Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (15 page)

The air hissed from Greg's lips as though he'd sprung a leak. He paused and fiddled with his empty beer bottle. "You were in his house."

Her shoulders dropping, Alex leaned her head into her hands. "I don't know. I have absolutely no memory."

"But it doesn't end there, does it?"

She shook her head. Standing, she retrieved the bags of evidence and told him about the phone calls, the break-in, the attack, the new bump on her head, and the fingerprint.

"You didn't kill him," he stated as though it were a fact.

She nodded. "I know I didn't."

"But it's scary as hell not remembering."

"It's fucking terrifying," she admitted. "I can't figure out why I would've been on that street or in his house. I don't know him. I
didn't
know him," she corrected.

"There's only one person who knows what the hell you were doing there."

She nodded. "His killer."

"All we have to do is get that guy and it'll be over."

"I sure as hell hope so."

"The question is, how do we get him?"

She told him she wanted to get the print run and the evidence processed without going through normal channels. He agreed that Elsa Thomas was their best bet on the print. "But she hasn't called me back," Alex added.

Greg squeezed her shoulder. "I heard her say she's off tomorrow. We can go visit her. I'm not working."

She didn't say no. Truth was, she wanted Greg's help. But she also knew he could lose his job for helping her even as much as he already had. "You shouldn't come. It's not your problem."

He shook his head. "It is, though. Drop it. You'd do the same for me."

She nodded, but she wasn't sure she would. People at the station had told her that Greg's feelings for her went deeper than a partnership, but she'd always ignored them. He was her friend, her partner, and that was it. Only she was beginning to believe he saw it differently. And at that moment, she was selfishly happy to have him care enough to risk so much.

"You should have the phone traced."

"I can't. Not without help from the department."

"It's not safe to do this without backup, Alex."

She shook her head. "Don't make me sorry I told you."

He nodded. "Okay. Leave it on. Maybe he'll call. Have you tried to record the conversation?"

"He never talks into the machine."

Greg rubbed his face. "Write down as much of the conversation as you can."

"I know the drill."

"Of course." He paused. "We'll make progress tomorrow. Right now, you need to get some sleep."

"Easier said than done."

"You want me to stay?"

She shook her head.

"I'd feel better. I can sleep right here on the couch."

"I'm fine."

He turned away from her and looked around the den.

"I really appreciate it, Roback."

He nodded without turning back. "Yeah, no problem." He stood and stretched. "Did you know a duck's quack doesn't echo?"

She smiled.

"No comeback?" he teased.

"A little slow tonight."

"A goldfish has a memory span of thirteen seconds."

"Male, huh?"

Greg smiled. "That's my girl."

"Porcupines float in water."

"Cats have thirty-two muscles in each ear."

"Dogs are cooler," Alex said.

Greg nodded. "Much."

"Thanks, Roback."

"No problem. Call me in the morning?"

"Definitely." Alex walked him out, after he checked the doors and windows and had assured her that the house was locked up. As she closed the door, she almost felt relaxed. They just needed to catch this guy and it would be over.

As soon as she stepped away from the door and thought about bed, the phone rang. She froze.

She hurried to the den, wiping her palms on her pants, hoping the gesture might calm her some. But it didn't. Her hand shaking, she waited for the machine to pick up before she answered. When she heard the beep sound, she lifted the receiver on another extension. The line was dead.

She hung up, turned her back, and the phone rang again. The answering machine was still rewinding the outgoing message, so Alex answered.

The cackling response made her stiffen. "Hello."

"What do you want?"

"Don't you think you should've told your little friend what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're a police officer, Alex. You were at the scene of the crime. You didn't tell anyone. That's not very professional of you, is it?"

She gripped the chair to quell her anger. He was watching them, but at least he hadn't heard their conversation. That was some consolation. He didn't know she had Greg on her side. "I didn't do anything."

The man laughed, a high-pitched hyena laugh.

Pulling the phone from her ear, she took a deep breath.

"Are you sure, Alex? You found the pants, didn't you? That looks like something to me."

Pants? Alex couldn't speak. What pants?

"Oh, what fun. Something new for you to find. I always loved treasure hunts." The line went dead.

Alex slammed the phone down. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," she swore, kicking the wall beside the phone. Pain seared through her toe and she hobbled to a chair.

"Goddamn it." Holding her toe, she picked up the phone and hit *69 to redial the number, praying it would work this time.

"Hello?" a woman's voice answered.

"Yes, can you tell me what number I've reached?"

"I don't know the number. You've got a pay phone at Broadway and College across from the fine arts school."

Less than two blocks away.

"Hello?"

Panic tightened her throat as though the caller's hands pressed against her larynx.

"Hello?"

She coughed, holding her throat. "Yes. Did you see anyone using this phone about two minutes ago?"

"No, I just got off the bus. I haven't seen anyone."

"Thank you," she whispered, replacing the receiver. Her fist pressed to her chest, she sank down to the floor and pressed her back against the wall. The phone call had come from around the corner.

Gripping her toe, she said, "Pants. Pants." She thought about waking up that morning on Yolo. She'd been wearing her navy sweatpants. Of course he'd done something to her pants. She knew he'd been close enough to touch her. He'd taken her earring and her watch. She shuddered at the thought of his hands on her.

Limping to the laundry room, she dug through the pile of dirty laundry until she found her navy sweatpants and looked at them. They looked like they always did. She shifted them in the light, trying to figure out what clue he had tried to give her. She felt the thick cotton then dug through the pockets. They were empty.

She got down on her knees and burrowed into the pile to see if something had fallen out—a note or a business card, something that would tell her exactly what she had been doing on Yolo.

"Nothing," she said out loud, standing up and tossing the sweatpants back on top of the pile. Her hand hit the light switch just as something caught her eye. Her heart in her throat, she switched the light back on, her eyes focused on a dark spot. She fell to her knees, ignoring the pain as her toe stabbed the floor.

She picked the pants off the pile and brought them close to her face, staring at the spot. It looked like a handprint. Her fingers ran across the stain—it was dry.

Taking the sweatpants to the kitchen, she set them on the counter and pulled a dull knife out of the drawer. Shuffling around, she ripped a paper towel off the roll she kept under her sink and laid it on the dry counter.

She scraped the stain with the knife. Tiny burgundy pieces fell onto the paper towel. Once she had a dime-sized pile, she stopped. Picking up one of the pieces, she put it in her palm and added a drop of water. The red turned brighter, more familiar.

She frowned. It couldn't be. With the red liquid close to her face, she smelled it. She couldn't be sure what it was. She dipped her finger in the liquid and brought it toward her lips. But before she tasted it, the iron smell rose to her nostrils. Yanking her finger from her face, she coughed at the smell. Blood. It was blood.

Incredulous, she stared at the pants again. The blood was on both legs, the handprint on one and a finer dust, too—like splatter. Her hands shaking, she swallowed hard. An image of Loeffler sprang to her mind.

How had she ended up with blood on her pants? And what if it wasn't hers?

Just then, she heard the front door open.

Chapter 11

Alex spun around as Greg walked back into the room. "You left the front door unlocked." He looked down at the paper towel and her pants and back up.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got halfway home and realized I forgot my wallet," he said, staring at the blood. "Is that what I think it is?"

She nodded slowly.

Greg looked around. "He here?"

She shook her head.

"He called."

She nodded, sinking onto a stool.

"Whose blood is it?"

She shook her head again.

"Christ, Alex. Talk to me."

"I don't know," she choked. "He called and told me to find my pants. These are the ones I was wearing when I woke up on Loeffler's street."

Greg came to her side of the counter and spread the pants out on the dry surface. "There's a handprint on one leg."

She nodded.

Greg put his own hand up to it.

Alex could see that the handprint was considerably smaller than Greg's. "Jesus, Kincaid. I think that's your hand."

Tears lined the edge of Alex's eyelids. She blinked hard, terrified.

"They have to go to the lab."

She nodded, unable to speak. Unlike fingerprints, blood was living matter. It had to be processed as soon as possible or it lost its usefulness. She thought it ironic that the blood she was rushing to get to the lab would probably serve to further incriminate her.

"You have a paper bag?"

Alex pulled a paper grocery bag from the pantry and handed it to Greg.

He folded the pants carefully and put them in the bag, loosely rolling the top. Blood always had to be transported in paper because plastic trapped the moisture and could ruin the sample. The rules of evidence tumbled around Alex's head as she tried to grasp that she was the suspect, her home the scene they were processing. "I can get these to the lab tonight," Greg said. "I'll give them to my friend Lou Buono. He owes me for the Zoretti case. I'll just ask him to process them and tell him I'll give him the details in a couple of days."

She nodded. What more would they know in a couple of days? Almost a week had passed, and each moment her chances of survival seemed to worsen.

"You have your pager?"

"I've got it," she said, her throat hoarse, like someone's who'd been screaming or crying or both.

"Lock your door this time. Turn off all the ringers and try to get some sleep. If something comes up, I'll page you." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Try to get some sleep."

Alex nodded as Greg started for the door, the bag in his hand. She lifted his wallet off the counter. "You forgot this again."

He reached out for it but she held on. "You're getting yourself in deep, Roback. Risking your job. It may not be smart to hang around."

Greg pulled his wallet from her hand. "I guess I think you're a pretty safe bet." Then he turned and headed for the door.

"I hope you're right," she whispered after him.

* * *

Greg paged her at eight a.m. and was on her doorstep at nine-fifteen. She came outside in a heavy hand-knit sweater and jeans. The suspect's fingerprint was under her arm in a thick manila envelope. Looking up and down the street, she shivered. The dense fog filled the hills and rolled over the houses, leaving her feeling like she was wearing a damp blanket over her shoulders. She couldn't seem to get warm and she was out of coffee. She felt lousy—sick to her stomach and tight and achy all over.