Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Caffeine beginning to seep through her system, she drove to the city hall and parked, wondering what, if anything, she might find. The building stood like an immense piece of candy—the white stripes of its beveled columns next to the dark stripes of its deep blue windows. The building sat in the center of a courtyard with grass and black benches that looked freshly painted.

  The police station occupied the backside of the courthouse, a smaller, shorter version of city hall, with the same blue reflective windows and modern architecture. She entered through the station's tinted glass doors and found herself in a light yellow room with dark wood furniture and light blue accents that looked more like a doctor's office than any police station she had ever seen.

  "Can I help you?" came a voice.

  Alex approached a wooden counter and met the gaze of a young black woman. "I hope so. My name is—"

  Just then, a door swung open and a burly man with a mustache marched through. He had thick, wiry eyebrows that seemed to wiggle like caterpillars as he walked. "JB," he squawked.

  The nameplate on the desk said Janice Branson, and Alex thought JB was an interesting nickname for a woman. "What is it, Captain?"

  He looked like Internal Affairs. It was just a guess, but the deep-set frown, the suit, even the way his eyes seemed to scan over his shoulder made her think IA.

  He paused and leaned against the desk, effectively pushing Alex out of his way. She took a step back and let him in. "Just got a message from BPD IA."

  Alex sucked in a deep breath and forced herself not to move. Berkeley Police Department Internal Affairs. Damn James.

  She must've made some noise, because Caterpillar Brow looked over at her. She forced a small smile.

  "Sorry, miss. This'll just take a second. Police business," he added as though she might be impressed.

  "Of course," she choked.

  "What did Berkeley want?" JB asked, pulling the captain's meandering attention back to the issue at hand.

  "They got a cop named Kincaid, AWOL. He's in BFT and they think he might show up here. Alex Kincaid. If he does, they want to be informed ASAP. You let me know first and I'll handle it from there. Is that PC?"

  BFT? PC? Alex had always been annoyed when people assumed hers was a man's name. For the first time, she was relieved.

  JB nodded. "Perfectly clear," she responded.

  The captain gave a small salute and ambled out as he had come in.

  JB turned back to Alex. "Sorry about that."

  Alex shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Can I ask what BFT is?" She couldn't help herself.

  JB smiled. "Big fucking trouble." She waved at the door the captain had come through. "Everything's an acronym with that guy. Calls me JB. Name is Janice Branson, but he doesn't care." She shook her head. "Considered it EUT." She pronounced the acronym "yout."

  "Yout?" Alex asked.

  "EUT. Efficient use of time."

  "Got it."

  Janice shook her head. "Now what can I help you with?"

  Alex flushed and stuttered, "I think I'm in the wrong place. I've got a parking ticket that I wanted to talk to someone about."

  "I'm afraid that's next door and they're not in on the weekend. They open Monday at eight."

  Alex smiled. "No problem. I'll come back." She turned to walk away, trying to figure out what to do next. She couldn't ask about the Sesame Street murders now. Maybe it would be public record. "Is there a public library in the vicinity?"

  Janice pointed to her left. "Next building over."

  "Great." Alex hurried out of the building and around the corner before pausing for a breath. If she had given her name three seconds earlier, it would have been over. Without access to the case, she was SOL. Shit out of luck. That could have been her motto lately.

  She found a coffee house and ordered a large black coffee. Taking it to a table, she sat down and pulled her notebook from her bag. She had made a list of people to try to contact from the case: lead detective (alive?), other detectives, first cop on the scene, evidence processing (still in archive? results?), Nader. His name had two stars beside it. At least she could still try to reach Nader. She'd do that before hitting the library.

  Finishing her coffee, she stood and walked to the register. "Do you know where Ramona Street is?" she asked the woman working.

  She shrugged. "No idea."

  "I can tell you."

  Alex turned to see a young man seated at a table with a Palm Pilot and a laptop hooked up to his cell phone.

  "Where is it?"

  The man typed something and hit enter. "Just one second."

  Alex watched over his shoulder as a map came onto the screen. "We're here." He pointed to a small red circle on the screen. "And Ramona is here. You need to take University out and head southwest. You'll run into Ramona in about six or seven blocks. Sorry I can't print this out."

  Alex shook her head. "That's okay. I'll find it."

  "What's the address on Ramona? I can tell you exactly."

  "That helps a lot," she said without answering his question. "Thanks again."

  Alex turned and left before he could ask anything else. She found her car and followed the directions to Ramona. When she found the street, she read the sign and turned left toward 216.

  The house was about a block and a half down on the right side. It was a small taupe ranch-style house. The yard was hedge-lined, the lawn carefully kept.

  Alex stepped out of her car and headed to the front door. Three steps led to a porch about two square feet. She rang the doorbell and waited.

  A curtain moved at the house next door and Alex glanced over. No face appeared behind the burgundy drape, but a nosy neighbor was often a cop's best friend. If Alex needed any information, she knew where to start.

  Her attention back on Nader's house, Alex found herself curious to find out how this third survivor had turned out. Loeffler appeared from what she'd seen to have made a name for himself as a successful prosecutor, but he had harbored plenty of secrets.

  Down on the curb again, she looked at the windows on the front side of the house. Nothing stirred. As she circled the property, she stopped and put her face to the windows to look inside, careful not to touch anything.

  The rooms were masculine in style—sparse in furniture, and painted in dark, bold colors: forest green in the living room, brown and burgundy in the kitchen. The living room held only a huge dark blue leather couch, a chair and ottoman, and the biggest TV she had ever seen. Definitely a bachelor pad. But besides that, everything inside looked normal, like he'd just gone out. Not like when she'd found Loeffler sprawled in the hallway.

  She circled the house and knocked on the back door, but still no one answered. She peered into the garage and saw a car parked inside. It was black and looked like an Acura.

  She stood back from the garage. Maybe he was on vacation. She hadn't seen mail piled up by either door and no newspapers, but maybe he'd had them held. That would also explain why his answering machine had beeped so many times before her message. She considered going to ask the neighbor, but she wasn't ready to explain who she was yet. She circled the other side and found one room with the shades drawn so she couldn't see in, which she assumed was his bedroom. There was also a very sparsely furnished dining room. In one corner was a tall wine rack filled with bottles. They were almost all red.

  Around the front of the house again, she searched for a mailbox but saw that he had a slot that went in the front door. Leaning down, she pushed it open using the corner of her shirt and saw a pile of mail on the floor. Nader was on vacation. That was the last of her leads.

  Defeated, she went back to her car and drove toward the freeway. She couldn't go back to Berkeley. There was nothing but trouble waiting for her there.

  She drove without purpose for twenty minutes before she decided to stop by the public library and see what she could dredge up on the case. It was something she could have done in Berkeley, but she was here, so she might as well try it. Plus, ma
ybe the local papers had better coverage of the crime.

  She found a meter and dropped in enough quarters for two hours before getting out and jogging to the main entrance. Her head ached with each step and she rubbed it with the heel of her hand as she walked in the door.

  The Palo Alto public library reflected the police station's modernity. Unlike Berkeley's library, housed in an older stucco building, Palo Alto's was huge and modern, with cathedral ceilings and high windows tinted greenish-blue. Skylights lit the entryway and most of the rooms as she walked in.

  Leaving her awe at the information desk, Alex headed straight to the reference section and found an unoccupied computer. Her notes beside her, she typed in "Sesame Street Murders" on Lexis-Nexis to see what came up.

  There were seventeen articles listed and Alex scrolled through them for one that might give her additional information. "Interview with a killer's sister," one read. It was from a Stanford publication, written by a Dr. J. D. Daniels. Alex clicked on the document and the computer made a series of grinding clicks and burps until it filled the screen.

  Alex had leaned forward to read the article when she heard a familiar voice behind her. "I thought I might find you here." Alex spun around to look into a familiar set of brown eyes.

  Chapter 21

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Greg smiled. "Shh. This is the library."

  "How did you find me?"

  "Followed you from Nader's house."

  She crossed her arms and looked around. "How did you find me there?"

  He pulled up a chair and sat down. "I knew you'd go there. I called you last night and you weren't home. Made me nervous. I called Brenda."

  "She told you?"

  "Didn't have to. As soon as she told me to mind my own business, I knew exactly where you were. I drove down at five this morning and waited about a block from Nader's."

  "And why didn't you say anything there?" Alex asked, frowning.

  "You looked intent in your search and I didn't want to get shot."

  She pointed at the door. "You need to go back."

  "Not a chance."

  She shook her head and turned away from him. "You're working today."

  He moved in closer. "Called in sick."

  She pushed his chair back and spoke in a harsher tone. "Roback, this is serious. You need to stay the hell away from me. I'm going to be arrested for murder."

  "I know. That's why I called you last night."

  Alex felt like she was about to be knocked in the gut. She clenched her stomach muscles and awaited the punch.

  "They've got the watch. Someone I.D.'d it as yours. I guess James doesn't remember that you told him about it and he's through the f-ing roof. That and the blood—" He gripped the arm of her chair and she leaned forward, waiting for him to finish his sentence even though she knew exactly what he was going to say. "There's a warrant," he finished.

  Alex pulled her hands to her stomach, effectively knocking the wind out of herself. But the news had already done it. She really was going to be arrested.

  "They've already called down here."

  She nodded. "I know."

  "How?"

  She explained about overhearing the IA captain speaking to the receptionist. "I'm screwed."

  Greg didn't say anything.

  "This is exactly what the killer wanted. He fucking planned it." She exhaled. "What else is going on up there?"

  "They've subpoenaed phone records—yours and Loeffler's. He called you that night."

  She opened her mouth to talk and found she couldn't speak.

  "Loeffler, I mean," he said.

  "What night?"

  "The night he was killed. At about eleven-thirty. You spoke for six minutes."

  She shook her head. "I couldn't have. I don't remember." She wiped her hands on her pants, feeling herself sweat.

  "It's going to be all right, Alex."

  She waved her hand. "Don't. Don't bother." She blew her breath out and nodded. "Tell me what else. What else is going on?"

  "They've also been surveying Ferguson's house. As of last night, he hadn't showed up. They were going to go in with a warrant this morning. I called up there but no one could tell me what happened."

  "What about the murder weapon? It couldn't have been my gun." Even as she said it, she wasn't sure.

  "It wasn't. County ballistics tested it yesterday. It was a Glock, like a service issue, but not yours." He raised an eyebrow. "Guess whose they're testing next."

  "Yours."

  He nodded.

  "They think I could've taken yours."

  "You got it."

  She let her head fall into her hands for a moment and then pulled herself up. She couldn't be weak. After a deep breath, she looked at Greg. "What now?"

  He glanced at the computer screen. "What's that?"

  "An article by some doctor—looks like an interview with Androus's sister."

  Alex began skimming the article, but her mind was on the gun. It couldn't have been Greg's. Intellectually, she knew that, but she couldn't help but feel a little tremor of fear at the possibility.

  The subject had been interviewed at her home in Upshur, West Virginia, on November 1, 1972, as part of the Stanford University Department of Psychology's study of criminal psychology.

  Alex skipped the rest of the introduction. Nothing stood out, so she scrolled down to an excerpt from the full interview.

  DR. DANIELS: Can you tell us something about your brother, Ms. Androus?

  MAGGIE ANDROUS: I don't know much. I left home when I was sixteen. He was only thirteen. He left two years later.

  DD: Why did you leave home?

  MA: Don't see how that's relevant.

  DD: I understand the questions may be difficult. But we need to ask them to help us understand why your brother did what he did.

  MA: Oh, I know why he did it. Our father was screwed up. Worked the coal mines down here—drank too much.

  DD: Did your father hit you?

  MA: On a good night.

  The doctor notes that Stanford research has shown a history of familial abuse is a prominent theme in homicides. Androus's family environment fits this pattern.

  Alex skimmed over the rest of the discussion on family abuse and kept reading. She thought about Maggie Androus's words, flat and unemotional on the page, imagining her voice when the words had been spoken. Had they been angry and upset and spiteful?

  A cop was trained to sense the emotion below the surface. Alex wished she could have heard the tape.

  She had started to scroll down again when Greg grabbed her hand. "Slow down. I'm reading." Alex waited until he nodded and moved further down the page.

  DD: Did your father sexually abuse you?

  MA: (No answer.)

  DD: Did your father force you and your brother to perform sexual acts with him?

  MA: (No answer.)

  DD: How about with each other?

  MA: (No answer.)

  DD: I know this is difficult, but the information you're providing is going to be pivotal to helping us understand what happened to Walter.

  MA: Yes, he did. All of us.

  DD: All of you? Can you be more specific?

  MA: Me, Walter, and Ben.

  DD: Ben?

  MA: My brother.

  Alex halted, puzzled. Androus had only one sister as far as she knew. Where had the brother come from? The next sentence grabbed her attention and she continued.

  "Whoa, slow down. Who's the brother?"

  "Shh. I'm trying to find out," Alex said, reading on.

  DD: Ms. Androus, we don't have a record of Walter having a brother. Where is he now?

  MA: Dead.

  DD: When did he die?

  MA: Six years ago. In New York. He was eighteen.

  DD: How did he die?

  MA: Killed himself.

  DD: How?

  MA: Jesus Christ, have some respect. Does it really matter how he killed himself? He i
sn't going to help your little project. He's dead.

  DD: I apologize, Ms. Androus. Maggie. May I call you Maggie?

  MA: (Nod.)

  DD: Maggie. I know this is difficult, but it will help us. Understanding how Ben was feeling, how you're feeling, too, will help us with how Walter felt, what led him to do what he did.

  MA: Fine. He shot himself—with a .22—our father's .22. I never even knew he had taken it, but I guess he did. Walter confirmed it was Daddy's gun.

  DD: Was Ben older or younger than you and Walter?

  MA: He was Walter's twin.

  "His twin? Holy shit," Greg said, voicing Alex's own reaction.

  "B.A.," Alex said.

  "What?"

  "There was a picture in Loeffler's things—a guy with red hair. On the back were the initials B.A." Alex had read theories on twin behavior in her psych classes. Plus, she'd seen James and Brittany anticipate each other's thoughts and feelings in more intense ways than most siblings. She couldn't believe Ben was still alive and had decided to come finish what his brother had started. It was too Hollywood to be real. But why was his picture in Loeffler's file? If it was his picture? And where was Maggie now? "Ben Androus," Greg said. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows. "Ben Androus is Alfred Ferguson?"

  "It's possible, I guess." She thought about the man in the gym. He hadn't had red hair, but that would be easy enough to change. And she hadn't gotten a good look at his face. He'd seemed younger than she would have imagined Androus would be. Androus would have to be almost fifty-five by now. But it was possible. "Did you see his picture?"

  "I couldn't get in. James—" He stopped and shook his head. "I know."

  She could see him getting angry and he motioned to the screen. "Keep reading."

  DD: Who found Ben?

  MA: Walter. Walter found him. He hadn't heard from him in a few days. They were very close, Walter and Ben. Ben was living in New York, Walter was in L.A. So he bused out to see him. Then he called me. Ben had been dead awhile, I guess.