by Kylie Brant
Although his mood could just as easily be blamed on lack of sleep. Or the self-reproach that had plagued him all night, lying awake in his bed, knowing he’d been the cause of her misery.
“But you’re planning to be here tomorrow morning?” Hell, he could do the self-possessed thing as well as she could. Better. In the last year and a half, he’d become a master at ensuring his personal life never splashed over to his professional.
“I’ll be at the briefing. Then I have an appointment to talk to Karen Larsen again.” She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and withdrew her purse. “I want to get some more background from her, especially about the fire that killed her parents. See if I can find any parallels to the one that destroyed her house a few weeks ago.” She straightened, clutching the strap of the bag tightly, and he thought for a moment she meant to say more.
There were smudges beneath her eyes that suggested she’d slept as badly as he had. He’d shoulder the responsibility for that, too, and add it to his growing list of regrets. He’d handled last night’s conversation poorly. But identifying Callie in those pictures, cozied up against lowlives in places most women would steer clear of, had only hammered home his concern for Abbie’s dealings with her sister.
That fresh slice in her arm, the stitches, and her refusal to talk about how she’d gotten them told a story that was all too easy to guess. And he wouldn’t take back what he’d said last night, even if he could. Callie was an explosive waiting to detonate. And Abbie was the closest in her path.
When she failed to say anything else, Ryne forced his gaze back to the binder on his desk. “All right. See you then.”
He felt, rather than saw, her hesitation and tensed in anticipation. Then a moment later he heard her footsteps as she walked swiftly away.
Jaw set, he turned to his computer screen and began submitting the names of the Ketrum employees into the databases.
He printed out each individual’s report in turn, willing his focus away from Abbie and on to the case. As the last set of results were printing out, Detectives Marlowe and Cantrell veered toward him on their way toward the door, each of them shrugging into their suit jackets. “We just got a call,” Marlowe informed him. “We might have found the Crown Vic the perp used for the Bradford assault.”
Ryne’s head snapped up. “Where?”
“Private parking garage over on York and Montgomery. Elderly owner called to complain that the vehicle’s front end had been damaged, although she hadn’t used the car for well over a week. We’re on our way over to take a look.”
“Private garage should have decent security. If there’s any chance of this being the vehicle, let’s get the tapes. I’ll send CSU over if you find anything.”
Mallory nodded and the two men fell into a low-pitched conversation as they headed toward the exit.
Ryne watched them go, a sense of excitement filling him. The walls were closing in on the perp. It was only a matter of time now.
Marcy Bennett swung by his desk. “I showed a visitor for you into the conference room, Ryne.”
“Who?”
But the woman was already hurrying back to take her position behind the receptionist desk, where the phone lines were ringing in raucous chorus.
He collected the papers that had printed out, and shoved them in a desk drawer before making his way back to the conference room. But once he’d pushed open the door and seen the room’s lone occupant, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk out again.
“Hear me out, Robel.” Nick McElroy stood, a manila envelope clenched in one large hand. “I know things the other night got fucked up, but this is different.”
“What are you doing here?” Ryne let the door shut behind him and leaned against it, fighting the burn of impatience. He didn’t have time for this shit. Not now. McElroy had a gift for digging the hole he was in deeper and deeper, and there was nothing he could say that Ryne wanted to hear.
“I just wanted to give you these.” McElroy opened the envelope and shook out some five-by-seven photos. “I told you I could still contribute to the case. I’ve been hanging out at the places we had targeted. The ones Juarez frequents sometimes, and I saw something you should be interested in.” He shrugged one beefy shoulder. “Hell, I got nothing else to do, right?”
Reaching for his flagging patience, Ryne said, “Nick, I told you before. More than once. Stay away from the investigation. You can’t help us. Your involvement could screw things up.”
“Just look at these.” McElroy walked over and jammed the photos in his hand. “And if you think this doesn’t have anything to do with the case, you’re a damn fool.”
Ryne glanced through the pictures, recognizing some of the places depicted. He already had officers staking the places out, which McElroy knew. Already had a stack of photos, similar to these, so there was no point in him . . . His interest sharpened as he stared harder at one picture, the woman in the tight long-sleeved sequined top instantly recognizable.
Callie Phillips.
“When was this taken?”
Pleased with Ryne’s interest, Nick said, “Last night. Around midnight. You know who that is? Phillips’s sister. She’s quite a party girl. Everyone in these places seem to know her, and I mean know her.” He reached for the pile and took out another to place on top. “She’s not shy about spreading it around.”
Although Callie was alone in some of the photos, most had her cuddled up against one man or another. Others showed her engaged in even friendlier poses. Once again Ryne was struck by how little Abbie and her sister were alike. There were a few familiar faces in the photos. He’d probably run across some of them in the pictures taken by the officers he’d placed inside these places.
“We’ve got similar pictures already,” he said finally, looking up at the man. “You knew we had this angle covered, Nick. There’s no point in you following up on this yourself.”
“This is the one I wanted you to see.” McElroy flipped through the stack and shoved another for Ryne to look at. “Interesting choice of companions, don’t you think?”
Ryne froze, staring at the image of Callie laughing into a familiar face, one hand placed suggestively on the man’s crotch.
Hidalgo Juarez.
Wadding up the wrapper from the deli sandwich he’d had delivered an hour ago, Ryne tossed it into the nearby waste-basket. The office was quieter after shift change. Made it easier to think. And after the events of the afternoon had raced to a mind-numbing blur, he needed time to collect his thoughts. Plan his next course of action.
They’d scored a possible link on the Crown Vic when CSU had discovered a dime-sized blood sample in it. It’d take a while to determine if any of the latents or fibers retrieved from the car matched anyone other than the owner. In the meantime, he was planning something bound to be very unpopular with at least one member of his team.
First thing tomorrow morning he was having Callie Phillips brought in for questioning.
Regret surfaced, but he shoved it aside. Morning would be best. If she was spending most of her nights boozing it up, she wouldn’t be as mentally sharp after only a few hours of sleep. He already knew that the woman lied as easily as some people breathed.
And he wanted the truth when he questioned her about her relationship with Hidalgo Juarez.
How well did she know the man? Had she ever seen anyone else conversing with him, and if so, could she identify them? The employees and occupants at the dives Juarez frequented tended not to “see” anything. They admitted knowing even less. Getting positive IDs on all the individuals pictured had been slow going, mostly done through matches with the electronic mug books.
He pulled out the envelope of photos McElroy had taken and set them on top of his notes for the next briefing. Tomorrow he’d have the uniforms go through them and cross-check individuals already known, start identifying the new ones. He’d follow the same line of action he’d pursue for every occupant they identified, regardless of who the
y were.
Or whom they were related to.
Resolutely, he forced aside thoughts of how Abbie would react to his interviewing her sister. Would she be able to separate their argument of the other night from the facts emerging in the case?
He honestly didn’t know. And that uncertainty kept him from calling her right now and alerting her of his plans. She was a complete professional. He recognized that. But she’d also been taking care of her sister for years. If there was even the slightest chance that she would warn Callie of the upcoming meeting, he couldn’t afford to risk it. She’d find out tomorrow morning when she came in and discovered who he had in the interview room.
His chest burned thinking of Abbie’s reaction, but he couldn’t let that matter. Disconnecting logic from emotion was always a bitch. He was an expert on that.
But he was less familiar with the guilt weighing on him for doing what he knew had to be done.
He returned to the reports on the Ketrum employees identified as working on the TTX trials. Jepperson’s list had included both scientists and techs, three women and seven men. But the background checks had turned up nothing on eight of the ten, other than one who didn’t like to pay his speeding tickets.
The other two were worth investigating further. Dwayne Carsons had two recent domestic assault complaints lodged against him. It was entirely possible the guy had violent incidents in his past that had gone unreported.
He turned his attention to Trevor Holden’s data and let out a low whistle. A sealed juvie record. Now that was interesting. No way to access that information at this point. The record had to be at least three years old. It took that long beyond serving the delinquency sentence to even request a seal.
Ryne was sufficiently intrigued to submit Holden’s name to a few more databases, just to see what else he could dig up on the man. When that didn’t pan out, he typed Holden’s name into a search engine.
Not much came up. An old newspaper article listing graduation from a two-year technical school in Indiana with an associate of applied science degree. Ryne checked the dates. Could be the right guy. Then he spent an hour looking through telephone books from the town the college was located in, and even made a few calls to the Holdens listed. None claimed knowledge of Trevor Holden.
He took a break from the search to send Jepperson an e-mail requesting copies of Dwayne Carsons’s domestic assault reports. Then he reluctantly turned back to the computer. He was gaining new respect for the computer techs or anyone who had to spend most of their day gleaning information from the Web. It was mind-crushingly boring, for one thing. And it was tough on the muscles. He had a nagging pain in the middle of his back from being hunched over the computer too long that day. And he was increasingly pressed for new and original search requests to type in that may yield information about Holden.
He did, however, discover that there was a whole lot of worthless shit on the Internet. And more people than he’d ever guessed who considered it their personal responsibility to post their every thought and opinion in cyberspace for the rest of the world to read.
His faith in people’s intelligence, never at a high, sank a notch.
An hour later, his chin propped on his fist, he was skimming some broad’s online journal. Or whatever they called it. Blog. Simpleminded musings. And there he found it. The reference to a Trevor Holden.
He straightened to read more carefully. It was an archived post dated two years earlier, complete with every excruciating detail of planning a ten-year class reunion. At the bottom of the post was a listing of six classmates the author still hadn’t found, and a plea for readers’ help if they knew the whereabouts of any of the individuals. Holden was fourth on the list.
Ryne did a search on the town that housed the named high school. Two hundred and fifty miles northwest of Madison, Wisconsin, its biggest employers were the school and the residential juvenile detention located there. The detention centers were a boon to shrinking school districts, as most of the institution’s residents were educated at local public schools.
Anticipation tightened in his gut. A Trevor Holden working on the TTX experiments had a juvie file, and another Trevor Holden graduated from a high school located in a town with a juvenile detention center. He’d never been a huge fan of coincidence.
He found no telephone listing for any Holdens in town, but places like that were limited, and could draw juveniles even from out of state.
The author of the blog post, a Cyn Paulus, was listed in the online phone directory and Ryne gave her a call. When there was no answer, he left a short message on the answering machine, sure she’d get back to him. He just hoped their conversation didn’t end up on her damn blog.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
Callie looked up from the cigarette she was on the verge of lighting, her heavy-lidded eyes widening in amusement. “You gonna lock me up for smoking?”
Ryne gave a slight nod to the silent officer leaning against the wall, and the man left the interview room. “No.” He strode over to the table and took the cigarette and lighter from her hands, shoving them back inside her purse. “I won’t have to because you aren’t lighting up.”
A hint of a smile curving her lips, she leaned back in her chair and languidly crossed her legs. She looked like she’d been dragged from bed after a long night of debauchery, although the officers who’d fetched her from her motel room had assured Ryne she’d been alone. Her makeup was smudged, her long blond hair tousled, and her short shorts and tight long-sleeved shirt looked slept in.
“Long night?” Setting the folder and notebook he carried on the table, he pulled out a chair across from her.
She yawned, one long-nailed hand tapping her mouth. “Short one, actually. Didn’t know I’d be rousted by your men so early. That’s the term, right? Rousted.” She purred it, as though savoring the taste. “One of the officers you sent . . . the big one? Roughed me up a little in the squad car.” She slid an eye closed in a sultry wink. “I enjoyed it.”
“We have video cameras in the squad cars,” he said calmly. “I’ll check out your claim.”
“Well, damn.” Her smile seemed genuine, not at all flustered to be caught in a lie. He imagined it happened frequently enough to register little reaction. “What am I suspected of, Detective? Last I heard, breaking the hearts of low-rent rednecks wasn’t a crime.”
“Is that what you were doing last night? Must have steered clear of Mr. G’s. Had a vice sweep there.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’ve been there. Not last night, though.”
He gave her a slow smile. “And you’re no stranger to vice anyway, right?” He flipped open the folder, withdrew a piece of paper. “Petty theft. Possession of a controlled substance. Resisting arrest. Assaulting an officer. Solicitation.” The criminal check he’d run on her had yielded no real surprises. But they did originate from varied locales. The lady got around.
For the first time she looked vaguely annoyed. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that you had me brought down here to discuss my checkered past. I haven’t been arrested for anything for years.” She corrected herself almost immediately. “At least, not in the States.”
“Good to know your crime spree is over.”
She laughed, seeming genuinely amused. “You know, I like you, Detective. Ryne.” Her foot, shod in toeless fuck-me heels, touched his leg under the table, not quite accidentally. “Don’t ask me why. Normally cops are too humorless for my taste. God knows my sister is.”
He was suddenly supremely aware of the one-way mirror on the wall to his left. He didn’t think Abbie had come in yet, but if she had, she’d be behind it, watching. Fuming. “Your sister isn’t a cop.”
“Close enough.” As if reading his thoughts, she slid a glance toward the one-way mirror. “Where is she anyway? Does she know I’m here?”
Ryne studied the woman carefully. She wasn’t an easy read. “What do you think?”
“I think you didn’t tell her. I
think you’re in for a real ass chewing when she finds out you talked to me.”
The assessment was dead on. Eerily so. Skirting it, he reached into the folder again. “I had some questions I wanted to ask you about an ongoing investigation.”
“I’ll save you a little time. I don’t know anything about the Nightmare Rapist.”
His hand stilled for an instant in the act of withdrawing the photos. “I didn’t say which investigation.”
Callie lifted a shoulder, left bare by the gravity-defying strapless shirt she wore. “You didn’t have to. The Nightmare Rapist is your case. Probably the only one you’re working on. Least that’s the take I got from those TV clips you and Abbie were in.”
Not for the first time, he damned the press conferences Dixon had insisted on calling. They’d been more hindrance than assistance. He splayed the photos of her in the bars on the table before her. Some of the shots were McElroy’s, others taken by the officers he’d placed there. She gave them a cursory glance. “You seem to be a popular lady.”
She began drumming her fingers on the table, a rapid little tattoo. Nerves? Or boredom? “Maybe you’d like to see why I’m so popular.” She leaned forward suddenly, propping her arms on the table and giving him an eye-popping view of her cleavage. “Cops like it wild. That’s what I always heard. And crazy broads are the wildest in bed.” She winked again, but there was no humor in her expression. “And we both know you think I’m crazy.”
She’d managed to catch him off guard. Had Abbie told her that? In the next moment, however, he recovered, noting her speculative expression. She was playing him, the same way he’d planned on playing her. And he had to admit she was good at it.
He nudged the photos closer to her. “I’d like you to take a look at these and identify the men in the pictures with you.”
She picked up the photos, fanning them out in her hands like a poker hand. “Who took them?”
“How well do you know the men you’re pictured with?”
Callie eyed him as she let the photos drop back on the table. “Well enough to fuck ’em. Is that what you want to hear?”