“Hi, Stacy.”
“Hey, Julie.” The girl wore a spandex shorts set. From her apartment came the sound of an aerobic workout video. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a package for you.”
She ducked back inside, then a moment later returned with a FedEx box. “They dropped this just after you left. Told ’em I’d make certain you got it.”
Stacy took the box. For its size, it was fairly heavy. She rocked it, and the contents thumped against the sides of the box.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Have a great day!”
The girl disappeared inside. Stacy crossed to her own door, unlocked it and entered the house. She kicked the door shut behind her, dumped her purse and keys on the entryway table, then turned her attention to the package. She quickly realized there wasn’t a shipping label affixed to the box and frowned.
She headed back over to her neighbor’s and knocked.
Julie appeared at the door. “Hi, Stacy.”
“Got a question. The package doesn’t have a shipping label. Did they hand you one?”
“Nope. I gave you just what they gave me.”
“You signed for it?”
The blonde looked confused. “No. I assumed I didn’t need to. ’Cause they left a form or something at your door.”
“They didn’t.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Stacy.” By her tone, her confusion had become irritation.
“No probl-Wait! One last question.”
The blonde stopped in her doorway, expression exasperated.
“The FedEx guy, was he in uniform?”
“She,” Julie corrected, drawing her eyebrows together, as if trying to recall. “Don’t remember.”
“What about the truck? Did you see it?”
“Sorry.” When Stacy opened her mouth to ask another question, the girl cut her off. “I’m missing the best part of the workout. Do you mind?”
Stacy said she didn’t and headed back into her own apartment. She crossed to the box, grabbed the pull tab, tore it open and eased its contents out. The item had been secured in bubble wrap. A note card was taped to the wrap.
She freed the card and flipped it open. It read, simply:
The game’s not over yet.
Stacy’s hands began to shake. The White Rabbit.
It couldn’t be.
Carefully, Stacy loosened the tape. Pulled away the bubble wrap.
Her breath caught. A laptop computer. An Apple, twelve-inch. Pretty white case.
One she recognized.
Cassie’s computer.
Even as she told herself it could be any Apple laptop, she opened it, hit the “on” button. The device sprang to life.
She forced herself to breathe as the programs loaded; then the finder filled the screen. She scanned the files, stopping on one titled My Pics.
Stacy opened it. The preferences had been set for a slide show. Rows of thumbnail-size photos popped up. She clicked on the first. A photo filled the screen. Cassie and Magda, wearing New Year’s Eve’s hats and blowing horns. Next appeared one of the rest of the game group, doing a cancan. Then a photo of Cassie’s mom and sister.
The next caused her heart to lurch to her throat.
She and Cassie. At Café Noir. Mugging for the camera.
A cry slipped past Stacy’s lips. She jumped to her feet and strode to the front window. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, struggling against the pain. The sense of loss.
She remembered the day that picture had been taken. Billie had taken it. With her camera phone. It seemed like just yesterday.
Cassie had been alive. And now she was gone.
Stacy balled her hands into fists. She had to focus. Not on the past. Not on the pain. But on what was happening. Why it was happening.
Bobby Gautreaux hadn’t killed Cassie and Beth.
But who had? And why had they sent her the computer?
She dropped her hands and turned toward the device. They’d wanted her to know that Cassie’s death and White Rabbit were linked. That Troy’s death hadn’t ended the game.
The White Rabbit was still at large.
Stacy sucked in a sharp breath, turned and went back to the computer. She closed the photo file and scrolled down the Finder menu, stopping on a file labeled White Rabbit.
Bingo.
She clicked on the item. It opened to a menu with only one item listed.
The Game.
Judging by the date, the document had been created Sunday, February 27, at 10:15 p.m.
The night Cassie had been killed.
Stacy opened it and began to read. A play-by-play game strategy, she realized. The game as she, Malone and the others had played that day. The White Rabbit had assembled all the characters. Da Vinci and Angel. The Professor. Nero. Alice.
And just as in the game they had played, the Dormouse, the two playing cards and the Cheshire Cat weren’t characters.
They were the obstacles. The monsters sent by the White Rabbit to weaken or kill players.
The players.
Of course. They were all dead now. Even the White Rabbit.
All except Angel and Alice.
Stacy leaped to her feet. That was it! Of course. Sure, Leo got everything if Kay was out of the picture.
But that scenario worked in reverse, as well. None of them had considered it.
With Leo gone, Kay got everything.
Stacy began to pace. Excited. Kay had been the one who had known Pogo, who had put Leo’s name on Gallery 124’s mailing list. She’d been in cahoots with Troy. Somehow their plans had gone awry.
Because of her. It had to be.
So, who had sent her the computer?
Alice.
Alice had figured it out. Alice knew her mother was guilty. That she had killed Leo.
Killer Takes All. All the spoils. Leo’s entire estate. The profits from the recent, lucrative licensing deals.
Stacy would bet Troy had become an employee of Wonderland Creations sometime after those deals had been made.
But what of Dunbar? Stacy rubbed her temples. Had Kay recognized him right off? Is that what had gotten her going? Had she realized Danson made a perfect fall guy and enlisted Troy’s help?
The woman was brilliant. The plan had been brilliant.
I’m smarter than both of them. Did he tell you that?
Alice. She’d figured it out.
Of course, Stacy realized. Two characters still stood. The game wouldn’t be over until all players were dead but one.
Killer Takes All.
Alice needed help.
Stacy brought a hand to her mouth. Did Kay intend to kill Alice, as well? Down the line, in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion?
How did Leo’s will read? Was Kay the sole recipient of Leo’s wealth? Or was she merely a trustee?
Stacy snatched up her cell phone, punched in Malone’s number, then hung up when she got the message service. Next she dialed ISD. The woman who answered informed her that Detective Malone was in a meeting and asked if she could direct her to another detective.
“Is Detective Tony Sciame available?”
He was, and several moments later, he came on the line. “Stacy, what’s up?”
“I’m trying to reach Spencer. It’s important.”
“He’s in with the captain and a couple of the guys from PID.”
Public Integrity Division. Internal Affairs. The division that justified its existence by the number of cops they busted. A meeting with those guys always boded ill. She should know-just before she’d left the Dallas force, they’d raked her over the coals.
She frowned, concerned. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t know for sure. It’s the captain’s first half day back, and those jokers come bustin’ in. Next thing we know, Malone’s getting drilled.”