Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (25 page)

He didn't respond.

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she spotted a yard with a high wall. Judging from the man's size, she would be able to lose him in a chase if she needed to. As long as she moved fast and he didn't get a clean shot at her first. With a deep breath, she decided to give him to three and then she was gone. One. Two.

The headlights went off and Alex's eyes fought to adjust to the darkness as the tap of heels moved closer.

"It's Gamble," the voice said.

A trickle of relief was quickly overpowered by a raging river of fury. She crossed the distance between them and gave him a swift kick in the right shin.

He yelped in response, reaching for his leg. He struggled to touch his shin over his belly and she wondered if his pant seat would tear from the strain. "What the hell was that for?"

She wished she had kicked him harder. As much flesh as he had on his bones, he shouldn't even have felt it. Brittany could've taken a harder kick without whimpering.

"I said why the hell did you kick me?"

"Don't be a jackass, Gamble. I asked you to identify yourself and you didn't. Was that supposed to be some sort of joke?" She still wasn't sure why he'd pulled her over, but she didn't think they would send Gamble to arrest her on his own. No, if she was about to be arrested for murder, James would definitely have been here, she thought cynically.

He let go of his leg and stood up, adjusting his belt beneath his jelly belly. His jaw jutted out so only two of the three chins showed. He scratched his gut with both hands like an ape. "I was about to. You didn't give me enough time."

She gritted her teeth. "I identified myself. You failed to respond. And you're getting off easy with a kick, Officer. If I'd had my gun, there's a good chance I'd have shot you in the kneecap."

Gamble craned his neck, a strange gesture of agitation. She had never seen anyone else do it, but everyone at the station knew it as his mark. Crane Wayne, they called him.

He cleared his throat. "Well, that sort of rash reaction is not at all appropriate," he scolded. "You could get kicked off the force for that."

What a joke. She had probably already been kicked off. Didn't he know what was going on?

Pointing his stubby finger, he began his lesson. "The proper course of action if someone does not respond is to repeat the request a second time. In chapter fourteen of the manual, it says," he continued, "if you do not receive a response on second request and assume the suspect may be armed, then—"

She exhaled. "Cut the crap, Gamble. Where's Roback?" Maybe Greg had shot himself to get out of being partnered with Gamble. She knew she would have.

"He's out with Pingelli."

She frowned. "Why Pingelli?"

Gamble pushed his shoulder back and craned his neck again. "Guess Pingelli needed some extra help."

That didn't sound right. Pingelli had been on the force almost six years. He had his own partner. "Where's Harmon then?"

"Sick."

Alex frowned. Harry Harmon prided himself on his perfect attendance record. Something about it didn't feel right. What was Gamble up to? "You out here alone?"

Gamble tucked his thumbs beneath his belt and sniffed deep like he had never smelled Berkeley air before. "Yep."

They would never send him out alone unless they were incredibly desperate. And even then, the officer would always be on some sort of restricted duty. "I'm surprised the captain would send you out here on your own so quickly."

"Yep."

Either way, she didn't care. "Great. Glad to hear it's going so well."

"Oh, yeah, great. Busted a guy down at—"

"Right," she interrupted. "Well, I'm heading home. Have a good night."

Waving good-bye, she started for her car, thinking she would have to ask Greg how he got out of that one. Gamble was strange, but seeing him out here alone was even stranger. She was more than happy to leave.

Gamble cleared his throat again.

She thought she heard her name but she didn't stop. She didn't have time for idle chat. It was close to ten-thirty and she needed to get home and get on the road to Palo Alto before it was too late.

"Alex, you can't leave."

She spun back and frowned. "Excuse me?"

Gamble was silent a moment. Then, with a quick thrust of his chin, he continued, "You were speeding."

He spoke in a voice much lower than his usual one. It made him sound like a soap opera star doing a sex scene.

Incredulous, she nailed her hands to her hips. "What?"

"I said, you were speeding." His voice cracked on the last word, but he made a valiant though unsuccessful effort to catch it.

She cracked a smile. "That's a good one."

He shook his head. "No joke."

"You're not serious."

"Absolutely."

She watched him a minute and then strode back toward him, aiming her sights on the other shin.

As though expecting it, Gamble ducked behind the car door. "Not so fast."

Her finger raised, she pointed it between his wide eyes. "I've had a really bad day, okay? Don't fuck with me today. Tomorrow, next week—but not today. Understand?"

The radio cut in. "Two Adam Nineteen, come in. Are you requesting backup?"

Wayne glanced at the console but made no move to answer the call. "I'm sorry, but the law's the law. Can't be doing special favors..."

Her jaw muscle tight, she expelled all her energy into pretending his hand was between her teeth. Releasing, she inhaled. "I'm in no mood for you to get high and mighty with me. I'm leaving."

"I don't think so, missy. I'm writing you a ticket. Now, I'm going to need your driver's license."

Alex fought to remain calm. He was recently back on patrol. He was just trying to do his job. It was probably very honest of him. But this was a very bad day. And she wasn't about to get a speeding ticket from a cop in her own department on top of finding out that she had almost been killed at age six and that she was about to become a suspect for murder. Only she couldn't afford more trouble of any kind with the department.

"I think it's great that you're so enthusiastic," she lied. "But I was doing forty-one in a thirty-five, Gamble. And like I said, I've had a really, really long day."

He shook his head. "Don't need to confess the speed to me. I only have you clocked at forty." With his clipboard out, he sat down in his car and began writing.

Riveted to her spot, she watched him, waiting for the joke. It had to be a joke. She was going five miles over the speed limit. It wasn't a ticket she would have written on a normal citizen. But another cop?

The call came again.

He picked up the radio and responded. "Adam Nineteen. I've got an eleven-ninety-four. No backup necessary."

She counted, giving him until ten to smile and tell her he was kidding.

Gamble glanced up and nodded to her car. "As I said, I am going to need your driver's license. I'll wait here if you want to get it. I trust you." Standing from the car, he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was low and raspy. "Unless you want to come here a moment."

She halted, feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck. "What?"

"We can probably clear this up, just the two of us, if you want."

She took a step forward, seething to the point of shaking. "How do you mean?"

Gamble opened the back door of the squad car and sat down. "You can start by sitting down here." He patted his knees. "I'll show you what to do from there. I promise it won't hurt." He grinned, reaching out to touch her.

Fury exploded through her chest, racing across her arms and legs until it shot out from her fingers and she could no longer hold herself back. Her hands flat on the car door, she shoved it shut full force.

Gamble emitted an agonizing cry that she was sure woke some of the neighbors as the door slammed on his legs.

"I warned you," she said.

Gamble was crying. "Jesus Christ, you're insane. You're fucking insane."

He got that right. Anger still washing around her stomach like battery acid, she started for her car.

"I think you broke my legs," he moaned.

Cursing, she started her car and raced home. She shouldn't have let him get the best of her. And she knew she was going to catch hell from Captain Lyke. And James. Assaulting a police officer—even Crane Wayne—was a serious offense. If she hadn't been kicked off the force by now, she would be after this incident. Even with Gamble's blatant come-on, her aggression would be deemed over the top.

"Forget it." She was going to Palo Alto tonight. There was no more time to waste on all this bullshit—people watching over her shoulder, keeping her off the case, trying to frame her or protect her. She didn't need them.

In her driveway, she stopped the car, yanking the emergency brake so hard she was surprised it didn't come off in her hand. She opened the back door to the house, trying to look past the spot in her trash where Loeffler's hand had been found.

The door locked, she took the stairs by twos and searched for a duffel bag beneath the bed. She scowled at the amount of crap she had managed to stuff under there.

There was an old set of curlers, a digital alarm clock that didn't work, her camping equipment. Where the hell was the duffel? She tore stuff out and flung it across the room. Finally, she spotted it and put it on the bed, then kicked a path through the mess to her dresser.

From it she pulled out three of everything—socks, underwear, T-shirts—and a pair of khakis and loafers for anything she couldn't do in jeans, and tossed it all in the bag. Grabbing her toothbrush from the bathroom, she ignored the rest. Even the crappiest motels had soap and shampoo. She didn't worry that she didn't know where she was staying. She would figure it out. She had a lot to figure out.

At the bottom of the stairs, she opened her coat closet, lifted her holster off the coat rack on the back of the door, and then set it on the couch. She had turned in her badge and gun, so she pulled down the lockbox from the back of the closet and took out her personal weapon—a Smith & Wesson Model 5900 pistol. It was a 9mm, and she like it because it held fifteen rounds. Most 9mms, like her service Glock, only held ten rounds, and it didn't hurt to have a few extra shells loaded in case of an emergency.

She tucked the gun, an extra magazine, and her flashlight in the bag and set her beeper on the table. She didn't want to hear from this guy again until they were face to face. The blinking red light of her machine caught her eye. She pressed Play and listened as she worked. Tom had called twice, worried. She listened through a message from the professor friend of Brenda's husband, wondering if she was busy Saturday night. He had a nice voice, she thought. Pressing Save, she looked over her things.

The pepper spray and Gerber camping knife in her jacket, she pulled a box of extra ammunition down from the closet shelf and put it in her bag. With the bag on her shoulder, the weight of her travel arsenal sank down on the muscles in her back.

She took another quick look around. There was nothing else she needed. Four steps from the door, she halted. Before she left, she needed to tell someone where she would be. A cop never went in alone without notifying someone. It was stupid, dangerous as hell, and an unnecessary risk.

The phone glared at her. Not James, not Brittany. Greg? She shook her head. He would insist on coming and he'd done too much already. Plus, James was already on to him. If Greg knew where she was, James would break him in a second. The receiver tight in her fist, she dialed the only number she could call.

"Hello?" came the sleepy voice.

"Brenda?"

"Alex, is that you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm sorry about all this shit. I tried to find something out, but it's like a vault over there. All the doors are closed, everything's a damn secret. They're like a bunch of Fibbies," she said, referring to FBI agents.

"Thanks for trying."

"No problem. Jesus, what time is it?"

Alex looked at the clock across the room. It was almost eleven. "Listen, I'm really sorry. It's late. I need a favor." Through the phone, Alex heard Brenda shifting as though sitting up in bed.

"Sure, anything."

Alex glanced at the back door. "I'm going out of town for a few days."

"Where?" Brenda's voice sounded fretful. "Is this about the case, Alex? You sure it's smart to leave?"

With a quick breath, she answered, "I have to go. I'm going to Palo Alto."

"To find out what happened with the dead lawyer?"

"Yeah. It's where it happened. I'm hoping there are some answers down there."

"Did I tell you the one about the tragedy of the bus full of lawyers who drowned?" Brenda said, trying to joke.

"Yeah, yeah. The empty seat. That's an old one. I can't believe you're still telling it."

Brenda was quiet for a minute. "You're sure that's what you need to do?"

"Positive."

"You want someone to come with you?" Brenda's voice deepened, her concern evident in the tone.