, then punched in a number.
“Connor, it’s Billie.” She laughed, the sound husky and sexy as hell. “Yes, that Billie. How are you?”
Stacy listened incredulously as her friend chatted with the man on the other end of the line, flirting and cajoling.
The woman was a professional man-eater. How did one learn that skill? Did somebody offer a degree in it?
“I have a friend here who needs a bit of information. Her name’s Stacy. I’ll put her on. Thanks, love, you’re a sweetheart.” Another laugh from Billie, followed by a murmured, “I will, I promise.”
She held out the phone. “Chief Connor Battard.”
“Chief?”
“Of police, silly. Carmel-by-the-Sea.”
Stacy took the phone, doubly amazed. Did the woman know everyone? “Chief Battard, Stacy Killian. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
“Anything for Billie. How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating a death that occurred three years ago. Dick Danson.”
“Danson’s death, sure I remember it. Drove off Hurricane Point. ’Bout three and a half years ago.”
“I understand the death was classified an accident.”
“A suicide.”
“A suicide,” she repeated, surprised. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely. He had a full propane gas tank in the trunk of his 1995 Porsche Carrerra, another in the back seat. He wanted to do the job well, and he did.”
“A very big boom, I’m guessing.”
“Yup. The trunk in that Porsche is in the front of the car, and there’s nothing but a fire wall between it and the fuel tank. The vehicle hit nose first. The medical examiner identified Danson by his dental records.”