Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (4 page)

Prying her eyes open, she looked at Greg, his long, skinny frame bent down in the door. She smiled and closed her eyes again. "You trying to kill me?"

He laughed. "That obvious, eh?"

Squinting against the sun's morning glare, she opened her eyes. "If I don't have coffee in my stomach in three minutes, I'm going to get violent."

Greg raised his arms in surrender. "Sheesh, I can take a hint."

She blinked hard, taking in the familiar sights of downtown Berkeley. Across the street was Barnes & Noble. It was where she came on her days off—her favorite brewpub, Jupiter, was two blocks in the opposite direction. In the last decade, this area of Berkeley had really cleaned up. That change made it very easy to patrol and she was thrilled that it was part of her beat.

Of course, bagels and coffee on the way to work in the morning didn't hurt, either. And nothing made her happier than a cup or three of black coffee first thing.

Motion caught her eye and she glanced down the side street, her internal alarms sounding. An older female lay on the sidewalk, and she spied a young Caucasian male running up the street.

Alex glanced toward the bagel shop, but Greg was nowhere in sight. The woman started to get up, so Alex revved the engine and sped after the suspect. Sirens screeching, she lunged through traffic. A car leapt in front of her. She swerved to miss it. "Shit!"

The running man made no move to stop.

Almost on his tail, she halted. The bumper of the squad car came within feet of the perp. Moving quickly, he ducked down a narrow alley. Her hand was on the door before the car was completely stopped. The emergency brake on, she threw open the door and bolted after him.

Alex drove her feet against the pavement, determined to catch him even if it meant a marathon around the damn city. She pressed her shoulder radio. "Officer Kincaid here." Her eyes nailed to her suspect, she sucked in a quick breath.

"Go ahead," came the voice of dispatch.

"Female down on Dwight at Shattuck. Suspect proceeding down alley at Shattuck and Channing," she panted. "I'm on foot pursuit. White male juvenile, seventeen or eighteen years, six foot, plus or minus. Dress is jeans, red T-shirt, black baseball cap."

"We read," came the response.

Alex knew backup would be on its way immediately, but there was no time to waste. If she stopped, she was guaranteed to lose him.

The suspect shot a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Stop, police," she yelled.

The kid leapt onto the fence at the end of the alley and climbed like a monkey scaling a tree. She had no doubt he had done this before. But so had she. On the other side, he jumped to the ground and continued running. He had a good head start.

"You can't outrun me," she muttered. She pulled herself up the fence. The sharp wire cut her hands, but she didn't ease up. She swung her legs over the top and dropped to the ground on the other side. Concrete jolted her ankles as she landed.

The perp disappeared and she forced her legs faster, keeping her breath at an even pace. She hoped the suspect wasn't a damned marathoner.

At the other end of the alley, she bolted onto the street, glancing in both directions. He was gone. "Damn."

Spinning around, she caught a glimpse of the suspect just as he came down on top of her. She hit the ground with a thud, her head knocked sideways against the hard pavement. The perp was above her, holding her arms.

Trapped, her breath came faster. She struggled against his strength, fighting off the wave of nausea that always came with being confined.

His grip tightened.

Focused, she contained her breathing until she felt a slight loosening of his tension. Then, in a lash of anger, she freed one leg and rammed her shin into his groin.

With a groan, he rolled off her onto his back. She was on him before he could recover.

Shaking off the pain in her head, she pulled her cuffs from her belt. His right hand in her grasp, she bent it back and rolled him over with a forceful tug. Her heel digging into his back, she cuffed his right hand. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

"Fuck off."

She wrenched his left arm behind him and cuffed it. "I don't think so."

With a hard yank, she dragged him to his feet and shoved him toward the street.

Just then, Greg pulled around the corner and jumped out of the car. "Saw the car down the street and knew something had happened. You okay?"

She nodded, pushing the perp toward the car and letting Greg handle him. As Greg put the suspect in the back, she touched the area just above her ear and felt a warm spot of blood. She moaned.

In the car, she leaned back as Greg drove toward Shattuck. "Arbor's bringing the woman down to the station to identify him," Greg said. He motioned to the perp. "We just have to drop him off. Arbor should meet us out front. He'll do the paperwork."

"Yeah, yeah, fine, but where's my coffee?"

"I didn't have time to get it. We've got to run back after we drop the thug off."

A moan fell from her lips as she closed her eyes.

In front of the station, Greg stopped and pulled the suspect out of the car, handing him over to Arbor.

Alex waved to Arbor as Greg drove off again.

"Let's get some coffee before you attack your next victim," Greg joked.

"I'm serious. I don't think I could do it again without some caffeine."

He parked in front of Noah's. "This one's on me, Wonder Woman."

She smiled. "It's the least you could do, Robin."

"I don't even get to be Batman?"

"Not the way you drive."

In less than a minute, he was back. When he opened the door to hand her the coffee, he touched her head.

Wincing, she pulled away.

"Jesus Christ, Kincaid. You're bleeding."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"You need a doctor."

"It's barely a scrape. Come on."

As Alex took a long sip of French roast and started to relax, a call came through.

"Adam Nine, code four-fifty-nine at the corner of Henry and Yolo. Please report."

Alex nearly choked at the address.
Yolo Avenue.

Chapter 3

"You okay?" Greg asked.

Alex nodded, forcing herself to swallow.

"You leave your thick skin at home this morning?" he asked, smiling and watching her closely.

She scowled. "Hell, no. Watch it or I'll spill my coffee in your lap."

"You'd never waste precious caffeine."

She pointed at him, trying to seem playful. "Not on your sorry ass."

When he stopped looking at her, she turned toward the window and wondered about the fact that until this morning, she'd never even heard of Yolo Avenue and now it had shown up twice in less than two hours. She'd never been a believer in coincidences, but she would've liked to think it could be that. Either way, she was about to find out. "Henry and Yolo. Let's go, Tonto."

"I thought it was my day to be the Lone Ranger." He winked and picked up the radio. "Nine, code four-fifty-nine, go ahead," he responded.

"Housekeeper on site reporting homeowner unconscious inside. Sending medical assistance."

"Copy," he said, replacing the radio and flipping on his siren.

Alex set her coffee in the drink holder. The caffeine could wait. It didn't feel like she'd need it to be wired this morning after all.

"You know where Yolo is?" Greg asked.

She nodded, directing him to follow Henry Street. Cursing, he sped up, swerving around a car that refused to yield to the sirens. When the streets cleared, Greg sped through the signal and turned onto the small street.

At 1112 Yolo, he pulled to the curb and parked. Alex looked up the street to the corner where she'd awakened only two and a half hours earlier. It was fewer than fifty yards away. She balled her fists and forced herself out of the car.

A stout older woman stood on the sidewalk, wringing her hands together. Her graying hair was pulled back into a low bun, wire-like pieces sticking out in a prickly halo around her head. Wearing a black dress with a white apron and sneakers with hose, the woman had the face of a hound, with large droopy eyes and a thick nose.

Nothing about her appearance suggested she had been involved in a struggle. It wouldn't be the first time Alex had seen a grandmother look innocent as day, only to find out she'd killed someone. The first suspect was always the person who had reported the crime. No such thing as a Good Samaritan in a cop's world. Truth was, suspicion simply ran through a cop's veins like blood. It made cops miserable to live with, but it helped on the job. Since Alex didn't live with anyone, she considered her suspicious nature pure benefit.

Alex wondered when the housekeeper had arrived. And for that matter, who had seen Alex parked there this morning? Someone must have. People didn't often sleep in their cars in this neighborhood. It was bound to have drawn attention.

Greg approached the woman first and Alex followed without allowing herself to be distracted.

"You have to hurry. I can see him through the window," the woman said, waving her arms frantically.

Greg pulled a notebook from his pocket. "What's your name, ma'am?"

She leaned over his notebook. "Ramona Quay. That's Q-U-A-Y. I keep the house."

"Do you have a key?"

She shook her head. "I get here before he's gone to work and he lets me in."

"What about when he's not home?"

"Then, we make other plans. Sometimes he leaves a key out for me." Her head continued to shake in a firm, continuous motion as though she were emphatically denying something. "But that's only happened once or twice."

"What's the gentleman's name?"

"Mr. Loeffler. William Loeffler. He's an attorney downtown."

Alex nodded, feeling relieved. The name wasn't familiar. And looking at the large, half-timbered Tudor house, she knew she had never seen it before. The fact that Alex woke up down the street from there that morning was definitely a strange coincidence, but that's all it was. Her first coincidence. Maybe she'd be a believer yet.

"Mr. Loeffler lives alone?" she asked.

The woman nodded, still rubbing her hands together in nervous agitation. "Used to be him and his wife here." Mrs. Quay glanced at her feet and clenched her teeth as though cursing herself for saying too much. "They been separated about six months."

Warning bells sounded at the word "separated," but Alex kept her thoughts to herself. The wife would need to be questioned. Greg and Alex hurried up the stone steps, Ramona close behind. The house was painted white with thick beams such a dark brown they were almost black. It appeared to have been recently repainted and the yard was carefully kept.

When they reached the porch, Alex checked the door. It was locked. Her hands cupped around her face, she stared through the window. A man lay sprawled on the floor, his feet closest to them. Dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a plaid flannel shirt, the man wasn't at all what Alex had pictured. And dressed like that he wasn't on his way to work—not at any of the law firms she'd seen. When the call had come through, she'd pictured an older man, fallen dead from a heart attack.

The man she saw appeared thin, fit, and about her age. Alex could make out his dark hair, but she couldn't see his face. Maybe he had fallen and hit his head somehow. They rang the bell twice to avoid entering and alarming anyone. Cops got shot that way more than anyone liked to think about. But no one came to the door.

"Mrs. Quay, I'm going to have to ask you to stay here," Alex directed.

The woman continued to clasp and unclasp her hands as she nodded.

Greg and Alex circled the house, Alex leading. She waded through the knee-deep ivy toward a small clearing beside the house. Her ears honed for activity from any side, she climbed over a small gate that wouldn't open and stopped at a side door. The sight of glass shards on the wet ground made her halt.

Greg followed her gaze. "What is it?"