Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (12 page)

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.

Alex shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that somewhere in heaven or hell there existed a justice system that was truly just. She thought about the guy she'd taken down yesterday. At least she was making a difference. If nothing else, she could keep some of these fuckers off the streets.

On a legal pad, she had listed the names of the criminals Loeffler had prosecuted. She had twelve already, and she had gotten through only one of his three file drawers. A child killer, two hit-and-runs, three pedophiles—one a day-care professional, one a teacher, one an uncle, all people with access to children. That's what they always said about pedophiles. She thought about her little nieces and nephews and wondered about their day-care professionals, their teachers.

Six parental abuse cases. What disgusted her most was the number of children who had to stand up in court against their own parents, children whose anguish and pain had been brought to light by strange bruises caught in school or unusually frequent visits to the ER. And when the arrest was made, the child screamed for his or her Mommy or Daddy—screamed for the very same person who had broken their bones and blackened their eyes.

months, she had seen battered children, heard the lame excuses parents gave her for their children's horrible injuries—burns and belt marks, the marks of adult hands bruised into their tiny thighs. It was sick, demented, and it was her job to stop it. But it wasn't up to her to think about what the children would suffer after the abuses had ended. The family psychologists, people like Brittany and Judith Richards, had to pick up the pieces and reform the broken child.
Don't get involved, Kincaid.
She knew better. In only six

She couldn't do that—wasn't trained to do it. Certainly not if she wanted to keep her objectivity, which was what made her a good police officer, would make her a strong witness in the courtroom. It was her job to gather the facts, not make judgments. Judges made those.

Still, somehow a crack had started to develop in the strong metal cover she thought she had secured around her emotions. She had to find the leak and seal it before it began to interfere with work.

Picking up the class picture again, she stared at it before setting it in its own pile. Nothing she had come across so far could explain either the child porn tapes or the strange photograph. Maybe she would have better luck tomorrow.

Lombardi appeared at the door, his lucky coat pulled to his chest as though he gained comfort from its proximity. Maybe she ought to get a lucky coat. Based on her week so far, she could use one.

She gathered her legal pad and notes and brushed her pants off, taking a last look around the room.

"It'll look just like this tomorrow," he said.

She smiled. "I know. I'd like to keep going—"

He shook his head. "Save your energy. I hope you can think of better things to do with yourself this evening."

Of course she could, couldn't she? As she headed out the door, she thought for a moment. Sad thing was, nothing came to mind. She had canceled her date with Tom. Her empty house flashed before her, and suddenly she wondered if Tom had made other plans. He would at least get her mind off work. She stared at her empty wrist. "Shit," she cursed. "What time is it?"

"Five to six. Late for a date?"

"No, a guy's coming to fix my window." As soon as the words had spilled from her mouth, she wished she could steal them back.

Lombardi's gaze fixed on hers, and blood rushed to her cheeks. "What happened to the window?"

"A kid hit a ball through it," she lied.

Lombardi stared at her a moment too long.

She stared back. It wasn't her style to flush. Her ancestry seemed to stop at her forehead. Though she had red Irish hair and occasionally the fiery Irish temper, she didn't have freckles or the naturally ruddy complexion that was typically Irish.

Thankfully, Lombardi didn't comment, turning abruptly and heading for the front door. "I'll drop you at the station, then."

Exhaling, she followed him and chastised herself for not watching her mouth.

Alex arrived at her house just as the glass truck pulled away. She honked for him to stop as she parked at the curb. The repairman had long graying frizzy hair, the thinning strands pulled into a low ponytail and bound by a rubber band. His wiry eyebrows came together when he frowned. Heavy jowls wobbled as he growled, "You're late."

She nodded apologetically. "I know, I'm sorry. I got caught at the station."

His frown lifted slightly as he lumbered out of his car and slammed the door. "You on the radio?"

Leading him toward the back door, she shook her head. "Police station. I'm a cop."

Though she didn't turn around to see his expression, she thought she could imagine it. It was probably the same one she had seen at least two hundred times, especially from men. But even the women eyed her head to toe and said things like "A cop? But you're so small," or "I thought cops had to be strong." She stopped at the door and pointed to the broken pane. "The window's right here."

Silently, he pulled a tape measure from his tool belt and measured the sill.

After studying the window another minute, he said, "Just need some tools from my truck."

While the repairman worked on the window, Alex waited impatiently. She wanted him to be done so she could put the incident out of her mind. She wanted the window to be the end of it. Sitting herself on the couch, she looked around the downstairs for something to do. She dialed Tom's number and waited for an answer. When she heard the familiar greeting on his answering machine, though, she hung up. Another night in.

The click and clack of the repairman's tools finally stopped.

"All done," he said.

With a deep breath, she looked at the window and nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem."

It was over. She exhaled. Thank God.

"Just be easy on the door the next twenty-four hours or so."

"Will do." Relieved that sixty dollars was enough to erase the incident, she retrieved her checkbook and paid him. She shut the door gently and locked the bolt.

Tomorrow was another solid day of work and she wanted to be sharp for it. The phone rang and she stared at it through two rings, cursing herself for pausing. Gathering her courage, she snapped it up.

"Alex," the older female voice said.

"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation.

"It's Judith Richards."

Alex exhaled. "Thanks for calling me back."

"No problem. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to talk to you about something that happened on the job."

"James called to tell me a little about it."

"Of course."

Judith hesitated. "It's department policy for a captain to call before the officer does. James was just doing his job."

"Normally you would have heard from my captain, then, instead of James. But I did want to set up a time to meet with you." She paused to shift the conversation away from James. "Brittany told me you used to come over for coffee and cookies after school and we'd talk about my dreams."

"You sound like you don't remember."

"I remember your visits, but not the dreams specifically."

"That's not unusual. It was a long time ago. You used to have nightmares. I think your mother was more worried than she needed to be. Most kids I talk to have nightmares. Plus, I've dealt with much, much worse than that."

"I heard something about your patients who shot each other."

"Now that was the strangest situation I've ever had. And the scariest. I do some work with people recently released from prison. Brittany probably told you about that." It was a statement, not a question. "She was always fascinated by that story. I sometimes wonder what kept her out of law enforcement while you and James became officers." Judith paused. "Anyway, as I said, your mother used to have me over, but that was ages ago."

"Were my nightmares more frequent than normal?"

Judith laughed. "I just think you had more lung capacity than most kids. They heard you on the next block."

"Do you happen to remember when they stopped?" Alex asked, growing intrigued.

"Not exactly. Your mother said you just seemed to outgrow them. I'd guess you were about eight or nine."

"I'd be curious to hear more about them, if you remember."

"I'm sure I can dredge up some of it," Judith offered. "It's a little unorthodox, but why don't you come to the house on Friday for dinner and we'll chat. Mad Dog Schroeder is driving me a bit nuts with extra work, and I hadn't planned to go back to the station until next week if possible. Does that work for you?"

"Perfect."

"Great." Judith recited directions to her house in North Berkeley and Alex wrote them down along with the date and time. She wondered how much would change in three days.

Alex thanked her and hung up. Starving, she hunted for something to eat. She found a box of penne then checked the refrigerator for pasta sauce. Besides the milk, of which she polished off almost a gallon a week, there was little else in the refrigerator. She had tried to keep vegetables, but even carrots couldn't survive long enough for her to get around to eating them. Moving the milk aside, she pulled out a jar of Classico four cheese sauce.

She ate quickly, as she always did, leaning over the counter in her kitchen. She didn't find food relaxing, so she made meals the way she did everything else—efficiently and with purpose.

Ready for some much-needed sleep, she brushed her teeth and flossed, something she rarely remembered, then was headed for her bedroom when the phone rang. She glanced at her bedside clock, thinking this was about the same time the phone had rung last night.

It was him. She was ready. She let the machine click on and picked up the receiver as soon as it had started to record. "Hello?"

The line was dead.

She set the phone down and took two steps before it rang again. He wasn't going to wait for the machine. Impatient, she snatched the phone up.

"Kincaid," she answered, in an attempt to sound tough despite her pounding heart.

"Kincaid now, is it?" came the same spitting voice.

This time she was prepared, though, and her anger rushed up. She was not playing games.

The caller laughed in her ear, his voice cracking into high squeals of delight.

Her stomach tied in a knot of metal, Alex forced the fear from her veins. She had to be in control. "This will be your last call. I'm having this number disconnected after we hang up. So why don't you go ahead and say whatever it is you called to say? Then, you can crawl back into whatever hole you came out of."

"Oh, that's not nice, Kincaid."

"You have five seconds." She wanted to hang up, but curiosity at what he knew won out. "One."

"Well, if that's how you want it, we might as well cut to the chase."

Something sour rose in her throat and strangled the words as they escaped from her mouth. "Two," she continued.

"Having the glass replaced won't make me go away. I know what you're thinking. I could see it in your eyes when you paid the glass guy and sent him on his way. It's not that easy. You haven't even found the presents I left you."

"Presents?"

"Presents," he repeated. "One of them is kind of fun..."

"And the other?"

"Is just nasty. And whoever finds that one is going to want to put little Alex behind bars."

"You're full of shit," she snapped.

"Try another cup of tea, Alex. Maybe that will help jog your memory."

Alex thought about the tea she'd had in her bath. He'd been watching her back then. The thought gave her chills. She spun to the window. "Listen, you son of a—" But the line was dead.

Furious, she slammed the phone down and ran to the door. Throwing the door open, she stared in both directions down the dark street. He could have been anywhere—in a parked car or behind a bush or tree—watching her. The thought attacked her like a thousand pins, sending stabs of panic through her chest.

Back inside, she closed and locked the door and proceeded to shut the curtains. He would be smiling, she thought, but she didn't care. With the curtains shut, she dialed *69 and again heard the error recording.

"Damn," she croaked, slamming the phone down.

Marching to the center of her kitchen, she paused and then turned in a slow circle. "Tea," she said out loud. "Tea." She opened the cupboard where she kept the tea bags and searched through them one by one. Nothing appeared strange. Lifting one to the light, she stared through it, wondering what he could've replaced the tea with. But it just looked like tea.
Put little Alex behind bars,
he'd said. She looked for a tea bag she didn't recognize, thinking maybe he'd planted marijuana, but there was nothing.