Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "I think it's great that you're so enthusiastic," she lied. "But I was doing forty-one in a thirty-five, Gamble. And like I said, I've had a really, really long day."

  He shook his head. "Don't need to confess the speed to me. I only have you clocked at forty." With his clipboard out, he sat down in his car and began writing.

  Riveted to her spot, she watched him, waiting for the joke. It had to be a joke. She was going five miles over the speed limit. It wasn't a ticket she would have written on a normal citizen. But another cop?

  The call came again.

  He picked up the radio and responded. "Adam Nineteen. I've got an eleven-ninety-four. No backup necessary."

  She counted, giving him until ten to smile and tell her he was kidding.

  Gamble glanced up and nodded to her car. "As I said, I am going to need your driver's license. I'll wait here if you want to get it. I trust you." Standing from the car, he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was low and raspy. "Unless you want to come here a moment."

  She halted, feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck. "What?"

  "We can probably clear this up, just the two of us, if you want."

  She took a step forward, seething to the point of shaking. "How do you mean?"

  Gamble opened the back door of the squad car and sat down. "You can start by sitting down here." He patted his knees. "I'll show you what to do from there. I promise it won't hurt." He grinned, reaching out to touch her.

  Fury exploded through her chest, racing across her arms and legs until it shot out from her fingers and she could no longer hold herself back. Her hands flat on the car door, she shoved it shut full force.

  Gamble emitted an agonizing cry that she was sure woke some of the neighbors as the door slammed on his legs.

  "I warned you," she said.

  Gamble was crying. "Jesus Christ, you're insane. You're fucking insane."

  He got that right. Anger still washing around her stomach like battery acid, she started for her car.

  "I think you broke my legs," he moaned.

  Cursing, she started her car and raced home. She shouldn't have let him get the best of her. And she knew she was going to catch hell from Captain Lyke. And James. Assaulting a police officer—even Crane Wayne—was a serious offense. If she hadn't been kicked off the force by now, she would be after this incident. Even with Gamble's blatant come-on, her aggression would be deemed over the top.

  "Forget it." She was going to Palo Alto tonight. There was no more time to waste on all this bullshit—people watching over her shoulder, keeping her off the case, trying to frame her or protect her. She didn't need them.

  In her driveway, she stopped the car, yanking the emergency brake so hard she was surprised it didn't come off in her hand. She opened the back door to the house, trying to look past the spot in her trash where Loeffler's hand had been found.

  The door locked, she took the stairs by twos and searched for a duffel bag beneath the bed. She scowled at the amount of crap she had managed to stuff under there.

  There was an old set of curlers, a digital alarm clock that didn't work, her camping equipment. Where the hell was the duffel? She tore stuff out and flung it across the room. Finally, she spotted it and put it on the bed, then kicked a path through the mess to her dresser.

  From it she pulled out three of everything—socks, underwear, T-shirts—and a pair of khakis and loafers for anything she couldn't do in jeans, and tossed it all in the bag. Grabbing her toothbrush from the bathroom, she ignored the rest. Even the crappiest motels had soap and shampoo. She didn't worry that she didn't know where she was staying. She would figure it out. She had a lot to figure out.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she opened her coat closet, lifted her holster off the coat rack on the back of the door, and then set it on the couch. She had turned in her badge and gun, so she pulled down the lockbox from the back of the closet and took out her personal weapon—a Smith & Wesson Model 5900 pistol. It was a 9mm, and she like it because it held fifteen rounds. Most 9mms, like her service Glock, only held ten rounds, and it didn't hurt to have a few extra shells loaded in case of an emergency.

  She tucked the gun, an extra magazine, and her flashlight in the bag and set her beeper on the table. She didn't want to hear from this guy again until they were face to face. The blinking red light of her machine caught her eye. She pressed Play and listened as she worked. Tom had called twice, worried. She listened through a message from the professor friend of Brenda's husband, wondering if she was busy Saturday night. He had a nice voice, she thought. Pressing Save, she looked over her things.

  The pepper spray and Gerber camping knife in her jacket, she pulled a box of extra ammunition down from the closet shelf and put it in her bag. With the bag on her shoulder, the weight of her travel arsenal sank down on the muscles in her back.

  She took another quick look around. There was nothing else she needed. Four steps from the door, she halted. Before she left, she needed to tell someone where she would be. A cop never went in alone without notifying someone. It was stupid, dangerous as hell, and an unnecessary risk.

  The phone glared at her. Not James, not Brittany. Greg? She shook her head. He would insist on coming and he'd done too much already. Plus, James was already on to him. If Greg knew where she was, James would break him in a second. The receiver tight in her fist, she dialed the only number she could call.

  "Hello?" came the sleepy voice.

  "Brenda?"

  "Alex, is that you? Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  "I'm sorry about all this shit. I tried to find something out, but it's like a vault over there. All the doors are closed, everything's a damn secret. They're like a bunch of Fibbies," she said, referring to FBI agents.

  "Thanks for trying."

  "No problem. Jesus, what time is it?"

  Alex looked at the clock across the room. It was almost eleven. "Listen, I'm really sorry. It's late. I need a favor." Through the phone, Alex heard Brenda shifting as though sitting up in bed.

  "Sure, anything."

  Alex glanced at the back door. "I'm going out of town for a few days."

  "Where?" Brenda's voice sounded fretful. "Is this about the case, Alex? You sure it's smart to leave?"

  With a quick breath, she answered, "I have to go. I'm going to Palo Alto."

  "To find out what happened with the dead lawyer?"

  "Yeah. It's where it happened. I'm hoping there are some answers down there."

  "Did I tell you the one about the tragedy of the bus full of lawyers who drowned?" Brenda said, trying to joke.

  "Yeah, yeah. The empty seat. That's an old one. I can't believe you're still telling it."

  Brenda was quiet for a minute. "You're sure that's what you need to do?"

  "Positive."

  "You want someone to come with you?" Brenda's voice deepened, her concern evident in the tone.

  Alex couldn't help but break a smile. "No." It would be one thing to lose her job, but she wasn't taking anyone else down with her. "I'll check in with you. I just wanted someone to know where I was. Greg's done too much already."

  "He's crazy about you, girl."

  Alex smiled self-consciously. "I know."

  "I'm having lunch with David tomorrow. I'm hoping to get some stuff from him."

  David was a detective who had always had a crush on Brenda and had made it perfectly clear despite her husband. "I appreciate it."

  "Is there somewhere I can call you?"

  "I don't have my cell phone anymore."

  "I heard."

  "I'll check messages here."

  "You're not telling James?"

  "No. And you can't, either."

  "You sure you want to do this alone?"

  She laughed. "That's a loaded question."

  "Damn right it is. I want you to think before you go"

  "Thanks, Brenda. I've thought it through—this is my only option."

  "If you're sure—"r />
  "I am."

  "Anything else?"

  Gamble's legs came to mind and she wondered how badly he was actually hurt. "There's one more thing..."

  "Shoot."

  Fingers massaging her temple, she considered what Gamble would tell the captain. "It's a long story, but when the captain starts ranting about Gamble being laid up in the hospital, will you tell him Gamble had it coming?"

  "Woman! You shot him?"

  Alex broke a sheepish grin. "Of course not. He's probably fine, but there's a chance I broke his leg."

  Brenda gasped. "You broke his leg?"

  "Okay," she confessed. "Maybe both. He had it coming—bastard came on to me."

  "He did not!"

  "Did, too."

  "And you broke his legs? You go, girl!" Brenda exploded into laughter and her husband groaned in the background. "That is too funny," she whispered. "When?"

  "It's a long story. You'll hear all about it tomorrow, I'm sure."

  "You can't leave me in suspense."

  "Believe me, it'll be worth the wait. I'll call you in a couple days."

  "You'd better. You be careful now."

  "Thanks, Brenda." Alex hung up the phone and headed out the door.

  * * *

  After a careful detour through the side streets of Oakland and Berkeley, Alex was confident she wasn't being followed. If someone had been behind her, he either would have lost her or been seen. Now, crossing the Bay Bridge, she could just see the Ghiradelli sign, PacBell Park, and the Transamerica Building against the white misty fog as she passed Treasure Island. Living and working in the East Bay, she came to the city less and less often. Looking over at the lights and the water, she remembered why she loved it so much.

  The bridge always gave her the sensation of freedom, one she didn't feel as strongly now. She only hoped on her way back from Palo Alto, she would feel it again. Despite the hour, a steady stream of cars still occupied the freeway, and Alex kept a close eye on which exited and which remained around her. It was hard to imagine that someone had followed her, but after the past few days, she knew she had to be extra careful.

  Turning up the radio, she felt the click, click, click as her tires crossed over the metal divides on the bridge's surface. The continuing debate in the city was about retrofitting the bridge for earthquake safety.

  As she passed through the city and headed down 101 south toward Palo Alto, she hoped she wouldn't have trouble finding a reasonably priced room when she arrived. She didn't have her cellular phone and she wasn't going to stop to call around.

  Her bankbook couldn't take too fancy a hotel and the one credit card she kept had a limit of only five hundred dollars. She had never been comfortable with buying things she couldn't pay for.

  The desire to sleep tumbled upon her, and she rolled down the window to fight the force of gravity working on her eyelids. She stayed in the far right lane of the five-lane freeway, moving only to pass an occasional turtle-like driver. The speed limit was sixty-five, but even in the slow lane the traffic moved at about seventy-five.

  The whole way down, she tried to reason out how a six-year-old could have killed a grown man. The report hadn't disclosed the method of Androus's death. All she knew was that he had died from a gunshot wound. She assumed more detail was missing because it involved a minor and those records would be sealed. But the file had said that the children's hands were bound and they were blindfolded. How could she have gotten his gun? Even if the blindfold had fallen off and he had set the gun beside her, how could she have steadied it to shoot him? She couldn't come up with an answer for that one.

  It was nearly one o'clock when she arrived in Palo Alto, exhausted. Her eyelids felt like they now weighed more than her duffel bag. She turned off and found a Red Roof Inn, pulling her car into the closest spot, praying the half-empty parking lot was an indication that they would have a vacancy.

  The night auditor looked like a member of the Addams Family, but he checked her into a eighty-dollar room without a problem. Thankful for the prospect of sleep, Alex headed for the stairs after a last glance out at the parking lot. It was silent. Her room was five floors up, but she hated elevators. Suddenly, she caught herself blaming each of her faults and fears on whatever had happened when she was six years old.

  She found her room and let herself in. Dropping her bag on the bed, she drew the shades, bolted and chained the door, and checked the bathroom and closet. Satisfied, she took off her jeans and bra, did a rough brush of her teeth, and crawled into bed in her T-shirt and underwear, still wearing her socks.

  For once, sleep hit her like a freight train.

  Chapter 20

  White fabric billowed around Alex's head, the face before her a dreamy blur she couldn't focus on. What was happening? She couldn't see the bad man. Where had he gone?

  The cool floor was suddenly warmer as something held Alex close, wrapping her in thick white wings. She could smell her daddy again. She breathed in the smell and tried to see him. The blindfold covered all but a corner of her eye and she tried to push it off without using her hand. It was cold and she could feel the outside breeze against her bare arms.

  She shivered, moving in tighter as she turned and tried to make out a face. She caught a glimpse, but no image came.

  Behind her, the two boys squirmed and whimpered, their blindfolds still fastened across their eyes. Hers had slipped down around her nose and she could just see through the gap between her bangs and the loose blindfold. Moving further from them, Alex saw the gun before she realized what it meant. The gray black of the dull metal contrasted against the white sheet. She stared at the bad man then back at the gun again.

  It felt heavy and cold, its tip pointed to the ground.

  "You have to shoot him, honey," the voice beside her said. "You have to shoot him or he'll hurt you. Do you want him to do that?"

  Alex shook her head, words trapped beneath her fear.

  The bad man's eyes stared at her.

  Her body shook with a mixture of chill and terror.

  "What are you doing?" he screamed.

  The gun fought in her hands as she struggled to hold it up. "It's too heavy," she cried.

  "You can do it," the voice assured. "Do it for Mommy and Daddy."

  Alex tried to look at the angel. "Daddy?" she whispered.

  "That's right, baby. Do it for Daddy. Don't worry. I'll be right here until it's all over."

  With all her might, she lifted the gun from the ground. Her hands shook as she steadied it. Strong hands helped her, holding the gun out.

  "What are you doing?" he screamed again. "Jay, you can't!"

  The gun exploded in her hand, knocking her backwards. Her head hit the floor with a thud, and she couldn't move.

  It seemed like a long time before she could sit. The boys' crying dragged her up. She rubbed her head and looked at the bad man. He didn't move. He looked asleep, but his eyes were open. People didn't sleep with their eyes open.

  Alex looked around. Where was her daddy?

  Alex woke with a jolt at six, her stomach in a series of hard knots. The dream skittered by in pieces. Remembering what Judith had said, she found a pad of paper in the drawer. She scribbled "angel" on the top piece and stared at it blankly.

  An angel? She closed her eyes to bring the image back in focus, but it was gone. Frustrated, she threw the pad and pen to the floor and got out of bed.

  By quarter after, she was showered, dressed, and downstairs. She informed the night auditor that she would be back, paid for another night, and headed down the freeway to University Avenue.

  As she pulled off the freeway, she took in the immediate area. The off-ramp divided Palo Alto into east and west and also split San Mateo and Santa Clara counties. But more than that, the off-ramp acted as an invisible Berlin Wall.

  East Palo Alto was poor and crime-ridden. Police often warned West Palo Alto residents about the dangers of the area, but some still paid no heed. A well-heeled college student
was recently beaten to death by a group of boys just for walking on their streets.

  Alex saw the dilapidated buildings and beat-up cars left abandoned on the streets. Several people stood on stoops, drinking from bottles hidden in paper bags. From their disheveled appearances, it was impossible to tell if they were just getting up or hadn't yet been to sleep.

  The roads were riddled with potholes, many almost gravel from neglect. Not a single tree struggled through the black pavement.

  Alex turned right and headed west, immediately struck by the incredible difference. This side was filled with magnolia trees, their trunks thick, their branches reaching out to provide shade to the wealthy. A few even seemed to bow over the houses.

  Large Spanish-style homes lined the streets, their yards carefully pruned. The cars were securely tucked away in three-and four-car garages. Even the leaves had been swept up. A bike lane took up part of the road in each direction so people could enjoy the beauty on a leisurely Sunday morning ride.

  About four miles down University, she began to see small shops and restaurants. She turned on Bryant Street and parked next to Restoration Hardware. She crossed the street to Starbucks, thankful that caffeine would soon be coursing through her veins. She bought a plain bagel at the Noah's next door and took a brief walk to get a sense of the neighborhood.

  Stanford students roamed the streets, stopping to greet classmates or buy coffee before study groups or games. They looked much the same as Berkeley students—shorts and tennis shoes, sweatshirts for the dewy morning chill, and baseball caps to hide the fact that they probably hadn't showered yet on a Saturday morning.

  But unlike Cal, Stanford didn't have the outward personality that came with Berkeley cultures—the punks, hippies, and homeless didn't come to Palo Alto. Or if they did, they hid themselves well.

  For a moment, Alex missed the comforts she had always found in Berkeley's diversity. This homogenous neighborhood seemed much too peaceful for something as heinous as Androus's crime—and must have been even more so thirty years ago.

  Eyeing the nicely dressed people, she wondered which of them harbored thoughts of murder or rape. People assumed their neighbors were all upstanding, successful businesspeople and concerned citizens. But some of them weren't. As a cop, she knew it better than most.