Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  It was still red enough to give away the fact that it was recent, and the night desk clerk would know it hadn't been there when she checked in. The small contusions along her chin and on her hands would also be plenty of evidence for someone trained to notice those things. She hadn't brought makeup, so she had nothing to cover them with. She just hoped no one looked too closely at her.

  Because the hotel was in San Jose, she was gambling that it would take the police a little time to connect Ferguson's murder with Nader's in Palo Alto. But she knew that wasn't much to bet on.

  Her bags packed, Alex called a cab to meet her at the Veterans Hospital. Once she was safely out of the hotel, she planned to call the numbers from Ferguson's wallet and then spend the day in the main branch of the San Jose library, looking up New York obits. Greg had told her Ben Androus was listed, but she wanted to read the notice herself and see if she could learn anything more.

  Pausing before she left, she decided to check her messages. It was only six in the morning, but maybe Greg had gotten some news. Or Brenda. She blew her breath out and punched in her password.

  "You have one message," the electronic voice informed her.

  Seated on the edge of the bed, she prepared herself for the familiar echoing voice of the killer. But the one she heard couldn't have been more different.

  "Officer, this is Louisa—Louisa Carter," the elderly woman began.

  Alex gasped, pressing the receiver closer to her ear, determined not to miss so much as a sigh.

  "It's late," the frail voice continued. "I hope I didn't wake you up." The woman paused and drew a deep, raspy breath. "I don't sleep well anymore. Up and down all night. I guess that's what happens when you get old. It's a terrible waste, really."

  Her voice shook just slightly and Alex wondered if she might have been drinking when she called.

  The voice paused and Alex held her breath, praying Mrs. Carter didn't hang up before explaining why she was calling.

  "I'll be at home tomorrow if you want to call me. Perhaps you could stop by for a few minutes and I'll give this to you. You have my number."

  Give her what? Alex had started to hang up the phone when the woman added, "I'm going to try to go back to sleep, so if you wouldn't mind waiting until after eight to call." The message clicked and Alex hung up the receiver.

  She shook her head, trying to decide if a detour to Palo Alto was worth the risk. Louisa Carter probably had some picture of Nader or something she thought might be of relevance to the police. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred a trip like that was a waste.

  Alex threw her bag over her good shoulder and entered the hall, careful to make sure the "Do Not Disturb" sign was still on the door. She took the stairs to the ground floor and walked back like she was heading to the hotel's gym. Passing a few business travelers arriving on a Monday morning, Alex didn't see any cops. She walked in wide strides with her head down and hoped no one bothered her. She entered the gym and then into the pool area. She saw a door on the far side and started for it.

  "Ma'am," someone called as she approached the door.

  Alex ignored them and reached for the door.

  "You can't leave through that door, ma'am."

  Alex turned back to see a hotel employee shaking his finger at her. He frowned and pointed to the banner across the door that warned opening the door would trigger alarms.

  Jesus, what was she thinking?

  "You can go back through the gym and down the corridor to your left. There's an exit halfway down and one at the end. Are you parked in the back?"

  "Yes, exactly," she lied.

  "Take the exit at the end of the hall, then."

  She nodded and followed his instructions, feeling the weight of stares as she left the pool. One woman made a tsk-tsk sound as she walked by.

  Alex made it to the exit without further incident and was relieved when she reached the main street. Keeping an eye over her shoulder, she crossed the street toward the Veterans Hospital, where a cab was already waiting in front. She got inside and said, "Airport."

  After the incident last night, she assumed someone was on her tail at every moment. She planned to cab to the airport, travel as far as the gates on foot, and then exit on the arrivals level and take another cab back to Palo Alto.

  Alex trained a watchful eye on the traffic around her as the cabdriver headed toward the airport. There had been no sign of the car she'd seen leave the hotel parking lot just before Ferguson attacked her, but she had known there wouldn't be. Even if the driver of that car were the one who killed Ferguson, he would have ditched last night's car for a new one.

  She arrived at the airport and sprang from the cab, rushing hastily through the glass doors and toward the departure gates, hoping to look natural among the bustle of hurried travelers. She slipped into a bathroom before reaching the metal detectors, and pulled on a baseball cap and removed her jacket before exiting.

  At a bank of small pay phones Alex dialed the first number from the Post-it. A woman's voice sounded on a recording. "You've reached Candy Treat," she cooed, and Alex guessed she was a prostitute. The second number was also answered by a machine, but there was no voice, only a beep. She'd have to call again. She bought a muffin and coffee, and watched the people until it was quarter to eight.

  Then, moving as calmly as she could, Alex walked down the escalators toward baggage claim and out the front doors.

  Across from the rows of cars awaiting passengers, she stopped at the taxi stand and jumped into the first cab.

  She arrived at the block past Nader's at eight-twenty, feeling confident that she hadn't been followed. Someone could be watching Nader's house, waiting for her. Still, Alex had no choice but to risk it.

  As she hurried toward Mrs. Carter's house, she hoped the woman hadn't chosen this morning to go out for a leisurely stroll. With a thorough survey of the area, Alex moved among the houses to Louisa's door, where she gave one last glance over her shoulder. She forced herself to stop worrying and rapped quickly on the door.

  "Who is it?" the woman called as Alex celebrated the fact that Mrs. Carter was home.

  "Alex—" Pausing, Alex strained to recall what name she'd given yesterday. "You left a message on my machine," she added quickly.

  Without another word, the woman opened the door, peered out, and with a careful look around, waved Alex in.

  Sitting in the same chair as yesterday, Louisa began to fiddle with a pile of papers on the table in front of her. She wore red pants and a striped shirt, her hair more styled than yesterday though it was flat on her left side, possibly where she'd slept on it. Her lips showed the faint outline of lip liner. She appeared to have gotten dressed up for something, but Alex couldn't imagine it was for her.

  She had been concerned Louisa might notice her arm, but the woman was much too preoccupied even to look up. "Do you want to tell me why you called?" Alex asked, wondering if this wasn't James's idea of a setup. Counting slowly to ten, she rocked on her toes, preparing for flight, refusing to admit even to herself that she wouldn't get far with her injured arm.

  "There is one more thing I haven't told the police," Louisa whispered as though it were a deep, dark confession. "Not purposefully, of course," she added in a tentative voice, still without looking up.

  She wrung her hands together and spoke up. "Well, not at first. I'd forgotten about it at first. It had been so long ago. But then when you came around and mentioned N.T. Security, it jogged something in my brain."

  Alex raised an eyebrow. Maybe this wasn't just a wild goose chase.

  "About four months ago, I went out to get my mail, just like I always do. I go out after the truck leaves, wave to Stan—" She glanced at the door. "Stan's our mail delivery man. And I brought the mail into the living room to open. I keep my letter opener there, you see," she explained, as though it were pertinent to whatever she was about to say.

  She looked down at her hands, which made motions as though she were knitting a sweater with no need
les and no yarn.

  "It's force of habit, I guess. I take the whole stack in my lap, turn them facedown, and tear them all open, always have. Used to make my husband, Harold, so angry." She glanced up but refused to meet Alex's gaze.

  "He was a postal worker, you see, for nearly thirty years. He always warned me that someday I was going to open someone else's mail by mistake. That was a federal offense, he always told me. I used to laugh him off. 'Oh, Hal. Cool off,' I would say. Harold had a tendency to be very uptight about the mail. Pride in his job, some might say. It never bothered me much, but I never gave it much thought, either."

  Something creaked, and Alex started.

  Louisa met her glance for the first time then quickly looked away. "Hot water heater in the basement. Does that every half hour or so."

  Alex nodded slowly. "You were saying..."

  "I opened a letter that was addressed to Mr. Nader." She stared at Alex, looking like she was ready to cry. "I didn't know. By the time I realized it wasn't for me, I'd read almost the whole thing."

  Alex stepped forward. "So what did you do?"

  Mrs. Carter smoothed her long, bony fingers over the bottom edge of her red-and-white striped button-down. "I didn't know what to do. Harold's warnings came rushing back to me." Her hands shook as she waved one through the air. "I couldn't call the police. I thought I would be arrested. I didn't think Mr. Nader would ever miss the letter. How could one letter matter? But now. After you mentioned it..." She dropped her head and shook it. Alex frowned. "Do you have the letter?" Nodding slowly, Mrs. Carter pulled a folded piece of paper from the pile, and hesitated momentarily before handing it to her. "I just didn't know," she whispered, collapsing into quiet sobs.

  "I'm sure it's okay," Alex said, taking the paper with her good arm and patting Mrs. Carter quickly on the back before turning to spread it open on the coffee table.

  Dated about four months ago, the letter was handwritten in light ink, and Alex brought it closer, squinting to make out the words.

  Dear Marcus,

  I'm sure you have heard the news about what has happened to me. The last three months have been hell. I want you to know I am innocent, though I know the evidence against me seems overwhelming. Feels that way too.

  As far as your case, I felt like I was just getting somewhere—well, closer to somewhere anyway. I tracked down a Dr. Hennigan from Stanford. He's still in the area and I think he might be able to help. He might know who Androus saw as a therapist back then. I think that might be the next place to go. I left a message on his voicemail, but I never heard back. Then all this happened, so I haven't been able to follow up. I suggest you pursue the issue, with or without my help. I know a few people in the area I can suggest.

  I would be happy to share what I have learned, but under the circumstances, I will understand if I don't hear from you. And I will certainly repay the balance of your account as soon as I get things here straightened out.

  I am preparing for the appeal as we speak. There has been a terrible mistake and I am still trying to figure out who would do this to Lucy.

  Sincerely,

  Nat Taylor

  N.T. Security

  Dr. Hennigan? Lucy? Who the hell were they? Her heart drumming, Alex blinked and read the closing line again. Nat Taylor. She'd found the P.I. Catching her breath, she looked up at Mrs. Carter. "This man, do you know him?" The woman looked puzzled.

  Alex held the letter up. "The man who wrote the letter."

  Mrs. Carter closed her eyes and shook her head. Opening them again, she pointed to the letter. "Oh, no. I never finished it."

  Her mouth fell open. "What do you mean—never finished what?" Alex asked.

  "The letter. Halfway through it, I realized it wasn't for me. I stopped reading and searched for the envelope. When I found it and saw Mr. Nader's name and address, I put the letter back inside.

  "I never read another word, I swear." Her eyes wide, her right hand lifted, palm out, Mrs. Carter looked like she was swearing in court as a witness.

  Alex glanced at the note again. "But you never took it to him?"

  "Oh no. I just couldn't." She pressed her hand flat to her chest, her expression grieving. "I wanted to, but I couldn't. It was so obvious that I'd opened it. It was terrible, I know. But, understand, please—I was a widow, an old lady. I didn't want to go to jail."

  Alex shook her head, fighting a smile. "You wouldn't go to jail for this."

  The woman stared, incredulous. "It's a felony," she whispered, like it was a curse word spoken in church.

  Alex nodded. "Mail fraud is a felony. This wasn't mail fraud, Mrs. Carter. You made an honest mistake."

  She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to be acquitted. "You can't tell anyone. Please. Harold told me all about what they do to people who violate the mail laws."

  "Mail laws?"

  The woman nodded vigorously, as though shaking the terrible demon out of her soul as she did so. "Oh, yes. The tiny cells, the public humiliation... I'm too old. I couldn't stand it."

  Alex approached the woman. "Mrs. Carter, you didn't do anything wrong."

  Her fingers wrapped tight around Alex's hand, the woman implored, "Please. Promise you won't tell a soul."

  Alex nodded. "I swear." She paused, meeting the woman's gaze. "But I need your help."

  She nodded. "Anything."

  "I need to borrow your phone book and your phone to call Nat Taylor. Would that be all right?"

  The woman frowned and glanced at the note. "Nat Taylor? That's who wrote that note?"

  Alex exhaled. "You know him?"

  "Oh, yes. But you won't be able to reach Nat Taylor now."

  Dread sank into Alex's limbs. "Why not?"

  "He's in jail. Killed his wife. Ran her over with his car. They lived less than a mile from here. It's very sad. He's serving time at San Quentin now."

  Alex looked back at the note. It all fit together. See NT SEC @ SQ. San Quentin. Chris had said a man named Taylor had called in with information on the Sesame Street case, but because he was in jail for killing his wife, no one had taken him seriously. He must know something. She spun around to Mrs. Carter, who still looked mortified at what she'd done. "Can I use your phone?"

  "Well, of course. It's right—"

  Following her gaze, Alex snatched up the phone and dialed information.

  "What city please?"

  "San Quentin. I need the prison's main number."

  "One moment please." The electronic voice rattled the number off as Alex scrambled for a pen. Her hand shaking, she dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for an answer.

  "San Quentin," a voice barked.

  "Yes, I need to find out about visitors' hours."

  "Inmate's name?"

  "Taylor. Nat Taylor."

  After a pause, the voice replied, "Mr. Taylor is allowed visitors on Mondays from eight-thirty to ten-thirty a.m."

  Alex stared down at her watch. "That's—"

  "Right now," the operator finished.

  "Do I need an appointment?"

  "Nope. Just arrive before ten-fifteen and they'll bring him out."

  It would take her at least an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. "I have to go, Mrs. Carter. Thank you for calling me. You've been a wonderful help."

  The woman stood and held out a hand. "You promise you won't tell anyone about this?"

  "I promise." Alex grabbed her hand and squeezed. "Don't worry. It'll be our secret."

  Before Mrs. Carter could answer, Alex was out the door. She took two steps and halted, staring at the street. Her car was at the airport. She didn't have a car! "Shit!"

  Nader's car caught her eye, and she took two quick breaths. "No," she said out loud, shaking the idea from her head and trying to replace it with rational thought. Stealing a dead man's car was a bad idea.

  Back on Mrs. Carter's doorstep, she knocked.

  "Hello?"

  "It's Alex again."

  The door cr
eaked open and the woman's face poked out only enough to take a quick look around and then set her gaze on Alex. "What is it?"

  "It's my car."

  The woman stared out on the street. "Where is it?"

  Alex nodded. "That's the problem. It's at the airport," she answered.

  "What's it doing at—"

  "It's a long story, but I was wondering if you could call me a cab."

  "Oh," she said, shaking her head. "A cab will take forever. I've waited some days over an hour. I use the local dial-a-ride to get to the store and such."

  "Mrs. Carter, this is a police emergency. I need to get to San Quentin in the next hour. I need a car."

  "You swear you won't tell anyone about what I did, right?"

  "Of course, Mrs. Carter. I'll never tell. I promise. Now, I need—"

  "You can take my car," she offered, then added, "if it will start."

  Alex shook her head. That wasn't a good idea either, "That's very kind, but I don't think—"

  "Nonsense. You're a police officer and you've helped me quite a bit today. My conscience hasn't felt this clear in months." She disappeared and then returned a moment later, dangling a set of keys out the screen door. "I insist. It's parked right there."

  Alex tried to shake her head again, but instead her hand moved out to take the keys. She needed to get to Nat Taylor. She'd apologize later, buy her a new car, do community service, whatever. "I promise I'll bring it back today."

  "No hurry. I can't drive, anyway. Lost my license on my last test." She tapped the corner of her right eye. "It's the eyes. The car's only here for when my sister flies in from St. Louis. She won't be here till Thanksgiving. Bring it back today or tomorrow."

  Alex cupped the keys, tossing them slowly in her hand as she considered the offer. She shouldn't take the car. What if something happened to it? She didn't even know Mrs. Carter. You shouldn't take the car, she could hear James telling her. Tricking an old lady out of her car was surely fraud; impersonating a local police officer... She was breaking all sorts of laws—ones she hadn't even broken before now.