Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) (43 page)

Alex felt defeated. She had come hoping for some incredible revelation. But she had nothing.

Nat's voice dropped as he continued, "If you find anything, I'd appreciate you letting me know. The more I think about it, the more the timing of the whole thing bothers me. I talk to New York records and call this guy Hennigan and two days later, I'm behind bars for killing my wife."

"You think someone killed her to frame you?"

He shrugged, knowing he didn't have enough to convince a cop.

"Where were you when she was killed?"

"In the shower. They found the keys in the ignition, my wallet and cigarettes on the car seat, and me upstairs, just coming out of the bathroom. My eighty-year-old, half-blind neighbor testified that she saw me run Lucy over, get out of the car, and go inside. The theory is that I ran my wife over with the car, in our own driveway, wiped the steering wheel clean, and went inside, but left my wallet and keys behind. Does that make any sense?"

Alex didn't comment on his innocence. She knew better. "I'll let you know what I can find out."

Alex could see the guard approaching again. The cubicles beside her were emptying and people were milling about, the noise level increasing.

The guard tapped Nat's shoulder again, this time with more force.

Nat stood and turned back. "There is one more thing."

"What?"

"There was a J. D. Daniels at Stanford back then, too. I gave his name to Loeffler as well. In case he couldn't reach Hennigan."

She remembered the name. "He did an interview with Androus's sister, Maggie, a year or two after the murders."

Nat shrugged. "I never saw it."

"Let's go," came a voice behind Alex.

The guard pulled the phone from Nat's hand and hung it up.

Nat's expression met Alex's, apologetic and helpless.

The guard took him by the shoulder of his orange suit and began pulling him toward the door.

"You pushing your luck, girl," a female voice echoed from behind.

Alex turned to see Alice staring down at her. "Right."

Edna stood and smoothed her skirt, ignoring Alice's glare. "I hope what he said will help."

Frowning, Alex turned toward the door. It didn't seem like she'd gotten anything at all. She could follow up on the New York records and call Hennigan and Daniels, but there had to be something else she was missing.

"Can you tell me what happened to Marcus Nader?" Edna asked.

Without stopping, Alex spoke over her shoulder. "Give me your number and I'll call you as soon as I can."

"I know Nathan will want to know what happened. He really enjoyed working for Marcus. Terrible thing Marcus went through as a child, really."

Alex cringed at her own memories, or lack of them. "You knew him?"

"I referred him to my brother."

"But why? Why did he need a private investigator?"

"He said he'd seen the police file, that he had questions about it."

"What sort of questions?"

She shrugged. "He didn't talk about it much. I learned a little more from Nat."

"You have to tell me," Alex urged.

She glanced back at the jail and Alex knew she was debating if Nat would want her to tell.

"It could help Nat," Alex said.

Edna's eyes flashed large and she bit her lower lip. "He said he was having a dream about a voice, another person. He'd talked to someone on the phone and then he'd started to have dreams. He just wanted Nat to look into it, find out if there was any information that was missing."

"Who had he spoken to?"

She shook her head. "I honestly don't know."

Alex nodded, defeated. She wished she'd gotten to Nader before the killer had. She was missing something. It was there somewhere. "How did you know him?"

"We were in school together."

"What was he like?"

"Despite what had happened, he always seemed so strong and independent," Edna continued. "I thought it was incredible how well he was doing."

Alex slowed her pace as she listened to the description of the third survivor.

"He's a wonderful photographer," Edna said, as though it made him a saint. "Was a wonderful photographer," she corrected herself.

Alex glanced over to catch the starry gaze in Edna's eyes, silent tears falling as she spoke.

"But he was more than that. His work was so good. He was an artist really. Oh, he did weddings and parties to get by, and did pretty well, I think. But his real passion was nature. You should have seen his house. He had the most amazing pictures. I always told him he should work for
National Geographic.
He was that good."

Alex nodded, agreeing. They left the prison in silence. She assumed they were both thinking about Marcus Nader, but for very different reasons.

At her car, Edna pulled out a slip of paper and a pen and wrote her phone number down. Handing it to Alex, she said, "Please do call."

Alex saw the loss reflected in her eyes as she nodded. "I will."

* * *

Without knowing quite where to go, Alex headed into town and stopped at a Chevron station. Rather than run up Mrs. Carter's cell phone bill, she went to a pay phone and dialed information. When the operator answered, Alex requested the number for Stanford, hoping she would be able to reach Blake Hennigan. She wished she had thought to call Stanford while she was down in Palo Alto. She reached the main number for the university and was put through to the psychology department. The whole process seemed to take an hour.

"Psych department," a young-sounding woman answered.

"I need to speak with Blake Hennigan."

"Dr. Hennigan isn't here."

"Can you tell me how to reach him?"

"He doesn't have a set schedule, so he's kind of hard to reach. Can I ask what you were looking for?"

"My name is Alex Kincaid and I'm with the Berkeley Police Department. I'm trying to get some information on a participant in your research study in 1971. His name was Walter Androus."

She hesitated before saying, "I'm afraid I don't have access to those records. The files are kept here, but only Dr. Hennigan and one other researcher, Alan Mersch, have access."

"Is Mr. Mersch available?"

"I'm afraid Dr. Mersch isn't in today."

"How about Dr. Daniels?"

"Dr. Daniels left before my time."

"Is there a home number where I could reach him?"

"Who?"

Alex exhaled. "Hennigan, Mersch, Daniels. Any of them. I need to speak to someone now."

"Actually, Dr. Mersch is at a conference in London until the end of the month. I think Dr. Hennigan may be there as well. I don't have any information on Dr. Daniels."

Alex forced a deep breath. "Can you give me the names of any of the other researchers who participated in the study?"

"I don't have access to that, either."

"Is there someone in the department who
would
have access to that?" Alex asked impatiently.

"Uh, I don't think so."

"Can you find out for sure?"

"Uh—"

"I'll hold," Alex snapped.

Several minutes later, the woman returned. "We can only release those with a subpoena." Someone spoke in the background. "Signed by a judge," she added.

Alex frowned. "You need a subpoena?"

"Uh, yes, that's right."

Alex sighed loud enough to be heard. "Fine. I'll have one sent," she said, wondering how that would be possible. "But I suggest you get started on finding someone who can help us, wherever they are. This isn't going to wait until they get back."

"Uh—okay."

She asked to be transferred to Blake Hennigan's voicemail and left him a message with her home number. She did the same for Mersch, noticing that both doctors had young women on their recordings. She just wanted to ask them about Androus's involvement in a study there. Surely after all these years they would talk to her—if she could just reach one of them. Now she had no idea what to do next. She'd exhausted all of the possibilities.

Back in the car, Alex gripped the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. Without enlisting the help of someone at the station, she wasn't going to be able to get anywhere.

Gathering her courage, she got back out of the car and returned to the phone booth. A woman in tight black jeans and a red sweater at least two sizes too small was approaching the phone, too, holding a cigarette off one hip.

Alex snatched up the phone first and quickly turned her back.

"Excuse me. I was going to use that."

"You're going to have to wait in line," Alex answered without looking back.

"You cut in front of Delia," came a voice that sounded like a lumberjack's.

Alex hooked the phone under her chin and turned around.

Delia looped the cigarette hand on her hip and tucked the other under the arm of the man standing beside her. He was hardly a man—at easily two hundred and fifty pounds, he looked more wildebeest. Thick hair spilled over his cheeks and down onto his chest. A sleeveless undershirt covered only a small portion of his furry physique.

"I said, you cut in front of my Delia."

Alex smiled. "I got to the phone first, that's for sure. Guess her heels slowed her down." Normally, Alex would have started her phone call, preparing for an attack, even with her back turned. But with her injured shoulder, she wasn't so sure she'd be ready for him. She still had use of her right hand, which was her stronger arm, but he was awfully large.

The lumberjack took a step forward, detaching himself from Delia, who sat back on her heels and smoked, examining her nine inch fingernails and tapping her foot as though reminding her boyfriend how urgent the phone call was. Maybe she needed to get in to see her manicurist.

The lumberjack stopped less than six inches from Alex, his hand in a fist. Alex spotted familiar prison tattoos across his fingers. "You gonna move?" he barked.

She shook her head, putting the phone back to her ear now that he was close enough to watch.

He chortled, leaning back enough to free his undershirt from the belt of his pants and give her a view of about eight inches of hairy flesh.

Grimacing, she dialed the police station and waited for the AT&T operator to ask for her calling card number.

"I don't like it when people ignore me, especially chicks."

"I'll bet," she muttered. She felt his breath on her cheek and she spun toward him, moving her face to his. "Back off."

He didn't move an inch. After a several-second delay, of either shock or the working of a very slow mind, he laughed again, this time harder.

"You gonna take that, Ray?" Delia called from behind.

"Fuck off, Delia," Ray hollered back.

Alex punched the numbers for her calling card and hoped someone at the station would answer before Ray decided to get physical.

"Listen, bitch. If you have any brains in that ratty ass head of yours, you'll move away from the goddamned phone."

"Berkeley Police Department," came Reesa's voice on the line.

Thank God. Alex turned to stare at Ray as she spoke. "Reesa, it's Officer Kincaid. I need to speak with Roback."

"Alex! Thank God. Everyone's been so worried."

"Roback, please," Alex repeated.

"Sorry, hon, he's not here. He's still out on patrol. Your brother wants to talk to you, though."

"Not yet, Reesa. I'll call back in an hour, I swear," she lied. "Will you put me through to Roback's voicemail?"

"Okay, but don't you dare tell your brother I talked to you without putting him on. He'll have my head."

"Cross my heart and hope—" She halted.

Reesa laughed, seeming not to notice that Alex's tongue had gotten twisted in her mouth. "Here you go."

Tucking the phone under her chin, she motioned to Ray. "If you have any brains in
your
ratty ass head, buddy, I suggest you take your ass to another fucking phone before I have you thrown back in the state pen."

Eyes wide, Ray put his hands up and backed off. "No need to get hasty, Officer. I'm sure there's another phone around here somewhere."

"Right."

The phone clicked, and she heard Greg's voice. At the end of the beep, she left a message. "Roback, it's me. I didn't find anything from Taylor. Only that he thinks Androus was involved with some psychiatric research program at Stanford before the murders. He gave me a couple names: Hennigan and Daniels. They're doctors down there. When I called, they mentioned another guy—somebody Mersch. Stanford wouldn't give me any information without a subpoena."

She shook her head. "I don't know how else to find out about it. Unless you know someone who was down there in the early seventies. Maybe Chris knows someone." She halted and slapped the Plexiglas of the phone booth. "Oh, wait. I know who." She started to put the phone down and then brought it back to her ear. "I'll call you in an hour. I'm going to go talk to someone who was there." She replaced the phone on the receiver and jogged back to the car.