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 kitchen.
Fitting her original impression of Leonardo Noble being both surfer dude and mad scientist, the interior was a mishmash of the comfortable and the formal, the modern and classic. The art, too, was bizarrely eclectic. A large Blue Dog painting, by Louisiana artist George Rodrigue, graced the stairwell; next to it, a traditional landscape. In the dining room hung an antique portrait of a child, one of those hideous representations of a child as a miniature adult.
“The portrait came with the house,” a woman said from the top of the stairs. Stacy looked up. The woman, of obvious mixed Asian descent, was gorgeous. One of those cool, self-possessed beauties Stacy admired and despised-both for the same reason.
Stacy watched as she descended the stairs. The woman crossed to her and extended her hand. “It’s quite awful, isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“The portrait. I can hardly bear to look at it, but for some obscure reason Leo’s grown attached.” She smiled then, the curving of her lips more practiced than warm. “I’m Kay Noble.”
The wife. “Stacy Killian,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Mrs. Maitlin said you’re a police officer?”
“I’m investigating a murder.” That much was true.
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to speak with Mr. Noble. Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not. However, I’m his business manager. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
“A woman was murdered several nights ago. She was heavily into fantasy role-playing games. The night she died she was meeting someone to play your husband’s game.”
“My ex-husband,” she corrected. “Leo’s the creator of a number of RPGs. Which one?”
“The game that refuses to die, I’ll bet.”
Stacy turned. Leonardo Noble stood in the doorway to the parlor. The first thing she noted was his height-he was considerably taller than he had appeared in his press photo. The boyish grin made him look younger than the forty-five she’d read his age to be.
“Which one would that be?” she asked.
“White Rabbit, of course.” He bounded across the foyer and stuck out his hand. “I’m Leonardo.”
She took it. “Stacy Killian.”
“Detective Stacy Killian,” Kay added. “She’s investigating a murder.”
“A murder?” His eyebrows shot up. “Here’s an unexpected twist to the day.”
Stacy took his hand. “A woman named Cassie Finch was killed this past Sunday night. She was an avid fan of role-playing games. The Friday before her death, she told a friend she had met someone who played the game White Rabbit, and he had arranged a meeting between her and a Supreme White Rabbit.”
Leo Noble spread his hands. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
She took a small spiral notebook from her jacket pocket, the same type of notebook she had carried as a detective. “Another gamer described you as the Supreme White Rabbit.”
He laughed, then apologized. “Of course, there’s nothing about this situation that’s funny. It’s the comment…a Supreme White Rabbit. Really.”
“As the game’s creator, aren’t you?”
“Some say so. They hold me up as some sort of mystical being. A god of sorts.”
“Is that the way you view yourself?” she asked.
He laughed again. “Certainly not.”
Kay stepped in. “That’s why we call it the game that refuses to die. The fans are obsessed.”
Stacy moved her gaze between the unlikely pair. “Why?” she asked.
“Don’t know.” Leonardo shook his head. “If I did, I’d re-create the magic.” He leaned toward her, all boyish enthusiasm. “Because it is, you know. Magic. Touching people in a way that’s so personal. And so intense.”
“You never published the game. Why?”
He glanced at his ex-wife. “I’m not the sole creator of White Rabbit. My best friend and I created it back in 1982, while we were grad students at Berkeley. D amp;D was at the height of its popularity. Dick and I were both gamers, but we grew bored with D amp;D.”
“So you decided to create your own scenario.”
“Exactly. It caught on and quickly spread by word of mouth from Berkeley to other universities.”
“It became clear to them,” Kay offered quietly, “that they had done something special. That they had a viable commercial success at their fingertips.”
“His name?” Stacy asked.
Leonardo took over once more. “Dick Danson.”
She made a note of the name as the man continued. “We formed a business partnership, intending to publish White Rabbit and other projects we had in the works. We had a falling out before we could.”
“A falling out?” Stacy repeated. “Over what?”
The man looked uncomfortable; he and his ex-wife exchanged a glance. “Let’s just say, I discovered Dick wasn’t the person I thought he was.”
“They dissolved the partnership,” Kay said. “Agreed not to publish anything they worked on together.”
“That must have been difficult,” Stacy said.
“Not as difficult as you might think. I had lots of opportunities. Lots of ideas. So did he. And White Rabbit was already out there, so we figured we weren’t losing that much.”
“Two White Rabbits,” she murmured.
“Pardon?”
“You and your former partner. As co-creators, you could both go by the title of Supreme White Rabbit.”
“That would be true. Except that he’s dead.”
“Dead?” she repeated. “When?”
He thought a moment. “About three years ago. Because it was before we moved here. He drove off a cliff along the Monterey coast.”
She was silent a moment. “Do you play the game, Mr. Noble?”
“No. I gave up role-playing games years ago.”
“May I ask why?”
“Lost interest. Grew out of them. Like anything done to excess, after a while the endeavor loses its thrill.”
“So you went looking for a different thrill.”
He sent her a big, goofy smile. “Something like that.”
“Are you in contact with any local players?”
“None.”
“Have any contacted you?”
He hesitated slightly. “No.”
“You don’t seem certain of that.”
“He is.” Kay glanced pointedly at her watch; Stacy saw the sparkle of diamonds. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” she said, standing, “but Leo’s going to be late for a meeting.”
“Of course.” Stacy got to her feet, tucking her notebook into her pocket as she did.
They walked her to the front door. She stopped and turned back after she had stepped through it. “One last question, Mr. Noble. Some of the articles I read suggested a link between role-playing games and violent behavior. Do you believe that?”