Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (41 page)

Alex raised an eyebrow. Maybe this wasn't just a wild goose chase.

"About four months ago, I went out to get my mail, just like I always do. I go out after the truck leaves, wave to Stan—" She glanced at the door. "Stan's our mail delivery man. And I brought the mail into the living room to open. I keep my letter opener there, you see," she explained, as though it were pertinent to whatever she was about to say.

She looked down at her hands, which made motions as though she were knitting a sweater with no needles and no yarn.

"It's force of habit, I guess. I take the whole stack in my lap, turn them facedown, and tear them all open, always have. Used to make my husband, Harold, so angry." She glanced up but refused to meet Alex's gaze.

"He was a postal worker, you see, for nearly thirty years. He always warned me that someday I was going to open someone else's mail by mistake. That was a federal offense, he always told me. I used to laugh him off. 'Oh, Hal. Cool off,' I would say. Harold had a tendency to be very uptight about the mail. Pride in his job, some might say. It never bothered me much, but I never gave it much thought, either."

Something creaked, and Alex started.

Louisa met her glance for the first time then quickly looked away. "Hot water heater in the basement. Does that every half hour or so."

Alex nodded slowly. "You were saying..."

"I opened a letter that was addressed to Mr. Nader." She stared at Alex, looking like she was ready to cry. "I didn't know. By the time I realized it wasn't for me, I'd read almost the whole thing."

Alex stepped forward. "So what did you do?"

Mrs. Carter smoothed her long, bony fingers over the bottom edge of her red-and-white striped button-down. "I didn't know what to do. Harold's warnings came rushing back to me." Her hands shook as she waved one through the air. "I couldn't call the police. I thought I would be arrested. I didn't think Mr. Nader would ever miss the letter. How could one letter matter? But now. After you mentioned it..." She dropped her head and shook it. Alex frowned. "Do you have the letter?" Nodding slowly, Mrs. Carter pulled a folded piece of paper from the pile, and hesitated momentarily before handing it to her. "I just didn't know," she whispered, collapsing into quiet sobs.

"I'm sure it's okay," Alex said, taking the paper with her good arm and patting Mrs. Carter quickly on the back before turning to spread it open on the coffee table.

Dated about four months ago, the letter was handwritten in light ink, and Alex brought it closer, squinting to make out the words.

Dear Marcus,

I'm sure you have heard the news about what has happened to me. The last three months have been hell. I want you to know I am innocent, though I know the evidence against me seems overwhelming. Feels that way too.

As far as your case, I felt like I was just getting somewhere—well, closer to somewhere anyway. I tracked down a Dr. Hennigan from Stanford. He's still in the area and I think he might be able to help. He might know who Androus saw as a therapist back then. I think that might be the next place to go. I left a message on his voicemail, but I never heard back. Then all this happened, so I haven't been able to follow up. I suggest you pursue the issue, with or without my help. I know a few people in the area I can suggest.

I would be happy to share what I have learned, but under the circumstances, I will understand if I don't hear from you. And I will certainly repay the balance of your account as soon as I get things here straightened out.

I am preparing for the appeal as we speak. There has been a terrible mistake and I am still trying to figure out who would do this to Lucy.

Sincerely,

Nat Taylor

N.T. Security

Dr. Hennigan? Lucy? Who the hell were they? Her heart drumming, Alex blinked and read the closing line again. Nat Taylor. She'd found the P.I. Catching her breath, she looked up at Mrs. Carter. "This man, do you know him?" The woman looked puzzled.

Alex held the letter up. "The man who wrote the letter."

Mrs. Carter closed her eyes and shook her head. Opening them again, she pointed to the letter. "Oh, no. I never finished it."

Her mouth fell open. "What do you mean—never finished what?" Alex asked.

"The letter. Halfway through it, I realized it wasn't for me. I stopped reading and searched for the envelope. When I found it and saw Mr. Nader's name and address, I put the letter back inside.

"I never read another word, I swear." Her eyes wide, her right hand lifted, palm out, Mrs. Carter looked like she was swearing in court as a witness.

Alex glanced at the note again. "But you never took it to him?"

"Oh no. I just couldn't." She pressed her hand flat to her chest, her expression grieving. "I wanted to, but I couldn't. It was so obvious that I'd opened it. It was terrible, I know. But, understand, please—I was a widow, an old lady. I didn't want to go to jail."

Alex shook her head, fighting a smile. "You wouldn't go to jail for this."

The woman stared, incredulous. "It's a felony," she whispered, like it was a curse word spoken in church.

Alex nodded. "Mail fraud is a felony. This wasn't mail fraud, Mrs. Carter. You made an honest mistake."

She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to be acquitted. "You can't tell anyone. Please. Harold told me all about what they do to people who violate the mail laws."

"Mail laws?"

The woman nodded vigorously, as though shaking the terrible demon out of her soul as she did so. "Oh, yes. The tiny cells, the public humiliation... I'm too old. I couldn't stand it."

Alex approached the woman. "Mrs. Carter, you didn't do anything wrong."

Her fingers wrapped tight around Alex's hand, the woman implored, "Please. Promise you won't tell a soul."

Alex nodded. "I swear." She paused, meeting the woman's gaze. "But I need your help."

She nodded. "Anything."

"I need to borrow your phone book and your phone to call Nat Taylor. Would that be all right?"

The woman frowned and glanced at the note. "Nat Taylor? That's who wrote that note?"

Alex exhaled. "You know him?"

"Oh, yes. But you won't be able to reach Nat Taylor now."

Dread sank into Alex's limbs. "Why not?"

"He's in jail. Killed his wife. Ran her over with his car. They lived less than a mile from here. It's very sad. He's serving time at San Quentin now."

Alex looked back at the note. It all fit together. See NT SEC @ SQ. San Quentin. Chris had said a man named Taylor had called in with information on the Sesame Street case, but because he was in jail for killing his wife, no one had taken him seriously. He must know something. She spun around to Mrs. Carter, who still looked mortified at what she'd done. "Can I use your phone?"

"Well, of course. It's right—"

Following her gaze, Alex snatched up the phone and dialed information.

"What city please?"

"San Quentin. I need the prison's main number."

"One moment please." The electronic voice rattled the number off as Alex scrambled for a pen. Her hand shaking, she dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for an answer.

"San Quentin," a voice barked.

"Yes, I need to find out about visitors' hours."

"Inmate's name?"

"Taylor. Nat Taylor."

After a pause, the voice replied, "Mr. Taylor is allowed visitors on Mondays from eight-thirty to ten-thirty a.m."

Alex stared down at her watch. "That's—"

"Right now," the operator finished.

"Do I need an appointment?"

"Nope. Just arrive before ten-fifteen and they'll bring him out."

It would take her at least an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. "I have to go, Mrs. Carter. Thank you for calling me. You've been a wonderful help."

The woman stood and held out a hand. "You promise you won't tell anyone about this?"

"I promise." Alex grabbed her hand and squeezed. "Don't worry. It'll be our secret."

Before Mrs. Carter could answer, Alex was out the door. She took two steps and halted, staring at the street. Her car was at the airport. She didn't have a car! "Shit!"

Nader's car caught her eye, and she took two quick breaths. "No," she said out loud, shaking the idea from her head and trying to replace it with rational thought. Stealing a dead man's car was a bad idea.

Back on Mrs. Carter's doorstep, she knocked.

"Hello?"

"It's Alex again."

The door creaked open and the woman's face poked out only enough to take a quick look around and then set her gaze on Alex. "What is it?"

"It's my car."

The woman stared out on the street. "Where is it?"

Alex nodded. "That's the problem. It's at the airport," she answered.

"What's it doing at—"

"It's a long story, but I was wondering if you could call me a cab."

"Oh," she said, shaking her head. "A cab will take forever. I've waited some days over an hour. I use the local dial-a-ride to get to the store and such."

"Mrs. Carter, this is a police emergency. I need to get to San Quentin in the next hour. I need a car."

"You swear you won't tell anyone about what I did, right?"

"Of course, Mrs. Carter. I'll never tell. I promise. Now, I need—"

"You can take my car," she offered, then added, "if it will start."

Alex shook her head. That wasn't a good idea either, "That's very kind, but I don't think—"

"Nonsense. You're a police officer and you've helped me quite a bit today. My conscience hasn't felt this clear in months." She disappeared and then returned a moment later, dangling a set of keys out the screen door. "I insist. It's parked right there."

Alex tried to shake her head again, but instead her hand moved out to take the keys. She needed to get to Nat Taylor. She'd apologize later, buy her a new car, do community service, whatever. "I promise I'll bring it back today."

"No hurry. I can't drive, anyway. Lost my license on my last test." She tapped the corner of her right eye. "It's the eyes. The car's only here for when my sister flies in from St. Louis. She won't be here till Thanksgiving. Bring it back today or tomorrow."

Alex cupped the keys, tossing them slowly in her hand as she considered the offer. She shouldn't take the car. What if something happened to it? She didn't even know Mrs. Carter.
You shouldn't take the car,
she could hear James telling her. Tricking an old lady out of her car was surely fraud; impersonating a local police officer... She was breaking all sorts of laws—ones she hadn't even broken before now.

"Go on now, or you'll be late."

Alex clasped the keys. "I'll fill up the tank."

"That would be very sweet of you." She started to turn and looked back. "Still our secret, right?"

"Absolutely."

Mrs. Carter grinned and shuffled back into the house, looking like Alex had just told her she was winning the lottery.

"Damn," Alex said, running toward the car. "Please let it start," she said to the sky as she ran around the older model light blue Lincoln Town Car. "And no accident," she added, in case anyone was listening.

With only her right arm to work with, she struggled to get into the car with her duffel bag, smashing her left shoulder into the doorjamb as the door closed on her. Pain jolted across her muscles and she bit back a moan.

She pulled the seat belt across her body, locked the doors, then turned the key in the ignition. The engine made a rattle-like cough then roared to life.

She was in business. This was it. Come on, Nat.

The traffic toward San Francisco started out light, and Alex kept her speed at sixty-five, the limit. Within thirty minutes, at just past nine-twenty, she was halfway there. Feeling good, she stepped up the speed to seventy.

Rounding the corner near 3Com Park, though, the traffic quickly grew congested. It was early and many commuters were still trying to make their way into the city. "Come on," she whispered, moving to the left lane.

Within two miles, traffic had practically stopped. Minutes ticked by like hours, and Alex stared at the dash clock, fretting over the wasted time. She wasn't going to make it to the prison before visiting hours ended. Closing her eyes, she drew deep breaths and tried to stay calm. At quarter to ten, she couldn't stand to waste another moment.

As traffic crawled forward, Alex edged to the right and exited the freeway. She was still in South San Francisco and the prison was north of the city, a good twenty miles away. In good traffic conditions, by freeway, it was a thirty-minute drive.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Carter had a car phone. Something her sister probably had insisted on. Alex reached for it, turned it on, and dialed Greg's cell phone. She got no answer, so she tried his extension at the station, hoping he might happen by his desk.