Waking Nightmare

by Kylie Brant

  Chapter 11

  “How did Dixon learn of Hornby’s suicide so fast?”

  Abbie and Ryne were heading up the stairs to Dixon’s office. They’d been ordered—there was no other word for it—to appear in the man’s office by two. And given Ryne’s expression during the course of the terse cell phone conversation with his superior, it hadn’t been a pleasant exchange.

  “Who knows? But when he called, he’d already been contacted by the Savannah Morning News and WTOC.”

  Given the press this case had gotten, Abbie shouldn’t have been surprised the news had broken so quickly. Some enterprising reporter had been monitoring the scanner, probably, and followed the emergency personnel to the home. Once its occupant had been identified, it was only a matter of time before the media would be alerted.

  She slid Ryne a sidelong glance. “I take it Dixon is . . . agitated.”

  He gave her a grim smile, leaned to open the door to the man’s outer office. “I’ll let you judge that for yourself. Don’t know why he felt the need to have you here, though. I’m the one he wants a piece of.”

  “Detective.” The attractive middle-aged woman behind the desk looked relieved at their appearance. “Commander Dixon has checked twice to see if you’ve arrived. You’re to go right in.”

  Abbie raised a brow. She’d never been in the office when she hadn’t been kept waiting. Her stomach muscles tightened as she followed Ryne through the next door, into the inner office.

  Dixon was standing before the bank of windows, arms clasped behind his back. Fingers of sunlight stretched through the blinds to gild his hair an even brighter shade of gold. Abbie had the cynical thought that the pose was a photo-op in waiting. Although their meetings had all been cordial, she was more familiar than she’d like with his type. He was an inch or so shorter than Ryne, a bit slighter in build, but any physical similarities stopped there. He lacked the detective’s outer toughness; he was more bureaucratic spin machine than cop.

  Which only meant he presented a very different kind of danger.

  The commander turned at their entrance, a somber expression on his face. “Ms. Phillips. Detective Robel. Thank you for coming so promptly. I know you both can appreciate how this suicide complicates an already complex investigation.”

  “Right. It was pretty inconsiderate of Hornby,” Ryne replied laconically. Abbie wondered if she was the only one aware of his veiled sarcasm. Dixon seemed oblivious.

  “Exactly. But as I mentioned on the phone, if you had kept up regular personal contact with her, perhaps this could have been prevented.”

  The unwarranted accusation had Abbie springing to his defense. “Ashley Hornby’s despondence is most likely related to the assault and the lack of a support system around her.”

  Dixon nodded. “Just as I—”

  Abbie went on, “I’d tried to contact her numerous times in the last few days myself with no success. It appears that she’d cut off contact with her neighbor, with her doctor and physical therapist . . . short of breaking into her house and forcing a conversation, I’m not sure what else you could expect of Detective Robel.”

  With a wave of his hand, Dixon dismissed her words. “We’ll never know, will we? Now we’re left with a situation, one that has to be handled in a proactive manner. I’ve contained the media up to now with press releases, but the mayor and the chief feel—and I agree—that today’s discovery calls for a different approach.”

  A curious stillness came over Ryne. “You can’t believe that’s a good idea.”

  Lost, Abbie looked from one man to another. There was an unspoken message passing between the two. The air in the room grew charged.

  “You just assured the captain and me last night that you could put them off.” Ryne fairly bit off the words, his fingers curling into fists. “Hornby’s suicide is tragic, but we have no reason to believe it will change the scope of the investigation. Involving the media at this point will serve no useful purpose, and might even hinder us.”

  Dixon took two steps to his desk, and braced his hands on it. His voice hardened. “Everything has changed, don’t you get that? I know you like to sneer at the public relations responsibilities of my job, but I have enough experience to know we’re about to reach a critical juncture here. If we don’t give the media something substantive, they’re going to start crucifying us in the press. And then, in short order, the public is going to be in a panic.”

  He was actually considering a press conference. Abbie’s frustration matched Ryne’s. “I suspect this perp gets gratification from media attention. Why give him what he wants when there’s no benefit to us?”

  The commander pinned her with a hard look. “Can you say with any certainty that the attention will cause him to escalate?”

  She hesitated, shot a look at Ryne. He was regarding his superior with a carefully blank expression. “No,” she admitted with reluctance. “He doesn’t have a set pattern, but he acts fairly quickly. I think he gathers several prospective targets that meet his criteria, then singles one out and begins stalking her to learn her habits.”

  With a humorless smile, Dixon said, “Well, then we have nothing to lose on that end. According to the profile you gave me this morning, you believe he’s already on the hunt for his next victim.”

  That drew Ryne’s attention. His gaze nearly blistered her, but she answered honestly, “I think he’s selected her, yes.”

  Slapping his hands on the desktop, Dixon straightened. “Even more reason to alert the public then. As a safety precaution. God knows we’ve got nothing of substance to give them. No description of the perp or vehicle . . .” He stopped, directed a look at Ryne. “Unless Juarez is looking good for the rapes.”

  “We have no reason to eliminate him as a suspect.”

  He couldn’t have said any more clearly that he still put no stock in the theory she’d run past him this morning. His skepticism still stung, but it wouldn’t be allowed to affect the way she did her job. It couldn’t be.

  “We’ll have to tread carefully there,” mused Dixon, rubbing his chin. He was the picture of a man grappling with a weighty decision. Abbie wondered cynically if he was already practicing for the press conference. Every move he made seemed rehearsed, like an actor remaining in character. “If we say we have a suspect and then there’s another rape, we risk looking incompetent. But we have to provide assurance that the investigation is making progress.”

  “The investigation is making progress.” The snap in Ryne’s voice was barely discernible. “But giving away too much will impede it. Nothing can be said about the rapist’s signature—the drug, the torture. Leave us something to use in any suspect interviews.”

  Dixon’s expression had gone deadly. The palpable antagonism between the two momentarily distracted Abbie from her concern over the publicity. There was history here, something that went beyond the professional to personal. She was finding it difficult to reconcile the man who had spoken so glowingly of Ryne’s abilities when she first arrived to the one who was skewering him now.

  “Don’t forget, I’m still a cop, Robel.”

  “Sometimes I need to be reminded.”

  For an instant Abbie thought the commander would lose his careful poise. His nostrils flared, and patches of scarlet painted his cheekbones. But with a quick glance toward her, he visibly reined in his temper. Drawing his chair out from his desk, he sank into it.

  “We’re done here. Press conference is in fifteen minutes. See Jean in the outer office for details. You have time to get your jacket, Robel.” The smile he directed at Abbie didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s time for you to freshen up, although I can’t say I can find room for improvement.”

  Ryne’s expression mirrored her own wariness. “Us? Why do we need to be there?”

  “Didn’t I mention that?” Dixon picked up a slim gold pen and threaded it through his fingers. “You two are the face of the investigation. You’ll be on camera, by my side.”

  “ . . .
and although we are deeply saddened by the death of Ms. Hornby, we cannot allow ourselves to be distracted from the hunt for the serial offender who assaulted her. This department is sparing no expense toward that end. We have nearly forty officers devoted to the case and they are pursuing each and every lead with all due diligence.”

  Just stick to the sound bite, Abbie thought. If Dixon didn’t stray from generalities, he at least would do no damage to the case. She suppressed the urge to steal a look at Ryne, standing between her and Dixon. Captain Brown flanked the commander’s other side. The simmering fury that had been seething in Ryne when they’d left Dixon’s office probably looked good on camera. It could be mistaken for steely determination. She had less confidence in her own demeanor, which she was fighting to keep carefully expressionless.

  “Is it true you have a suspect?” a reporter from the crowd called out.

  “I’ll let Detective Robel respond to that one.”

  Abbie hoped her shock didn’t show. Dixon had never indicated that either of them would be speaking. Ryne’s face when he took over at the microphone was grim.

  “We have an individual of interest,” he said. Ignoring the excited buzz created by his words, he went on, “But everyone is a suspect until they’re eliminated. There is no call for public alarm, but basic safety precautions are always a good idea. Keep the entrances of the home well lit. Landscaping around the house should be low enough that it doesn’t offer concealment to an intruder. Dead bolts should be installed on all doors, and lower-level windows outfitted with tamper-proof locks or grills. Look out for your neighbors’ homes. Report any suspicious people or vehicles in the neighborhood. In short, be alert.”

  He stepped away from the mike as another journalist shouted, “Commander, how do you answer the criticism that your department hasn’t made an arrest yet?”

  Abbie held her breath. Even on their short acquaintance, she knew that type of question was sure to provoke a reaction from Dixon. While the conference had maintained an informational style, it was controlled. But there was usually nothing to be gained in taking questions.

  “I can assure you that no one familiar with the case would level such a criticism.” For all his faults, Dixon’s composure was flawless when dealing with the press. “I happen to know the man-hours going into this investigation, and the overtime being put in by my lead detective to bring this offender to justice. We’ve put unprecedented resources toward that end, including hiring a private expert.”

  Abbie’s bones turned to ice as the man raised a hand to indicate her before continuing, “Abbie Phillips is an expert in criminal profiling, and with her help we have a detailed picture of the sort of individual who would perpetuate such crimes. We will, of course, release the profile she’s prepared to the media.”

  The clamor of voices intensified, but Abbie was oblivious to it. The blood was pounding in her ears, and nausea churned in her stomach.

  And the hell of it was, she couldn’t be sure whether the sensations were due to Dixon’s unexpected ambush, or the cold hard condemnation she read in Ryne’s eyes.

  It was the sort of place Dixon would pick, Ryne thought, as he wended his way through the restaurant bar to the table in the back where the commander sat. Lots of gleaming oak and brass, live plants, and polished mirrors. Nothing like the dives he’d frequented when drinking had been his number one pastime.

  It’d been eighteen months since he’d taken a drink or stepped foot in a bar. But he’d choose the smoky haze, scratched counters, and cracked leather stools anytime over a yuppie spot like this. At least those places had been free of pretense. They hadn’t pretended to attract anything but serious drinkers and quiet desperation. No wonder he’d felt so at home there.

  He drew up to the table, pulled out a chair. “Derek,” he said, by way of greeting. Outside the job they were still on a first-name basis, but they were no longer friends, if they’d ever been.

  Which was why he was sure there was a helluva lot more to Dixon’s suggestion for this meeting, regardless of the man’s excuse to get him here.

  Dixon raised a finger to summon the waitress, who responded quickly. Ryne’s mouth twisted. Women had always responded to Derek. And his response to them was just as predictable. “Bring me a draft of Premium Light,” he told her, flashing his toothpaste ad smile. “And two fingers of Jim Beam for my friend, straight up.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “Bring it.” Dixon shooed the woman away and Ryne knew she’d do the man’s bidding. Just like he knew the order was a way to slice at him.

  “Come here often?” Ryne let his gaze drift around the large area. “I’ll bet SueAnne likes it.” With its thick oak columns and tall-backed booths, the place was meant for privacy. He’d wager his monthly paycheck that SueAnne Dixon didn’t even know it existed.

  “Try not to be a prick, Ryne.” There was no heat in Derek’s words. “You and I have both made choices others might not agree with.”

  Ryne gave a cynical smile. “As long as we’re on that topic, I’ve got something for you to add to the list. Releasing that profile was a publicity stunt, nothing more. It’ll end up obstructing our investigation rather than helping it.”

  “You can’t be certain of that.” Dixon fell silent as the waitress returned with their order. He gave her a large bill and a phony smile to send her on her way before returning his attention to Ryne. “At any rate, it was a calculated risk. What better way to counter criticism of the department than to exhibit proof of our expertise? The profile doesn’t compromise any leads you’re pursuing, but it puts a modern forensic face on the investigation. The public will eat it up.”

  Ryne shook his head. It was useless to argue with a man who thought in terms of sound bites and public image. And too late, in any case. The damage was already done. “If the purpose of this meeting is just to convince me of the purity of your motives, it’s duly noted. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  For the first time Derek looked slightly uncomfortable. He picked up the glass of beer and took a long drink before answering. “No, I have something else to discuss with you. Something that will require your utmost discretion.”

  Ryne leaned back in his chair, instantly wary. If the man intended to use him, or this case, to mislead his wife again, it was time to tell him to go to hell. “And that is?”

  Dixon took another swallow of beer, as if for fortification. “It came to my attention that there might be another victim out there. One who hasn’t come forward. One who has never been questioned by your task force.”

  Stunned, Ryne could only stare at the man. An unreported rape victim? Was it possible? He knew the statistics, of course. It was estimated that less than forty percent of all rapes and sexual assaults were ever reported to law enforcement. But given the media coverage surrounding this investigation, it was hard to imagine a victim remaining silent.

  Shoving his glass aside, he folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Who? When?”

  “Her name is Karen Larsen.” Derek reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a small piece of paper, which he handed to Ryne. On it was written the name and two addresses. “The first address is where she lived up until six weeks ago, when it burned down. The second is her current place.”

  Ryne tried to wrap his mind around the enormity of this development, and failed. “What makes you think she was a victim?”

  “I can’t be sure. It’s your job to check her out.” Dixon drained the rest of his beer and held it aloft to capture the waitress’s attention. He paused while the waitress delivered his beer, this time not wasting any charm as he handed her a bill.

  Ryne was still grappling with the possibilities. “Did she claim to be raped? ’Cuz I checked out all the reports made in the last year, and I didn’t find anything else that sounded like our guy.”

  Dixon looked away. “No. She hasn’t mentioned an assault at all. But I happen to know she went to the hospital the next day and had a friend ru
n a discreet tox screen. Turns out it matches the initial hospital tox screen results showing up in all the victims in this case.”

  “What?” Aware that his voice had raised, Ryne consciously lowered it. “I talked to docs all over this city months ago. None of them had ever seen anything like this compound the perp is using, which is one of the things that convinced me it wasn’t just some new mutant party drug. If it were, it would have surfaced in the bar scene, and given its properties, there’s no way people wouldn’t have ended up in the ER with . . .”

  He stopped then, comprehension slamming into him belatedly. “How would you know what her tox screen shows? Do you know her? Did she tell you?” HIPPA laws precluded them getting access to anyone’s medical information without consent or a warrant.

  Dixon rubbed at the condensation on the glass with his thumb. “Listen, Ryne, this is where your discretion becomes imperative. I have a copy of the tox screen. And my . . . informant tells me that Larsen is starting to experience some posttraumatic stuff. She asked . . . my friend for recommendations for therapists. Counselors who deal with victims of sexual assault.”

  A dull ache rapped at the base of his skull. Ryne stared at the man, sorting out the spoken from the unspoken message here. Because it was damn certain that what Dixon wasn’t saying was far more important than what he was.

  “And who is this informant?”

  Dixon raised his glass for a sip. “That really isn’t the issue.”

  “Of course it is. If I can’t verify the character of the informant, the legitimacy of the information is in question, you know that.”

  “I can vouch for the character of the informant,” the other man snapped. “And you’ll have the damn copy of the tox screen on your desk in the morning.”