Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "Okay. Uh—"

  "You were telling me about the note. You followed the instructions?"

  "For a cool half-G?" He spread his arms and crossed them high over his chest. "I'm not stupid."

  "What about school?"

  "Whatever. You know anyone who wouldn't cut school for a day for a half-grand and a camera like that?"

  "Good point. So I take it someone called you."

  "Yeah, this guy called and told me to get a pen and take notes." He looked up, his brow furrowed. "It was weird, like he was watching me, too, 'cause after I said 'Okay,' I waited, and like a second later, he told me I needed to take paper out and write or the whole deal would be off."

  "What did he have you write?"

  "Directions to here, that I was supposed to follow you and take pictures, find out where you went, who you talked to. Told me you were his woman."

  "His woman?" Thoughts raged inside her head like angry bees. Why would he take the time and money to send a kid down here? Surely, he had to know she would spot him. "Why would he send you?"

  The kid shrugged. "I asked him the same thing. Why pay me to take pictures if you're his woman? Why not take them himself?"

  "What did he say?"

  "He laughed and said he couldn't 'cause he was working on a really big surprise for you."

  Alex didn't even want to consider what the surprise might be. But to buy a kid a brand-new camera just to take some pictures didn't make sense. "He just left you this camera?"

  The kid nodded. "The camera was in the box with everything else."

  She stared at the camera. It was brand new. Someone had paid a lot of money just to get a few pictures of her. She thought about the pictures that Loeffler had. "Did you take the other pictures of me? The ones you said you found in Sandy's stuff?"

  He shook his head. "No. I told you at the station I didn't take those."

  "You know who did?"

  "Bill did."

  "Bill Loeffler? You're sure?" she asked.

  The kid nodded. "His wife, Sandy, told my dad he admitted he did. He said it was for an old case, but she didn't believe him."

  Why had Loeffler taken pictures of her? Because he knew she was a survivor? Why not just come to talk to her? "And you swear Bill took them?"

  He nodded.

  What the hell was going on? Alex looked back at the camera the kid had.

  Maybe she could track where the camera had been purchased. She motioned to Tim's bag. "Where's the camera box?"

  He shrugged. "I threw it away."

  "Where?"

  "Same place as my notes."

  She shook her head. "What notes?"

  "On the phone, he said to write everything down and study it on the way here and then to throw the paper away at the gas station across from the Holiday Inn."

  "He told you to do that?"

  Tim nodded. "And he said he'd check to make sure I did it. If I didn't, I couldn't keep the money."

  "But you have the money."

  "He said he could get it back and get me in a lot of trouble with the police."

  His reference to the police made Alex think about the killer again. What contact did he have with the police? Why risk them knowing? "And you have no idea who this guy is?"

  "No. I got no idea."

  Grabbing the kid by the shirtsleeve, she tugged. "Let's go."

  "Where are we going?" His voice was shaky.

  "To this garbage can. Give me your keys." She didn't want him going anywhere.

  He stared at her, wide-eyed.

  She motioned them over. "If you behave, I'll give them back and I'll let you keep the money."

  He narrowed his gaze. "You promise?"

  "If you behave."

  Nodding his head, he dumped a heavy set of keys in her hand.

  She drove and the kid directed. He led her to a Union 76 station, and pointed to a garbage can over by two pay phones and an air and water station.

  Alex jumped from the car and pulled the top off the can. Cigarette butts, a half-full Coke can, a McDonald's bag, and some candy wrappers. With a deep breath, she began to move things around, searching for the camera box.

  Tim came over and looked in the can. "It's not there. I put it right on top."

  "Where the hell would it be?"

  He shrugged.

  "He told you exactly where to put it?"

  Tim nodded.

  "Maybe he planned to come back for it," she said to herself.

  Her head up, she scanned the area. Was he watching her right now? She spun back to the kid and instinctively he leaned away from her.

  "What were you supposed to do with the film after that?"

  "After what?"

  She rolled her hand in agitation. "After you took the pictures of me."

  "Oh. Uh—drop it off at a post office here in town."

  "You have a return envelope?"

  He shook his head. "A box."

  "A box? What type of box?"

  "Like the ones at the post office."

  "A post office box?"

  "Yeah."

  Hot adrenaline seared her stomach. "Here?"

  "Right on University."

  "What's the box number?"

  He smiled. "Twenty-seven forty-two."

  "Then where's it written?"

  Pointing to the garbage can, he shook his head.

  Her jaw clenched, she nodded. "Right. You memorized it. Let's go to this post office."

  His expression hesitant, he scrunched his nose. "I think I should tell you something else first."

  She looked around. "What?"

  Tim tilted his head. "There was something else he told me to do."

  She closed her eyes. "What?" she repeated.

  "He told me where you were staying, your room number and stuff."

  Her jaw dropped. "Where I was staying?"

  "And he told me to find a way in and put something in your room."

  "What?"

  He unzipped his pack and pulled out a film canister.

  Her fingers shaking, she snatched it from him. The canister reminded her immediately of Nader, a photographer. She should have thought about him earlier, when she saw the expensive camera. "Oh God," she whispered, dreading what might be there. She opened it and looked inside.

  Tim leaned over her. "It's some piece of paper soaked with something that stinks. And there's a note."

  The scent hit her, and she stepped back.

  "Didn't seem like much of a surprise to me either."

  It smelled like film developing chemicals.

  Her head buzzing, she reached in and pulled out a curled strip of paper with another message.

  Follow your nose to the next one.

  "No," she whispered, knowing she wouldn't need her nose. She knew exactly where the next one was.

  Chapter 24

  Alex read the note again. "The next one," she said aloud.

  "Yeah, I didn't get what he meant by that part," Tim said. "Next what?"

  She looked at his face, a sprinkle of blond stubble on his chin and at his sideburns.

  "What does it mean?"

  Alex shook her head. She stared at the note and the canister. It had to be Nader. "Damn." She ran back to the car.

  "Where we going?"

  She didn't answer him.

  "We going to see that vocab guy?"

  Alex looked at him. "What?"

  "I can't remember the guy's name, but it was one of our vocabulary words last year." He shrugged awkwardly. "But I don't remember which one."

  She puzzled, then shook her head. He must have meant Nader.

  "You know, we get like ten every week and we have to spell them and use them in a sentence and then at the end of the week we—"

  "I know what vocab words are," she snapped.

  "Oh, yeah, sure. You were young, too."

  She scowled.

  His face turned beet red. "What I meant was—"

  "Do you mean Nader—Marcus Nader?" she
asked before he could insult her again.

  He looked relieved. "You know him?"

  "Not exactly, but I know where he lives. How do you know him?"

  "His name and address were in my notes. The man told me I might have to show you to his house."

  She got into the car and started the engine. As soon as Tim was in, she put it in gear and started for Nader's house. Don't let it be too late, she thought. She should have sensed something was wrong when she'd gone there earlier.

  She parked in front of the little taupe ranch house and jerked on her emergency brake, pulling the keys from the ignition and pocketing them. She caught Tim's eye watching her and shook her head. "Don't try anything."

  When they were both out of the car, she locked the doors and headed up Nader's walkway. She mounted the three stairs to the front porch, hearing the clod of heavy shoes behind. When she halted, Tim nearly ran into her. Turning back, she stared at him.

  "You want me to wait here?"

  Without speaking, she nodded.

  He took a couple small steps backward and stuck his hands in his shorts pockets, his shoulders hunched over. "Sure."

  "Thanks." With Tim safely on the curb, Alex stiffened her shoulders and walked back to the porch. She dreaded what she would find in this house. Someone had murdered Loeffler and then sent her here. She prayed she was wrong.

  "Uh, Alex, you going to ring the doorbell?" Tim asked.

  Alex stared down at the doorbell. "Of course I am," she muttered, using the sleeve of her shirt to push down hard on the button. "Go back to the car."

  Inside she heard the loud buzz but no other motion.

  After a minute, she buzzed again.

  Still no answer. Shrugging, she stepped back. What now? She had to get inside.

  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. It looked exactly as it had when she'd been there before.

  Alex opened the screen on the back door and, covering her hand with her shirt, tested the doorknob. It was locked. As she started to turn away, the dog door caught her eye. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the coast was clear. Not that she had expected anyone, but she was quickly learning to check.

  Scanning the house next door and seeing nothing, Alex decided at least to take a look. Down on her knees, she opened the dog flap with her elbow and peered into the kitchen. Everything appeared normal there, too. Before she dropped the flap, a cold breeze from inside fluttered across her cheeks. She was reminded instantly of the chill of the morgue.

  As the flap slapped against the plastic rim on the door, Alex froze. Her nostrils flared, the hairs in her nose singed from the smell. She pulled back.

  It was the smell of developing chemicals, same as in the canister Tim had. The killer had been here.

  She turned slowly, looking at the small, carefully kept yard. Alex moved to the front of the house, searching for a way in. The knob tight in her shirt-covered fist, she rattled the main door, the frame shaking beneath her anger.

  "You trying to break in?"

  She spun around and met Tim's gaze. "Go back and wait by the car."

  He shrugged and turned his back, scuffing his red shoes against the ground. " 'Cause if you're trying to get in there, I could maybe help you."

  She looked down the street in both directions. How soon before the Palo Alto police turned up? Someone had to be missing Nader. She needed to get inside and process the scene for clues before someone else arrived, but she didn't want to break a window and leave evidence that she had been there.

  Tim hung back a few yards, refusing to go to the car. "I mean, first thing is, you probably don't want to do it from the front door."

  Her brow tight, she focused on him again.

  He smiled a little proud smile. "Can't believe you don't know this and you're a cop."

  Alex moved around the side of the house again, thinking about how to get inside without attracting attention or leaving a trail. If she was going in there, she needed to do it quickly.

  As he walked by, he patted her back. "Don't be down. I'll show you."

  "I don't need help. You need to go back to the car," she said, pointing again.

  "I can do it in ten seconds. It's an easy one. I tried it earlier this morning."

  Alex stared. "You broke in here earlier?"

  His jaw slack, he looked back. "Well, only to test it—you know, see if I could. I didn't actually go inside or nothing. I only came here to make sure I could find the place."

  She shook her head in disbelief. "Open it. Fast. But don't touch anything with your bare hands. And then you've got to wait by the car."

  Tim covered his hand with his shirtsleeve. In less than three seconds, he picked the lock and pushed the door open.

  Alex looked inside and drew her gun before entering. From the first step into the house, she picked up the chemical scent. Goose bumps lined her arms like tiny soldiers. The house was freezing, the smell bitter in the cold air.

  With purposeful caution, she moved through the kitchen, her nose leading the way. Both hands on her gun, she hunted for the source of the smell.

  The shuffle of feet fell in behind her and she halted, looking back.

  Tim shrugged, his expression innocent. He glanced around. "It's like a refrigerator in here."

  "You need to wait outside," she said.

  "You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me."

  "If you want to keep the money, you'll wait outside." His keys and the money were tucked down under the seat in her car. At least the car was locked.

  "I'm supposed to just wait?"

  "Yes. And let me know if anyone shows up."

  He grinned. "You mean, like keep watch?"

  "Exactly."

  He nodded and hurried outside.

  The squeak of her shoes against the linoleum was the only sound she heard, but she stopped at the edge of the kitchen and listened carefully. A cup of clear liquid sat in a plain gray coffee mug on the kitchen table. She bent down and sniffed—chemicals. It occurred to her that they might be there to cover another smell.

  Adrenaline scorched its way across her chest. At the academy, they had discussed this feeling, how it made people react, the benefits as well as the disadvantages of "the rush."

  Adrenaline produced much the same high as cocaine or heroin. And it didn't cost a dime. Some people were willing to risk everything for it. Cops, their lives. Criminals, their freedom.

  The search for the rush was probably the single common ground between criminals and cops. It was one thing both would agree they loved.

  She paused, letting the rush stream into her veins. The sound of a clock ticking came from one side of the house, a steady drip from the other. She turned toward the clock. Her shoes fell silent on the carpet.

  Pressing her back to the wall, she moved heel-toe across the carpet, her gun in front of her every step. Something creaked beneath her and she wheeled around, checking her back. It was clear. When the adrenaline settled slightly, she continued.

  The familiar heat pooled in her stomach, propelling her on, giving her courage. Behind the smell of chemicals, another scent drifted across her senses, more subtle and a bit like metal. It smelled like death and it filled her with dread.

  The odor intensified with each step. Her back pressed against the cool white Sheetrock wall, she paused for a breath. The thermostat caught her eye. It had been set at fifty. She knew what the cold did. It preserved a dead body. As she inhaled, the metallic scent grew increasingly bitter. Iron. It was blood. She pressed on, easing down the hall.

  She reached a closed door and hesitated beside it, listening for any noise. Then, with a full breath, she grabbed the knob, cool even through her T-shirt, and pushed the door open. The door resisted as though something were holding it back. Straightening her shoulders, she pointed the gun to the door.


  Counting to three, she prepared to enter. One. Two. Three. She kicked the door open, feeling the hinges loosen beneath her sole. A new musky smell assaulted her as she entered the room.

  On the far bureau, at least two dozen sticks of incense had burned to their ends. As she took another step into the room, something caught her eye.

  Her gun ready, she spun and pointed it at the face. The body was propped against the wall behind the door. Blanching, she stepped back, knocking against the bed and falling back. "Oh, God. Oh, God." She stood and turned her back, rushing into the bathroom and vomiting. "Jesus, no."

  More than anything, she wanted to sink onto the bathroom floor. Instead, she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket and forced herself back into the hall. Her breath shallow, she crept through the rest of the house. Her feet spread, her gun out, she swept each area in a wide arc, checking carefully for suspects before moving on. When she was sure the house was empty, she returned to the body and stepped into the bathroom.

  There, she splashed cold water on her face, checked that the bathroom was undisturbed, before facing the room. She wiped her hands on her pants. Process the scene. No prints, no evidence. Just work it like any other.

  Forcing herself back into the bedroom, she stared at the body. His hands folded before him, he looked peaceful. He wore only a T-shirt and shorts and from the look of his hair, he'd been sleeping when he was awakened. Only the red splatter pattern behind his head and the empty stare in his eyes gave him away. She looked at the wound. He'd been shot in the neck, just like Loeffler. She had found the next one and it was too late.

  If Nader was second, then she was third. Why hadn't he killed her when he'd had the chance? He could easily have shot her in her home as he did the other two. Why was she any different? Was it because she couldn't remember?

  It felt like he was taunting her. The calls, the evidence planted at the scene and at her house, the break-in—it was all some sort of manipulation. She thought about the killer—he was arrogant. Arrogant, obsessed with controlling her, detached. She tried to fit the personality factors into a face and knew it was impossible. Even if she met him, she might not know him. Deceit was part of the game.