Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (10 page)

A sense of dread poured over her like ice water. He was smart. He was strong. He knew things that could damage her, things from the night she couldn't remember. And now he wanted something.

Chapter 7

Alex arrived at the station at ten after seven, determined to force things to move forward again. She had arranged, with James's reluctant help, to assist at the Loeffler crime scene for a couple of days. The doctor had written that he didn't want her back on the streets, and helping with the investigation was a good way to utilize her without disobeying doctor's orders. The department was just understaffed enough to get her captain to go for it. She'd spent an hour covering the bluish black bruise above her right eye. Between the makeup and the careful placement of her bangs, it was just barely hidden.

On her way to meet James, she stopped by the reference area and located the copy of the
Physicians' Desk Reference.
With a quick look over one shoulder, she found the listing for Restoril. Running her finger down the entry, she scanned the adverse reactions—drowsiness, headache, fatigue, nervousness, lethargy, anxiety, blurred vision, nightmares. No violence.

"What've you got there?"

Hearing Greg's voice, she started to close the book, but he put his hand in it before she could get it closed.

Throwing it back open, he scanned the page until he found what she'd been looking at. "Restoril, huh?"

"Just curious," she said.

He backed her to a file cabinet. "Bullshit."

She waved him off and started to leave. "Think what you want, Roback."

"Something's going on, Alex."

"Nothing's going on," she snapped back.

He reached up and pushed her bangs aside. "What happened to your head?"

She flinched and pulled back. "I was jumped by a mugger if you don't recall."

"I thought you hit the back of your head."

"Well, he got me in the forehead with his fist."

Watching her, he shook his head. Then, when she didn't respond, he said, "I heard you're working the scene." His tone was cool.

She nodded.

"I guess I'll see you around then." He turned and walked away before she could answer.

She put away the
PDR
and headed to James's office.

"You ready?" he asked when she arrived, handing her a cup of coffee.

She took it and thanked him. "Yep," she said, looking at the dark coffee. It would be her third cup since four this morning, and she wasn't sure it was a good idea. Her stomach already had the rattle of a baby's toy.

To keep herself from drinking any more, she set the coffee on the table.

"Lombardi's heading back over to the house this morning. Captain Lyke was going to call him, so he should know you're coming by now. Just go on back there and I'll see you later." James started to say good-bye.

"James."

He looked up.

She met his eyes. "I just wanted to say thanks."

"Don't thank me. Just don't do anything stupid."

She knew what he meant was don't do anything stupid
again.
She wouldn't. She was back in control.

In her gear, she headed for the detective division.

Elsa hadn't called back, but it was still early. She felt a little nervous as she walked down the corridor.

This was normal. Her first cadaver, she reminded herself. Her first death. But the body hadn't bothered her. It had been something else—recognizing him, perhaps. Forcing air into her lungs, she opened the door and stuck her head into the detective division.

Lombardi sat hunched in his chair. "Wondering when you'd arrive," he said without turning around.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only seven-twenty.

"I like to start by seven."

"Right." Before her mouth had a chance to debate the issue, she bit her tongue.

"We're heading back to the house." He turned and looked at her for the first time. "So, if you've got everything together..."

She motioned to herself and nodded. "This is it."

Leaning back, he cocked an eyebrow. "Normally the detective division wears street clothes. It's hard to be undercover when you're dressed as a cop."

She stared down at her uniform and winced. "It's—"

"Yeah, yeah. Habit, I know," he interrupted, lumbering out of the chair and turning away from her.

"I'll remember tomorrow."

"I would hope so," he mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear. Pulling his lucky coat off a tall standalone coat rack that looked as though it belonged in an old Dick Tracy movie, he slung it over his shoulders. "One more thing," he added as they stepped into the hall.

"Sure."

"No more fainting. I can't take that shit."

Refusing to allow her mouth to open, she nodded and followed him out of the station. "We can take my car if you want," she suggested when they reached the police lot.

His eyebrows nearly firing off his forehead, he halted in the street. "And you drive?"

"Yes."

Without breaking a smile, he emitted a long, loud chortle. "No way. I don't ever go anywhere with a broad driving. I enjoy my life, thanks."

Suddenly, she couldn't hold herself back. "Speaking of bad drivers, did you hear what happened to the side of the station over there?" She motioned to the back of the lot, knowing it was Lombardi who had done the damage. "Someone reversed right into the wall."

"Shut up, smart ass," he growled.

She fastened her seat belt, though Lombardi made no move to do the same. "So what's the status with the case so far?" she asked to redirect the conversation.

Lombardi seemed to relax against the seat. "We finished the printing last night—while you were out cold, I figure."

Allowing him a return jab, she nodded. She deserved it.

"It's all at the lab now. Won't know for a couple days at least. The DNA takes a month, if they're quick. Fibers, more like two weeks."

"Who was he?"

One eyebrow lifted, he glanced over at her. "Here's where things get interesting." He said the word in three syllables—in-trest-ing. "He was a criminal prosecutor in the city. Did mostly kid stuff—abuse, the kid that was killed and found on the coast last year..."

She nodded.

"Well, it was that kind of shit."

"Sounds like the type to gather enemies."

"And fast. He's also recently separated."

Remembering Ramona Quay's slip, she asked, "Where's the wife?"

"Kensington." Kensington was the next town past Berkeley, a small, mostly residential area. "I sent Kostopolis to talk to her this morning. Guess the wife's living with a new boyfriend, and his kids weren't crazy about Mr. Loeffler."

Alex looked over at him. "What do you mean they weren't crazy about him?"

Lombardi shrugged. "You need a map? Older kid says he hates Loeffler's guts. Still not sure why. Maybe because he blames him for his dad's new live-in girlfriend." He shook his head and then spit out the window. "Jesus, I'm glad I never let Martha convince me to have kids—crazy Menendez brothers and shit. Who needs that? I got people out here that want to kill me. I don't need to go home to it."

"How about your wife?"

For a moment, Alex saw the flicker of a smile, but he didn't let it through. "Really fucking funny, Kincaid. Jesus Christ, I got Jerry fucking Seinfeld now."

She smiled. "You think the kid could've killed Loeffler?"

"Possible."

She thought for a moment, unable to make sense of the theory. "Why would the new boyfriend's kid kill Loeffler? If he didn't like his dad's girlfriend, he'd kill her, not her soon-to-be ex-husband."

He shrugged. "Maybe. Got to look at it every way. I mean, why does any of this crap happen? I only got to solve it. I don't pretend to get it."

"Any idea why they cut off his hand?"

He shook his head casually. It was as though they were talking about the weather. "Nope. Probably meant something to the perp, though. Some guys think they're making a statement—you know, some guy's beating his kid or something and Loeffler's the prosecutor. Guy thinks he should be able to beat his own kid, right?"

Though she wasn't sure she followed, she nodded for him to continue. "So he gets thrown in jail and when he gets out, he kills Loeffler and cuts his hand off to show how no one stops him from fucking with his own kid."

"That's what you think happened?"

He glanced over at her and shrugged. "I got no idea. Just a thought. Whatever the reason, guy's fucked up."

"So what are we doing?"

"Going through the house for anything we can figure out."

As he turned onto Yolo, she tried not to think about the previous morning. He took a long look at her, as though waiting for her to crack. "We agreed, right?"

"Agreed?"

"No fainting," he said, pulling to the curb.

"Right."

He cursed again, and Alex looked out the window. The bottom of the stairs was roped off with crime scene tape, and a group of reporters crowded the area. News that one of the local D.A.'s was murdered had clearly gotten out. Lombardi was out of the car before Alex even had her seat belt off.

She got out and pushed past the reporters, reaching the house before Lombardi.

"Excuse me," one of them said, grabbing at her arm.

"No comment." She extracted herself and headed up the stairs. It wasn't her job to comment. Since she'd been on the force, she hadn't watched the news with the same eyes. Like wolves, reporters seemed to smell fresh blood and pounce.

"Detective, are there any suspects at this time?" one hollered.

"Is it true this was a mob hit?" another yelled.

"Is it true that the deceased was recently separated and the wife is now living with her new boyfriend?"

Lombardi stood three steps up and waved his arms to shut them up. "As soon as we know anything, we will make a statement to the press. In the meantime, I'm not at liberty to answer any questions."

As the pack of reporters started firing questions at him again, he turned and headed up the stairs.

"Bunch of vultures," he mumbled as he reached Alex at the top of the stairs.

He pulled two pairs of surgical gloves from the cardboard box tucked under his arm, handed her one, and then put his own on before touching the door. Inside, several people were at work already. They really did start early.

Lombardi motioned her to follow him and he led her toward the dark hallway. The staircase formed a straight-edged C in the middle of the entryway, a skylight shining down on the wood floors. A rich burgundy rug covered the middle of the stairwell like a long red tongue. Suddenly, there were a million details she hadn't noticed before.

As Lombardi opened a door and flipped on a light, she focused on the room. Painted maroon, it had mahogany bookshelves along an entire wall. Just like a lawyer, she thought. An elk head stared at her from the far wall, mounted above a spacious wooden desk.

"And I thought
I
was having a bad week," she mumbled. She hoped that thing was mounted well. This was not the day to have something fall on her head.

Loeffler's desk was strewn with papers in no apparent order. The fingerprint crew had long since come and gone. She wondered if they had made this mess. She thought about the intruder who had rifled through her kitchen, and she suppressed the angry shivers that ran along her arms.

"You think someone was in here?"

Lombardi looked around. "Not sure. That, or the guy was a slob. See if you can make some sense of this shit."

"Right."

He pointed to two large file cabinets along one wall. "Check all of it—every scrap of paper, every book. Pull anything remotely screwy."

She nodded.

"Don't doubt yourself. If it looks like it has a strange-colored ink, pull it. Any questions, I'll be around."

"Got it."