Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Alex put the gloves on and waited for instructions. She stood silent, knowing Lombardi and Greg were waiting for her to react. They were going to move the body. This would be her first contact with a dead body, and she swore she wasn't going to miss a beat. She'd heard stories of the process, things that dripped or fell from the corpse. In one case she'd heard about, the head had fallen off. If Alex wanted the detective division, she needed to maintain her cool. And Lombardi would be goading her wherever possible.

  "I'm finished," the photographer announced.

  "You ready for it?" Lombardi asked the medical examiner's assistant.

  He nodded without speaking.

  "Then we can move it," Lombardi declared with unnerving enthusiasm as though this was the most exciting part of finding a corpse. "Watch the blood from that arm—don't get it all over yourself."

  Alex smiled broadly at Lombardi despite the wake that bounced in her gut.

  "Over here, Kincaid."

  She inhaled deeply and approached the body.

  "Don't touch his skin. We don't want to lose any prints."

  Though she'd heard the advice, she couldn't help but feel an odd sense of awe at the image of fingerprints left on the dead man's skin, a final testament to the agony he had endured. A niggling voice whispered in her ear: Will yours be among them? She shook it off. She'd followed regulations and hadn't touched a thing. She thought of her earring and touched both ears quickly. Greg caught her eye and raised an eyebrow but she only smiled in response.

  "You take the shoulders, Kincaid. Roback and I'll get the body. You make sure it all ends up in the bag," he called to the guy from the ME's office. "Just onto his back, okay? On three. One. Two. Move."

  Alex rotated the man's shoulders. His neck wobbled as the remaining shards of muscle and ligaments struggled to hold the weight of his head. She'd been right. He'd been shot in the back of the neck and the bullet had exploded on the other end, leaving very little of the front of his neck remaining.

  At the sight of the exposed veins in his neck, she swallowed the bitter taste of bile that rose in her throat. She would not be sick. A wave of the metallic smell of blood and burnt skin hit her nose and she blinked hard. She would not be sick, she repeated to herself.

  Greg was groaning on his end. "Jesus, he stinks."

  "What are you—a girl?" Lombardi chided.

  "No, but I've got a good nose and this asshole stinks."

  Alex remained silent.

  The victim's head knocked back against the ground, the thin tissue ripping, and she looked straight at his face for the first time. Gasping, she jumped back.

  Lombardi looked puzzled. "What the fuck?"

  An image flashed through her head. A man's face—this man. But how did she know him? A cold sweat breaking across her body, she backed up slowly, her heart racing.

  "Kincaid, what's wrong?" Greg stepped into her line of vision, but she could still see the man.

  Her knees wobbly beneath her, she began to shake. Fighting it off did no good. Small white dots formed before her eyes. Damn this. Damn it all. She shook her head, trying to push the image of his face from her mind. Why did she know this man's face? The image in her mind shuttered and she saw the front of Noah's Bagels. He'd tried to talk to her. He'd used her name. Pointing, she tried to speak.

  Greg centered her shoulders to him, forcing her gaze off the man. "What?"

  "What the fuck's wrong with her?" Lombardi bellowed.

  She looked at Greg but pointed to the man. "Him—"

  He gave her a light shake. "What about him?"

  "He—" The white dots grew, filling her field of vision. She blinked hard, but it only got worse. The room started to spin as she fought a wave of dizziness.

  "He was at Noah's yesterday," she gasped. He'd used her name. What had he tried to say? "He asked me a question." She turned away from Greg, feeling dizzy. "Did you see him?"

  Greg looked at the victim and shook his head. "No, what did he say?"

  "You knew him?" Lombardi demanded.

  She shook her head, the room spinning. "He spoke to me in Noah's yesterday—he used my name."

  Greg shook his head. "Your name's on your uniform, Kincaid. What's the big deal?"

  She looked around the room, feeling it circle beneath her. She reached out to grab something but all she caught was air. She pictured her uniform and shook her head.

  It was a big deal, she thought. Her legs collapsed, and she slammed to the floor with a thud. Then, everything went black.

  Chapter 4

  Alex strained against the net of tight cobwebs that circled her brain. She was hung over and exhausted and everything hurt. And yet she couldn't remember drinking. It had been a while since she'd had anything to drink. Her insomnia kept her away from alcohol. The nights she drank were always the roughest in terms of sleep. She lifted her hand to her head and felt a plastic bracelet scratch her cheek. She opened her eyes and stared down at it. A hospital I.D. band. She blinked hard, then, remembering the street and the body, she jolted upright.

  James pulled away from a chair nearby. "Glad to see you're up."

  She ignored her brother, trying to remember the pieces before he told her. A tight knot formed in the bowel of her gut. She'd blacked out. The knot grew until it seemed to fill her belly. She'd blacked out on the job. "Damn," she whispered, wishing it had been a dream. She didn't dream. She hadn't dreamt—or remembered a dream—ever.

  "You really had Lombardi scared."

  She watched James watch her. Captain of Internal Affairs, assessing other cops was his job. At that moment, she wished he were just a regular brother. Someone to come and make sure she was okay and to invite her to dinner. James was anything but. Every question, no matter how innocent-sounding, was a cross-examination about her guilt, her intent, her ability on the job. She thought about waking up in her car. He didn't know about that. He didn't need to know. Fainting was hardly grounds for an internal investigation.

  She often thought it had been a mistake to come and work for the same police department where James was. But this was home. The only one she'd ever known. Her time in L.A. had been fun, but it had never felt permanent or even real. Los Angeles was, truly, la-la land. And six years there had been five too long.

  Only being mugged had given her the impetus to leave. She'd been coming home late one night and been attacked just one hundred yards from her front door. He'd wanted money, he told her. But he'd come with a knife, and after she surrendered her handbag, he'd still held her. She remembered his hot breath in her ear, the feeling of him pressed against her. It no longer gave her chills or made her palms sweat. Now it just pissed her off. Thankfully, he hadn't gotten the chance to get any closer.

  She'd known that she'd fight him to the death if he tried to rape her. The knife against her neck, she'd waited until a moment when his grip slackened before breaking free from his hold and landing her knee in his groin. He'd dropped his knife but not before slicing the edge of her jaw.

  The small scar was physically all that remained of that night. Mentally, it had been the cause of a lot of change. She'd left her job, her friends, L.A. All three had been superficially appealing, but not deep enough to sustain her interest. The threat of death had made that instantly clear.

  "You want to tell me what happened," James said, pacing along the side of her bed as though he were in front of a jury box.

  She crossed her arms. "Not particularly."

  "Why don't you anyway?"

  "You here in an official capacity, James? Or did you think you'd put the job aside and see if your sister is okay?"

  James halted and turned back. "You want sympathy? How can I give you that when I don't even know what the hell it would be for? What the hell happened? You knew that guy?"

  Just then, the door opened and James's twin walked in. Brittany was the opposite of her brother, and in many ways, of Alex, too. Though she and Alex looked alike—lean figures with reddish auburn hair and light eyes, Brit
tany was calm and somewhat reserved. The observer, some would say. She was a child psychologist and a damn good one. Brittany stood between James and Alex. "Glad to hear you're respecting the fact that she's recovering from trauma," she scolded James. Her tone was strong and firm, the voice of someone who knew she was right and didn't need to prove it.

  James stepped to the edge of the room and leaned against the windowsill. "I was just trying to figure out what happened."

  Brittany nodded and turned to Alex. "Of course. A cop," she said, motioning to James. To Alex, she said, "How do you feel?"

  "Fine."

  "Did you feel any symptoms before you blacked out? Light-headedness? Anything like that?"

  Alex remembered feeling off balance as she'd walked into the dining room. "A little, I guess."

  "I'm sure it was a delayed concussion from the fall your partner told us about," she said. Then, her back to James, she mouthed, "If you need to talk, you can call me."

  Alex nodded.

  As though sensing he'd missed something, James returned to the bedside, eyeing his twin, who ignored him, before speaking again. "The department wants you to talk to a counselor."

  Alex frowned.

  "It's a matter of course," Brittany added, taking the edge off James's request. "Anytime something traumatic happens on the job, they send the officer to a counselor. James always makes everything sound so dire."

  He did, at that. "Who do I call?" she asked, still talking to Brittany.

  "There's Margaret Schroeder," James answered.

  Alex groaned. "Mad Dog Schroeder?" The woman was infamous at the station for her mood swings. She'd be gentle as a kitten one minute and a pit bull the next. "No thanks."

  "There's Ross Berman or Jane Reed," James continued. "Gillian McArthur. She's new, but I've heard good things."

  "What about Judith Richards?" Brittany asked.

  Alex remembered the name. "The one who used to work with Mom? I just saw her at the station yesterday morning."

  "Yeah, I think she still does some work there," James agreed. "I can ask."

  Brittany nodded. "Call her. She'll remember you. You used to talk to her about your nightmares when you were a kid."

  "Nightmares? When was this?"

  "You were little—" She turned to James, who shrugged. "First and second grade, maybe. Something like that. Anyway, Judy's great. She's the one who helped me get into the graduate program at Cal. She's dealt with some incredible cases. She's done a lot of work with ex-cons—she even had two patients who shot each other. She managed to talk one of the shooters out of killing her. She's also written some fascinating articles on criminal psych." She turned back to James. "Call and see if she's available for Al to talk to."

  He nodded but didn't respond. Then, he stepped closer to the bed with an ominous look. "I do have some questions to ask in an official capacity."

  "I'm sure they can wait," Brittany said.

  James let his mouth fall shut.

  "I can answer them," Alex offered, knowing he'd corner her sooner or later.

  James nodded and smiled satisfactorily at Brittany. "Did you know the deceased?" he asked Alex.

  Alex straightened her back and crossed her hands in front of her. "No. I think he came up to me in Noah's Bagels the day before yesterday. At least, I think it was him."

  "What did he say in Noah's?"

  "Nothing. He never had a chance."

  James frowned and made a note in a small spiral notebook he always carried. Alex had even seen him pull it out at a family dinner.

  "We got a call," Alex continued. "Roback came in and called me, and I left."

  "So, the dead guy—Loeffler—he never said anything to you?"

  "He called my name—that was it."

  "He said 'Kincaid'? That's it?"

  A nurse came through the door as Alex considered James's question. But he hadn't called her Kincaid. "I need blood," the nurse exclaimed as though they might each have a bag of it in their pockets.

  "Hers, I hope," Brittany joked, stepping back with her hands up.

  "Oh, sure, sacrifice me," Alex complained. "Haven't I had a rough enough day already?"

  The nurse chuckled, wrinkles forming exclamations around her eyes. "It's yours I'm after," she said, approaching the bed. Her gray hair was tucked up under what looked like a white shower cap, her white nurse's outfit snug over her full figure.

  "Are you sure? I think she might have a better sample. We're all related, you know."

  The woman ignored Alex, though her smile remained. She took Alex's arm and tied a tourniquet around her biceps.

  Alex watched the nurse draw blood, her mind on Loeffler. He hadn't called her Kincaid. That would've been the name he'd seen on her badge. It would've made sense. And yet he'd called her Alexandra. No one had called her that since her mother had died.

  "I've still got questions for you," James said.

  Brittany waved him off. "Later, Spillane."

  Alex nodded in the direction of James as the nurse began to check her vitals. How the hell had the dead guy known her first name?

  * * *

  Alex waited for the doctor to discharge her. Dr. Pletcher was a nice enough man. Tall, thin, with a small, steep nose and an easy disposition, he hummed lightly to himself as he worked, as if he were working on a car rather than a person.

  "I think you're free to go," he announced, hanging the stethoscope over his neck. "No signs of concussion, not even a real bump."

  "What caused me to black out?" Alex asked.

  Dr. Pletcher pursed his lips and shook his head. "It's hard to say. Most likely it was the fall you took. The brain's a difficult organ to figure. We're not quite there yet." He made a note on her chart and tucked it under his arm, looking like he was ready to skip down the hall with Dorothy in her red slippers.

  "Doctor?" She stopped him as he was heading out.

  He turned back, his brow raised.

  "I had a general question."

  "Sure."

  "What might cause someone to wake up somewhere strange and not remember how he got there?" As soon as the question was out, she regretted asking it.

  It was like asking a parent about sex or drugs—even the mere mention of the topic led to the immediate suspicion of guilt.

  Though he watched her intently for a moment, she kept her expression neutral, refusing to confirm that she was speaking of herself. Holding her chart to his side, he approached the bed and sat in the chair next to it, staring at the wall on the other side of her bed. "Delirium, epilepsy, and certain dissociative reactions like fugue states can cause memory disorders."

  "What's a fugue state?"

  "It's a personality disorder characterized by amnesia and usually involves flight from an area of stress or conflict."

  "Uh, in layperson terms, please..." Just as she spoke, the door opened and Greg came into the room.

  He saluted to the doctor and put his hand out. "Greg Roback. Nice to meet you."

  "Harry Pletcher."

  He winked at Alex. "Just came to see if my partner's going to be back in battle soon."

  The doctor nodded. "A day or two and she'll be raring to go."

  The doctor turned back to Alex and started to speak.

  "Great," she interrupted, hoping to keep him from returning to the conversation they'd been having. "I'll be anxious to get back."

  "I think you should take it easy for another twenty-four hours. As long as you don't experience the dizziness again, you should be okay to return to work." The doctor made another note and started out the door.

  Alex exhaled and turned to Roback.

  The doctor pulled the door open and then turned back, one finger raised like Einstein making a discovery. "I almost forgot to answer your question about fugue states," he said, stepping back into the room. "A fugue state happens when something triggers the mind to block out certain memories—sometimes the loss is associated with a specific person or object, so that someone won't remember any
thing that relates to that object or person. And sometimes people suffer a complete memory lapse for short spans of time after something traumatic has happened."

  Alex nodded, feeling Greg's stare. "Interesting," she said, trying to cut Pletcher short.

  He seemed oblivious to her discomfort. "A lot of people who were in the forces in Vietnam now suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Many don't remember chunks of the time they were there. Others are still reliving actual combat over and over."

  "What else can cause a fugue state?" Greg asked, and Alex knew his mind was working.

  Dr. Pletcher took another step back into the room and shrugged. "I was just telling Alex that we usually don't know exactly what triggers it—it can happen spontaneously for no reason at all." With a shake of his head, he added, "I have to admit, this isn't my area of expertise." He paused. "Sometimes drugs can have these sort of side-effects."

  "Which drugs?" Greg asked and Alex cringed.

  The doctor nodded, thinking, as he glanced at Alex again with one brow raised. "The same symptoms can be associated with certain benzodiazepine derivatives, for instance."

  "What's a benzodiz—?"

  Pletcher smiled and Alex shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed. "Benzodiazepine is a drug derivative. Valium, for instance, is a benzodiazepine. Restoril is another."

  Dr. Pletcher looked down at her chart and raised an eyebrow. "You took Restoril last night."

  Both men stared at Alex. "Did you experience some sort of amnesia?" the doctor asked.

  She shook her head. "I was just curious."

  "The drug she took could cause that kind of reaction, though?" Greg asked. "This Restoril?"

  Alex stared at Greg.

  Dr. Pletcher shook his head. "Usually not. Certainly not retrograde amnesia—forgetting what happened before she took it—like in fugue states. In high doses, Valium could cause some loss of memory."

  "But not Restoril?" Greg pressed.

  He shook his head. "Most likely not."

  Alex nodded. "We weren't talking about me, Roback," she said, knowing his mind was already working through why she'd asked the question in the first place.