Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "Who was he?"

  One eyebrow lifted, he glanced over at her. "Here's where things get interesting." He said the word in three syllables—in-trest-ing. "He was a criminal prosecutor in the city. Did mostly kid stuff—abuse, the kid that was killed and found on the coast last year..."

  She nodded.

  "Well, it was that kind of shit."

  "Sounds like the type to gather enemies."

  "And fast. He's also recently separated."

  Remembering Ramona Quay's slip, she asked, "Where's the wife?"

  "Kensington." Kensington was the next town past Berkeley, a small, mostly residential area. "I sent Kostopolis to talk to her this morning. Guess the wife's living with a new boyfriend, and his kids weren't crazy about Mr. Loeffler."

  Alex looked over at him. "What do you mean they weren't crazy about him?"

  Lombardi shrugged. "You need a map? Older kid says he hates Loeffler's guts. Still not sure why. Maybe because he blames him for his dad's new live-in girlfriend." He shook his head and then spit out the window. "Jesus, I'm glad I never let Martha convince me to have kids—crazy Menendez brothers and shit. Who needs that? I got people out here that want to kill me. I don't need to go home to it."

  "How about your wife?"

  For a moment, Alex saw the flicker of a smile, but he didn't let it through. "Really fucking funny, Kincaid. Jesus Christ, I got Jerry fucking Seinfeld now."

  She smiled. "You think the kid could've killed Loeffler?"

  "Possible."

  She thought for a moment, unable to make sense of the theory. "Why would the new boyfriend's kid kill Loeffler? If he didn't like his dad's girlfriend, he'd kill her, not her soon-to-be ex-husband."

  He shrugged. "Maybe. Got to look at it every way. I mean, why does any of this crap happen? I only got to solve it. I don't pretend to get it."

  "Any idea why they cut off his hand?"

  He shook his head casually. It was as though they were talking about the weather. "Nope. Probably meant something to the perp, though. Some guys think they're making a statement—you know, some guy's beating his kid or something and Loeffler's the prosecutor. Guy thinks he should be able to beat his own kid, right?"

  Though she wasn't sure she followed, she nodded for him to continue. "So he gets thrown in jail and when he gets out, he kills Loeffler and cuts his hand off to show how no one stops him from fucking with his own kid."

  "That's what you think happened?"

  He glanced over at her and shrugged. "I got no idea. Just a thought. Whatever the reason, guy's fucked up."

  "So what are we doing?"

  "Going through the house for anything we can figure out."

  As he turned onto Yolo, she tried not to think about the previous morning. He took a long look at her, as though waiting for her to crack. "We agreed, right?"

  "Agreed?"

  "No fainting," he said, pulling to the curb.

  "Right."

  He cursed again, and Alex looked out the window. The bottom of the stairs was roped off with crime scene tape, and a group of reporters crowded the area. News that one of the local D.A.'s was murdered had clearly gotten out. Lombardi was out of the car before Alex even had her seat belt off.

  She got out and pushed past the reporters, reaching the house before Lombardi.

  "Excuse me," one of them said, grabbing at her arm.

  "No comment." She extracted herself and headed up the stairs. It wasn't her job to comment. Since she'd been on the force, she hadn't watched the news with the same eyes. Like wolves, reporters seemed to smell fresh blood and pounce.

  "Detective, are there any suspects at this time?" one hollered.

  "Is it true this was a mob hit?" another yelled.

  "Is it true that the deceased was recently separated and the wife is now living with her new boyfriend?"

  Lombardi stood three steps up and waved his arms to shut them up. "As soon as we know anything, we will make a statement to the press. In the meantime, I'm not at liberty to answer any questions."

  As the pack of reporters started firing questions at him again, he turned and headed up the stairs.

  "Bunch of vultures," he mumbled as he reached Alex at the top of the stairs.

  He pulled two pairs of surgical gloves from the cardboard box tucked under his arm, handed her one, and then put his own on before touching the door. Inside, several people were at work already. They really did start early.

  Lombardi motioned her to follow him and he led her toward the dark hallway. The staircase formed a straight-edged C in the middle of the entryway, a skylight shining down on the wood floors. A rich burgundy rug covered the middle of the stairwell like a long red tongue. Suddenly, there were a million details she hadn't noticed before.

  As Lombardi opened a door and flipped on a light, she focused on the room. Painted maroon, it had mahogany bookshelves along an entire wall. Just like a lawyer, she thought. An elk head stared at her from the far wall, mounted above a spacious wooden desk.

  "And I thought I was having a bad week," she mumbled. She hoped that thing was mounted well. This was not the day to have something fall on her head.

  Loeffler's desk was strewn with papers in no apparent order. The fingerprint crew had long since come and gone. She wondered if they had made this mess. She thought about the intruder who had rifled through her kitchen, and she suppressed the angry shivers that ran along her arms.

  "You think someone was in here?"

  Lombardi looked around. "Not sure. That, or the guy was a slob. See if you can make some sense of this shit."

  "Right."

  He pointed to two large file cabinets along one wall. "Check all of it—every scrap of paper, every book. Pull anything remotely screwy."

  She nodded.

  "Don't doubt yourself. If it looks like it has a strange-colored ink, pull it. Any questions, I'll be around."

  "Got it."

  He started to leave and stopped. "It's not a one-day job, Kincaid. Someone else will go through it after you. I never leave anything to one person's opinion."

  "Thank God," she muttered when he left. She started at the desk, reading each piece of paper, trying to soak in its content and figure its worth. Next, she separated the papers by subject and created piles on the floor. Organizing the life of a dead guy wasn't exactly how she had envisioned spending her days, but she knew as a detective it would be a large part of her job. She wondered who would organize her stuff when she died. As she started to look through things, she also couldn't help but wonder if she would find something to explain why she'd been on Loeffler's street that morning.

  Pushing the thought aside, she picked up his Palm Pilot, searching for anything that looked interesting. It was just a cursory check since the contents would be downloaded to a computer and systematically searched back at the station. The conveniences of technology.

  Sitting in Loeffler's big chair, Alex used the stylus pen and clicked through his calendar. He had notations all over the place, but few of them made any sense to her. An L followed by a person's name seemed to indicate a lunch date. D probably meant dinner. The names looked mostly like last names, so it was tough to tell if they were men or women. Three days ago he'd had an "L=Sam School." She assumed Sam must be one of his clients.

  In between meals, he had names with shorthand notations that she thought probably referred to his cases. The day before he died, he had three meetings. One read "NT SEC @10, SQ." Maybe NT was a person or maybe it referred to a case. The only thing she could think of for SEC was the Securities and Exchange Commission, but Loeffler was in a different type of law. Alex made notes: NT? Name? Person? Case? SEC? SQ? Some questions? Was that a place? The next was "L=Mrs. @1." Alex guessed that was probably a lunch with his wife.

  The last entry on that day was at six p.m. It read "Call: N, K, DR, and PAPD." Alex wrote the initials down. PAPD sounded like Palo Alto Police Department. It was the only one she could figure. She made a note to look for cases that involved
the Palo Alto Police. She worked her way backwards in his calendar without much success. He seemed to have lunch with the missus two or three times a week. Perhaps they were trying to work things out. She made a note that someone should find out where they'd eaten and how it had gone.

  Loeffler also had a standing breakfast on Wednesdays with someone named Keith. And he ate every Thursday night with Cam. She wrote the names down to cross-reference with the rest of his files, although she assumed they were friends. Also, there was a weekly notation for "Q" at 7:30 each Monday, which Alex thought was probably was Mrs. Quay's weekly cleaning date. She could confirm that one easily enough. Other than that, she couldn't make out a single thing in Loeffler's shorthand.

  By noon, she was exhausted and famished. Brenda and her partner, Lou, a short, stout Italian with dark sideburns and a thick mustache, brought by sandwiches.

  "I got you turkey, lettuce, tomato, pickles, yellow mustard, no mayonnaise," Brenda said, handing her the Subway bag.

  "You're an angel."

  "I know." She motioned to Alex's head. "That guy really smacked you, didn't he?"

  Alex nodded.

  "Hurt much?"

  "Not so much anymore."

  Brenda nodded. "Listen, I was hoping we could have dinner this week. Just to talk."

  Alex looked at her friend and raised an eyebrow. "Roback talk to you?" she asked, wondering how much he'd told her.

  Brenda raised her arms in a gesture of innocence. "Can't a girl ask a friend to dinner?"

  Alex opened the sandwich and took a bite. "Right."

  "He's a little worried. So?"

  Alex swallowed, realizing how famished she was. "I'll come, but I'm fine." She glanced over her shoulder. "Just embarrassed as all hell," she lied. "So, if we go, just regular girl talk. Agreed?"

  Brenda touched her shoulder and shook her head. "Can't stand to have anyone see you're human, can you?"

  "Hell no. Anyway, we're not supposed to be human. We're cops."

  "Right. Advice I think you take too seriously. Perhaps the reason you're still single and thirty—"

  Alex put her hand up. "Enough."

  Brenda shrugged in defeat. "All right. I'm done."

  Alex looked at her friend with a skeptical eye. Brenda was never finished. "You'd better be. I'll get up and leave the restaurant if you bring up this nonsense at dinner. It upsets my appetite."

  Brenda shook her head. "All the women I know your age are scrambling for a man. You, you're sending them away. Girl, you amaze me."

  "I'm glad. I've got no one else to amaze."

  "You know, Mark works with a very nice professor of—"

  She glared at her friend. "Set me up, but not this week. Now, are we having dinner or not?"

  Brenda surrendered. "Fine. When?"

  "How about tomorrow? Pomodoro's on College at about eight."

  "Perfect. Mark's teaching that night anyway."

  "I'll be there. I've been craving Italian."

  Brenda laughed. "Knowing you, you've been eating nothing but pasta for weeks."

  Alex shrugged. "True, but I still crave it."

  "Let me know if you change your mind about the professor. I think he's available Saturday."

  "Saturday—that's four days away and he doesn't have plans? I'm worried already."

  Brenda leaned forward and lowered her voice. "What happened to that guy Jed? You never talk about him anymore."

  Alex shrugged.

  "He was sweet, attractive, and real into you."

  "He was nice enough, but he wanted to talk about every little thing."

  Brenda laughed out loud. "You sound like one of Mark's baseball buddies. So it's Tom?"

  Alex shrugged. "That's depends. Any cute baseball buddies? Maybe you should set me up with one of them."

  Brenda laughed and excused herself, and Alex went outside to finish her sandwich. Engulf was a more accurate description. The sandwich disappeared in three minutes flat. Even Lombardi looked impressed.

  Back in the den, she started in on the filing cabinets, opening each and peering at its contents. She wanted to do the most entertaining stuff first.

  She tried to open the bottom drawer, but couldn't. She hadn't seen a key in the desk. Maybe he kept it with him. When she slammed the top drawer to go ask Lombardi, she heard the faint tink of metal against metal. Halting, she opened the drawer again. No sound. Slamming it, she heard the tink again. It came from behind the cabinet.

  Reaching around the cabinet, she walked her fingers along the cool metal. Her hand hit a hook and she felt for the keys. "Bingo," she said.

  Dangling the keys, she looked for the best match. Her first try opened the drawer. She sat on the ground and leaned over the drawer, picking up the first in a stack of videotapes. "Little Tammy's new trix," it read in black print. Who was Tammy? Putting it aside, she looked through the rest of the pile. From the titles, she guessed they were probably porn. It shouldn't have surprised her. Why else keep the videos under lock and key?

  As she stacked the tapes on the floor, something at the bottom of the drawer caught her eye. She pulled out what looked like a class picture and studied it. "Mrs. Weiserman's Second Grade Class," the sign beneath the rows of children read. Frowning, she studied the faces.

  Someone had drawn thick black Xs through the children's faces. She looked through the rows. All the faces were X'd out except two—a little blond boy in the first row and a taller dark-haired boy at the back. To one side, someone had also drawn in a stick figure with a red pen. It had long curly hair and its face remained X-less.

  She remembered doing something similar to her fifth-grade class picture. With a thumbtack, she had poked over all the kids she didn't like. Her mother had been furious. Lots of kids probably marked all over their class pictures, but Loeffler didn't have any kids. She wondered if it was related to one of Loeffler's cases or to the porn.

  Holding the picture in her left hand, she picked up the last tape again with her right hand and glanced at its title. "Pre-pubs," it read and she wondered what on earth that meant. She read the fine print—starring Pretty Priscilla O., whoever that was. Not that she was up on the porn stars. She spotted the TV and crossed to it, then pushed the tape into the VCR and turned on the power.

  As she waited for a picture to appear, she glanced at the school picture again. Something about the kids' clothes was strange. They looked old or something. The sign at the bottom of the picture caught her eye again. 1970 to 1971, it read. 1971? Chewing on her pen, Alex stared at the faces. Was this an old case Loeffler was working on?

  A small voice caught her attention and she looked up at the TV to see a young, curly brown-haired girl no older than ten or eleven, completely naked, her hand around a grown man's penis.

  "Holy shit," Alex said, running for Lombardi.

  Chapter 8

  Lombardi followed Alex toward the den, a roast beef sandwich smothered in mayonnaise hanging from his lips. "Can't this wait a minute?" he mumbled past the bite he'd shoved into his mouth.

  She stayed a step ahead of him, wanting to gauge his reaction when he saw the video. "I don't think so." Watching his face, she entered the den and halted.

  Lombardi squinted and slowly moved closer to the television. His eyes grew wide, and she saw their whites for the first time. He dropped his sandwich, spitting the bite from his mouth into his hand and turning from the TV in disgust. "Holy shit."

  She kept her eyes off the screen, refusing to look at the little girl's tiny mouth around the man. The tape had been upsetting once—she didn't need another go at it. "That's what I said."

  Lombardi dropped his sandwich in the garbage. "Turn that shit off."

  Averting her eyes, Alex flipped the television off.

  Lombardi stared out the window for a moment and then faced her again. He shook his head. "Guy was a fucking prosecutor—worked for the city. The media's going to love this."

  She nodded. "I know. Sick, isn't it?" Although she couldn't see the man'
s face, she knew it wasn't Loeffler—the build was wrong.

  A deep frown turned Lombardi's mouth down.

  "World's one crazy asshole after another. Are there any last names on the labels?"

  She shook her head.

  "Damn. I must've done something in my last life. Maybe I was Hitler or some shit because someone's punishing me for something. I always get the sick bastards. At least it's a lead."

  Pausing, she made the calculation. "I think Hitler would've died after you were—"

  He glared at her. "Can it, Kincaid. Let's take the tapes with us. Find out where they're from. The tape looks homemade. Get a list of his cases. See if any were child pornography-related."

  "Case-related. Maybe you're right."

  "Maybe—maybe not. Lawyers are fucked up. Some poor sucker in the lab is going to have to look through those tapes for an adult face or try to track down the names of the kids. For all we know, Loeffler made them himself."

  "That would give some parent a hell of a reason to knock him off."

  Lombardi met her gaze. "Exactly. I'll send the tapes to the station. Jesus Christ." With a quick look back, he added, "Good job on that."

  "Thanks."

  His eyes narrowed. "Holding up okay?"

  She stared at the floor, embarrassed. "Fine, thanks." Turning back to the drawer, she put the tapes in a plastic evidence bag.

  People were packing up by quarter to six. Though Alex would have liked to work longer, Lombardi wouldn't let her stay at a crime scene on her own. Truth was, she wasn't all that anxious to go home. Home didn't hold that much appeal anymore, she thought as she stretched her legs. She had spent the majority of the day on her knees, sorting files into stacks that now littered the floor. Loeffler kept a lot of files at home.

  From what she could tell, they were mostly photocopies of the originals that were surely stored at his office. Maybe he kept duplicates for security or perhaps he preferred to work here with the elk.

  She had read a few of his cases. One thing was for sure, William Loeffler prosecuted some real sick puppies. The worst she'd read was about a man who had killed his own two kids, locking them in the trunk of his old car and lighting it on fire because they hadn't behaved. He'd been convicted and sentenced to death. A small justice it seemed now, a tiny price to pay for murdering his children.