Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Alex slowed her pace as she listened to the description of the third survivor.

  "He's a wonderful photographer," Edna said, as though it made him a saint. "Was a wonderful photographer," she corrected herself.

  Alex glanced over to catch the starry gaze in Edna's eyes, silent tears falling as she spoke.

  "But he was more than that. His work was so good. He was an artist really. Oh, he did weddings and parties to get by, and did pretty well, I think. But his real passion was nature. You should have seen his house. He had the most amazing pictures. I always told him he should work for National Geographic. He was that good."

  Alex nodded, agreeing. They left the prison in silence. She assumed they were both thinking about Marcus Nader, but for very different reasons.

  At her car, Edna pulled out a slip of paper and a pen and wrote her phone number down. Handing it to Alex, she said, "Please do call."

  Alex saw the loss reflected in her eyes as she nodded. "I will."

  * * *

  Without knowing quite where to go, Alex headed into town and stopped at a Chevron station. Rather than run up Mrs. Carter's cell phone bill, she went to a pay phone and dialed information. When the operator answered, Alex requested the number for Stanford, hoping she would be able to reach Blake Hennigan. She wished she had thought to call Stanford while she was down in Palo Alto. She reached the main number for the university and was put through to the psychology department. The whole process seemed to take an hour.

  "Psych department," a young-sounding woman answered.

  "I need to speak with Blake Hennigan."

  "Dr. Hennigan isn't here."

  "Can you tell me how to reach him?"

  "He doesn't have a set schedule, so he's kind of hard to reach. Can I ask what you were looking for?"

  "My name is Alex Kincaid and I'm with the Berkeley Police Department. I'm trying to get some information on a participant in your research study in 1971. His name was Walter Androus."

  She hesitated before saying, "I'm afraid I don't have access to those records. The files are kept here, but only Dr. Hennigan and one other researcher, Alan Mersch, have access."

  "Is Mr. Mersch available?"

  "I'm afraid Dr. Mersch isn't in today."

  "How about Dr. Daniels?"

  "Dr. Daniels left before my time."

  "Is there a home number where I could reach him?"

  "Who?"

  Alex exhaled. "Hennigan, Mersch, Daniels. Any of them. I need to speak to someone now."

  "Actually, Dr. Mersch is at a conference in London until the end of the month. I think Dr. Hennigan may be there as well. I don't have any information on Dr. Daniels."

  Alex forced a deep breath. "Can you give me the names of any of the other researchers who participated in the study?"

  "I don't have access to that, either."

  "Is there someone in the department who would have access to that?" Alex asked impatiently.

  "Uh, I don't think so."

  "Can you find out for sure?"

  "Uh—"

  "I'll hold," Alex snapped.

  Several minutes later, the woman returned. "We can only release those with a subpoena." Someone spoke in the background. "Signed by a judge," she added.

  Alex frowned. "You need a subpoena?"

  "Uh, yes, that's right."

  Alex sighed loud enough to be heard. "Fine. I'll have one sent," she said, wondering how that would be possible. "But I suggest you get started on finding someone who can help us, wherever they are. This isn't going to wait until they get back."

  "Uh—okay."

  She asked to be transferred to Blake Hennigan's voicemail and left him a message with her home number. She did the same for Mersch, noticing that both doctors had young women on their recordings. She just wanted to ask them about Androus's involvement in a study there. Surely after all these years they would talk to her—if she could just reach one of them. Now she had no idea what to do next. She'd exhausted all of the possibilities.

  Back in the car, Alex gripped the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. Without enlisting the help of someone at the station, she wasn't going to be able to get anywhere.

  Gathering her courage, she got back out of the car and returned to the phone booth. A woman in tight black jeans and a red sweater at least two sizes too small was approaching the phone, too, holding a cigarette off one hip.

  Alex snatched up the phone first and quickly turned her back.

  "Excuse me. I was going to use that."

  "You're going to have to wait in line," Alex answered without looking back.

  "You cut in front of Delia," came a voice that sounded like a lumberjack's.

  Alex hooked the phone under her chin and turned around.

  Delia looped the cigarette hand on her hip and tucked the other under the arm of the man standing beside her. He was hardly a man—at easily two hundred and fifty pounds, he looked more wildebeest. Thick hair spilled over his cheeks and down onto his chest. A sleeveless undershirt covered only a small portion of his furry physique.

  "I said, you cut in front of my Delia."

  Alex smiled. "I got to the phone first, that's for sure. Guess her heels slowed her down." Normally, Alex would have started her phone call, preparing for an attack, even with her back turned. But with her injured shoulder, she wasn't so sure she'd be ready for him. She still had use of her right hand, which was her stronger arm, but he was awfully large.

  The lumberjack took a step forward, detaching himself from Delia, who sat back on her heels and smoked, examining her nine inch fingernails and tapping her foot as though reminding her boyfriend how urgent the phone call was. Maybe she needed to get in to see her manicurist.

  The lumberjack stopped less than six inches from Alex, his hand in a fist. Alex spotted familiar prison tattoos across his fingers. "You gonna move?" he barked.

  She shook her head, putting the phone back to her ear now that he was close enough to watch.

  He chortled, leaning back enough to free his undershirt from the belt of his pants and give her a view of about eight inches of hairy flesh.

  Grimacing, she dialed the police station and waited for the AT&T operator to ask for her calling card number.

  "I don't like it when people ignore me, especially chicks."

  "I'll bet," she muttered. She felt his breath on her cheek and she spun toward him, moving her face to his. "Back off."

  He didn't move an inch. After a several-second delay, of either shock or the working of a very slow mind, he laughed again, this time harder.

  "You gonna take that, Ray?" Delia called from behind.

  "Fuck off, Delia," Ray hollered back.

  Alex punched the numbers for her calling card and hoped someone at the station would answer before Ray decided to get physical.

  "Listen, bitch. If you have any brains in that ratty ass head of yours, you'll move away from the goddamned phone."

  "Berkeley Police Department," came Reesa's voice on the line.

  Thank God. Alex turned to stare at Ray as she spoke. "Reesa, it's Officer Kincaid. I need to speak with Roback."

  "Alex! Thank God. Everyone's been so worried."

  "Roback, please," Alex repeated.

  "Sorry, hon, he's not here. He's still out on patrol. Your brother wants to talk to you, though."

  "Not yet, Reesa. I'll call back in an hour, I swear," she lied. "Will you put me through to Roback's voicemail?"

  "Okay, but don't you dare tell your brother I talked to you without putting him on. He'll have my head."

  "Cross my heart and hope—" She halted.

  Reesa laughed, seeming not to notice that Alex's tongue had gotten twisted in her mouth. "Here you go."

  Tucking the phone under her chin, she motioned to Ray. "If you have any brains in your ratty ass head, buddy, I suggest you take your ass to another fucking phone before I have you thrown back in the state pen."

  Eyes wide, Ray put his hands up and backed off
. "No need to get hasty, Officer. I'm sure there's another phone around here somewhere."

  "Right."

  The phone clicked, and she heard Greg's voice. At the end of the beep, she left a message. "Roback, it's me. I didn't find anything from Taylor. Only that he thinks Androus was involved with some psychiatric research program at Stanford before the murders. He gave me a couple names: Hennigan and Daniels. They're doctors down there. When I called, they mentioned another guy—somebody Mersch. Stanford wouldn't give me any information without a subpoena."

  She shook her head. "I don't know how else to find out about it. Unless you know someone who was down there in the early seventies. Maybe Chris knows someone." She halted and slapped the Plexiglas of the phone booth. "Oh, wait. I know who." She started to put the phone down and then brought it back to her ear. "I'll call you in an hour. I'm going to go talk to someone who was there." She replaced the phone on the receiver and jogged back to the car.

  Shivers of anticipation spread across her shoulders as she revved the engine and pulled out of the lot.

  "I'm closing in on you, asshole," she whispered. "And when I get you, you're going to fry."

  Chapter 32

  Back in Berkeley, Alex pulled to the curb in front of the converted house where Judith Richards kept her small private practice. The office was on a quiet, mostly residential portion of Ashby, three blocks west of the hospital. She was less than a dozen blocks from the station and she was more than a little nervous about being spotted. A charming stucco ranch-style house, it was a perfect choice for a children's psychiatrist.

  In what once was the house's foyer, the receptionist sat behind a light wooden desk in a waiting room decorated in a style similar to that of Judith's home. The receptionist was a petite middle-aged woman with striking blond hair cropped short and carefully coiffed. Dressed in a black blazer and large Jackie O tortoise-shell glasses, she looked like she belonged in a New York ad agency.

  Two couches and half a dozen chairs filled the rest of the area, with toys and magazines in large wicker baskets. The room smelled like chocolate chip cookies, and Alex felt her stomach growl.

  The receptionist looked up from her computer screen. "May I help you?"

  "I hope so," she said. "My name is Alex Kincaid. I'm a family friend of Judith's. Is she available?"

  The woman stood and moved around the desk. "Oh, yes, Judith mentioned you. I'm Sally."

  Alex shook her extended hand.

  Sally glanced briefly at Alex's left arm tucked protectively to her chest but didn't comment. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she said, "Actually, Judith's down in the playroom with a patient."

  Alex followed her gaze down three stairs to a set of heavy-looking closed doors. "It's awfully quiet," she said, dropping her voice.

  "Soundproofed," Sally explained, laughing softly.

  "Soundproofed?"

  She nodded. "Kids make a lot of noise. Without the soundproofing, we couldn't really have a waiting room. If a kid was in there crying or screaming, you could hear it a block down."

  "I can come back," Alex offered, the image in her mind of a screaming child behind the closed doors.

  "Oh, no." Sally led Alex toward the back of the house. "Come wait in her office. This patient is particularly sensitive to strangers, so I think it will be easier if you're back here."

  "I probably should have called first."

  Sally patted her shoulder and shook her head. "Really, it's no problem. This is Judith's last patient for the day."

  "It's only noon."

  Sally nodded. "Judith keeps Mondays open for what she calls 'weekend disasters.' If something happened over the weekend and a parent feels their child really should be seen as soon as possible, they can get in to see her on Monday. Usually they're really busy days, but today's been absolutely dead."

  In the hallway, Sally stopped to pick something off the floor and straighten a picture, and Alex noticed the thick beige carpet lining the hall. It was immaculate. She couldn't imagine how on earth Judith managed to keep it clean with kids tracking in and out all the time. Alex could hardly keep her own hardwood floors clean. And Judith's house had been so casual.

  Alex wasn't sure what to make of the difference between Judith's home and office.

  Sally opened a heavy wooden door off the right side of the hall and motioned Alex inside. "Here we go."

  Alex entered Judith's office and looked around. Nothing about the place was familiar, but, of course, it wouldn't be. Judith hadn't had a private practice back when Alex had met her. And they had always talked at Alex's house.

  The decor was subdued here, too, with cream-colored walls and rugs. White bookshelves stood against the far wall, lined with framed photos and thick medical textbooks. Children's artwork hung along the wall nearest to the door, splashing bits of color against the walls. But unlike in Judith's house, everything here was perfectly placed.

  "I can't believe the children don't make a mess in here."

  Sally laughed. "Oh they do, but Judith is incredibly meticulous about things—sometimes too meticulous, I think." She stooped over to straighten the fringe on the rug. "Make yourself at home."

  Alex watched her move the rug and shook her head. Judith hadn't seemed that meticulous to her.

  "Really, take a look around," Sally urged.

  Alex took a few steps toward the back of the room, where two overstuffed cream chairs and two couches sat in circle formation as though prepared for an afternoon tea party. The couches, though, were drastically different from one another. One was floral and ruffled, with what seemed like two dozen small lacy pillows. The other was burgundy leather with four dark pillows, their designs depicting old Air Force fighter planes.

  The receptionist laughed. "Everyone makes that face when they see those couches."

  Alex glanced back. "They're just so different."

  Sally moved past her and straightened a pile of papers on the desk. "Judith says it's sort of a way to get a kid to take the first step. Ask them to pick a couch and they are usually immediately drawn to one or the other. Judith says she can learn from their choice."

  "Interesting," Alex said. She spotted a large pair of Doc Marten shoes. They seemed too large to be children's. She turned back to the receptionist. "Should I have taken my shoes off?"

  The woman furrowed her brow.

  Alex motioned to the shoes. "I thought maybe those were a patient's shoes."

  "Oh, no. Those are Judith's."

  Alex bent down and picked the left shoe up. She remembered seeing similar shoes at Judith's house. "They're huge. Her feet can't be this big."

  Sally laughed. "She uses them as a patient prop. 'Getting into someone else's shoes'—only literally. Most of the kids can put their feet in those without taking their shoes off."

  Alex flipped the shoe over and read the bottom—size ten men's.

  "Judith does it, too," the woman continued, straightening as she moved around.

  Alex frowned. "Does what?"

  "Wears her shoes inside those."

  Alex put the Doc Marten shoe up to her own. It wasn't that much bigger. "Really? What kind of shoe?"

  "I can only do it with sandals on. But for Judith, I don't think it matters. She wears a size three shoe."

  Alex tried to picture her feet but couldn't. "Wow, tiny."

  "She has to buy most of her shoes in the kids' section. I guess it makes them cheaper."

  Sally clicked her tongue twice and motioned to the room. "Well, I've got some work to finish up before I leave. It's so quiet, I'm going to take a half day. Do you want something to drink?"

  Alex shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks."

  "Make yourself comfortable, then. Judith should be in soon."

  "Thanks again." The receptionist closed the door and Alex set the shoe down. Size three shoe. She reminded herself to look at Judith's feet when she arrived.

  Alex looked back at the couches. She was too wired to sit. She walked along the wall and
inspected the drawings. Though she knew little about child psychology, none of the pictures seemed disturbing. The colors were bright, the faces smiling.

  Alex remembered Brittany telling her about how art was a way for children to represent their experiences and emotions. She wondered if she'd ever drawn about Androus or the warehouse. Would she be cleaning out the attic one day and find a box of crayon drawings filled with images of children dead and dying?

  Shivering at the thought, Alex had started to turn away when writing on one of the drawings caught her eye. As her eyes grazed the words, her heart faltered and her arms went limp.

  Blinking hard, she took a step forward, as though perhaps the distance had caused an optical illusion. But the words were still there, exactly the same: "For Dr. J. Love, Sammy."

  In a flash, she heard the echo of a man screaming, "Dr. Jay, you can't!" But she couldn't hold on to the voice, couldn't place what it meant. Her ears started to ring and she looked slowly from picture to picture, searching. None of the other drawings were addressed to Judith. With a mental shake, she turned away.

  Alex was shocked to see Judith called by her first initial. Maggie Androus had reported that her brother's psychologist had the same name as their father: "Jay," not "Dr. J." But the police stenographer wouldn't have known the difference.

  It was a coincidence. You don't believe in coincidences. A sense of dread weighed her down. She moved across the room. She went back to the size ten shoes.

  Mrs. Carter claimed to have seen Tim walk into Nader's house two nights before she and Tim were there. She had been unable to make out his face. Instead, she had recognized him by his shoes. "Bright red, they were," she had told Alex. "And that yellow jacket, no missing that either." Alex stood and looked quickly around the room. There was no sign of a yellow coat. But she'd seen one at Judith's house, hadn't she? Along with a pair of red shoes.

  What about the kid she'd seen in the parking lot? Lanky with a goofy walk but smaller than Tim. Could that have been Judith? She shook her head. She was overreacting. A couple of words on a page and a pair of shoes didn't make a killer.

  She looked around at the pristine room. There was something else. Moving quickly, she turned to the desk and began to pull the drawers open. Her heart pounding, she fingered through the files, unsure what she was looking for.