Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (40 page)

"Alex? Where have you been?" Greg asked. "It's the middle of the night."

She frowned. "How did you find me?"

"Carmen Hayes. She was the woman whose husband used to beat her up."

Alex was too tired to think. "So what?"

"So that was the name you registered under. James called about fifteen local hotels and had registries faxed to him. We looked through the names. When I saw it, I knew it had to be you. You always had a soft spot for Carmen Hayes."

She'd known Greg would recognize the name. Wasn't that why she'd chosen it? But somehow he seemed to be everywhere lately and it made her jittery. She shook her head. Greg was her friend, her partner. She was tired and in pain and not thinking clearly. She cupped her left arm to her body and tried to ignore the ache. "Where's James?"

"I left him with Chris. I headed back up to Berkeley. I'm supposed to be at work in the morning, but I wanted to check in with you first. You didn't answer me. Where have you been?"

Police cars filled the parking lot and Alex could tell that Greg had heard the sirens.

"What happened there?"

"Someone shot Alfred Ferguson."

"Someone?"

"It wasn't me."

"You need to get out of there."

She carefully looked out the window to see what was happening. "It's too late now. The police are all over the place. I'll wait until the morning and try to sneak out early."

"You want to catch me up on what's going on?"

Reluctantly, Alex told Greg everything, from the sound at her door to the bullet that killed Ferguson. When she was done, she took the Post-its out of her pocket and dropped them on the bed. She read Greg the phone numbers, then opened the folded page and scanned it. It appeared to be notes from a phone conversation. Alex read them out loud.

" 'Don't involve kid. Take care Kinkhead.' "

"He was taking notes. Someone was telling him what to do and he was taking notes."

"Yeah, looks like it. My name's spelled wrong."

"You think the kid he's referring to is Tim?" Greg asked.

"That's exactly what I think. I told you—Ferguson's not in charge. He wasn't in charge," she corrected herself. "Someone else is. This guy manipulated Ferguson the way he's manipulating me."

"Who?"

"That's what we need to find out." She kept reading.

"'Follow. Don't act. Remember power of the mind.'"

"Power of the mind," Greg repeated.

Where had she heard that before? "Power of the mind," she whispered and then it clicked. "The interview—Maggie Androus said Walter used to say the same thing."

"You're right. I'll be damned. What now?"

"I've got to find the link between Alfred Ferguson and Walter Androus."

"Who are you thinking—the brother or sister?"

She clenched her fist. "They seem like the only solution. Who else would dig all this up? Unless there was an accomplice at the time."

"But there weren't any other prints," Greg argued.

"Except the other kids'," Alex corrected.

"You think he had a kid accomplice?"

She moved her sore shoulder in slow circles. "I don't know. Maybe someone saw it as a kid and became obsessed." It sounded ridiculous. She was the only survivor left. "Somehow, though, our guy met up with Ferguson."

"I've already got a call in to find out more about who was in prison with Ferguson. See if there was someone he hung with, maybe someone from down here who could be linked to it from back then."

She thought about the person she'd seen walking toward the car in the lot earlier. "See if there's anyone small—built like a teenager."

"Like a midget?"

"No. He seemed lanky."

"But you were squatting, right?"

"Yes, but he wasn't built like an adult." She sighed. "Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know."

"I'll see what I can find out."

"It's going to be a bitch to get anything out of them right now."

"Hey, I'm used to bitches."

She smiled. "Thanks, asshole. Check out the plate number, too. Not that I think it'll tell us anything."

"Will do." He paused. "I should get going. You going to be okay?"

She told him she would. What choice did she have?

"Be careful tonight. Whoever was out there knows you're still around."

"I'll be okay. He's not coming back tonight, not with all these cops."

She prayed she was right.

* * *

After a restless night, Alex woke at five-fifteen, her left arm stiff and throbbing. She fingered her shoulder, relieved to find it didn't feel dislocated or broken. A thick scratch across her cheek was tender, and she could feel the cuts and bruises on her hands, chin, arms, and legs. None of them was anything major, but she had pulled or perhaps even torn a muscle in her shoulder that might have sent her to a doctor under better circumstances.

But today left no time for healing. After taking four Advil, Alex drew a hot bath and soaked for ten minutes, hoping the water would lessen the pain and stiffness. If it did, the change wasn't noticeable.

Dressing presented the next challenge, and she cursed and gritted her teeth as she worked her way back into her clothes. She made a makeshift sling with a T-shirt and tucked it into her duffel bag to put on later. First she had to get past whatever police were still downstairs taking statements. She combed her hair straight, carefully letting the one side fall over the scratch on her left cheek. She watched herself in the mirror and shook her head. If a cop saw the scratch, she was in trouble.

It was still red enough to give away the fact that it was recent, and the night desk clerk would know it hadn't been there when she checked in. The small contusions along her chin and on her hands would also be plenty of evidence for someone trained to notice those things. She hadn't brought makeup, so she had nothing to cover them with. She just hoped no one looked too closely at her.

Because the hotel was in San Jose, she was gambling that it would take the police a little time to connect Ferguson's murder with Nader's in Palo Alto. But she knew that wasn't much to bet on.

Her bags packed, Alex called a cab to meet her at the Veterans Hospital. Once she was safely out of the hotel, she planned to call the numbers from Ferguson's wallet and then spend the day in the main branch of the San Jose library, looking up New York obits. Greg had told her Ben Androus was listed, but she wanted to read the notice herself and see if she could learn anything more.

Pausing before she left, she decided to check her messages. It was only six in the morning, but maybe Greg had gotten some news. Or Brenda. She blew her breath out and punched in her password.

"You have one message," the electronic voice informed her.

Seated on the edge of the bed, she prepared herself for the familiar echoing voice of the killer. But the one she heard couldn't have been more different.

"Officer, this is Louisa—Louisa Carter," the elderly woman began.

Alex gasped, pressing the receiver closer to her ear, determined not to miss so much as a sigh.

"It's late," the frail voice continued. "I hope I didn't wake you up." The woman paused and drew a deep, raspy breath. "I don't sleep well anymore. Up and down all night. I guess that's what happens when you get old. It's a terrible waste, really."

Her voice shook just slightly and Alex wondered if she might have been drinking when she called.

The voice paused and Alex held her breath, praying Mrs. Carter didn't hang up before explaining why she was calling.

"I'll be at home tomorrow if you want to call me. Perhaps you could stop by for a few minutes and I'll give this to you. You have my number."

Give her what? Alex had started to hang up the phone when the woman added, "I'm going to try to go back to sleep, so if you wouldn't mind waiting until after eight to call." The message clicked and Alex hung up the receiver.

She shook her head, trying to decide if a detour to Palo Alto was worth the risk. Louisa Carter probably had some picture of Nader or something she thought might be of relevance to the police. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred a trip like that was a waste.

Alex threw her bag over her good shoulder and entered the hall, careful to make sure the "Do Not Disturb" sign was still on the door. She took the stairs to the ground floor and walked back like she was heading to the hotel's gym. Passing a few business travelers arriving on a Monday morning, Alex didn't see any cops. She walked in wide strides with her head down and hoped no one bothered her. She entered the gym and then into the pool area. She saw a door on the far side and started for it.

"Ma'am," someone called as she approached the door.

Alex ignored them and reached for the door.

"You can't leave through that door, ma'am."

Alex turned back to see a hotel employee shaking his finger at her. He frowned and pointed to the banner across the door that warned opening the door would trigger alarms.

Jesus, what was she thinking?

"You can go back through the gym and down the corridor to your left. There's an exit halfway down and one at the end. Are you parked in the back?"

"Yes, exactly," she lied.

"Take the exit at the end of the hall, then."

She nodded and followed his instructions, feeling the weight of stares as she left the pool. One woman made a tsk-tsk sound as she walked by.

Alex made it to the exit without further incident and was relieved when she reached the main street. Keeping an eye over her shoulder, she crossed the street toward the Veterans Hospital, where a cab was already waiting in front. She got inside and said, "Airport."

After the incident last night, she assumed someone was on her tail at every moment. She planned to cab to the airport, travel as far as the gates on foot, and then exit on the arrivals level and take another cab back to Palo Alto.

Alex trained a watchful eye on the traffic around her as the cabdriver headed toward the airport. There had been no sign of the car she'd seen leave the hotel parking lot just before Ferguson attacked her, but she had known there wouldn't be. Even if the driver of that car were the one who killed Ferguson, he would have ditched last night's car for a new one.

She arrived at the airport and sprang from the cab, rushing hastily through the glass doors and toward the departure gates, hoping to look natural among the bustle of hurried travelers. She slipped into a bathroom before reaching the metal detectors, and pulled on a baseball cap and removed her jacket before exiting.

At a bank of small pay phones Alex dialed the first number from the Post-it. A woman's voice sounded on a recording. "You've reached Candy Treat," she cooed, and Alex guessed she was a prostitute. The second number was also answered by a machine, but there was no voice, only a beep. She'd have to call again. She bought a muffin and coffee, and watched the people until it was quarter to eight.

Then, moving as calmly as she could, Alex walked down the escalators toward baggage claim and out the front doors.

Across from the rows of cars awaiting passengers, she stopped at the taxi stand and jumped into the first cab.

She arrived at the block past Nader's at eight-twenty, feeling confident that she hadn't been followed. Someone could be watching Nader's house, waiting for her. Still, Alex had no choice but to risk it.

As she hurried toward Mrs. Carter's house, she hoped the woman hadn't chosen this morning to go out for a leisurely stroll. With a thorough survey of the area, Alex moved among the houses to Louisa's door, where she gave one last glance over her shoulder. She forced herself to stop worrying and rapped quickly on the door.

"Who is it?" the woman called as Alex celebrated the fact that Mrs. Carter was home.

"Alex—" Pausing, Alex strained to recall what name she'd given yesterday. "You left a message on my machine," she added quickly.

Without another word, the woman opened the door, peered out, and with a careful look around, waved Alex in.

Sitting in the same chair as yesterday, Louisa began to fiddle with a pile of papers on the table in front of her. She wore red pants and a striped shirt, her hair more styled than yesterday though it was flat on her left side, possibly where she'd slept on it. Her lips showed the faint outline of lip liner. She appeared to have gotten dressed up for something, but Alex couldn't imagine it was for her.

She had been concerned Louisa might notice her arm, but the woman was much too preoccupied even to look up. "Do you want to tell me why you called?" Alex asked, wondering if this wasn't James's idea of a setup. Counting slowly to ten, she rocked on her toes, preparing for flight, refusing to admit even to herself that she wouldn't get far with her injured arm.

"There is one more thing I haven't told the police," Louisa whispered as though it were a deep, dark confession. "Not purposefully, of course," she added in a tentative voice, still without looking up.

She wrung her hands together and spoke up. "Well, not at first. I'd forgotten about it at first. It had been so long ago. But then when you came around and mentioned N.T. Security, it jogged something in my brain."