Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Refusing the urge to let her fingers touch the sunken skin beneath her eyes, she forced a smile. "I'll think about it." She thought about the taunting phone calls she'd received. Maybe Lombardi was getting them, too. No, she'd have heard.

  "Alex Kincaid, Jimmy Norton. Jimmy, Alex."

  She shook hands with a short balding man in an oversized UC Davis sweatshirt. His perfectly round face made his head look like a red beach ball, with a full nose and high, bulging ruddy cheeks to complete the image.

  "Jimmy's going to deal with the tapes."

  She nodded.

  Jimmy's expression was unchanged and she wondered if he didn't know what was on the tapes or if he was just used to dealing with that sort of perversion.

  "He'll be handling it at the station, creating photos from the video via a computer and trying to match the faces with names. Once he's done, he may ask you to help with the matching."

  "No problem."

  "In the meantime, you can continue to work in there. Once you've gotten through all that shit, we need to box anything relevant and get it to the station. Someone else will come through for a second round tomorrow. Think you can handle that today?"

  She glanced around the room and forced herself to nod. It didn't seem possible to get through the rest of the room today, but she knew the answer Lombardi wanted. And she wanted to be the one to go through Loeffler's things first.

  Before she could say another word, Lombardi led Jimmy out of the den and closed the door behind them. She looked around at the piles on the floor, pushing her hair off her face. There was a ton of work to do.

  On her knees, she opened the second file cabinet drawer, continuing where she'd left off. What had seemed interesting to her yesterday now left her agitated and impatient. Loeffler kept voluminous records of his cases, but as in his Palm Pilot, his notes were in shorthand she didn't understand. She had started a list of his abbreviations yesterday and glanced at it again now, trying to match one she'd found to the list. She had hoped by seeing them more than once, they would start to make sense. So far she'd had no such luck.

  She made it through every piece of paper in the room by noon, and still nothing. Looking around, she searched for anything she'd missed. Besides the books on the shelves and a few framed pictures, she'd turned the place upside down. She thought about the other rooms in the house. Was her name written down somewhere? Why had Loeffler's killer presumably taken a mug from this house and put it in hers?

  Frustrated, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair. The band snapped against her hand. "Damn." A small red welt appeared beside her thumb. Rubbing it, she blew out her breath. "Move on, Kincaid," she told herself.

  As she stooped to pick up the hair band, something on the bookshelf caught her eye. She crossed the room and sat down on the carpet. A line of tall, thin books filled the bottom shelf of the case. But in between two of them was a manila folder. Pulling out one of the books to loosen them, she placed it beside her and pulled out the folder. The tab read "S.S."

  Alex opened the file on her lap and found a picture and a pile of newspaper clippings. The picture was of a man with pumpkin-colored hair and an awkward smile. On the back were the initials B.A. She turned her attention to the heading on the first newspaper clipping: "Sesame Street Murder leaves Palo Alto City District Horrified." Alex read the story, dated March 18, 1971.

  In what police officials are calling the most heinous crime in county history, Walter Androus kidnapped a class of fourteen second-grade students from Florence Hemingway School during a class outing to the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory. It is believed that Androus intercepted the bus carrying the students on a small street behind the school by pretending to be a chaperone arriving late.

  He then hijacked the vehicle and killed the driver, a chaperone and two parent volunteers. Their bodies were found in an empty Dumpster near the abandoned warehouse where he forced the children to ingest low doses of Valium, then blindfolded all of them, raped at least three and killed eleven of the fourteen.

  Police responded to a phone call they believe was made by one of the children and arrived at the scene.

  Walter Androus was found...

  Alex flipped over the photocopy, but the back was blank. Where was the rest of the story? She looked at the date again. 1971. It was so long ago. From the diploma on the wall, she guessed Loeffler would have been six years old. She and Loeffler had graduated from college the same year. She would have been six, too.

  Could he have been working on something related to this case? Was he prosecuting the killer after all these years? She focused on his diploma again. It could be Loeffler's class, she thought, glancing at the date on the article, or someone he knew. She searched for the class photo she'd seen the day before. It was from the same year as the murders.

  Across the room, she found the picture and stared at it again, studying the two young boys whose faces remained X-less. One looked vaguely like Loeffler, but it was impossible to be sure.

  She stared at the picture of the man with the red hair again. The initials were B.A. Was this man Walter Androus? The article mentioned Palo Alto. She'd seen Palo Alto somewhere else, too. Picking up the phone on Loeffler's desk, she called the station and asked one of the secretaries to call Palo Alto to get the old file on the murders. Maybe something would turn up there.

  Turning back, she set down the class picture and clenched her hand to her chest, trying to steady its tremor. Why was she behaving so strangely? None of this had anything to do with her.

  The door opened and Greg walked in. She put the newspaper article down on top of the class photo and turned to greet him. "What's going on?"

  "I thought we could talk."

  Alex didn't like the tone of his voice. He sounded like he had a surprise, and it didn't sound good. She couldn't take any more bad surprises. "I'm kind of busy. Can I take a rain check?"

  "I don't think so."

  Alex knelt down to one of her piles and began to sort it again. "Come on, Roback. I'll see you later."

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet in an angry motion. "You've got some explaining to do."

  "The hell I do," she said, jerking her arm free and stepping back. "Don't fucking touch me." She looked at the closed door, knowing there were a dozen cops within earshot. "You're not my damn keeper," she snapped in a harsh whisper. "I don't owe you shit."

  "I'm not trying to keep you, Kincaid," he said, his face more angry than she'd ever seen. "I'm trying to fucking save you."

  "What makes you think I need saving?"

  "This." He pulled a photo out of his pocket and handed it to her. She recognized it as an evidence photo. Just that fact made her feel suddenly shaky. Without touching the picture, she stared at it. It was of something lying on carpet in what she recognized as Loeffler's living room. But she couldn't make out the item. "What the hell is it?"

  "A watch."

  Alex felt like she'd been punched in the gut. She'd known her watch was missing. Goddamn it. Why hadn't she realized. But what could she have done? It was just a Timex Indiglo. They were a dime a dozen. She shook her head. Not hers. Hers was different.

  Unable to look up at Roback, she stared at the photo, wanting to know where it had been, where they'd found it. But seeing it in an evidence photo, she couldn't get herself to ask. Instead, she stepped back and leaned against Loeffler's file cabinet, defeated.

  "You want to explain this?"

  She shook her head.

  "It was at the crime scene, Alex. Like your earring. The earring that you weren't wearing when we walked into Loeffler's house that morning. What was that earring doing on Loeffler's floor? And this watch—it was under the body—caught around his belt. I know this watch, Alex. It's yours."

  She shook her head.

  He rattled the picture in her face, his expression angry and also scared. He was scared for her. But not as scared as she was. She was terrified.

  "See the tag on the photo? The watch is inscribed, A
lex. It says 'SF Marathon, July 1997.' I remember when you got it from that dork Dwayne. I had come with James to cheer you on."

  Alex looked up at Greg. She didn't know what to say. "You shouldn't have taken the picture. It's evidence. It should be in the file."

  "Jesus Christ, Alex. Do you know how serious this is?" He turned around and looked at the empty room. Then dropping his voice, he said, "I almost told them it was yours. But then I thought about the earring and realized you couldn't have lost both there that morning. I was watching you. You never had your arm under his body."

  He let out his breath and wiped his hand over his face. "I had to talk to you first." He shook his head. "I know you didn't do that to him—not the hand and everything. You couldn't. But you were there. Why the hell were you there?" He paused and touched her arm. "Let me help you. Tell me what's going on."

  She shook her head without looking at him. "I can't."

  Greg stared at her, their eyes locked as he studied her. "I'm going to have to tell them what I know."

  She rubbed her face. "Can you give me until tonight? I'll call you. I'm being set up, Greg. I don't know who or why, but someone is screwing with me." She thought about the fingerprint from her arm and the mug. "I can prove it."

  Just then, the door opened and Lombardi lumbered in. "Break it up, love birds. You can play kiss-face on your own time. We got work to do here."

  Chapter 10

  Alex took her shoes off and put her feet up on the coffee table. Her head buried in the sofa cushion, she refused to move, hoping her insides might unwind from the events of the day. She was thankful that Brenda had to cancel their dinner plans. She wasn't up for facing anyone. Not after the news Greg had delivered today.

  She ran her hand over the spot where she'd worn her watch. Her earring, her watch. Things she never took off and she'd lost both in one morning at a crime scene. She'd been there—at Loeffler's house—the night he was killed. There was no other explanation. That reality was so terrifying that she couldn't bring herself to move. She tried to think positively. There was no definite evidence that linked her to the murder. It wasn't as though she was headed straight to jail. Someone would need to prove that there was motive.

  She thought about her caller, wondering what sort of motive he was dreaming up for her. She rubbed at her temples and tried to figure a way out. At least she had Greg. He'd kept quiet on the watch this far. And he swore to at least hear her out before turning her in. That was the most she could ask for. She just hoped she could convince him that she was being framed. She needed to call him. Eat first and then she'd call.

  Dragging herself from the couch, she pushed all thoughts from her head as she padded to the kitchen.

  She found the last bagel in the fridge, cut it in half and stuck it in the toaster. A bagel and peanut butter for dinner sounded as good as anything else she could come up with.

  While it was toasting, she opened a notepad and wrote down the events so far to talk over with Greg. First, woke up on strange street, no memory. She stopped after that one. It was the worst of them. If the situation was reversed and Greg told her he'd awakened on a weird street with no memory of going there, she'd have told him to quit smoking crack. It was going to be hard for anyone logical to swallow that all she'd taken the night before was a mild sleep aid. And a cop was taught to be especially skeptical.

  Opening the cabinet, she brought out the three makeshift evidence bags. She pulled the fingerprint out of its bag and examined it to be sure it was still clear. In the black dust, she could see the pattern of her skin beneath the print and she thought about the fact that this man's hands had been on her skin. Who else had he touched? Loeffler?

  She chewed on the end of the pen and tried to think of things she'd missed. Her stomach growled. Dinner! She smelled the burning bagel before she saw the smoke. She bolted into the kitchen. "Damn, damn, damn."

  She waved her hand through the smoke, ripping the toaster cord from the wall and trying to find something to pry the bagel from its smoking depths.

  With a dull knife from the drawer, she wedged out the blackened bagel, cursing at its heat before dropping it on the counter.

  The smoke detector at the top of the stairs made chirping sounds of alarm. "Oh, crap." She knew it would soon start to squeal like a trapped cat. Before too long, the entire fire department would probably show up. She lifted the toaster and set it on the stove, then turned the stove fan on and used her arms in an attempt to sweep the smoke into it.

  The smoke detector's chirps grew steady and loud. She pulled a broom from the closet and lunged up the stairs, using it to wave smoke away from the alarm in broad, sweeping strokes. The alarm quieted down and she returned to the kitchen, panting as she dropped the broom on the floor.

  Her stomach growled, testy. She grunted at it and picked up half of the destroyed bagel, starting to scrape at the charred remains. When she had finished scraping it, she had a bagel the thickness of a tortilla shell. She scrunched her nose and tossed it in the sink. The last bagel, what luck.

  As she pulled the fridge door open to see what else she had to eat, someone pounded on the door. She froze and looked down the hall.

  Leaving the refrigerator door open, she crept toward the front door. The shadow of a man's frame formed behind the curtain and she halted in her tracks.

  "Alex!" a man's voice said.

  She sighed in relief. It wasn't the caller's voice. This was a voice she knew.

  "Greg?"

  "Hey, partner. Let me in."

  She pulled back the curtain and saw Greg's face. In one arm, he held a massive pizza box.

  She was salivating as she opened the door. "You should call before you pound on a cop's door. I almost shot you. Pizza?" She grinned. "What the hell took you so long?"

  "You were expecting me?" Halting abruptly, he sniffed. "Is something—"

  "Yeah, yeah," she interrupted, passing him on the way to the kitchen. "I burned my dinner."

  "What was it?"

  "A bagel."

  Greg laughed. "Healthy." He followed her to the kitchen and put the box and his wallet on the counter. "Maybe we should go eat in my car. I'm a little worried about secondhand smoke."

  With a glare, she pulled two plates down from the cabinet. There was a strange awkwardness to their teasing and it added tension to Alex's already knotted gut. Unwillingly she found herself staring up at the coffee mugs, wondering if there had been any recent additions. But tonight they were all familiar.

  Forcing her eyes off the shelf, she glanced at the box in Greg's hand. "What'd you get?"

  "Half veggie, of course. Think I would come over here with the wrong order?"

  She smiled and opened the box. "You're a good man."

  "Wish other women realized that."

  "Someone'll figure it out. I can't be the only smart woman you know."

  He punched her playfully. "You might be." There was a heavy pause as his expression dropped.

  She searched for something to say but came up empty.

  "You okay?" he asked her.

  "Been better."

  He nodded. "Me, too. You've got me scared, Kincaid."

  "I know." She set the plates out and they loaded pizza on to them. "I'll explain it. But it's not good." She met his gaze. "Someone's really trying to fuck with me." She looked around to see what they were missing. "Let's go sit. You want a beer?"

  Greg hesitated and then nodded. "Only one, though. I'm headed in at eleven—working nights until you're back."

  Alex opened the fridge and took out two beers and they walked into the small den and sat down to eat. "You're working nights?"

  He nodded. "With Gamble."

  Wayne Gamble was a know-it-all desk jockey who drove everyone at the station nuts. "Rotten luck."

  "You have no idea. Guy's a nightmare. What bothers me most is that everybody's-best-friend, I-know-everything attitude of his. Walks through the station like we're at a goddamn party. And the neck-craning thing dr
ives me nuts."

  She tapped her beer against his. "I'll be back in no time." She spoke with considerably more confidence than she felt.

  After a long drag on his beer, he met her gaze. "You'd better be. Today he took ten minutes to brief me on the proper procedure for a code three. I've been a beat cop for five years. He's been sitting behind a desk for ten and he thinks that gives him clout to tell me how things work on the streets.

  "We brought in a D-and-D," Greg started, referring to a drunk and disorderly. "And Gamble went off about the smell of the man. No shit, Sherlock—guy's a bum—he reeks of alcohol." He shook his head and ate a bite of pizza before looking back at Alex. "Man, I'm surprised someone hasn't shot him yet."

  Alex rolled her eyes and nodded. "Why'd they put him back out on patrol, anyway?"

  "Guess he wanted another shot at it. But he can't even keep a partner."

  "What about putting him on a bike or a cycle?"

  Greg laughed. "He's too fat—guy's gotta weigh two fifty. You should hear what they call him in the locker room."

  Alex scrunched her nose. "I'm not sure I want to—"

  He grinned. "Inner tube. Big and fat with a tiny hose."

  She grimaced. "Jesus Christ, I'm eating."

  He grinned. "You love it when I talk dirty." Their eyes met and Greg's smile disappeared. He set his plate down. "You have to tell me what the hell's going on."

  Alex set down her plate, too, took a long pull on her beer, then set it on the table. Folding her hands together, she searched for a way to start. "You already know that I took that sleeping pill the night before we found Loeffler."

  "And you had some sort of reaction?"

  She looked up at him and then down at her hands again. "I woke up in my car."

  "That's why you didn't pick up Brenda in the morning like you were supposed to. And why you were late that morning."

  She gave him a stiff smile. "You going to let me tell the story?"

  He nodded and drank his beer until it was gone.