"No way. Not until you answer my questions."
Alex spun back and lunged at James, throwing her right fist into his jaw. The sound was a resounding crack and James let go of her and fell back against the wall. "Go on, James. Why don't you go file a little complaint for me assaulting a senior officer?" It was all she could do not to hit him again.
She took another step toward the door, but James stopped her. This time, when she spun around, he was ready for her. He grabbed her right fist and held it back, turning her around and wrapping his arms around her body to hold her down. As he pushed her into a chair, she heard a rattling noise, but before she could react, he'd handcuffed her to the chair.
"You're fucking kidding me. This is police brutality!" She was practically yelling, but no one appeared at the door. Internal Affairs rarely saw this sort of action, so they probably thought the noise was coming from the detective division next door.
James shut the door and sat in the second chair. "What's going on, Alex?"
"You've handcuffed me to a goddamn chair is what's going on."
With an angry scowl, he stood, shoving the chair back into its corner. The chair scraped against the floor and rocked slightly to regain its balance. "You're pissing me off. I mean it. I'm trying to help you, but all you do is screw things up."
"Why don't you just get out of here?"
"Because I can't."
"Oh, right. I forgot, you're the perfect cop. Why not just beat a confession out of me, then? Is that what you want?"
"Don't play that game with me. Do you have anything to say?" he pressed.
She didn't answer.
"Fine, I'll read the goddamn file for myself."
A gasp leapt from her throat without warning. "What file?"
"The one from Palo Alto that you took to lunch with you."
Anger flushed in her cheeks. "Reesa told you?"
He waved his hand at her. "Jesus Christ, I'm your brother. I have the same genes. I don't need anyone to tell me. I know how you think."
"Bullshit," she countered. "You don't know anything about me." She thought back to when she'd walked out of the station. She'd passed Damon Crandle, one of James's IA cronies. "Crandle told you I'd left with the file."
"It doesn't matter, Alex. I'm going to read that file, word for word, page for page. Then, I'm going to have someone in Palo Alto confirm exactly how many pages there were. If there's so much as a corner missing, I promise you, you'll never work on a force in this state again."
His face rigid with fury, he motioned to the cuffs.
"And you can just sit in those until you come clean or until I figure out what was in that file." He paused and raised his finger. "And another thing, don't think I would hesitate a second to get your ass kicked off the force just because we're related."
She turned her back to him, putting her feet up on the desk to wait. "Now there's a news flash. You've all but done it already. So why don't I just help you. I quit. Big relief?"
With a snarl, he swung the chair around.
"Just fucking tell me."
"No."
If he knew, she would become a suspect in Loeffler's murder. She was there the night he was killed; his hand was found at her house. The file would link her to Loeffler, would prove that they had known each other. Motive was just a half turn away. Hell, that kid Tim had probably already provided enough motive for murder. An affair that had gone sour. What a joke.
But she had known him, maybe even had met with him on the night he was murdered. What if she had killed him?
She had to know. She wanted to find out on her own, see the evidence of what had happened for herself. And more than anything, she needed to confront the man who had dug this from the depths of her past and thrown it in her face.
"I guess I'll go then."
Alex pulled at the cuff, the metal clinking against the chair. "Seriously, unlock it."
"You tell me what I want to know and I'll think about it."
"You can't leave me here. You'll lose your job. Then we'll both be unemployed. No big deal for me. I don't have a family to support."
Without looking back, he moved to the door and pulled it open. "Watch me."
She gritted her teeth. "James!" The chair scraped against the floor as she leapt to strangle him.
He gave her a fake smile, starting to shut the door behind him. "I'm going to get Lombardi and Captain Palowski, let them know about the file. Must be something really interesting in there."
She shook her head. "You do that."
"Unless you tell me yourself."
Alex felt defeat sink like heavy weights on her shoulders. James had no idea how hurtful he could be. She thought about how he'd react to what had happened to her as a child. Pity maybe. More likely, he'd be embarrassed, the way some parents were embarrassed of children who had been raped or molested. Either it didn't occur to them to try to help the child or they didn't know how.
"You gonna spit it out?"
She nodded slowly.
"I knew you'd come around." He pulled the second chair up, careful not to get too close.
"You going to unlock the cuffs?"
"Not until you've spilled it."
She watched his satisfied grin and wondered how his face would change when he found out. Suddenly, she almost looked forward to telling him.
"So?"
Her wallet in her lap, she opened it with her free hand. "You're not going to believe it."
"Believe me, I've seen it all."
She swallowed hard and quickly told him the basics of the Sesame Street case. Then, she pulled out the folded list and handed it to him. She focused on the desk as he opened the page.
"Hey," he said, giving her a pat on the back. "You did the right thing."
She nodded, trying to keep herself from thinking about what must have happened that day.
After glancing it over quickly, he pointed to the list of victims. "Am I supposed to recognize one of these names?"
Her lips suddenly dry, she shook her head. "The survivors," she said, though it was barely a whisper when it came out.
"The what?"
She blinked hard, pulling the pages from his grip. Her hand shaking, she laid it against the desk and pointed. "The survivors. The first is a list of the kids who were killed. Then, the three that survived. Read that."
He stood and peered over her.
Her eyes closed, she concentrated on holding back the tears that fought to fall.
"Holy shit."
She flinched as James pulled the list from her grasp. When she opened her eyes, he was pacing a small circle, swinging his arms.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
Swiping at a tear that she hadn't been able to hold off, she shook her head.
"There must be a mistake."
"Or another Alexandra Michael Kincaid?"
James's mouth remained open, his eyes wide. He looked as horrified as she felt.
And yet she wasn't. At that moment, she felt nothing at all. "Will you uncuff me now?"
He raked a hand through his hair, staring at his sister as though he had just discovered she had three weeks to live.
She didn't even let herself think about how he would look at her when he realized she now had a motive to kill someone.
He unlocked the handcuffs and tossed them on the desk. "Jesus."
She rubbed her wrists.
"Maybe it's a coincidence."
It wasn't likely, but she didn't mind grasping at straws. "What was the name of the grammar school we went to?"
His brow furrowed, he shook his head. "I have no idea."
She exhaled.
"Brittany would remember."
"I do not want Brittany to know about this. She'll want to help and she can't—not yet, not right now." She stared at James. "You've been an asshole about this from the beginning, James. I know it's your job, but I'm your sister and you've been more enemy than ally. But, if you go to Brittany before it's absolutely necessar
y, I will make it my life's goal to ruin your career. And I won't care if I take mine with it." Hell, hers was already destroyed anyway.
He paused and then nodded.
"Say it."
"I promise."
She watched him for a minute. "You better keep your promise." She lifted the phone and dialed Brittany's work number.
"Dr. Stevens's office," Brittany's receptionist answered, in a high, chirpy voice that Alex could never understand how she maintained for a full eight hours a day.
"Hi, Cassie. It's Alex. I was looking for Brittany. Is she with a patient?"
"Nope, she's right here."
There was a brief pause before Brittany spoke. "What's up?"
Alex stared at her desk. "I'm filling out this stupid form at the station. Do you remember what elementary school we went to?"
"Let me think."
The phone against her ear, Alex squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her hands to her temples, as she prayed that Brittany would tell her they'd actually gone to elementary school in Redwood City or Menlo Park—anywhere but Palo Alto. She would do anything to be wrong.
The seconds passed like hours as she tried to shake off the sensation that Brittany's words would seal her fate.
James tapped on her shoulder and she waved him off.
"Brittany?"
"Yeah, I know it. It's Florence something. Hold on, I'll get it."
Lead filled Alex's stomach and she was suddenly nauseated. "Florence Hemingway?"
"That's it. Is that all you needed?"
"Yeah, thanks," Alex managed to choke out.
"Okay, I've got to run—I've got a patient. Talk to you later."
Alex dropped the phone in its cradle and turned to the wall, leaning across her knees and throwing up in the metal wastebasket. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she held her face in her hands, choking back silent sobs that shook like small earthquakes through her chest.
James turned her chair to face him. Then, kneeling on the floor, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and holding her as he hadn't done since their mother died.
His hold was awkward but she didn't care. Without even knowing it was happening, the sobs shook loose from her chest, tears running down her face as if from a leaky faucet.
"Ah, shit, Alex. You're going to be fine."
"He almost killed me."
James held her head tight to his shoulder and patted her back. "You're okay. We'll get the s.o.b., I know we will."
She pulled herself away. "It's not him, James. He's dead," she whispered. "It's someone else. Someone else is doing this to me."
"I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. I promise. I know I'm not always the best brother, but no one's ever going to hurt you."
His words were calming, and she sucked in a breath, trying not to wonder if irreparable damage hadn't already been done. And who was out there, waiting to finish the job.
Chapter 17
Alex arrived at Judith Richards's house at five past seven. Her legs felt weak, her wrist still sore from the handcuffs James had so hastily slapped on her. But she had forced herself into her best pair of jeans and a striped shirt, then out the door. It was more effort than anyone should have expected after the day she'd had.
At least she was making headway. Or it felt like she was. She had found Marcus Nader easily enough. He lived in Palo Alto, in a home he owned. He'd paid two hundred and sixty-five thousand for it about four years before. He was the only one listed on the deed. Profession was listed as photographer. The answering machine was a man's voice, but not the one of her caller. His message referred to "I" not "we," so she assumed Nader lived alone. Her instincts told her he wasn't Loeffler's killer. She wondered if he was in danger.
"This is Alex Kincaid," she'd said after the long series of beeps. "I think we have something in common and you had better be careful. Call me as soon as possible." Leaving her home number, she hoped he'd call soon. She wondered if the long series of beeps meant that he hadn't checked his messages in a while.
Greg had called to say that Byron had gotten a rush job that he had to do before he could process the print from Alex's house. "He promises to get to it by tomorrow," Greg told her. "Tomorrow" had become an almost frightening word, each passing day bringing a host of unknowns. But she wasn't ready to turn the print over to James. "And the blood?" She'd asked.
"It's human."
She exhaled. "Type?"
"O positive."
"I'm AB."
"I was afraid of that," Greg said.
"Me, too." She paused. "Loeffler's O?"
"Yep."
"Damn." She'd broken the news to him about the murders and being a survivor as best she could. But talking about it made her shaky, and she could hear the raw fear in her own voice as she choked out the words.
"I can be there in three minutes," he'd offered.
"I can't. I have to go see Judith tonight."
"A shrink?"
"A shrink," she repeated, not liking the way it sounded from her own lips.
"It'll probably help," he said, but she could tell he was skeptical. Cops didn't willingly see shrinks. Shrinks were for rich people with dysfunctional families where Mommy didn't express herself to the children like she should. They weren't for people who lived with death like cops did. In some ways, Alex supposed she fit both descriptions. Her mother had certainly left a lot un-discussed.
"Can you run a priors on a couple names for me?" she'd asked Greg, pushing her mother from her mind.
"Sure."
Alex explained about the sister, Maggie Androus, and Marcus Nader and the initials she'd seen written in Loeffler's calendar. "And has there been any word on those pictures?"
"The ones the kid found?"
"Yeah."
"None that I've heard. I know Lombardi interviewed the kid, but I'm not privy to all that detective shit. I'll see what I can find out."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
There was a long pause and Alex knew Loeffler's blood was weighing on both of their minds. "The blood is Loeffler's," she'd said.
"Yeah."
She exhaled and let her head stop. "You're going to need to turn it in."
"I'm afraid so."
"Do it."
He paused. "I can wait—"
She shook her head. "Do it now. Have Lou send it in. Tell him to say he got it from me with no explanation."
"Why don't we—"
"Goddamn it, Roback. Turn it in now. I've held it back long enough. Now, go." She slammed down the phone and turned to face the white wall that the killer had knocked her against like a bag of flour. There, in the center of the wall, was a tiny splatter of her blood.
Sinking to the floor, she felt deflated. Loeffler's blood was on her pants. She was about to become a murder suspect. And she had no way to stop it.
After talking to Greg, she had spent some time looking back through her notes from Loeffler's calendar: "NT SEC@10 SQ. Call: N, K, DR and PAPD." Was the N for Nader, the K for Kincaid? Then, who was DR? How was he related to this?
She still couldn't figure out why Loeffler was killed. Had he remembered something he shouldn't have? Was it buried at the back of her mind, too, waiting to slip free?
Now she sat in front of Judith's house, still going over the evidence in her mind. The frustration she felt had become almost like physical pain. There was nothing more she could do tonight except find out as much as she could about what had happened to her as a child. She hoped Judith could help with that.
The car locked, she headed up the stone path, glancing at Judith's house towering above her. The brick exterior presented itself heavy and solid like a fortress that would protect her. She hesitated, her core rebelling at the very prospect of the comfort it offered.
The need to tell someone else what was happening, someone who might be able to explain it, both repulsed and frightened her. But if she wanted to salvage her job and rebuild her life, she needed to start somewhere. And at
this point, somewhere might as well be here. The news of her past still felt disconnected, like it had happened to someone else.
Parts of what she'd read in the report were blurred and dreamlike, as though she had been under medication when she'd read them. She recognized the old mechanism for shielding herself, and she wondered how long it had been in effect, even without her knowledge. There seemed an easy answer to that—at least since she was in the second grade.
She pushed her hair off her face, thinking it was time to cut it short. Looking down at her jeans, she caught sight of a small dollop of dried tomato sauce. She licked her finger and scratched at it without success. "Damn it," she muttered.
Suddenly feeling like a disheveled seventh grader going to her boyfriend's house for the first time to study, she forced herself to stand still and ring the bell.
Judith answered the door, wearing a pair of khakis and a denim button-down shirt. Alex hadn't realized how short she was. In stockinged feet, she couldn't have been taller than five feet.
Judith's face looked as it always had. Her once dark hair was woven with strands of gray, and time had softened the strong jaw and cheekbones. Her dark eyes, too, seemed softer, as though the years hadn't made her older but more at ease. "Come on in. I think I'm burning dinner."
Alex smiled and entered the house. She had to respect anyone who burned dinner. With a last glance at the stain on her pant leg, she followed.
Judith led her through a comfortable-looking den with a large brown leather couch and matching overstuffed chair. A Native American-style braided rug covered the floor.
Alex eyed the rooms as they passed. Judith appeared to subscribe more to the Alex version of cleanliness than the Brittany one. There were stacks of loose papers on the entry table, and a basket of unfolded clothes waiting to be taken upstairs. Several jackets were strewn here and there, a yellow one tossed on the floor next to a pair of red Doc Marten shoes, much too large to fit Judith. And yet the books on the shelves in the den were neatly lined up by size.
A small oil painting caught Alex's eye. The picture depicted the wraparound porch of an old house. It looked like it belonged by the ocean. Two wicker rocking chairs sat facing outward. The picture seemed to depict loneliness, and Alex felt a shiver run over her skin.
Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) Page 14
