Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  Alex smiled her biggest smile. "Absolutely not. In fact, it's a huge help to the police. I only wish we had more people like you to keep a lookout for us."

  The woman straightened and smiled, proud. The narrow, suspicious glare transformed into a soft cheery gaze.

  Alex was laying it on thick, but it seemed to be working. "I think it's a wonderful service that you do for us."

  The woman sighed. "Well, I don't know about all that. I guess it was just plain luck more than anything else." She was blushing.

  "Oh, no," Alex argued, knowing a flattered witness would spill a lot more than an angry one. "It takes a very keen sense of duty to keep that sort of watch."

  "Well, after my friend Anna Mae witnessed her neighbor's house burglarized not even a mile from here, I started to pay close attention."

  Alex nodded, ready to pop the question she'd come to ask. "Did you notice anyone going to Mr. Nader's house several days ago?"

  "Only the kid."

  Alex nodded. "But that was yesterday."

  Mrs. Carter pointed a finger. "I saw him yesterday, too. But he was here before that."

  Alex frowned. "He was here before yesterday?"

  Mrs. Carter folded her hands together and closed her eyes.

  Alex watched her, praying she didn't stop breathing or something. "Mrs. Carter?"

  Her eyes sprang open and Alex sat back in the chair. "He was here late in the evening—three nights ago. I saw him cross the yard between the two houses, just like you did yesterday."

  "Did he go inside?"

  She frowned. "I'm not sure."

  Alex shook her head. Why hadn't James or Lombardi mentioned that small fact? And why would Tim tell her he'd broken into the house earlier that morning without confessing that he'd been there before that? He had told her he'd just come down to Palo Alto that morning. Had he been there earlier and gone back up and come down again? It didn't make sense. "Did you tell the other police this?"

  Louisa cupped her hand over her mouth. "You know, I don't think I did. It didn't even occur to me until you asked. They asked if I'd seen anyone suspicious around Nader's house, but the kid hadn't seemed suspicious." She paused and her gaze fluttered around the room as she shook her head. "Isn't that funny? He was wearing a baseball cap and he just looked like a regular kid. I never thought to mention him. He looked more scraggly yesterday without the hat on."

  Alex frowned. She hadn't seen Tim in a hat, but maybe it had been in his bag. "Do you remember what the hat said?"

  The woman shook her head. "It was red, I think." She waved her hand. "It was a whole mishmash of an outfit, to be honest. Big clunky shoes. They were red, too. And that yellow jacket, no missing that either. That's how I remembered him from the other night." She frowned. "I'm glad you came back. I never would have thought to tell the police about the boy and now you can tell them."

  "You're sure it was the same kid?"

  "My night vision's not good anymore," Louisa Carter confessed. "To be honest, he looked more like a kid that night. Smaller or younger." She waved her hand as though she couldn't find the perfect word to describe what she meant. "That's why I didn't think to mention it to the police."

  Alex still couldn't imagine that Tim had come to kill Nader. Her gut told her he wasn't capable of murder, and her gut was usually right on. What was going on? "But you're sure it was the same kid?"

  "Yes, siree. I'm sure."

  Alex was frustrated and dissatisfied with the answers she'd gotten, but she couldn't think of anything else to ask to clarify. "You've been so helpful, Mrs. Carter. You should be very proud. Anything you might remember would be so much help to us."

  The woman didn't look at Alex. "Honest, I—I don't know." She paused and her lips formed a meek smile. "The brain goes first in my family."

  Something about Mrs. Carter's nervousness made Alex think she was holding back. But why? Did she suspect Alex wasn't who she said she was? Or was there something about Nader she just didn't want to share? She shrugged it off. She'd have to ask Greg to tell Chris about Tim's presence at the house the other night. The real police would want to talk to Mrs. Carter again. As much as Alex would have liked to follow up on it herself, she knew she wouldn't be able to get near Tim now.

  "Well, as I said, it certainly was a huge help that you were watching." Alex started to turn for the door and then turned back. She pulled out a piece of paper with her home phone number and gave it to Mrs. Carter. "If you think of anything else, please call me."

  Mrs. Carter squinted at the paper. "Where's the 510 area code?"

  "It's a new one down south," she lied, hoping Mrs. Carter wouldn't check it. New area codes were springing up like weeds in California. "It shouldn't cost more than a local call." Not much more anyway. Certainly not compared to life imprisonment.

  Mrs. Carter folded the paper and nodded. "I hope you catch him. I'm not sleeping well these days." Alex nodded. Neither was she.

  Chapter 28

  Alex checked her home answering machine again before she turned off the light. It was after midnight. If anyone was going to call, surely they would have done it by now. She had expected—no, hoped—that Mrs. Carter would have called with more information about Nader. The way she'd scanned the room at the mention of Nader's name made Alex think she had been hiding something.

  Alex had also hoped to hear from Greg with some miraculous discovery—like the identity of the killer. Or news about Ben Androus. Word of the story behind Walter Androus's brother and confirmation of his death might have cleared some of the seemingly impenetrable haze. Alex was sure James was watching Greg like a hawk. There was little else that would keep him from calling. She hoped he still had a job.

  Nothing short of a miracle would help her unravel this mess before it exploded in her face. She couldn't stay in any one place for too long. Tomorrow, she'd probably need to look for yet another hiding place. Exhaling, she kneaded her temples to ease the deafening pain that resonated through her skull. Even a message from Brenda, a word of concern or possibly encouragement, would have made her feel better, less alone.

  The light off, Alex sank into the bed and pulled the covers to her chin. The cool metallic feel against her thigh reassured her of the proximity of her gun.

  Shivering, she rocked against the cold ground. It was so cold. When had she lost her coat? She had it this morning. Her mother always held it out as she walked out the door. The green parka with a bright yellow stripe flashed into her head.

  "I don't need it," she'd argue.

  "You get in here," her mother would reprimand, pushing her arms into the coat sleeves with a scolding click of her tongue. "And you wear that coat when you go outside," she'd add. "You'll catch your death of cold one of these days for ignoring your mother. Do you hear me?"

  Alex would nod solemnly as her mother zipped the front of her jacket, kissed her on the head, and then herded her toward the door.

  "Now, remember to do exactly what the chaperones tell you on the field trip. Don't go wandering off," she'd said this morning.

  Alex had pondered the notion of a chocolate factory—elves watching over thousands of brown cows, collecting the chocolate as it came out.

  "You think we'll get to taste the chocolate, Mom?"

  "I'm sure you will, Alexandra. But don't go eating too much and upsetting your stomach. I'm making yellow chicken tonight."

  The mild curry chicken dish was her favorite. The rich spicy flavor cleared her senses. She loved the steamy soup. A spoon clenched in her fist, she would dig down and hunt the broth for the pieces of tender chicken soaked in juice.

  "Remember, do whatever the chaperones tell you," her mother called after her.

  "But the chaperones aren't here now, Mommy," she whispered to herself, rocking harder. "I would have listened, I promise. But they're gone. Where did they go?"

  The yellow bus had been full of kids. The chaperones sat among them, talking to each other over the excited squealing. Alex had been sitting directly
behind Jimmy's mom, Mrs. Cooney.

  As she walked by, Mrs. Cooney had told her how grown-up she looked. Alex sat behind her and watched her talk. Mrs. Cooney was beautiful, like a woman on television. Her long cinnamon-colored hair spilled over her shoulders like thick maple syrup. And she smelled sweet like a whole garden of flowers. Alex leaned forward and pressed her nose into Mrs. Cooney's hair, taking in the wonderful smell.

  But then something happened. Remembering, Alex rocked harder. Terrible sounds pierced her ears, like the ones that sometimes came from Mom's old car, only one hundred times louder. Alex covered her ears. The kids were screaming. Everyone was screaming. She couldn't look—she didn't want to look. Someone shook her, and she opened her eyes. It was the man—he handed her a cup. He looked like he was going skiing, a thick mask covering his face. But she didn't think it was that cold outside. She huddled deeper into her jacket, glad her mother had made her bring it.

  The man shoved the cup toward her "Drink this," he demanded.

  Sealing her lips as tightly as she could, Alex shook her head.

  The man hit her. It felt like James's softball smashing into her head. Running her hands over the place where the man had struck her, she could feel a warm sticky spot. The man grabbed her hand and held it to her face. "Blood," he yelled. "Your blood." He shoved the drink back in her face. "Now, drink."

  Tears ran down her face as he pushed the cup to her lips and forced her jaw open. She had expected a terrible flavor, like the dirt James had once made her eat. Instead, it tasted like punch.

  Confused, Alex looked around. Mrs. Cooney wasn't moving. Neither was Mr. Choy, Charlie's dad. None of the grown-ups were moving. Then, as suddenly as it stopped, the bus started to move again.

  Her eyelids felt heavy the way they did when her mother sometimes let her listen to the radio show on Saturday night. It was a special treat to be able to stay up past eight-thirty, and Alex always struggled to stay awake, squirming next to Brittany and James to keep her eyes open. That was how she felt now.

  But her mother would pull Alex into her lap on those nights, and she would wake up in her own bed without any recollection of the end of the story. Sunday morning after breakfast, her mother would send James and Brittany out to play, and with a cup of coffee and Alex in her lap, she would recount the end of the story for her.

  She wanted to be in her mother's lap now, safe and warm. Where was she? Why was this man doing this? Her knees pulled to her chest as a shield against the terrible man and the cold, Alex tried to remember the end of the last story. Blindfolded now and groggy, Alex heard the man talking to himself. No one answered him.

  She blocked her ears against him, squeezing her eyes shut and thinking about her mom.

  Alex rocked harder, the solid feel of the ground reminding her of where she was. Tears fell faster. She wanted to believe what her mother had told her about people who did bad things. She wanted to think that this man was just very sick and needed to go to a doctor. But as the second and then the third child screamed out, their pleas for help going unanswered, she couldn't help but think that he was crazy.

  The long blade of his knife scraped against the cement, a low, resounding grate like metal on a dirty chalkboard. The noise came in three short clicks and a long scrape. Click, click, click... scrape. Click, click, click, scrape.

  She rolled away from the sound. Palming the surface, she searched for a clue to her fate. Her fingers found something solid and metal. With the object tight to her chest, she peered through the gap in her blindfold. A gun. The realization came to her as though she'd been holding guns forever. The feeling was as familiar as the satin edge of the blanket she had slept with for seven years or the honey smell of her mother's favorite soap.

  Hoisting the gun, she pointed it to where she thought the man was. Make a sound, she thought. Let me hear you. Another series of creaks sounded from the distance.

  "Dr. Jay," he screamed. "You can't!"

  She shifted her aim slightly and found her way to the trigger. Pop. Pop.

  Alex shot upright in bed, sweating like at the end of a run. Her hands were jettisoned before her, her gun tight in her grip. Staring down at her hands, she felt as though they belonged to someone else. It was a shock to find herself clutching the gun with her finger pressed on the trigger.

  Unmoving, she stared at the far wall, scanning for bullet holes. There were no bullets, she remembered. She hadn't loaded the gun. The gun fell from her grasp, and she moved up the bed away from it, shivering from the sudden cold of realization. She could easily have killed someone in her sleep. Maybe she already had.

  The safety refastened, she tucked the gun on the floor out of her reach and stared at the clock. It was two-thirty. She crept back into bed and pulled the covers over her, trying to remember the dream she'd been having.

  Her eyes closed, she took a deep breath and let her shoulders sink into the bed. Like a warm breeze, sleep coated her, pulling her under its spell. Without the energy or desire to fight it, she surrendered.

  Click, click, click, scrape, the heater churned out warmth.

  Alex flipped sides and cupped the pillow to her chest.

  Click, click, click, scrape, it went again.

  She opened her eyes.

  She sat up and exhaled, throwing the covers off. Across the room, she found the switch to turn the heat off and frowned. The heat was already off.

  Click, click, click, scrape.

  Spinning around the room, Alex grabbed her gun off the floor and pointed it in the dark. With a snap, she released the empty magazine from her gun and slid a full one into place.

  Moving against the wall, she crept toward the door.

  Click, click, click, scrape, the sound repeated.

  Someone was trying to get into her room. Almost excited about the prospect of seeing him face-to-face, Alex took a deep breath and inched toward the door on the balls of her feet. A shoe caught her path and she tripped over it, hitting the wall with a low but audible thud. "Shit," she mouthed, not allowing herself to speak.

  Her balance restored, she moved to the door, looked quickly through the peephole, and then pulled back. Nothing. She waited, listening for two minutes, until her ankles stiffened beneath her. Looking again, she still saw nothing.

  She unlocked the door slowly and waited again before pulling it open and peering into the corridor. The hall was silent and empty. "Damn it." She shut the door, bolted it, and secured the safety bar. She hadn't imagined that. Maybe it was the ice machine.

  A couple of quick flashes outside shone through a small crack in the curtains, catching her attention. Intrigued, Alex walked to the window and sat in one corner. Moving her hands at a turtle's pace, she lifted one edge of the curtain and surveyed the parking lot below her. At first glance, it appeared empty. The cars were parked in perfect rows, motionless, anonymous in the blackness.

  Alex scanned the cars one at a time, sensing someone hiding in the darkness. As she scanned the area, another flash caught her eye and she trained her vision toward its origin. Sitting patiently, she waited, feeling her stomach tighten like an angry fist. It reminded her of her one experience on a police stakeout. Sitting, poised to move, she fought to maintain her focus.

  A far grouping of cars sat bunched together, and it proved difficult to focus on the entire area at once. Someone was out there, though. She sensed it. She only hoped he would make a mistake and give away his location.

  A camera flash was the only household item that generated a low yellow light like the one she had seen. Tim's brand-new camera flickered through her brain, and Alex wondered who else the caller might have sent after her.

  Unblinking, she crouched on her knees beside the window, awaiting another sign of motion from outside. Ten minutes later, none had come. Restless, Alex paced the room for a few minutes. She felt like a sitting duck. What had Nader been doing when the killer came for him? Sitting in his bed, reading? Maybe sleeping? Maybe pacing his bedroom like she was doing now.

/>   If someone was out there, watching her, she was going to find out who. She pulled on her jeans and tennis shoes and zipped her coat against the cool air she felt through the window. Her gun loaded and tucked into her waistband, she headed for the door. In the dark, Alex checked the hall through the peephole, then cracked the door and slid out of her room.

  With a brisk stride, she walked down the hall and jogged down the eleven flights of stairs, the burn of adrenaline in her lungs as welcome as the drag on a cigarette used to be. To avoid being seen, she skirted the lobby and took a side corridor instead. Out the back door, Alex walked to the far end of the parking lot and began slowly to circle the hotel, moving in from the perimeter toward the area she'd been watching from her room.

  Following police raid techniques she had practiced at the academy, Alex moved only five to seven feet before stopping and checking for any changes that might indicate she had made herself known. Within five minutes, nearly bursting with impatience, she saw the front parking lot come into view.

  It was quiet, the steady hum of trucks on the freeway in the distance the only sound. Alex stood opposite the cars she had been watching earlier. She scanned the license plates, searching for one that looked familiar. Maybe it was James or Greg out here, tracking her down. But none matched Berkeley undercover police plates, some of which she knew by heart, all of which she thought she would recognize.

  As she prepared to move again, a noise from behind halted her. Turning as slowly as she could, Alex watched as someone in a dark, hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants walked within three feet of the spot where she crouched.

  The figure carried a plain gym bag over one shoulder. Alex studied the stranger, realizing by the thin limbs and somewhat gangly walk that it had to be a young adult, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Perhaps it was an employee coming to work or leaving. The kid was shorter and smaller in stature than Tim and seemed even younger. But like Tim, this figure shared the same lazy, loafing stroll.