Free Ruthless Game (A Captivating Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard Page B

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."
    He started to leave and stopped. "It's not a one-day job,