Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (8 page)

With three boys running around, James's house was a zoo. She couldn't believe his wife Sheila could stand all the noise. And though Brittany's house was quieter, it was ten times as organized. She was a neat freak. Everything in her house had its specific spot. Dishes had to be stacked just so, tall glasses to the left, short ones to the right. Alex shook her head at the thought.

Even when Alex made the effort to help out at Brittany's, she never got it right. All the mixing bowls had to be stacked biggest to smallest; the damn Tupperware was separated by size. And Brittany's daughters were too neat to be considered normal children by her standards. They made their beds daily, Saturday and Sunday included.

No, she liked living alone. Even engaged, she and Michael had kept separate residences. Ironically, it was just weeks before they were due to move in together that she discovered her best friend, Trisha, in bed with her fiancé. Living with someone no longer held any appeal at all.

She poured herself tea and took a sip, heading for the bath. Upstairs, she took off her clothes and put on her heavy terry-cloth robe. It had been a gift from her nieces, obviously picked out by Brittany. Pink-and-white striped, the robe always made her feel silly, but it was the most comfortable thing she owned and she relished the feel of it now, the tiny terry-cloth loops soft against her skin. She took a deep breath and forced the band wrapped around her chest to loosen. A bath would be just the right medicine.

In the bathroom, she plugged the drain and started the water. She loved her bathroom. Its low slanted walls left just enough space for a full-height shower on the tall end and her bath tucked along the low side. A tiny old Asian table sat beside the tub, covered with bubble baths and soaps. The only sign of Alex's femininity was here. The only time she pampered herself was in this room. Any guests were banished to the functional guest bath. This room was hers alone.

She set the tea down and let the robe fall off her shoulders. Reaching to take off her watch, she stared at her empty wrist. Her watch still hadn't turned up. Where the hell had she left it?

Dismissing it, she pick up her tea and stepped into the bath. The steam warmed her face as she leaned back to let the hot water rise against her skin.

The smell of raspberry bubble bath mixed with orange spice tea. She closed her eyes, breathing the aroma as she settled deeper into the hot water. This was exactly what she needed—a little unwind time.

Setting her tea on the table, she submerged her arms, goose bumps rising like tiny grains of soft sand on her skin. She leaned her head back against the rounded edge of the cool tub surface and closed her eyes. It amazed her that she didn't do this more often. The bathtub always made everything seem so much simpler.

As the muscles in her neck started to loosen, she realized she must have been stressed about the job. She'd been putting an enormous amount of pressure on herself to perform. Having James for a brother hadn't helped, either. She refused to let anyone even entertain the notion that she was on the force because of him. And it meant always working twice as hard to prove otherwise.

She reminded herself to call Tom and thank him for the flowers and to cancel their date tomorrow. She didn't think she'd be up for anything so soon. Plus, Tom was getting a little serious. Backing him up a bit would be a good step.

What she really wanted to do was get back on the case, help Lombardi if he would let her, if he'd even speak to her. That way, she could follow it through, sort out her own reaction. As she saw it, working the case was the best way to rid herself of her skittish reaction to the dead body.

The sound of the ringing phone pulled her from her thoughts. Groaning, she refused to get out of the water. The machine clicked on, her own voice announcing that she wasn't able to answer. Straining to hear, she waited for a voice to fill the air after the beep, but none did. She shrugged and started the hot water again, the heat tickling her toes.

As she sank back into the bubbles, the phone rang again. She sat up and frowned, listening to the machine. Again there was no message. Though she tried to sit back and relax, she couldn't stop thinking about who had called.

When the phone rang a third time, she cursed and lifted herself out of the bath. Dripping wet, she put her robe on, tying it as she hurried down the hall. In her bedroom, she lifted the receiver. "Hello?" She knew her voice sounded aggravated, but she was. If this were some salesperson, she was going to let him have it.

"Alexandra?" a strange-sounding male voice said.

She wrinkled her brow, thinking again of Loeffler's use of her Christian name. "Yes. Who's this?"

There was a short pause.

"Hello?" she repeated.

A hushed voice replied, but Alex couldn't make out the words.

"Who
is
this?" she asked.

"I saw you on Yolo last night," came the response. Her jaw dropped and Alex pulled the phone away from her ear, to stare at it. His words were like a blow. She thought about the murder. Maybe he had seen something. "What's your name?"

"What do you think you're doing? Do you remember?" His words were mechanical and awkward, like he was reading off a page.

"Who is this?" she repeated. "Tell me what you saw."

"What were you doing there?" he continued without addressing her question. "See if you can find the present I left for you and the one I took." The line clicked and went dead.

Alex frowned. "Hello?"

There was no answer.

She dialed *69 and heard a recorded voice say, "We're sorry. The call return feature cannot be used to return your last call."

Alex waited for the phone to ring again, but it didn't. Padding back to the bathroom with the cordless phone in her hand, she thought about who it could have been.

One of Loeffler's nosy neighbors? But why call her? He didn't sound like he had information for the police. Had someone really seen her on Yolo, maybe even followed her there? Was it someone holding a grudge against her? She couldn't think of anyone who would want to get to her. She hadn't made any recent arrests except the punk kid, and he couldn't have seen her on Yolo the night before.

Maybe the caller had something to do with Loeffler's death. As she had so many times in the past fourteen hours, she focused on waking up in her car. How could her presence on the street where a murder took place just be a coincidence?

Filled with an uncomfortable feeling of anxiety, Alex returned to the bath and leaned back in defeat, her head against the edge of the tub. Who the hell was that? And what did he mean about presents?

She thought about phoning the station to report the call. But she knew what she would ask if someone tried to report crank phone calls. A cop's first concern was what you could prove. And her answer was: Nothing. She couldn't prove a damn thing, which meant calling the police was a waste. Especially when she couldn't even answer the caller's question. What
had
she been doing there?

Chapter 6

She couldn't see. She blinked and opened her eyes again but still no images appeared. Only darkness, with an occasional spot of light like a star in the distance. It was as though someone had hurled her into outer space, leaving her surrounded by nothing but the dark sky. But she wasn't in the middle of space. She was on the ground. She could feel it, cool and moist like cement, uncomfortable beneath her. Dust stuck to her fingertips.

Her vision was gone. With her face tilted toward the sky, she expected something to appear before her eyes. Was she blindfolded? She couldn't tell. Instinctively, she tried to touch her face, but she couldn't move. Her arms were caught behind her back. Was she tied up? She wiggled her hands, but didn't feel anything holding them down. So why couldn't she get them to her face? Fighting against an invisible rope that bound her, she struggled again.

What was wrong with her? Her limbs wouldn't move. Nearby, someone was crying, the voice small and meek like a child's. But it seemed so close, right beside her. Who was it? Was she looking through a mirror at herself? Moisture cooled her eyes and face. Was it raining? She lifted her face toward the sky but felt no drops.

"What do you think you're doing?" a voice called out, its tone a hot flame against her skin, sharp and scalding.

Bolting up, Alex blinked hard and stared into the darkness around her. Her heart thumping like a drum, the room slowly came into focus—her bedroom, her own bedroom. She sighed and lay back on the bed. She pictured a warehouse in her mind, and realized she'd been having a bad dream.

Her fingers moved across her face, pushing her hair from her eyes. She'd dreamt. She could picture the scene of her dream. When was the last time she'd done that? Her brow felt moist, and cool perspiration wet the back of her neck.

Rolling onto her stomach, she bunched one pillow under her right arm, pulling it to her chest. As she closed her eyes, she tried to think of soft rain or the crunch of gravel under her feet when she ran the Oakland fire trail. The gravel shifted and she inhaled deeply, pacing herself in her mind. Tomorrow, she would take a long run. She had almost managed to push herself back to sleep, when she heard a strange crunching sound.

Her eyes shot open. She heard the noise again. Not gravel. Someone walking on broken glass maybe. Someone in her house.

Alex tore the covers off and flung her bare feet onto the cool hardwood floor. Her gun was hanging on the holster in the downstairs closet. She used to keep it close, but then half the time she couldn't find it.

"Crap," she muttered, looking around. Her stretched T-shirt slipped off one shoulder and she quickly righted it. She lifted the baseball bat from the corner beside the bed and crept to the door.

With a deep breath, she pulled the door open slowly. Downstairs, she heard the sound of drawers opening. She halted. Someone
was
in her house. She looked back at the phone by the bed. She should call the police, but there wasn't time. She thought about the man who had called her. Had he been stalking her? Whoever he was, she wasn't letting him get away.

Hoisting the bat over her shoulder, she poised to strike and started down the hall.

She reached the top of the stairs and strained to hear below. It was silent now, although she hadn't heard the door. She moved slowly, creeping like a cat, but the wood on the stairs was old and it moaned beneath her feet. Her eyes adjusted to the blackness and she searched for shadows or movement. She paused three stairs from the bottom and waved the bat in a small circle like a player preparing to hit. Her arm muscles tightened and she kept the bat moving. It was all about having the momentum if she needed it.

Taking the last three steps, she glanced in each direction and then turned toward the den. She'd thought the noise had come from there. She took two steps and then spun around. She was sure she'd heard something, but couldn't see anyone.

Just as she started back, she felt his presence behind her. She whipped the bat around, but the man ducked and the bat hit the wall.

Before she could pull it back for another shot, he pushed her. She fell flat on her back, knocking the wind from her chest. In an effort to catch herself, she had dropped the bat.

Struggling for breath, Alex rolled and tried to regain her perch. She searched for the bat with her hands splayed on the cool floor. In one quick move, he landed on her back, pressing her down as she struggled to turn and free herself. "Get off me," she screamed.

She bucked at him, squirming to get loose. "I called the police—they're on their way."

"Don't threaten me," he snapped in the voice she'd heard on the phone. He cupped her head in one hand and slammed her face down.

Her forehead smacked the floor with a loud crack. She groaned and tried to fight, but her vision swam momentarily, leaving her dizzy. After a few seconds, she pushed herself up, steeling herself to be knocked down again. But when she looked around, the man was gone.

She stood quickly and, keeping her back to the wall, found the light switch. She blinked into the harsh glare as she searched the room for signs of the intruder.

One of the small windowpanes in her back door was broken, glass strewn across the floor. The door was now wide open. An engine gunned on the street. "Bastard," she screamed, grabbing the bat and running barefoot out of the house.