Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "It is weird," Chris agreed. "Maybe he was worried he'd be caught, since they were his students and they'd be easy to track back to him. Doesn't stop aunts, uncles, cousins, and parents, but it has to be considered."

  "Or he'd always fantasized about offing a whole bunch of kids at once and finally gathered the courage to try it," Greg suggested.

  Alex nodded. "True. His lessons were all private—only one kid at a time. Maybe that didn't make him hot enough."

  Chris shrugged. "At one point, I searched unsolved cases to see if there might've been others that we hadn't linked to him. I got three that fit, but none in California and only one in the last fifty years in this country."

  Alex wished she'd had access to the station. There was so much more she could do from in there. But she was an outsider now. "What sort of pattern did you look for?"

  "Multiple victims. Strangulation. Androus used his bare hands. Appeared to have gotten off on at least a couple of them—hard to say which ones, but he had a real mess in the front of his jeans, if you know what I mean."

  Chris halted as she realized what she'd said, and Alex could feel her and Greg watching. She forced herself to nod. "What else?"

  Chris nodded apologetically but didn't address the awkwardness. "He was organized—brought a gun, which much to his dismay was used against him. But he also had a knife."

  "Used it to cut the rope tying their hands together."

  Chris nodded. "And sliced a few of them."

  Alex paused, her jaw sagging. "I don't remember that."

  Chris and Greg glanced at each other and back at Alex.

  "It's in the file," Chris explained. "Actually, he branded each of them—each of—" She stopped.

  Alex crossed her arms against her chest. "Branded them, how?"

  "With the knife—a small X carved into the inner thigh."

  Alex stared.

  Greg didn't take his eyes off her, and she refused to meet his gaze. "Survivors, too?" he asked.

  Chris looked down at her plate. "All of them."

  "Goddamn it," Alex muttered, pushing her plate away. She held herself from reaching beneath the table and touching the inside of her leg as though it were a foreign object. She didn't have a mark there. She would have noticed it. Maybe she wasn't a survivor. Relief flooded her. There had been some mistake.

  Chris put her burger down and laid a hand on Alex's shoulder. "You okay?"

  Alex nodded. She stood from the table. "I need to use the rest room."

  Greg stood and Chris took his hand and yanked him back down. "She can go alone."

  He flushed. "I know. I was just trying—" He waved his hand through the air and sank back down. "Oh, to hell with it."

  Alex turned and concentrated on the bathroom door across the room. She focused so hard she almost expected it to disappear.

  The doorknob was cool in her hand and she pushed inside. She looked around the white room, carefully supplied with toilet paper, paper towels, and a ceramic soap dispenser. There was no window. Suddenly, she yearned for fresh air. Fighting off panic, Alex sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  The door locked, she turned on the water and splashed the cool stream on her face. She wiped her hands and tossed the towel in the basket.

  With her jaw set, she unfastened her belt and pulled down her pants.

  Chapter 23

  Alex buttoned her pants and kicked the wastebasket, letting out a low growl. "Goddamn you, Androus."

  When she got back to the table, Chris and Greg were talking, their heads almost touching.

  Greg noticed her first and sat up. Chris's gaze followed.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  She nodded, but they all knew it was a lie. She wasn't okay. She'd been branded and all sense of okay was long gone. She was angry and she was scared, no closer to the truth than she had been a week ago. The walls felt like they were coming in. She needed to move and clear her head. She pulled money from her pocket.

  Chris put her hand out. "Lunch is on Grandma."

  Alex forced a smile. "Thank you."

  Chris nodded.

  Alex looked at Greg. "I want to go to the scene, to the warehouse. I need to see it."

  He started to speak, but she interrupted. "I need to go alone."

  "The warehouse is gone. They tore it down a few months after the—" Chris paused. "A few months later."

  Alex didn't care. She still wanted to see the location. It had been thirty years. She wasn't expecting to find anything, but maybe the scene would help her remember. "A doctor I talked to about my memory thought it might help to try to picture it. Maybe going there will help."

  Greg stood up. "Richards?"

  She nodded.

  Chris drew a map on a napkin. "Here's how you get there from here." She stood and handed the napkin to Alex.

  "Thank you. And I appreciate all you've done," Alex added.

  "You're welcome. Greg was telling me about the brother—I'm going to go back and see what I can find out about him. I'll call Greg if I learn anything."

  "I'm going to check back in with the station," Greg said. "Where should I meet you?"

  She shook her head. "You shouldn't. Go back up before someone finds you down here. I'll call you tonight."

  "Call me on my cell phone."

  She agreed. Thanking Chris again, Alex left the diner and entered the sunlight, squinting. It seemed hard to imagine that life was proceeding as normal for some people while she was trapped in a live nightmare.

  She got in her car and revved the engine, pulling the visor down against the bright sky. As she followed the map Chris had made, she thought about the subtle cross on her inner thigh. It should have been spotted years ago. By her doctor or a boyfriend if not herself. Men had touched that tender skin. Fingers had run across that very spot. Why hadn't someone noticed it? Damn them all. And damn him—damn him for touching her, for scarring her.

  She slammed the car into first gear and sped across the border between East and West Palo Alto.

  East Palo Alto spread out before the car like the ruins of a war-torn city. Alex turned down Donahue and stared at the vacant lot where Chris had drawn the X on the napkin. A weary chain-link fence surrounded the gravel surface, bent and broken from people climbing over and under for access. A group of children squatted in one corner, their attention focused on something Alex couldn't see. Alex honked her horn and one of the kids looked up, the curious look on his face quickly replaced by fear. Within moments, the children gathered whatever they'd been concentrating on, hopped the fence, and sprinted down a side street.

  Drugs, Alex thought. The children had looked grammar school age, despite their weathered faces and the trendy oversized pants that barely hung on their shapeless frames. It didn't surprise her. She saw the same things in Berkeley. On another day, she would have chased them down, tried to talk some sense into them, tried to save them from the fate of their parents and older siblings. Tried to do something. But not today.

  Now she simply stared at the lot, paralyzed by the knowledge of what had happened there and trying to remember something about it. Hadn't she had a dream about a warehouse? But her memory was as empty as the lot.

  Alex opened the car door and got out. The faint smell of rotting garbage invaded her senses. She took two deep breaths until it filled her nose and she no longer noticed it. Trick of the trade. No matter how bad it smells, inhale deeply and the nose will quickly shut out the scent.

  There wasn't much to see now. The nearby streets were quiet, the people at work earning meager wages or still sleeping from the long night before. Treeless lawns looked brown and abandoned, only a rare spot of green breaking the silent bleakness.

  Alex ducked under a jagged edge of torn fence. Raw iron scraped across her back, making her wince. She didn't stop. Instead, she walked to the middle of the empty space, trying to picture the warehouse in her mind. Crushed stone crackled under her feet, dust spraying across her shoes.

  No images
surfaced. There's nothing here, she thought. After nearly thirty years, it would have been completely different. But she sensed something.

  Halting in the middle of the lot, she scanned the area, and spotted someone standing in the shade of a car parked on the street across from her. Not wanting to scare him away, she turned her back again. Someone was watching her. Her pulse sped and she put her head down, checking for others in her peripheral vision. She could only see the one person.

  Alex knew it was probably just a curious kid, but her gut was warning her to be cautious. These days, nothing was what it seemed.

  From the corner of her eye, Alex looked at him again and spied a camera lens in front of his face. Someone was taking pictures of her. Was it the same person who had taken pictures for Loeffler? She couldn't let him get away. Her adrenaline rushing like whitewater, Alex counted to three, turned, and sprinted toward the cameraman.

  He jumped and tore down the street. The slim, awkward figure reminded Alex of a teenager. Big clunky shoes she'd seen on kids backed the theory. But the camera had been large and expensive—the kind with a zoom lens and automatic focus. A kid from this area wasn't likely to own one of those. Had he followed her? If not, why run?

  Alex hurried after him, her shoes slapping against the cracked pavement.

  He emerged on the next street, a good fifty yards ahead, and Alex pushed herself to keep up. She would keel over before she'd let the one chance to get some answers escape.

  He wouldn't get far with the camera and the backpack he was carrying. And Alex bet the kid would risk getting caught not to lose something worth so much money.

  The camera knocked awkwardly against the kid's side, slowing his pace. Alex closed some of the distance as she found a rhythm in her running. She knew she'd outlast him. He was bumbling along, not used to running, his legs gangly beneath him.

  As soon as Alex felt confident she'd catch him, a cramp pierced her side. With her fingers digging into the pain, she pushed on. It wasn't like her to cramp, but she knew the burger wasn't helping.

  The kid crossed a patch of grass and ducked between two of the dilapidated duplexes on the block.

  She watched him head toward the short back chain fence that separated a yard from the house behind it.

  A gutted brown couch sat in the middle of the crispy brown grass, a strip of green shag carpet rolled out before it and empty forties scattered about. A regular outdoor entertainment center. All it needed was some popcorn and a Raiders game on TV.

  The kid reached the far side, but Alex was gaining on him. Equipment and all, he struggled to lift himself over the fence. As he looked back, fear registered in his eyes. His face registered in her mind.

  Adrenaline edged her on. She knew this kid. He was the same kid she'd met in the police station, the one who said he had found pictures of her in Loeffler's stuff. The son of the man Sandy Loeffler was living with now.

  "Hold up," she screamed, racing faster. "I just want to talk to you." It was a standard police fib. What she really wanted to do was shake the truth from his scrawny bones. But he wasn't likely to stop for that.

  The kid stumbled and fell on the far side of the fence, the camera landing a foot from his sprawled figure. A thin yellow coat, tied around his waist, tripped him as he tried to untangle himself. He moved quickly, gathering his limbs and pulling himself to his feet.

  But she was faster. From the top of the short fence, she dropped herself onto his back, pushing them both to the ground.

  He let out a low "Oomph."

  His right arm pulled behind his back, she pinned him down. "Long way from home, aren't we, Tim?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he moaned.

  She tightened her grip. "You don't?"

  "No."

  "Next you're going to say you've never seen me before."

  "I—I haven't."

  Grabbing his shoulders, she rolled him over, pressing him into the ground. "Listen, kid. You want to end up spending the rest of high school in jail? 'Cause I can make that happen. Miss a lot of good parties, maybe a few girls. But you'll certainly get a nice selection of men. Of course, you won't do the choosing. Nope. They'll probably like you, though." She paused, letting it sink in. "Right now, you've got a choice."

  With a moan, he closed his eyes.

  She shook his shoulders until he opened his eyes again. "I suggest you pay careful attention. This is the best deal you're going to get. You want to hear it?"

  He gave a stiff nod.

  "You tell me what the hell you're doing here and everything you know, and I won't write you up for resisting arrest." It wasn't exactly a fair trade since she didn't have a reason to arrest him. Plus, she was suspended, so she didn't even have the right to detain him. At this point, she didn't much care. "What do you say?"

  "I didn't do anything," he protested.

  On her feet again, she pulled him up. "Okay, let's go to the station then."

  "No," he cried, and she had a feeling he was familiar with juvenile hall. It didn't sound like it had been a positive experience and she was thankful for the small favor.

  The kid slumped back to the ground and rested his face in his hands. From her angle, his lanky figure was all elbows and knees, and she wondered how old he really was.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "What choice do I have?" he said in a voice close to tears.

  "Good point."

  His bag tight to his chest, he snarled in her direction.

  "How about you start with the camera?"

  He gave her an angry stare. "It was a gift."

  "From who?"

  His gaze found the ground. "I don't know," he mumbled.

  "Excuse me?"

  He looked back at her and spoke softly. "I don't know."

  "When did you get it?"

  "Yesterday."

  Talking to this teenager was like pulling teeth. Now she knew why parents complained so much. "How?"

  "In the mail."

  "At your house?"

  He nodded.

  She gritted her teeth. "I'd really prefer if you just told me how the hell you ended up following me and taking pictures."

  His shoulders hunched.

  A group of kids had piled back onto the empty lot and were playing soccer with a deflated basketball.

  Alex looked back at Tim.

  "Yesterday morning," he said. "I got the package before school."

  "Who brought it? Any return address?"

  He scowled. "I thought you wanted me to tell the story."

  She crossed her arms. "I'm listening."

  "I don't know who sent it. My dad just called me into the kitchen and said there was a package for me."

  "What was in it?"

  His scowl deepened.

  Rolling her eyes, she motioned for him to continue.

  "It was a box—a camera box. It's not my birthday or anything. Plus, I never got anything this nice. I opened the box and there was an envelope inside. And a note."

  "You have it?"

  His expression was blank.

  "The note. Do you have it?"

  He nodded and pulled his backpack onto his lap. Shuffling through it, he put his hand on something and looked up at her.

  "Oh, no. Hand it over."

  Slowly, he pulled the envelope out. "It's mine."

  She snatched the envelope from his grasp and opened it, whistling. "Wow, you're rich!" A stack of perfectly pressed fifty-dollar bills was accompanied by a note. The note open, she read the typed instructions.

  Be at the corner of Broadway and Broadway Terrace at nine a.m. with a pen and paper. Answer the phone on the right after the second ring. If you want to keep the money, you gotta earn it.

  "The money's mine," he interjected.

  She looked up. "Bullshit. It's police property."

  "You bitch." He jumped to his feet, and Alex took a step forward. The kid was easily six inches taller than she was, but she could knock him on his ass in four seconds
flat if he touched her.

  "Stay here. I'll be right back."

  "Hey, that's my money," he called after her.

  "It won't be unless you stay put and shut up."

  The kids on the lot had turned their attention to her and Tim. Maybe they'd seen the money, but she didn't like the way they were starting to drift toward her.

  The money tucked into her waist, Alex pulled her gun out of the back of her pants and opened her wallet to her cop I.D. Since she didn't have her badge, it was the best she could do. Holding one in each hand over her head, she crossed to where the kids were standing. "Police business," she said in a firm tone.

  Then, waving at them, she said, "Move along."

  The largest of the group turned to face her and puffed his chest out like an angry bird.

  Alex waved the gun in his direction. "I said, move along."

  The kid crossed his arms in an Italian version of fuck off and turned his back, strutting across the lot. The others followed like a series of ducklings, each of them mimicking his gesture as they turned their backs.

  "Nice."

  Alex returned to where Tim was standing, comforted by the softening sound of gravel crunching beneath the feet of the kids as they stormed off.

  Tim stretched his hand out toward the envelope.

  She shook her head.

  He looked angry and stomped his foot. She prepared for a strike.

  Instead, he put his hands in his pockets, tucked his chin to his chest, and looked up at her. "Please."

  Alex laughed at his attempt. "That work with anyone?"

  "Bitch."

  "Yeah, yeah. Sticks and stones. You going to give me the rest of the story or what?"

  He pointed to the envelope. "You going to let me keep that?"

  She shrugged, seeing the fierce desire in his face.

  "Depends on how good the story is. And no making stuff up."

  His eyes widened, and he showed a smile, a wide gap between his two front teeth. "Really?"

  It was the first time she had seen him smile and she was beginning to think she might just let him keep the money. After all, she'd probably be in jail within a few days. And if he got it from the killer, she didn't care if it was returned. As long as he played along, that is. "Spill it."