Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (7 page)

He nodded but didn't respond. Then, he stepped closer to the bed with an ominous look. "I do have some questions to ask in an official capacity."

"I'm sure they can wait," Brittany said.

James let his mouth fall shut.

"I can answer them," Alex offered, knowing he'd corner her sooner or later.

James nodded and smiled satisfactorily at Brittany. "Did you know the deceased?" he asked Alex.

Alex straightened her back and crossed her hands in front of her. "No. I think he came up to me in Noah's Bagels the day before yesterday. At least, I think it was him."

"What did he say in Noah's?"

"Nothing. He never had a chance."

James frowned and made a note in a small spiral notebook he always carried. Alex had even seen him pull it out at a family dinner.

"We got a call," Alex continued. "Roback came in and called me, and I left."

"So, the dead guy—Loeffler—he never said anything to you?"

"He called my name—that was it."

"He said 'Kincaid'? That's it?"

A nurse came through the door as Alex considered James's question. But he hadn't called her Kincaid. "I need blood," the nurse exclaimed as though they might each have a bag of it in their pockets.

"Hers, I hope," Brittany joked, stepping back with her hands up.

"Oh, sure, sacrifice me," Alex complained. "Haven't I had a rough enough day already?"

The nurse chuckled, wrinkles forming exclamations around her eyes. "It's yours I'm after," she said, approaching the bed. Her gray hair was tucked up under what looked like a white shower cap, her white nurse's outfit snug over her full figure.

"Are you sure? I think she might have a better sample. We're all related, you know."

The woman ignored Alex, though her smile remained. She took Alex's arm and tied a tourniquet around her biceps.

Alex watched the nurse draw blood, her mind on Loeffler. He hadn't called her Kincaid. That would've been the name he'd seen on her badge. It would've made sense. And yet he'd called her Alexandra. No one had called her that since her mother had died.

"I've still got questions for you," James said.

Brittany waved him off. "Later, Spillane."

Alex nodded in the direction of James as the nurse began to check her vitals. How the hell had the dead guy known her first name?

* * *

Alex waited for the doctor to discharge her. Dr. Pletcher was a nice enough man. Tall, thin, with a small, steep nose and an easy disposition, he hummed lightly to himself as he worked, as if he were working on a car rather than a person.

"I think you're free to go," he announced, hanging the stethoscope over his neck. "No signs of concussion, not even a real bump."

"What caused me to black out?" Alex asked.

Dr. Pletcher pursed his lips and shook his head. "It's hard to say. Most likely it was the fall you took. The brain's a difficult organ to figure. We're not quite there yet." He made a note on her chart and tucked it under his arm, looking like he was ready to skip down the hall with Dorothy in her red slippers.

"Doctor?" She stopped him as he was heading out.

He turned back, his brow raised.

"I had a general question."

"Sure."

"What might cause someone to wake up somewhere strange and not remember how he got there?" As soon as the question was out, she regretted asking it.

It was like asking a parent about sex or drugs—even the mere mention of the topic led to the immediate suspicion of guilt.

Though he watched her intently for a moment, she kept her expression neutral, refusing to confirm that she was speaking of herself. Holding her chart to his side, he approached the bed and sat in the chair next to it, staring at the wall on the other side of her bed. "Delirium, epilepsy, and certain dissociative reactions like fugue states can cause memory disorders."

"What's a fugue state?"

"It's a personality disorder characterized by amnesia and usually involves flight from an area of stress or conflict."

"Uh, in layperson terms, please..." Just as she spoke, the door opened and Greg came into the room.

He saluted to the doctor and put his hand out. "Greg Roback. Nice to meet you."

"Harry Pletcher."

He winked at Alex. "Just came to see if my partner's going to be back in battle soon."

The doctor nodded. "A day or two and she'll be raring to go."

The doctor turned back to Alex and started to speak.

"Great," she interrupted, hoping to keep him from returning to the conversation they'd been having. "I'll be anxious to get back."

"I think you should take it easy for another twenty-four hours. As long as you don't experience the dizziness again, you should be okay to return to work." The doctor made another note and started out the door.

Alex exhaled and turned to Roback.

The doctor pulled the door open and then turned back, one finger raised like Einstein making a discovery. "I almost forgot to answer your question about fugue states," he said, stepping back into the room. "A fugue state happens when something triggers the mind to block out certain memories—sometimes the loss is associated with a specific person or object, so that someone won't remember anything that relates to that object or person. And sometimes people suffer a complete memory lapse for short spans of time after something traumatic has happened."

Alex nodded, feeling Greg's stare. "Interesting," she said, trying to cut Pletcher short.

He seemed oblivious to her discomfort. "A lot of people who were in the forces in Vietnam now suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Many don't remember chunks of the time they were there. Others are still reliving actual combat over and over."

"What else can cause a fugue state?" Greg asked, and Alex knew his mind was working.

Dr. Pletcher took another step back into the room and shrugged. "I was just telling Alex that we usually don't know exactly what triggers it—it can happen spontaneously for no reason at all." With a shake of his head, he added, "I have to admit, this isn't my area of expertise." He paused. "Sometimes drugs can have these sort of side-effects."

"Which drugs?" Greg asked and Alex cringed.

The doctor nodded, thinking, as he glanced at Alex again with one brow raised. "The same symptoms can be associated with certain benzodiazepine derivatives, for instance."

"What's a benzodiz—?"

Pletcher smiled and Alex shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed. "Benzodiazepine is a drug derivative. Valium, for instance, is a benzodiazepine. Restoril is another."

Dr. Pletcher looked down at her chart and raised an eyebrow. "You took Restoril last night."

Both men stared at Alex. "Did you experience some sort of amnesia?" the doctor asked.

She shook her head. "I was just curious."

"The drug she took could cause that kind of reaction, though?" Greg asked. "This Restoril?"

Alex stared at Greg.

Dr. Pletcher shook his head. "Usually not. Certainly not retrograde amnesia—forgetting what happened before she took it—like in fugue states. In high doses, Valium could cause some loss of memory."

"But not Restoril?" Greg pressed.

He shook his head. "Most likely not."

Alex nodded. "We weren't talking about me, Roback," she said, knowing his mind was already working through why she'd asked the question in the first place.

Pletcher looked at her and nodded as though he knew she was lying. "People do react differently to drugs, so there's no way of telling exactly what the reaction might be."

Alex felt a small trickle of relief. "That's very helpful, Doctor."

The doctor looked from her to Greg. "Any other questions?"

"None," Alex said in a firm tone before Greg could speak.

"I'll leave your discharge paperwork with the nurse. She'll come by in a few minutes to get you out of here. You can get dressed in the meantime."

The doctor left the room and Alex avoided the heavy pull of Greg's gaze.

"I need to get dressed," she said, finally making eye contact.

He held her gaze, searching.

She crossed her arms and stared back. "You're not going to stay and watch me dress."

He grinned. "I wouldn't mind."

She pointed to the door. "Out."

He made no move for the door. "Kind of an interesting conversation you were having with the doctor. You want to tell me what the hell that was about?"

"Fine. Stay." Alex threw the covers off her bare legs and stood from the bed to get dressed.

"Why were you asking about memory loss?"

She crossed to the long thin closet where her clothes had been hung and pulled down her black uniform pants. "It wasn't anything."

"The drug you took causes some sort of amnesia. You were asking about it. That's a coincidence?"

Alex tucked the hospital gown under her chin as she fastened her pants. "You missed the beginning of the conversation. I asked about the blackout, if it could've been anything other than the hit on my head. He mentioned that these benzo—things sometimes cause blackouts or fugue states. I asked what it was. I was curious, Roback. I'm a cop, it's my nature. Don't make such a fucking big deal about it. You sound like James."

He stood silent for a minute. "I know you, Kincaid, and there's something going on. You don't have to tell me now, but I'll figure it out eventually."

"The only thing going on is that I'm trying to get dressed and you're not going away."

"Right," he said, still eyeing her. She refused to blink. "See you later, then."

"Later," she said as he walked out the door.

As the door closed slowly, she thought again about what the doctor had said. She hadn't gone through anything traumatic, except seeing the body. But that had happened after she had woken up in the car.

Maybe she had
pre
-traumatic stress disorder. She shook her head. It wasn't funny.

But who knew how she'd ended up on Yolo. It had to be an odd reaction to the Restoril. Pletcher said people had different reactions to drugs.

A drug reaction. If a perp had told her that, she'd have read him the riot act.

Chapter 5

The drive home was quick, but even the small effort wore Alex out. Inside her house, she ignored the blinking answering machine light that indicated she had three messages and dropped her jacket on the couch alongside a sweater and a pair of pants that had been there easily three weeks. She wondered briefly if one of the messages would explain where she'd been the night before. A strange chill rippled across her back and she shook it off. She was tired—no, she was unusually tired. Insomnia kept her at the same level of sleep deprivation as someone with a brand-new infant. What she felt now wasn't tiredness, it was exhaustion.

She also knew better than to let herself get right into bed. It was only four in the afternoon, and if she went to bed now, she'd be awake at nine and up all night. Instead, she changed into shorts and a sports bra and went into the dusty basement, which she had converted into a workout room with some old carpet and free weights. There, she practiced tae bo moves until her stomach ached and her legs and arms burned.

Then, she gathered the laundry from across the floors and furniture and started a load of whites, adding bleach. She thought about what a mess the rest of the house was but refused to clean it now. It had waited this long, it could wait another week or so. More likely it would be a month before she'd finally break down and call the woman who used to clean for her mother and offer her seventy-five hard-earned dollars to come and make it livable again. Anything not to deal with it herself.

Finding the bottle of Restoril in the kitchen cabinet, Alex flushed the remaining pills and tossed the empty container in the trash, thankful to be rid of them. Enjoying the silence of her house, she sat down on a stool while the water heated for her tea. She had always loved having her own space. These days she couldn't imagine sharing a place with a roommate, let alone a husband and children. Visiting her siblings' houses proved that to her often enough.