by Kylie Brant
There were few hiding places in the room, but she checked them all. Behind the couch. In back of the recliner. And more cautiously, the front closet. Nothing.
She could hear tires screeching to a halt in front. Giving the bathroom a swift look, she focused on the bedroom. A quick search convinced her the prowler was no longer around. Abbie reholstered her weapon, her gaze trained on the gaping doors to the bedroom closet. Fabric littered its floor. She approached it, stared at the savagery that had been done to her wardrobe, and felt her stomach hollow out. For the first time she considered that the “intruder” was probably all too familiar to her.
She walked back through the house and met the two officers at the back door, hands by her sides. “I live here. I made the call about the break-in.”
“Please step to the side, ma’am.” One officer passed by her, weapon ready, while the other stopped in front of her. “I’ll need to see some ID.”
The officer was young, no more than mid-twenties, with the regional drawl rounding the vowels of his words. But his gaze was sharp, shrewd, and he hadn’t lowered his weapon.
“Abbie Phillips. This is my SCMPD identification badge.” She unclipped it from the pocket of her shirt and handed it to him. He scanned it, looked at her.
“Special consultant? To what?”
“I’m working with the serial rapist task force.”
The other officer returned to the room. “Place is empty.”
“You shouldn’t have entered the place before we got here, ma’am.” A hint of censure colored the first cop’s tone as he handed the badge back to Abbie. “Whoever broke in here could have still been on the premises.”
She didn’t want to complicate the matter by explaining that she was armed. That Raiker refused to allow his investi gaters to work without weapons. The cop, Dale Mallory, was right, in any case.
“Doesn’t look like anything is missing,” she said. The only things of value she brought on a case were her Sig and laptop, and she’d had both with her. “Just vandalism. Is this neighborhood prone to that sort of thing?”
Mallory had holstered his gun and pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. “Not really, but there’s a high school a block from here. Could’ve been kids.”
An all-too-familiar apprehension knotted her stomach. Now that she’d been over the premises, she was anxious to have the officers gone. Anxious to be alone to consider the complicated ramifications of the situation. But the cops methodically took down her information, asking her questions that she couldn’t answer entirely truthfully. No, she hadn’t lived here long. She’d only gotten to town a couple days ago. Yes, she was living alone. No, she hadn’t met anyone outside of work since arriving. She had no idea who could have done this.
She uttered the last lie without a qualm. She’d long ago mastered the art of delivering one without hesitation. Remarkable how old talents surfaced under times of stress.
“Officers.” Abbie’s head jerked at the familiar voice. Ryne stepped in the back door and flashed his shield at the two policemen. “What have you got?”
Both men’s attention switched to the newcomer, and Abbie attempted to hide her dismay. His presence seemed to shrink the already small area of the kitchen in a way the other officers’ hadn’t. She didn’t miss the deferential tones with which the two men addressed him, nor the fact that after that first lightning glance over her, his attention hadn’t strayed in her direction again.
She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want that shrewd focus narrowed on her, on her personal effects, asking questions she had no intention of answering, and drawing his own conclusions.
His appearance rattled her in a way the break-in hadn’t. Abbie got a garbage bag from beneath the sink and left the officers explaining the situation to the detective. Swiftly, she returned to her bedroom and gathered up the fabric littering the closet floor, stuffing it in the bag. Then she removed the ruined shirts from their hangers and discarded them as well. There was no way of salvaging the shirts after the sleeves had been hacked off, in any case.
She suspected the “vandal” had counted on that.
“So, the uniforms said there wasn’t much damage.”
Abbie rose, the half-filled garbage bag clenched in one fist. The doorway framed him, and she knew, with a sinking certainty, that the image of him standing in it would prove difficult to dismiss from her memory. He was an intriguing man, even when he annoyed her. Which so far was most of the time. “More of a nuisance than anything else.”
His gaze went beyond her, lingering on the open closet and empty hangers. “Weird sort of thing for an ordinary vandal to do.”
“Breaking and entering falls under the ‘weird’ category altogether, doesn’t it?” She brushed by him, went back to the kitchen, dropping the bag and grabbing a broom tucked into the corner. The policemen were gone, no doubt dismissed by Robel. If she’d had her preference, she’d have taken their presence over his.
If she had her choice, he’d never have come at all.
“I can patch that window for you.”
“It’s okay.” Aware her tone had been short, Abbie softened it. “Thanks, but I can take care of it. Tomorrow I’ll call a glass company to come do a permanent fix.”
“And a security company. Whoever did this could return. Next time they might damage more than just your shirts.”
“And a security company,” she repeated, straightening to face him. She’d have agreed to just about anything at that point to get rid of him. To be alone with the worry that had lodged in her chest ever since seeing her closet.
His gaze searched hers, but she kept her expression blank. She knew that fact didn’t escape him, but he said only, “I think I’ve got some things in the trunk to fix the window.”
“That really isn’t . . .” He was already walking through the door.
Frustrated, she used the handle of the broom to knock out the remaining shards of glass from the pane. His stubbornness wasn’t exactly a newsflash, given their association up to this point. But somehow right now she found it even more irritating.
She finished sweeping up the glass and dumped it in the trash bag. Then, when he approached the back porch again, she went back to the living room and picked up the displaced pictures. The glass in each had been cracked by the fall, so she removed each picture from the frame and discarded the ruined glass. Then she replaced the photos on the mantle.
“All done.”
She turned when the voice sounded behind her. “That was fast.”
Ryne approached. “Just some cardboard and duct tape. It won’t hold long. Don’t put off calling that glass company.”
“I won’t.”
He passed by her to study the pictures. Nerves skittered along her spine. It was ridiculous to feel exposed as he perused the only faintly personal touch in the entire room. Ridiculous to feel weak, as if his learning anything about her left her vulnerable in a way she was always careful to avoid.
He tapped the unsmiling man next to her in one picture. “Who’s this?”
“Adam Raiker.”
“I remember reading about his last case for the Bureau. Caught by the serial killer he was pursuing, right?”
Although she doubted she knew much more than he did, she said, “Wilson Corbin. Raiker rescued his hostage, but Corbin got away. Adam pursued him and ended up being captured. He was held for three days before he managed to get free and kill the man, despite his injuries.” And the injuries Raiker had sustained had been substantial. That was clear from the picture, even after nearly seven years. A hideous scar bisected his throat. The cane he walked with was clutched in one hand, the eye patch he wore giving him a formidable look. It was an accurate enough depiction of his personality. Adam Raiker was the most formidable person she’d ever met, with a staggering intellect, caustic tongue, and incomparable talent. She considered herself fortunate to be working for him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t intimidated by him.
Abbie turned away
from the photos, but Robel failed to take the hint and follow suit. Big surprise.
“Looks like you’ve got hidden talents.”
Reluctantly, she turned back, following his gaze to the center picture, taken last summer at the shooting range on the grounds of the agency’s headquarters, in Manassas, Virginia. It showed her unsmiling face next to a paper human outline. Six holes were clustered in the vicinity of the heart. “Raiker insists we qualify as marksmen each year.” He was also adamant that his operatives be issued weapon permits from any law enforcement agency requesting their services. “I posted a personal best last August.”
“Rifle or handgun?”
“This was the handgun qualifier, but we have to qualify with both.” She gave a wry smile. “My prowess with a rifle is less impressive, but I passed.”
His attention had wandered to the next picture, and she felt the tension settle in her shoulders again. Forestalling the inevitable question, she said, “I want to thank you again for your help.”
“No problem.” This time when she started toward the back door, he followed. “You might try Stanley Glass when you’re calling tomorrow. They’re in the book. They’re quick and they won’t hose you for the work.”
“Good to know.” He stopped, his hand on the knob of the back door. Silence stretched, long enough to have her nerves jangling. Robel looked at the bag in her hand and his expression grew thoughtful.
Abbie sensed he was about to say something else. And more than anything at that moment, she wanted to avoid further speculation. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“If you need some personal time to come home and deal with the glass or security companies, just let me know.” He reached for the bag. “I’ll dump this in the garbage on my way out.”
“I can . . .” His hand brushed hers, heat transferring at the touch, and she nearly jumped. Her nerves were frayed and at that moment she would have given her very generous monthly paycheck to make him disappear.
“Good. Fine.” She relinquished the bag and stepped back, his inscrutable stare making her all too aware that she was flushing. “And I don’t need any time off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Without another word, he went out the door, and she closed and locked it after him, feeling a little foolish. It would be easy enough for a prowler to remove the neat cardboard patch job and reach in to unlock the door. She pulled a chair from the kitchen table and wedged it under the knob, although she was fairly certain the trespasser wouldn’t be returning. At least not tonight.
Resolutely, Abbie walked back into the other room, intent on losing herself in work when a realization struck her. She was going to have to find a mall to do some shopping. With the exception of the one she was wearing, every dress shirt she’d brought with her had been ruined.
Frustration surged. As if the break-in wasn’t irritating enough, now she had to shop. And she’d rather be beaten than to spend hours looking at clothes. But of course, her intruder today had known that.
Inevitably, her gaze was drawn to the photos she’d replaced on the mantle. To the blond woman with the too bright smile standing arm in arm with Abbie.
“Callie?” Realizing she’d called the name aloud, she immediately felt foolish. The small home had been searched several times already. There was no one here.
But there had been earlier, and it had almost certainly been her sister. All the tension of the last hour settled in her temples, and they began to throb painfully. She hadn’t spoken to Callie for months, but she’d left messages. Forwarding addresses. She had no idea why Callie would reach out now, in this way, but she was almost certain that she had. The devastation to her wardrobe proved that.
Only Callie knew about her penchant for long-sleeved shirts and the scars they covered.
Only Callie would bare them, literally, for the world to see.
Chapter 5
The woman lying in the hospital bed knew all about scars. If Abbie hadn’t seen the photos taken after Amanda Richards’s attack, she’d find it hard to believe that the girl had already had two operations. From some newspaper pictures in the file, she knew it had once been an extraordinarily beautiful face.
Now it was a patchwork of seams and puckered, drawn skin, as if there hadn’t been enough flesh to reattach and the remaining skin had been pulled too tightly. One eye was noticeably lower than the other, giving her features an off-kilter look. Looking at her, Abbie was certain today’s was just one of a long string of surgeries.
She knocked on the open hospital door and the three occupants of the room looked toward her. “Hi, I’m Abbie Phillips, a consultant working with the SCMPD.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” snapped the woman sitting next to the bed. Even without an introduction, Abbie knew she was the girl’s mother. Her resemblance to Amanda’s newspaper pictures in the file was too strong for it to be otherwise. Rising, she turned toward Abbie. “You people have deplorable timing.”
“I asked her to come, Mother.” Amanda’s voice was pleasant but firm. “The operation isn’t scheduled until this afternoon. There’s plenty of time.”
“There’s no reason to upset yourself before surgery.” The older woman turned her back on Abbie, and reached over to smooth her daughter’s blond hair back from her ruined face. “Whatever this is about, it can wait.”
Amanda looked at the middle-aged man on the other side of the bed. “Daddy? You don’t mind taking Mother to the cafeteria for a while, do you?”
He hesitated, sending a steely look toward Abbie. But in the end, he managed a smile for his daughter and said, “Sure, honey.”
“Phil, really. I don’t think . . .”
Ignoring his wife’s protests, he rounded the bed, took her elbow, and steered her toward the door. “We’ll be back in twenty minutes.” Abbie knew it wasn’t her imagination that imbued the words with a hint of warning.
When the door had closed behind the couple, Amanda attempted a smile. Only one side of her mouth responded. “Sorry about that. They can be pretty fierce when it comes to me.”
“It’s parents’ jobs to be protective.” Even though some parents failed miserably at it. “I can’t blame them for objecting to the timing.”
“I’ll be out of it for days after the surgery.” Amanda hit the button to elevate the head of the bed more. “Pain meds have that effect on me. And I didn’t want to wait that long. I heard Grandpa Richards tell Daddy they’d brought in an expert, and I wanted to talk to you.”
It took Abbie a moment to make the connection. Mayor Richards. Someone, presumably Commander Dixon, was keeping the man informed. “I don’t know about the expert part, but I do have experience in these kinds of cases. I want to focus on the victimology pattern, and I have some questions that weren’t covered in the earlier interviews.”
“You mean figuring out why he chose me. Us.”
Abbie gave a slight nod. The girl was quick. “Exactly.”
Amanda indicated a chair next to the bed and Abbie sank into it, digging into her purse for her notebook. “I’ve thought about that. I have a lot of time on my hands these days,” she added without rancor. “After it happened, the police asked all these questions about the beauty contests I’ve participated in. I was crowned Miss Savannah last fall and I’m going to compete—I was supposed to compete—in the Miss Georgia contest later this year. My sponsor thought I had a pretty good chance. . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. Then, visibly collecting herself, she continued, “But I don’t think it had anything to do with the contest. Any of the contests.”
It had been a valid lead to pursue, one Abbie would have focused on herself, though it hadn’t yielded anything in the long run. “Why not?”
“Well, it’s not like one of the girls I beat out is going to do this to me,” she said matter-of-factly. “Though there were a couple vicious enough to arrange an accident for anyone standing in their way of the crown. And don’t even get me started on some of the mothers.” She shook her head. “But peo
ple surrounding beauty pageants are ninety percent female. And no women I know are capable of this. Or even of arranging this for another woman. I just can’t believe that.”
“But you did come into contact with men at the pageants,” Abbie pressed.
Amanda shrugged. “Sure. Sound engineers, emcees, some of the sponsors, agents . . . but what I’m saying is, I come into contact with guys all the time. I attend college here in town, and I see more men on campus every day than I do in the pageants.”
As the girl had said, she’d given this a lot of thought. “So let’s talk about those guys on campus. The notes say you recently broke up with a long-time boyfriend.”
“Chet didn’t have anything to do with this.” Amanda’s voice was sharp. “He’s not the kind of person who would deliberately hurt someone. I know the detectives have been all over him about this, and I feel bad about that. This isn’t his fault. And neither was the breakup. I just wanted to date other people.”
Which was enough incentive for some people to turn to violence. But Chet Montrose was alibied for the night in question. He’d been taking a chemistry final at the time Amanda had been snatched.
“Since this is a multiple offender and the other victims aren’t affiliated with the pageant or the college, I don’t think either is integral to his pattern.”
“Maybe he just saw me in the paper or on TV. There’s been a lot of coverage since my win, and as we geared up for the state pageant.”
Entirely plausible, Abbie thought, but that possibility led nowhere. “I have copies of your interview with the police. Detective Robel took you over the two weeks prior to the assault, your routine, normal hangouts. I’m going to ask you to think back further than that. Maybe a month or six weeks prior to the attack. Even two months. Can you think of places you might have stopped that you don’t normally?”
Amanda’s brows were furrowed. “Stopped for what?”
“Anything. Coffee. A different dry cleaners. A place to get pictures developed. A market you usually don’t shop at, or a mall you don’t often frequent.”