Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  DD: How about your mother?

  MA: She was a drunk, too. I felt sorry for her. She drank to get away from him.

  DD: From your father?

  MA: Right.

  DD: Did you have any correspondence with your brothers after you left home?

  MA: Walter would drop me a note once in a while.

  DD: Did you keep his notes?

  MA: No. For a while, we kept in good contact. After Ben died, it stopped. Then, about four years ago, we started to write again. But Walter's notes were strange. I barely read them sometimes. He wasn't right—if you know what I mean.

  Alex cringed. Obviously he wasn't right. She read on.

  DD: What gave you that idea?

  MA: He was seeing a doctor and stuff.

  DD: Do you remember anything that he told you about the doctor?

  MA: Hardly anything. He used to write tons about going to a school out there.

  DD: What school? You mean as a student?

  MA: Don't remember the name, but he wasn't no student.

  DD: How was he going to school?

  MA: As a patient.

  "Write that down—he was a patient somewhere," Greg directed. Alex nodded and wrote.

  DD: Maggie, could you elaborate? What sort of patient way Walter?

  MA: I don't remember much now. Said he was going to some special center—being evaluated.

  DD: As in mentally evaluated?

  MA: I always assumed that's what he meant.

  DD: Do you remember anything else about his correspondence?

  MA: He used to say weird things.

  DD: What sort of things?

  MA: Like the power of the mind. He used to say he had to capture the power of the mind. That's what life was all about.

  DD: Anything else?

  MA: He used to write about a friend named Jay.

  DD: Jay? Do you know who that was?

  MA: I think it was his doctor.

  DD: Can you tell me what specifically made you think that?

  MA: Oh, I think he told me that in one of his letters.

  Otherwise, I wouldn't have thought it. He used to talk a lot about Jay—Jay this, Jay that, how great Jay was. Always struck me as off.

  DD: Why's that?

  MA: Our father's name was Jay.

  Chapter 22

  Alex scrolled down and looked for more interview, but the rest was commentary. She skimmed a bit of it, discussion about Walter's attempt to replace a father figure with a shrink of the same name.

  "Fucking weird."

  Alex nodded. She typed in NT SEC and scrolled through the hits: Windows NT, the website for the Securities and Exchange Commission, articles about the SEC. Nothing seemed to fit.

  "You saw that in his calendar?"

  She nodded and continued to search.

  "It's probably shorthand for something," Greg said, watching over her shoulder.

  Alex blew her breath out in a frustrated stream. "We need someone who has access to the case. Someone who knows if Ben Androus was checked into, if he's really dead. Also, Maggie's whereabouts and who Walter's friends were. Who could have helped him? Maybe we can find his shrink and ask him." She exhaled. "And I want to confirm who was the shooter." She paused.

  "Confirm that it was you, you mean."

  "Right. Confirm that I shot him." She shook her head. "What a week."

  Greg put a hand on her shoulder. "I'd say."

  "The Internet isn't going to help with this. We need insider info. And most of the guys who worked this case are going to be retired if not dead."

  "I agree. But even if we find someone, remember it was a long time ago. If it was obvious back then, the police down here would've answered these questions. It's not going to get clearer after thirty years."

  She sighed. "What do you suggest then?"

  "I think we need to find someone in the police station."

  Alex slumped into her chair. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

  "I have an idea."

  "I hope it's a good one."

  Greg put his hand on hers. "I think it is."

  Alex felt a strange tension, but she didn't pull her hand away. She needed Greg like she'd never needed anyone. Later, when this was all over, she could figure out how she felt, how he felt. There wasn't time for it now.

  "I've got a connection down here." He paused. "It's not a great one, but it's okay. It's my mother's cousin's kid. She's a detective."

  "A kid detective?"

  "She's about forty, I guess. I haven't seen her since we were kids. But her dad was a detective here, too. Maybe she knows something about the case."

  "She's a cop, Roback. She's not going to talk to me." He caught her gaze and held it. "Not if she knows who you are, she's not."

  "I hate to lie to a cop."

  "You want to get arrested?"

  Alex thought a moment. "I can lie."

  "I knew you could." He stood from his chair and put his hand out to pull her up. "Come on. We're meeting her at my great-aunt's diner."

  "You have a great-aunt with a diner?"

  Greg pulled her out of her chair. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

  Alex followed him back through Palo Alto and down a narrow street called Hamilton. He parked across from a brightly lit diner. A small sign hung over the door, suspended by two large hooks: "Cardinal Cafe." Inside, clusters of red chairs sat around white tables. A trim older woman worked the counter.

  Greg waved to her and she frowned.

  "Is that little Gregory Roback?"

  Alex smiled.

  "Hi, Mina." He turned back to Alex. "My great-aunt."

  After the two of them had caught up, Greg introduced Alex as a journalist friend and Mina directed them to a back booth. "Chris is on her way. She was at the station this morning."

  Alex watched Greg nod, knowing he was thinking the same thing that she was. Greg's second cousin, Chris Anderson, would already have heard the warning about Alex Kincaid.

  They sat down and Alex shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  "You're nervous."

  She shook her head. "I just want to talk to her and get out of here."

  "You think James is going to show up with a task force to pull you out of Mina's diner?"

  She raised an eyebrow. "It is James."

  "Point taken."

  A woman with short blond hair and no resemblance to Greg walked in the front door and stopped at the counter. The badge clipped to the waist of her slacks identified her as Chris. Alex waited for her to turn toward them.

  When she did, Alex watched her gaze. She waved to Greg and headed over. She had no visible reaction to Alex. That was exactly what Alex had hoped. Chris pulled out a chair across from Alex.

  "Long time," she said to Greg.

  "I know. Sorry about that. This is Jamie," he said, pointing to Alex. "Jamie, my cousin Chris."

  Alex nodded. "Nice to meet you."

  "Likewise." Chris turned to Greg. "What brings you down here?"

  "Jamie is writing a story on an old case you guys had—Sesame Street murders."

  Chris raised an eyebrow and leaned across the table. "You're wasting your time then."

  Alex crossed her arms and sat back. "Why's that?"

  Chris didn't look at her. Instead, she focused on Greg. "Because I know she's not a reporter and I know her name is Alex Kincaid." She glanced at Alex. "Your picture's all over this town. You want to tell me what the hell you're doing here and why you've wrapped my cousin into your mess?"

  Mina came over and handed out menus. "You guys know what you want?"

  Alex had completely lost her appetite. She continued to hold Chris's gaze until Chris broke it and shook her head. "Not quite yet."

  Mina walked away and Greg stood up. "We should go."

  "No, she's right. You shouldn't be involved in this, Greg. It's my deal." She looked back at Chris. "You might not believe it, but that's what I've been telling him all along."

  "
She didn't do anything, Chris. She's being framed." Greg walked to Alex's chair and waited for her to stand. "And she's just found out what happened to her as a kid."

  "What?" Chris asked, shrugging. "I'm supposed to feel pity? There's a warrant out for her arrest."

  Alex leaned forward. "I don't want anyone's pity. I came here looking for answers about an old case. You wouldn't know anything about it, anyway—too young. But I went to work a week ago as a cop, like any other cop." She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was listening.

  "And since then, my life's been a goddamn circus. Yesterday, I found out I was almost killed when I was six years old. And then I learned that I supposedly killed the son of a bitch. I shot him." She shook her head and lowered her voice. "The more I read about the case, the less it adds up. I can't believe a six-year-old with her hands bound and a blindfold on would have the wherewithal to hold a forty-five still enough to shoot it fifteen feet and hit a moving target. So I want to know what really happened that day." Alex exhaled and slapped her hands on the table. "I think I deserve some answers." She stood up and headed for the door.

  "I know the case," Chris said before she was out of earshot.

  Alex stopped and turned back.

  "It was my dad's. His last case—he retired after that one." She shook her head. "Case always really pissed him off."

  Alex didn't move.

  "Sit down and I'll tell you what I know. Then you've got to get the hell out of here."

  Alex sat back down.

  "And you've never even heard of me."

  She nodded.

  Chris turned to Greg. "And you'll stay clear until the dust settles. Because you aren't going to be any help behind bars."

  Greg didn't answer.

  "Promise."

  He nodded. "I'll lay low."

  Mina came back by and Chris smiled at her and said, "Three cheeseburgers, three Cokes."

  It was the first time Alex had seen Chris smile. She was actually an attractive woman, but one who was clearly very serious about her job. Alex respected that and she gave Chris her full attention.

  "They tested your hands back then and confirmed the presence of gunpowder residue. Like you, a lot of people found it hard to believe you could have shot the gun by yourself. My father, especially. I was eight at the time and bigger than you were. He even tested his theory on me by tying my hands and having me hold his gun up and try to shoot it. He never tried it with bullets. My mother would've had his head. But he never thought you could have pulled the trigger on your own."

  "What was the evidence that she did?" Greg asked.

  Chris answered without taking her eyes off of Alex. "Besides the gunpowder, she confessed to it."

  The burgers arrived and they paused long enough for a bite.

  Chris swallowed and wiped her mouth. "Good, huh?"

  "Great," Greg agreed through a full mouth.

  Alex picked at her food, trying to remember confessing to murder when she was six. "Were there other problems with the crime scene?"

  Chris nodded. "There was another set of footprints."

  Greg stopped eating and sat forward.

  "So Androus had an accomplice?" Alex asked.

  Chris shook her head and swallowed her bite. "Kid prints."

  "I don't understand."

  "There was a set of kid prints walking away from the warehouse."

  "Could they have been there earlier?" Alex asked.

  Chris shrugged. "They didn't think so, but as you know, evidence processing wasn't all that great back then. According to the detectives, the prints were on top of the ones that led to the warehouse."

  "Another child who got away?"

  "No. You were all accounted for. There were only fourteen kids on the bus. Eleven of them were dead and then you and the two other survivors."

  Alex tried to figure this new piece of evidence. "Is it possible one of the kids made a run for it and Androus caught up with him?"

  "Not according to the detectives who processed the scene. The prints went into the warehouse and then out to the street, in that order. Kid never came back again."

  "Maybe a neighborhood kid who heard the ruckus and came to look?" Alex suggested.

  "That's the theory, but they tried to find the kid and never could."

  Alex thought about Alfred Ferguson. She looked up at Greg.

  "Ferguson?" he asked, reading her mind.

  She nodded.

  "Who's Ferguson?" Chris asked.

  Greg explained about the break-in to Alex's house and the print she'd lifted from her arm, as well as about the surveillance at Ferguson's house. He patted his pocket. "I've got someone calling me on my cell as soon as they hear."

  Alex wished the damn thing would ring.

  Chris wiped her mouth and pulled a pen from a pocket. On a clean napkin, she wrote Alfred's name. "I can search the name and find out if he went to school down here. Maybe he's our witness."

  "Nader lives down here, too," Alex said.

  "Who's Nader?"

  "Sorry. He's another of the survivors. Marcus Nader. Lives over on Ramona."

  "Close to the station."

  Alex nodded. "I went by, but it looks like he's on vacation or something."

  "I'm not sure he could add much. Just don't be disappointed if he doesn't remember anything."

  She nodded. It was solid advice. Still, she needed to pursue every angle.

  "I don't mean to be negative. The case is officially closed, but the detectives who were around still talk about it. And we still get the occasional call on the case. Mostly crazies, though. There was a guy just a few months ago who'd killed his wife; he called a few times, swearing to have some information he'd trade for some help with an appeal." She shook her head. "That's just the nature of the game for convicts. You know what they're like, always looking at old cases, for a way to cut a deal. Everyone wants the get-out-of-jail-free card."

  Greg nodded.

  "What's his name?" Alex asked.

  Chris frowned. "Whose?"

  "The guy who killed his wife."

  "Taylor. Somebody Taylor. We checked him out. He didn't even live here back then. Didn't mean to get your hopes up."

  "No. You didn't," Alex lied.

  "Is there anything else you can tell us?" Greg asked.

  Chris shook her head. "Nothing else comes to mind."

  Alex wasn't ready to give up yet. She was still hoping that something might spark a memory. "Can you tell me more about the crime? The layout, how he maneuvered the kids?"

  Chris began to sketch on a napkin. She drew a large rectangle with an X at one end.

  Alex took another bite of her burger and leaned forward to study Chris's crude drawing.

  "This was the door," she pointed to the X. "The way the police figured, all the kids were drugged, moving slowly, when they arrived. Androus had them all sit here." She marked Xs along the far end of the warehouse. "He turned them with their backs to the door and made them sit cross-legged. Their hands were bound, and the Valium kept them pretty quiet."

  "Plus, he had a gun and he told them that he would hurt them if they disobeyed," Alex interjected, pulling stuff from her memory of the file.

  "Exactly. One of the kids, a little boy, made a run for it early on and Androus shot him. Kid died instantly."

  "A warning to the others," Greg added.

  Chris sipped her Coke. "Right. Then he pulled his body back for the others to see."

  Alex swallowed. She was unfamiliar with this part of the story, and knowing she had been there, that it could have been her running, didn't help. "How did they determine that's what happened?"

  "Bloodstains from what looked like the boy's body dragged across the floor. All speculation. No one ever did get a chance to ask many questions of the survivors. Their parents—your parents," she corrected, "plus the attorneys, the counselors—no one wanted them put through any more than they'd already seen. You can imagine." Chris shook her head. "Sorry.
Of course you can."

  Alex shook her head. "Don't apologize."

  She shifted her head in a slight nod and continued. "It looked like he showed the dead body to the others, warning them not to mess with him. That body was the only one shot and it was separated from the rest of the pile, so we speculated that he offed that kid right at the beginning."

  Alex glanced back at her drawing, the small Xs that indicated the children sitting in a semicircle along the warehouse's far wall.

  "Is it possible that the kid who was shot was the one who walked back out of the warehouse?" Greg asked.

  "No. Like I said, those prints never came back in. It looked like he was dragged back."

  Alex thought about it. They would have known if Androus had chased the kid out of the warehouse. "And Androus's footprints never went back out?"

  "Right."

  "And there was no other evidence of an accomplice?" Alex asked.

  "None. The warehouse was surrounded by a gravel lot—no footprints other than Androus's and the kids', no other car, nothing. And Androus was known to be a loner. He taught piano to local kids, lived alone, no one ever saw him with anyone. He paid his bills, spent a lot of time in the library. That was about it."

  "We read an interview with his sister, Maggie. I guess he had a twin brother who killed himself."

  Chris shrugged. "I don't know anything about a brother. The police contacted the family to try to gain insight. I didn't hear that anything ever came of it."

  "What about a shrink?" Greg asked. "The interview mentioned that Androus had been seeing a psychiatrist."

  Chris nodded slowly. "I remember reading something about that. I think we got the basic response from the doctor—shock, dismay, disappointment, but nothing very enlightening. The doctors tend to keep whatever they know to themselves—all that doctor/ patient privilege crap. I'm sure the doctor knew that Androus was a sick fuck, but I don't think we got a confession on that."

  Alex thought about Androus's crime. "Androus taught piano, right? Mostly to young kids. According to your files, none of them had any complaints, though."

  Chris nodded.

  "What are you thinking?" Greg asked.

  "It's strange, don't you think? He had opportunity and means all the time, but didn't use them? He waited until he had fourteen at once."