by Kylie Brant
She considered telling him about the half-formed theory she’d come up with today, decided against it. She wanted to finish researching it, to get all her facts together to support her case. That’s what had brought her back to headquarters tonight, to use the databases here.
With another look at his watch, he reluctantly got up. “I have to go. I’m supposed to make an appearance at one of Dixon’s BBQs.”
The revelation eased something in Abbie. So he wasn’t heading off to a date. She had absolutely no reason to feel this lighthearted at the realization. “You sound thrilled.”
“Yeah.” He crossed to his desk and grabbed his jacket, but didn’t put it on. “I hate these kind of things. SueAnne, his wife, is a sweetheart, but Dixon will have the place packed with political types I like to avoid. Only reason I agreed to show up is to get some time alone with him to talk him out of calling a press conference on the case.”
The statement had her heart sinking. “A press conference? He shouldn’t do that.”
“Tell me about it.” Ryne’s expression was grim. “I know the media coverage has been fierce but the last thing we need is a frenzy. We’ve got nothing to give them that will be helpful, so we shouldn’t give them anything at all.”
Abbie wholeheartedly agreed. The media could be invaluable when a description of a suspect or a vehicle was available. Or if a warning needed to be issued to a specific group of people. Neither scenario was the case here. If Dixon was considering using the media just to help bring in tips, a press conference wasn’t needed.
Trepidation filled her. Oftentimes the powers that be merely used them as a ploy to calm a panicked public. Or to present a competent face on the investigative effort. Neither would aid the investigation in any measurable way.
“Talk him out of it,” she said bluntly.
“Like I said, I’ll try. If Brown is there, maybe I can get some help from him.” He stopped, looked over at her. “Want to go?”
“Me? Why?” She was surprised at the sudden invitation. Almost as surprised as she was at the pleasure it elicited. After last night, she shouldn’t even consider spending more time alone with him. Not that a barbecue presented an opportunity for a reenactment of that kiss, but after it was over . . .
“You could help me talk Dixon out of a press conference.” Ryne’s smile was lopsided, and all too appealing. “We could double-team him.” Her attention was only half on his words. The material of his shirt stretched over the muscled planes of his chest that she had explored last night. Still wanted to touch more intimately. And the strength of that desire was enough to convince her.
She shook her head, with more regret than she’d like to admit. “I’m not dressed for it, and I need to work something out here.” The thought of spending time with him, away from the case, away from headquarters was all the more tantalizing for recognizing that it was an incredibly bad idea.
He still hadn’t moved, as if reluctant to leave. Because his smoldering gaze was too difficult to return, she picked up a pencil from her desk, worried it with her fingers. “I’d appreciate any insights on getting Ashley Hornby to talk to me,” she finally blurted out, compelled to fill the silence that stretched between them. “I haven’t been able to get her to answer her phone or her door, although her neighbor assures me she’s home.”
She’d succeeded in distracting him. His face lost the intent expression he’d been regarding her with, a familiar professional mask shifting back into place. And even as she felt a measure of relief, something deep inside her mourned the change. “I’m not sure if she’s even ambulatory yet. The perp did a lot of damage with that hammer. But I never got more than that first interview from her myself.”
“Maybe I’ll drop by again tonight,” she said, cocking her head to look at the watch on Ryne’s wrist. An interview with Hornby could round out the theory she was still formulating, or shatter it completely. One way or another, she felt an increasing urgency to discover which. “I couldn’t find any contact information for next of kin in the case file.”
“She’s got a sister who’s traveling in Africa. While Hornby was hospitalized, we sent word through the church that’s sponsoring her mission trip, but it’s hard to know when the message will catch up with her.”
Abbie nodded, already planning to work on any friends the woman had who might help her convince the woman to cooperate. It was unusual for a victim to withdraw completely from the investigation, but not unprecedented. If nothing else, Abbie wanted to make sure the woman’s mental health needs were being taken care of. Remaining alone and isolated after such a trauma wasn’t in Ashley’s best emotional interests, even if it felt like it in the short term.
“So.” Ryne took one last look at his watch. “I really have to go.” He sounded about as enthusiastic as if he were heading to a funeral. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nodded. “If you can corner him alone long enough, give Dixon your best shot.”
“Oh, I’ll corner him.” Ryne’s smile was grim as he picked up his coat. He gave her one last long look before lifting a hand and moving away. “Don’t work too late.”
He’d taken only a few steps before he hesitated, then turned back to her. “Listen, about last night . . .”
Panic sprinted up her spine. It took every bit of courage she could muster to meet his gaze and say carelessly, “Forget it. Never happened.” An expression flashed across his face, too quick to be identified. Anger? Frustration?
“Oh, it happened,” he retorted, his tone silky. “And I’m having a helluva time forgetting about it.”
He turned then and wended his way through the sea of desks without looking back. Which was just as well, since Abbie would have hated to be caught with her jaw open, watching those lean hips walk away.
Once he was out of sight, she leaned back in her chair bonelessly, released a shuddering breath. She’d thought he’d be relieved. By treating the matter casually, she’d given him an out. Given both of them one. But he hadn’t acted relieved. His admission had blindsided her.
I’m having a helluva time forgetting about it.
Maybe she should be gratified that he’d been as affected by that kiss as she had. Certainly she shouldn’t be feeling this blank terror as she contemplated getting involved with a man who didn’t meet any of her usual criteria.
Ryne wasn’t safe. He wasn’t easily controlled. And he wouldn’t be effortlessly dismissed. But realizing that didn’t lessen his appeal. Just the opposite.
Resolutely, she forced her attention back to the report he’d printed out for her. But after she attempted to read the first page three times, she muttered a curse and stood, stuffing it in her case folder to look it over when she got home.
She walked to the computer in the corner of the office and sat down in front of it, punching in the password Ryne had given her to allow her access to the police databases. There had never been a man alive who could distract her from a case, and Ryne Robel wouldn’t be any different, no matter how well the man could kiss.
Within twenty minutes she was so deeply engrossed in her research that thoughts of Ryne were relegated to a distant part of her mind. Not banished. That task seemed beyond her. But once again the case was uppermost. And Abbie knew she was going to have to be satisfied with that.
When people made it this easy, they sucked the pleasure right out of it.
The tipsy man stumbled out the side door of the bar into the alley, leaned against the wall of the building. Long seconds passed, but no one came to join him. He fumbled in his pockets, then a lighter flared. He’d come out for a smoke. Unfortunate for him.
“Please. Could you help me?” The voice was just right. Weak. Timid. Not the kind to cause alarm.
The man started, looking around. “Wha—? Oh.” Peered through the darkness. “Sorry, dearie. Didn’t see you there.”
“I had the same idea as you.” The rueful tone was masterful. “Came out for a ciggie and tripped over something in the alley. I may
have broken my ankle. Do you think you could help me up?”
The man had already tossed his cigarette and was teetering to the rescue in his platform shoes. Platforms. Where did people find that stuff?
“Oh, my heavens! Are you in dreadful pain? Do you think you’ll be able to walk?”
“Maybe. If you put your arm around me and lift . . .”
“Put your hand on my shoulder.” The smoker giggled breathlessly. “We’ll be a pair. I can barely walk my—” His words were cut short by the arm around his throat, holding the chloroform-soaked handkerchief to his face.
He put up a struggle. That got the juices flowing. The man spun around, clawing wildly at the handkerchief. But all too soon his struggles faded. His body went limp.
Simple enough to finish it then. To drag the body deeper into the alley. Drop it long enough to open the trunk of the car, then pause, just for a moment. There was something dramatic about the smoker’s pose, his arms flung out theatri cally.
Impulse had one booted foot lifting, to be brought down sharply on the man’s outstretched palm. The resulting snap and crackle sounded like dry leaves crunching underfoot. There were twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Another grind of the heel ensured that every last one was broken.
Snap, crackle pop. Almost like the breakfast cereal.
The thought summoned a smile but too much time had been wasted. A sense of urgency began to grow. The man’s body was heaved into the trunk, and the lid shut.
The sound of the car engine sliced through the darkness but there was no one in the vicinity to notice. The man would be delivered alive, although slightly damaged. A small enough favor in exchange for the supply of drugs. Then a four-hour drive to catch the red-eye flight back to Savannah and finalize the next selection.
Although truthfully, the choice had already been made.
Laura Bradford.
So beautiful. And so deserving of something extra special, arranged just for her.
Chapter 10
The task force morning briefing was already in progress when Abbie slipped into the room. Commander Dixon had kept her cooling her heels in his outer office for a half hour prior to their ten-minute meeting. Although he didn’t have time to read her updated profile then, he’d promised to do so by the end of the day.
She was much more anxious to get Ryne’s take on it. But that would have to wait until this meeting was over.
“So that’s it on the newest ViCAP update. I’ll narrow down these hits to any that sound remotely like our guy and check them out.” Ryne looked at a uniformed officer standing near the back of the room. “Bolen, anything on the surveillance of Juarez?”
“He never left the apartment on my watch, Detective. Nobody in. Nobody out.”
Ryne frowned. “So that means no one has seen him since we kicked him loose and he went home?” He glanced at Holmes. “Isaac, did you check with his workplaces?”
The man’s nod sent his droopy jowls jiggling. “He hasn’t gone to work since. Calls in daily claiming to be sick.”
“I’d feel a lot better if we had a visual.” Ryne looked at the officer standing next to Bolen. “Sackett, when you relieve Landis this morning, I want you to go to Juarez’s door. We need to be positive he’s really in there scamming sick leave.”
The man nodded and Ryne went on, “Isaac, let’s keep working that list of Juarez’s relatives and known acquaintances. I want to know this guy inside and out by the end of the day. Who does he come into contact with? Who does he talk to? Wayne and Nick.” His attention shifted to the next two men. “What have you got on the prostitute interviews?”
“Well, Wayne here got a bad case of the clap.” The only men in the room who didn’t show appreciation for McElroy’s humor were Ryne and Cantrell. “But it looks like a dead end. Plenty of sickos out there, but no previously unreported assaults or anything like we’re looking at.” Nick gave Abbie an insincere smile. “Sorry, Tinkerbell. Guess you’re batting zero.”
“I’d still like to see your notes, particularly for any professionals involved in S and M.” When Nick didn’t answer, she added, “Something might jump out for me that didn’t for you.”
McElroy shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. Robel has the copy.”
“What about the rock found in Juarez’s shoes?”
Cantrell answered Abbie’s question. “You mean the shoes that were in his closet, but that he claims aren’t his? It matches the rock at Billings’s place.”
“And so do the particles in the vehicle,” Ryne noted.
Cantrell went on, “Lab identified it, and so far we’ve got it being sold at a dozen places in the vicinity. Discount and home improvement stores, nurseries, landscaping outfits . . . probably find it in half the yards in Savannah.”
Ryne said, “Cantrell and McElroy, see if you can get a lead on the shoes themselves. Where are they sold around here, can they ID the customer who bought them . . .”
“That’s a long shot,” murmured Cantrell.
“Yeah. And so’s your next assignment. Research the manufacturer of that syringe we found. Who are their clients, where are those syringes available around here? You know the drill.”
“Shit,” muttered McElroy.
“That’s a succinct and accurate summation of what we’ve got on this guy so far, Nick.” Ryne’s voice was sharp. “We have a few prints of Billings’s from the vehicle, plenty of Juarez’s, and some others from the interior and on the plates. We’re still running them all through IAFIS and our state and local databases. Who wants to bet that we’re going to get lucky with that?” The room was silent. Ryne gave a grim smile. “Exactly. So we follow every possible lead, long shot or not. I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly want to stand around and wait until the next rape, hoping he’ll leave us his calling card.”
Those words struck a chord with Abbie. She waited until Captain Brown had finished a quiet conversation with Ryne, before he followed the rest of the men out of the room. She strolled to the front table. “You know, maybe he already did. Leave a calling card, that is.”
Ryne didn’t look up from the papers he was replacing in file folders. “You have a gift for telling me exactly what I don’t want to hear, you know that?” He finished putting the papers away and glanced up at her, a wry smile on his face. “You’re talking about the use of Juarez’s vehicle, right?”
Abbie nodded. “If the evidence doesn’t point to Juarez as the rapist . . .”
“We don’t have all the evidence yet . . .”
“Then we know why those plates were left on his Bronco, even after the rape was completed,” Abbie continued, propping a hip on the corner of the table. “The perp couldn’t count on the fact that Ethel Krebbs would identify the vehicle.”
“But with stolen plates on it, he upped the likelihood that the police would trace it eventually. And there it’d be, all gift-wrapped for us with blood traces from the victim still inside.” He braced both hands on the table to survey her. “You have a devious mind.”
“And you’ve already thought of this yourself.” Abbie was half disappointed, half pleased that their thoughts had taken a similar path.
“I have a devious mind, too. So you’re the profiler. What kind of guy would go to those lengths?”
The reminder shouldn’t have been necessary. She was the profiler on the case. A highly skilled investigator. Which didn’t explain why Ryne’s proximity had her throat drying, her breathing uneven. Irritated with herself, she straightened, putting a bit more distance between them. “He’s smart. His goal isn’t necessarily to engage the police, but a distraction . . . he’s careful enough to plan for that.”
“Yeah. We have to consider the possibility anyway. None of the prints on the plates match Juarez. So it was no surprise that we found none at all on the protective needle tip or on the empty syringe barrel.” He said nothing more, just looked at her for long enough to make her jumpy. “You should have come with me to Dixon’s last night.”
&
nbsp; The sudden change of topics took her off guard. “You had a good time?”
He grinned. “No, it sucked. Never seen so many bloated egos in one place.”
His words surprised a smile from her. “You’re right. That does sound like something I’d enjoy.” The thought struck her that his charm, when he chose to use it, was even more formidable than the grim sardonic persona he’d worn the first day they’d met. And infinitely more attractive.
Ryne reached back to hook a chair with his foot and dragged it close enough to sink into. “I managed a few minutes alone with Dixon. The captain and I convinced him that a press conference would do more harm than good at this point.”
She shared the relief that sounded in his voice. “Good. See? You didn’t need me after all.”
His gaze went molten. “I wouldn’t say that.”
His low smoky tone wiped her mind blank. She wasn’t good at this. She didn’t have experience with the sexual banter that was part of the male-female dating ritual. And the men she’d chosen to get involved with must have been just as inept as she. There was undoubtedly a cause-and-effect relationship there, but she didn’t bother to follow it. At the moment, she could focus on nothing but Ryne.
He was wearing a muted striped jacket she’d seen him in before, with a gray shirt, dark trousers. Yet it was too easy to picture him again in his apparel from the gym, with his muscled arms and legs bare. Maybe because that image had taken up permanent residence in the back of her mind, choosing the most inconvenient times to reappear, unsummoned.
“What’s that?”
She followed the direction of his gaze and realized with a start that she was mangling the file folder from gripping it so tightly. “Oh. It’s yours, actually.” Thrusting it at him, she gratefully seized on the reminder of work. “I’ve updated the profile on the rapist. I think I know how he’s been selecting his victims.”