Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  And she had no idea what the final play was. Was the plan to make it look like she was the killer? That she'd savagely killed Loeffler, cut off his hand and thrown it in her own trash? And then come down here to kill Nader before taking her own life?

  There had to be more than just wanting to clean up what had happened all those years ago, something that triggered all of this happening now. There was something he wanted her to do before he killed her, or something he wanted her to know. It all had to do with that day in the warehouse. Was her punishment different from Loeffler's and Nader's because she may have shot Androus? Or maybe she was singled out because she'd seen something they hadn't. But she didn't remember it.

  He wanted her to remember. It was the only thing she could come up with. It seemed risky—too risky to gamble her memory on his freedom. But he'd already proven he was willing to take risks.

  She looked back at Nader. When had he died? With the temperature so low, it was hard to guess by looking at the body. He could have been here for several days. She assumed the incense would burn only twenty-four hours or so. She thought about the message she'd left Nader and wondered if he'd heard it.

  Leaving the bedroom momentarily, she found the answering machine in the kitchen. The light wasn't blinking. Opening the top with her knuckle, she looked inside. The tape was gone. Someone had been here since she'd called. They had the tape with her call—more evidence against her.

  She looked around and then headed back into the bedroom. She knew the police could be here anytime. He'd probably called them himself. She should leave, but she needed to search everything first.

  As quickly as possible, she looked over Nader's bedroom. The walls of the room were covered by framed eight-by-tens of scenery. She saw a photo of Joshua trees in a pink sunset that looked like it had been taken in the African tundra. Rows of lush, green rice fields, from Bali or someplace close by, filled another. Only one picture showed him, standing with a group of local Indians in a jungle somewhere. He was certainly talented.

  Forcing herself to move on, she picked up a stick of the incense and examined it. No name, no brand. The wastebasket held no packaging either. Using the incense, she poked the trash. A beer bottle, some mail, a couple tissues. No wrapping.

  Tucking her gun away, she moved around the room, looking at it as though through Lombardi's eyes. He would come to this scene. It would be ruled part of the Loeffler case and she knew he would visit. What would he find that she had missed?

  She pulled off the thin fleece jacket she was wearing and put one hand in each of the arms in lieu of a pair of gloves. Moving around the room, she opened the drawers and poked through the contents, careful not to touch anything with her bare hands. The bedside table held a copy of Paolo Coelho's The Alchemist, a small flashlight, earplugs, a row of four lubricated condoms, and a tube of Chapstick.

  She moved to his dresser drawers and went through them one at a time, beginning at the top. White briefs in the top left drawer, socks on the right. The socks were matched and folded in half, stacked by color, darks on the left, lights on the right. She moved the stacks and searched beneath them. There was nothing.

  The second drawer was T-shirts, then shorts and long-sleeved shirts and pants as she moved her way down. The bottom drawer was wide and especially deep and held workout clothes—Nike shorts, T-shirts, fleeces, and three pairs of biking pants. The clothes weren't stacked like the other drawers. It looked like he used this drawer the most. Leaning down, she pulled the jacket off her hands and lifted the clothes from the drawer onto her lap, searching for something out of place.

  At the bottom of the drawer in the middle, she saw a white envelope. Putting her hand back into her jacket sleeve, she picked up the envelope and opened it. She pulled out a white receipt. At the top, it read "N.T. Security P.I. Services." It was a bill for a two-month period the prior fall. The address was in Menlo Park. She remembered Loeffler's calendar. Meet NT SEC. Loeffler's calendar had also had something about SQ. What did that mean?

  Had both Loeffler and Nader worked with the same P.I.? She refused to believe it could be a coincidence. Maybe they had been in communication about what had happened all those years ago. Then why hadn't they called Alex? She was a cop. Didn't that make her the perfect person to contact? Or maybe they were trying to make contact, and that was why Loeffler had pictures of her, why she had ended up at Loeffler's that night.

  Returning the clothes to the drawer, she tucked the receipt in her pocket and turned toward the door. As she did, her toe caught a lamp and it came tumbling off the dresser. Before she could think, Alex caught it in her bare hand. "Damn it."

  Using her jacket, she wiped her prints off the lamp and returned it to the spot on the dresser. Then, moving quickly, she looked through Nader's closet, under his bed, through the small second bathroom he used for photo developing, and finally tackled the desk in his office.

  She had turned to leave when she spotted Nader's checkbook open on top of his filing cabinet. The dates read July and she wondered what someone was doing looking back at those months. PG&E, Pacific Bell, TCI cable, Acura of Palo Alto, USAA insurance, cash withdrawals. Nothing seemed unusual.

  Using the tail of her shirt, she turned the page and scanned the entries. The third read "N.T. Security, 700.00." She flipped back several pages to January and found another payment to N.T. Security, this one for over a thousand.

  From what she could tell, Nader had paid N.T. Security almost every month from September of 1998 until November of 1999. The amounts ranged from under two hundred to nearly two thousand. She needed to find this P.I.

  With the toe of her shoe, she nudged the door open and started to step out.

  But she wasn't alone.

  Chapter 25

  Greg stood with his arms crossed and a brow cocked and aimed at Alex. At least it wasn't a gun. "We've got to stop meeting this way."

  "You scared me."

  "You know you shouldn't be here."

  Alex pushed by him. "I didn't have a choice."

  Greg walked past and started to push the bedroom door open.

  "He's dead, Roback. Shot in the neck, just like Loeffler."

  Greg went in anyway. He stared for almost a minute and came back. "He's still got both hands."

  She nodded. "And feet."

  "Guess we won't need to go through your trash then," he said. The words might have been funny in very different circumstances. Things were too serious now to joke much, and becoming more serious all the time.

  "We should get out of here," he said when she didn't respond.

  She turned and headed to the back of the house, thinking she'd have liked to do something for Loeffler and Nader. Finding their killer seemed like the best she could offer. Images of the two of them in death flashed into her head. "Why the neck? Why shoot them there?"

  "Breath," Greg said. "Food. Speech."

  "Speech?" Alex grabbed onto the idea. "Maybe he shot them in the neck because they'd spoken? Because I can't remember, I can't speak."

  "Maybe that's why he slammed your head into the floor, as a way of telling you to remember."

  "Remember or else?" Alex opened the back door and squinted at the sun.

  "Something like that."

  "I've got some information from the station."

  Alex turned around and looked at Greg. "What?"

  He looked over his shoulder. "We should get out of here first."

  Alex started for the street. "Where's Tim?"

  "Who?"

  She looked around. "The kid. Tim."

  "There wasn't anyone here when I got here."

  She frowned and approached her car. "How'd he get his keys? I locked the door." As she got closer, she saw that the small triangular window on the passenger side had been broken. "Goddamn it." The inside passenger seat was littered with tiny pebbles of glass and a fist-sized rock sat beside her left front tire. She popped the trunk and saw that her purse was still there. At least he hadn't gotten that. The en
velope of money and his keys were gone, but that was it. "The little prick."

  "Who the hell are you talking about?"

  Alex told Greg about Tim's appearance, the camera, and the clue that led her to Nader. "Ah, screw it." She reached her hand out. "Give me your phone." She wanted to go to N.T. Security next. She hoped they could tell her what Loeffler and Nader had learned.

  Pulling the receipt from her pocket, she opened it up. The receipt had a stamp with a phone number. She dialed the number and waited while it rang. "Come on." She heard three high-pitched beeps and a message that said the number had been disconnected.

  She dialed information. "Menlo Park for N.T. Security P.I. Services," she said, thinking the name was a mouthful.

  "No listing," the operator announced.

  "I assume that isn't evidence from the scene of a crime," Greg said, pointing over her shoulder at the receipt.

  She shushed him and spoke into the phone. Maybe they moved. "How about Palo Alto?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  Alex clenched a fist. "Can we try San Francisco, Oakland, or Berkeley, please?" She loved the fact that AT&T now had nationwide information at one number. She didn't care that Greg would probably pay heavily for the convenience.

  "No listing in any of those cities."

  "Can we try San Jose?"

  The woman exhaled. "No problem," she said even though she didn't mean it.

  Alex waited.

  "Nothing in the 408 area code. I also tried the 510, the 415, the 925, and the 650. Those are all the codes in your area. Is there anywhere else you'd like me to try?"

  "No. Thanks." Alex turned the phone off and handed it back to Greg.

  "Who were you calling?" He put his hand up. "Before you get into it, let's get out of here and go somewhere we can talk."

  She nodded and walked around to the driver's side. "I know just the place, follow me," she said, getting into the car.

  Greg following in his car, she drove the fifteen minutes to the abandoned lot and parked. It seemed like as good a place as any. The killer had the information about her hotel, so she hated to go back there. She'd have to worry about getting her stuff and moving later.

  And she didn't think anyone would expect her to come back here.

  "Nice." Greg opened the passenger side door of her car and swept the glass onto the floor before sitting down. "You staying in the neighborhood?"

  Ignoring the comment, she explained about the bill from N.T. Security Private Investigator Services and the note she'd seen in Loeffler's calendar.

  "But there's no listing?"

  She shook her head. "Maybe they're out of business."

  "Or out of state, or changed names, or added someone, or any number of things."

  "If we had access, we could check the licensing bureau. If it's a real P.I. service, they'll have a license."

  Greg's face sobered and he didn't answer immediately. "I'll try to get Chris to do it," he said.

  "It's that bad at the station?"

  He looked at her and shifted down in the seat. "It's pretty bad."

  "Do you have anything?"

  "I've got a lot. You can thank Brenda for most of it." He pulled out a couple of folded sheets of paper. "Ballistics came back on my gun."

  "And?"

  "No match."

  Alex exhaled.

  Greg slapped her shoulder playfully. "You knew there wouldn't be. Don't look so surprised, you make me nervous."

  "I knew it wouldn't match, but the way this guy's working, I wouldn't be surprised if he could pull a rabbit out of your hat."

  "He may still yet."

  Alex stared at him. "What?"

  "They've confiscated Brenda's."

  Leaning back in the seat, she shook her head. "What do you bet James volunteered his gun for the pile, too?" she said, steaming.

  "It's shitty, but they won't find anything."

  "It's still shitty."

  Greg was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Did you know cat urine glows under a black light?" He paused again. "I hate cats."

  Alex couldn't bring herself to joke right then. "What else—on the case?"

  He unfolded the papers in his lap. "Alfred Ferguson was up at Quentin for six years. First offense but VC stuff," he said. "Not a real bright one, our Mr. Ferguson."

  Something immediately felt off. She expected Ferguson to be smarter than the average killer. Who else could have set her up this way? "What do you mean not real bright? What kind of violent crime did he commit?"

  "Got drunk during a bowling game, went home, got a gun, came back, and shot a guy he said was screwing his girlfriend, then went home and got into bed. Police picked him up an hour later, tucked into bed wearing his pajamas."

  "Not exactly an Einstein."

  "That's not the worst of it."

  Alex looked out onto the lot. "Dumber than that?"

  "Much. He was released on the manslaughter charges four years ago. Starts frequenting a convenience store near where he lives. Worker is a woman Ferguson dates on and off. Everyone in the store knows him. Owner always complains because he has these big boots and he tracks mud in and out all the time. One day when his girlfriend isn't working, Ferguson shows up in a ski mask with an assault rifle and robs the place."

  "Let me guess, he tracks the mud in," Alex said.

  "Yep. Owner knows him instantly. Even says something to him about the mud."

  A pit hardened in Alex's gut. This wasn't her man.

  "And Ferguson doesn't stop. He still robs them—even ties the owner up when he gives him trouble. Calls him by name as he's doing it." Greg folded the papers until he had made a small cube and then began to unfold them.

  Alex rubbed her face. "It doesn't make sense. Whoever's putting this together isn't stupid. Ferguson isn't right. Did you find a picture of him?"

  He pulled a photo out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  She stared at the mug shot. Ferguson was thick-necked and meaty. He had a birthmark like a red splash of paint across his upper lip. He had a wide chin that she thought she recognized. But he definitely wasn't the same man as in the photo labeled B.A. she'd seen at Loeffler's.

  "Is it the guy from the gym?" he asked.

  "I think so." She handed the picture back. "It's still not right, though. Our guy is smart. It can't be Ferguson. Not alone."

  "Maybe he's learning from experience."

  She shook her head. "What's he been doing since he got out?"

  "Working construction in Oakland—project at Fortieth and Broadway. According to the foreman, though, he's only there every third day or so."

  "And he still has a job?"

  Greg shrugged. "I guess labor's hard to come by. They take it when they can get it."

  "No way. It's someone else. He didn't leave a single print at Loeffler's house. Somehow he got me there, took pictures of me in my car, splattered my pants with blood, broke into my house, and planted the mug..."

  "You know the attack was him."

  She nodded. "Okay, so the attack was him. But he's not doing this on his own. I don't buy it. Too many variables. I mean, he got Tim involved, bought the camera." She shook her head again. "And why Tim? What's the connection—that he knew Loeffler?" She tapped her foot and tried to reason it out. "It's not Ferguson. He's more sophisticated, whoever he is. Ferguson doesn't have the resources. He couldn't have afforded that camera on a few days' work at a construction site."

  "Hey, construction pays pretty well."

  She grabbed his arm. "Listen to me. It's not Ferguson. That camera cost a grand. Plus, he wouldn't have given the kid half a grand to go with it. Someone else is involved. Someone from back then. It has to be."

  "Who?"

  "That's what I don't know. What's the connection between Ferguson and our guy?" She tried to run down the possibilities. "Where did Ferguson grow up? Down here?"

  He shook his head. "Modesto."

  Modesto was in the central valley, too far from Palo Alto to be
the link. "Damn. What about cellmates or buddies in prison?"

  "The most recent cellmate is still in. I couldn't check the previous go-around. I don't know about buddies. I can try to find out."

  "Shit. I need answers on this stuff. We need access to the station," she said angrily.

  "I'm doing the best I can, Kincaid."

  "I know," she said in a softer voice. "I'm sorry. I appreciate what you've done. I'm just frustrated."

  He nodded.

  Alex sucked her lungs full of air and let it out in a long, low hiss. "Let's think of the positives. What else do we have? Anything on Androus's brother or sister?"

  He shook his head. "I did get a hold of a picture of Walter Androus, though." He pulled another picture out of his breast pocket and handed it to her.

  "What else've you got in that pocket?" she asked, looking at the face of Walter Androus.

  "That's it, I'm afraid."

  Androus wasn't at all what she'd expected. Unlike Alfred Ferguson, who looked like the thug he was, Androus actually looked like an intellect. He wore small, round rimless glasses and had a straight, thin nose, which had never been broken that she could see. He was thin with red hair. "He's definitely related to the guy in the picture I saw at Loeffler's. No doubt about it, that must have been a photo of Ben."

  Greg motioned to the picture of Androus. "You think he's involved?"

  She raised an eyebrow. "Walter or Ben?"

  "Ben."

  "Involved? As in, not dead?"

  He shrugged.

  "I don't know. Maggie admitted she never saw him dead. Walter was the one who went to New York and called her. What if he isn't dead?"

  "But why?" Greg countered. "And why would no one ever have seen them together in Palo Alto?"

  She thought about how much alike they looked, but not close enough to be mistaken for each other. Not by people who saw them often enough, anyway.

  "Let's check into the circumstances of the death. Do we know what year it was?"

  "The interview said 1972 and she said he'd died six years before, so 1966 or 1967. Maybe '65. Can you get to New York records?" she asked, knowing people would be watching his every move.

  He shrugged. "I can get someone to call it in if I have to." She could tell from his voice that he was frustrated. "You find anything at his house besides the receipt?"