Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard Page B
Authors: Danielle Girard
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didn't seem possible to get through the rest of the room today, but she knew the answer Lombardi wanted. And she wanted to be the one to go through Loeffler's things first.
Before she could say another word, Lombardi led Jimmy out of the den and closed the door behind them. She looked around at the piles on the floor, pushing her hair off her face. There was a ton of work to do.
On her knees, she opened the second file cabinet drawer, continuing where she'd left off. What had seemed interesting to her yesterday now left her agitated and impatient. Loeffler kept voluminous records of his cases, but as in his Palm Pilot, his notes were in shorthand she didn't understand. She had started a list of his abbreviations yesterday and glanced at it again now, trying to match one she'd found to the list. She had hoped by seeing them more than once, they would start to make sense. So far she'd had no such luck.
She made it through every piece of paper in the room by noon, and still nothing. Looking around, she searched for anything she'd missed. Besides the books on the shelves and a few framed pictures, she'd turned the place upside down. She thought about the other rooms in the house. Was her name written down somewhere? Why had Loeffler's killer presumably taken a mug from this house and put it in hers?
Frustrated, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair. The band snapped against her hand. "Damn." A small red welt appeared beside her thumb. Rubbing it, she blew out her breath. "Move on, Kincaid," she told herself.
As she stooped to pick up the hair band, something on the bookshelf caught her eye. She crossed the room and sat down on the carpet. A line of tall, thin books filled the bottom shelf of the case. But in between two of them was a manila folder. Pulling out one of the books to loosen them, she placed it beside her and pulled out the folder. The tab read "S.S."
Alex opened the file on her lap and found a picture and a pile of newspaper clippings. The picture was of a man with pumpkin-colored hair and an awkward smile. On the back were the initials B.A. She turned her attention to the heading on the first newspaper clipping: "Sesame Street Murder leaves Palo Alto City District Horrified." Alex read the story, dated March 18, 1971.
In what police officials are calling the most heinous crime in county history, Walter Androus kidnapped a class of fourteen second-grade students from Florence Hemingway School during a class outing to the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory. It is believed that Androus intercepted the bus carrying the students on a small street behind the school by pretending to be a chaperone arriving late.
He then hijacked the vehicle and killed the driver, a chaperone and two parent volunteers. Their bodies were found in an empty Dumpster near the abandoned warehouse where he forced the children to ingest low doses of Valium, then blindfolded all of them, raped at least three and killed eleven of the fourteen.
Police responded to a phone call they believe was made by one of the children and arrived at the scene.
Walter Androus was found...
Alex flipped over the photocopy, but the back was blank. Where was the rest of the story? She looked at the date again. 1971. It was so long ago. From the diploma on the wall, she guessed Loeffler would have been six years old. She and Loeffler had graduated from college the same year. She would have been six, too.
Could he have been working on something related to this case? Was he prosecuting the killer after all these years? She focused on his diploma again. It could be Loeffler's class, she thought, glancing at the date on the article, or someone he knew. She searched for the class photo she'd seen the day before. It was from the same year as the murders.
Across the room, she found the picture and stared at it again, studying the two young boys whose faces remained X-less. One looked vaguely like Loeffler, but it was impossible to be sure.
She stared at the
Before she could say another word, Lombardi led Jimmy out of the den and closed the door behind them. She looked around at the piles on the floor, pushing her hair off her face. There was a ton of work to do.
On her knees, she opened the second file cabinet drawer, continuing where she'd left off. What had seemed interesting to her yesterday now left her agitated and impatient. Loeffler kept voluminous records of his cases, but as in his Palm Pilot, his notes were in shorthand she didn't understand. She had started a list of his abbreviations yesterday and glanced at it again now, trying to match one she'd found to the list. She had hoped by seeing them more than once, they would start to make sense. So far she'd had no such luck.
She made it through every piece of paper in the room by noon, and still nothing. Looking around, she searched for anything she'd missed. Besides the books on the shelves and a few framed pictures, she'd turned the place upside down. She thought about the other rooms in the house. Was her name written down somewhere? Why had Loeffler's killer presumably taken a mug from this house and put it in hers?
Frustrated, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair. The band snapped against her hand. "Damn." A small red welt appeared beside her thumb. Rubbing it, she blew out her breath. "Move on, Kincaid," she told herself.
As she stooped to pick up the hair band, something on the bookshelf caught her eye. She crossed the room and sat down on the carpet. A line of tall, thin books filled the bottom shelf of the case. But in between two of them was a manila folder. Pulling out one of the books to loosen them, she placed it beside her and pulled out the folder. The tab read "S.S."
Alex opened the file on her lap and found a picture and a pile of newspaper clippings. The picture was of a man with pumpkin-colored hair and an awkward smile. On the back were the initials B.A. She turned her attention to the heading on the first newspaper clipping: "Sesame Street Murder leaves Palo Alto City District Horrified." Alex read the story, dated March 18, 1971.
In what police officials are calling the most heinous crime in county history, Walter Androus kidnapped a class of fourteen second-grade students from Florence Hemingway School during a class outing to the Ghiradelli Chocolate Factory. It is believed that Androus intercepted the bus carrying the students on a small street behind the school by pretending to be a chaperone arriving late.
He then hijacked the vehicle and killed the driver, a chaperone and two parent volunteers. Their bodies were found in an empty Dumpster near the abandoned warehouse where he forced the children to ingest low doses of Valium, then blindfolded all of them, raped at least three and killed eleven of the fourteen.
Police responded to a phone call they believe was made by one of the children and arrived at the scene.
Walter Androus was found...
Alex flipped over the photocopy, but the back was blank. Where was the rest of the story? She looked at the date again. 1971. It was so long ago. From the diploma on the wall, she guessed Loeffler would have been six years old. She and Loeffler had graduated from college the same year. She would have been six, too.
Could he have been working on something related to this case? Was he prosecuting the killer after all these years? She focused on his diploma again. It could be Loeffler's class, she thought, glancing at the date on the article, or someone he knew. She searched for the class photo she'd seen the day before. It was from the same year as the murders.
Across the room, she found the picture and stared at it again, studying the two young boys whose faces remained X-less. One looked vaguely like Loeffler, but it was impossible to be sure.
She stared at the
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