by Kylie Brant
“Hard to remember that far back,” Amanda murmured, but it was clear from her expression that she was trying. In the end she was able to recall six or seven new places she’d stopped with friends, although she couldn’t be certain how long before the rape she’d visited them.
“How many people knew about your grandfather’s beach house?” Robel had covered the question in his interview, but something about the location of the rape still nagged at her.
Amanda shrugged. “Of my friends, you mean? All of them. I . . . had a key made a couple years ago. My grandparents don’t use it that much. I’ve had some parties there. You know how it goes. People I know bring people I don’t. Seems like my entire dorm has been there at one time or another.”
And even if they had only heard mention of a party, it would be easy enough to discover the home’s location, given the owner’s name.
“It all comes back to this, doesn’t it?”
Something in the girl’s tone drew Abbie’s attention. She looked up from the pad she was writing on. “What’s that?”
Amanda’s lips trembled before she attempted to firm them. “I just can’t stop thinking about it. Like maybe there’s some guy I never paid much attention to. Not someone I turned down for a date or anything. I told the detective about them. But I feel like it’s someone I’ve missed somehow. Or discounted. Like maybe I hardly even spoke to him or noticed him at all. And for a long time he harbored this resentment toward me because of that . . .” Her voice hitched.
Abbie could hear Amanda’s mother in the hallway. Their time together was almost up. “Well, there, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” She got up and fetched a Kleenex to hand to the girl, who wiped her eyes swiftly before balling the tissue in her palm.
“How do you know that?”
“None of the other victims are associated with beauty pageants or go to the local college. You aren’t the same age and you have little in common. But somehow you all came to this guy’s attention. Which tells me it probably isn’t something you did or didn’t do to someone you barely know. This guy is preying on women because they meet some criteria that only makes sense to him. And the sooner we figure out that criteria . . .”
Amanda’s eyes were no longer tear drenched. They looked cold and hard as she finished Abbie’s sentence. “The sooner you can catch the son of a bitch and put him away.”
A faint smile on her lips, Abbie nodded. “Exactly.”
Robel wasn’t at his desk when Abbie got back to headquarters, and she couldn’t help feeling a little relieved. She’d noticed him watching her a couple times earlier that day, a speculative gleam in his eyes, but other than inquiring about her arrangements with a glass company, he hadn’t mentioned anything about the break-in.
He hadn’t forgotten her request for a complete copy of the investigation, however. There was a fat accordion file setting on her desk, a match to the one on his.
She sat down at her desk and turned on her laptop. It was a half hour after shift change, but she doubted Robel had left for the day. His suit jacket was still hanging over the back of his chair. He kept even later hours than she did. There was nothing to take up her time other than the reason that had brought her to Savannah, but she would assume Robel had a personal life to tend to.
Not even to herself did she want to admit a curiosity about just what his personal life entailed. A wife? A family? It’d be a safe bet to guess he was divorced, since divorce rates among cops were nearly double the national rate.
But guessing was all she could do, because Robel had never so much as hinted about his personal life. And given her reluctance to do the same, her curiosity about his was a bit ironic.
Shoving the man from her mind, she began transcribing the notes she’d taken at the hospital. The selection of the beach house for the location of Amanda’s rape still bothered her. Had it been chosen because it belonged to the mayor? For that matter, had Amanda’s selection been based on her relationship to her grandfather?
“Are the other guys already gone?”
She started at Ryne’s voice behind her, then swiveled her seat to face him. “I’ve been back about twenty minutes and haven’t seen any of them. Why?”
He grabbed his suit jacket. “A black-and-white called in with a vehicle matching the description of that SUV your witness ID’d, right down to the plates. The officers are watching it until I get there.” As he spoke, he shrugged into the jacket and headed toward the door.
“I’m coming, too.” Abbie pressed Save and sprang out of her chair. Robel didn’t slow down and he didn’t look back. He couldn’t have made it clearer that her presence was neither wanted nor needed. But she’d be damned if she’d let him cut her out of what might turn out to be the first real break they’d caught in the case.
Haskin’s 24- Hour Valu-Mart anchored a strip mall on the northern edge of Savannah. Although the rest of the establishments in the mall appeared closed, the parking lot in front of Haskin’s was still three-quarters full. The large sign above the storefront proclaimed it the home of discount prices.
Ryne spotted the black-and-white pulled up next to a small compact that had come in bruising contact with a Cadillac Escalade, parked unscathed nearby. He found a parking spot and got out, approaching the officers, Phillips at his heels.
He flashed his shield at one of the uniforms, a craggy-faced man with a buzz haircut. With a quick glance at his nameplate, he said, “Wilhm? You the one who caught the stolen plate number on the Bronco?” At the officer’s assent, Ryne led him a few feet away from the other officer, who was moderating the argument between the car owners, a short mustached man and a bejeweled soccer mom.
“We responded to the call about the accident about a half hour ago, and I spotted the Bronco plates a little after that. Next row to the west, almost all the way down.” Wilhm gave a slight nod in that direction. “We’ve got a list of DCBs in the car, that’s why it popped for me. Look familiar?”
Ryne had made the decision to release daily confidential bulletins to patrol officers, with relevant case developments. It extended the reach of the task force to every beat officer in the department. Folding his arms across his chest, his gaze lingering on the vehicle the man indicated, he gave thanks now for his foresight.
“It fits,” Phillips murmured.
“Have you seen anyone near it?”
Wilhm shook his head. “Not since I’ve been here.”
“All right. Hang around out here and keep an eye on it while we go in to talk to management.”
The officer nodded, his gaze drifting back to his partner, who was unsuccessfully trying to calm both drivers. “No problem. We won’t be done here for a while anyway.”
When Ryne turned around, Phillips was already headed toward the store. He easily caught up with her. Her stride was much shorter than his, and he threw a bemused glance at her legs. They were encased, as always, in black pants. She’d barely meet the old height regulation for police officers, but it wasn’t just her height that had warranted McElroy’s nickname for her. She was small. Hands, feet, features. Almost . . . he searched for the adjective. Dainty. Yeah, that was the word. Like one of those porcelain statues that cluttered the shelves of his mother’s apartment.
The detailed physical description made him edgy. No reason it should, really. It was an effortless, natural observation for a cop.
Noticing that her pants covered a shapely butt and that there were definite curves beneath her fitted shirt, though, was a natural observation for a man.
He scowled, quickened his step. The last thing he needed right now was to be aware of Phillips, in any way other than as a colleague. And one that had been forced on him at that. He couldn’t afford to wonder about her, about the break-in at her place, at his instinctive recognition that she’d known more about it than she’d let on.
There’d been a time in his life when he’d cut a wide swath through the female population, but the last couple years the number of women had dwindled,
and he couldn’t much bring himself to care. It was actually pretty damn ironic. He’d started drinking to stop feeling—stress from the pressures of the job, memories of the faces of the innocent—and once he’d stopped drinking, he’d been numb. Now the job was the only thing he cared about, and he couldn’t say he much missed the rest. When he needed sex, he found someone who was looking for no more than he. A temporary relationship. With no pretense or promises on either side.
Phillips was here temporarily. But self-preservation was too ingrained for him to start anything personal between them. He’d recognized what had sent him to her house when he’d caught the call on the radio; what had kept him lingering there, when instincts had been screaming at him to keep his distance.
Protectiveness. And a woman capable of making him feel, anything at all, was one to stay far, far away from.
“So how are you going to play it? Have management announce the description and plates with a request to move the vehicle?”
“Yeah.” He was aware of the curtness of his tone, of her sidelong glance, but ignored both. It was too late to wish that one of the task force detectives, hell, any of them, had still been around to accompany him in place of Phillips. But it wasn’t too late to squelch this unfamiliar interest that he had in the woman. One he had no intention of indulging.
The harried-looking plump blonde introduced as the shift manager led them to an office cubicle at the side of store and wrote down the vehicle description and license number Ryne supplied her with. She grabbed an intercom mike, began the announcement, rattling off the information, then paused, released the button, and looked back at them. “Where is the vehicle located?”
“Northwest corner of the lot.”
She finished the announcement with that information. Pushing away from the desk, she asked, “Northwest? Under the ‘Real Deal’ sign?”
Ryne nodded.
“That’s where our employees are supposed to park. A black Bronco, you said?” She sucked in her bottom lip, apparently lost in thought. “Seems like Hidalgo Juarez drives a black Bronco. He’s on today, too. Showed up ten minutes late for work.” She shrugged. “Not my problem, really, since he’s not in my department, but he’s late more often than not. . . .”
“And where would we find him?” Abbie put in.
“He’s a meat cutter, so he’ll be in back, behind the meat department. Do you want me to call him up here?”
Ryne shook his head. “Take us to him.”
They followed the woman through the long aisles of the store, and into a side door that led to an area with a wall of walk-in freezers. The center of the room was lined with tables, behind which four men were wielding cleavers to chop at large slabs of meat.
It was easy enough to figure out which one was Juarez. He looked up at their entry, eyes widening when he spotted Ryne and Abbie behind the blonde. Ryne saw the intention in his eyes a split second before he acted.
Instinctively, he stepped in front of the blonde just as Juarez upended his table in their direction and took off toward the exit. The manager shrieked and one of the other men gave a shout, but Ryne ignored them. He leaped over the table and headed after the fleeing man.
“He’s still got that cleaver.” Abbie’s voice sounded right behind him.
Ryne didn’t need the reminder. He’d already drawn his gun. “Stop! SCMPD! Put down the weapon!”
Juarez stopped in the act of shoving open the outdoor exit and turned, hurtling the cleaver in their direction. Ryne dodged, knocking Abbie aside. The chopper sailed past them, clattered harmlessly to the concrete floor. She recovered first and gave pursuit, with him a step behind.
When they burst out the door, the man was racing across a short strip of cracked asphalt. Beyond it was a grassy area that was bordered on three sides by highway. If Juarez reached a road and took his chances with the traffic, their chances of apprehending him would diminish appreciably.
He jumped the curb and started across the field. With a sense of amazement, Ryne noted that Abbie had easily pulled away and was gaining on the other man. And although Juarez appeared to be getting winded, she showed no signs of slowing.
Ryne redoubled his efforts. If she caught up with the man, she’d need help subduing him. She wasn’t armed, and Juarez easily had six inches and sixty pounds on her.
Abbie had veered right, Ryne noted approvingly. Most suspects in a foot pursuit would make right turns when given the opportunity. In case he didn’t, he angled to the left. The odds were in their favor that Juarez would move in either direction. He fervently hoped the man would go left.
The fleeing man went right, heading for the highway with the heaviest traffic. Ryne changed direction. Abbie was now within six yards of the guy. Adrenaline pumping, Ryne figured the distance between the two and the looming highway and realized dismally that they’d never reach him in time.
The land was uneven and he saw Juarez stumble, right himself. To his amazement, Abbie closed the distance between them and then leaped, her body making a graceful arc before straightening into a vertical arrow. She struck Juarez head first, between the shoulder blades, and the guy dropped like a load of concrete. Breathing heavily, Ryne closed the distance between them, his gun trained on the fallen man. But Abbie already had him subdued, one knee holding him pinned to the ground and both arms behind his back.
He stopped a couple feet away. “SCMPD. You’re under arrest, dickwad.” And when Abbie’s gaze met his, there wasn’t a thing he could do to prevent an idiotic grin from spreading across his face.
Abbie entered the interview room and handed a folder to Ryne. The fingerprint database had yielded plenty of interesting information on Hidalgo Juan Juarez. She stared at the suspect slumped in his chair, and fought to keep an open mind.
It was dangerous for a profiler to draw impressions from anything other than the evidence at hand. Opinions, unsubstantiated by facts, could blind her to different prospects. Certainly this man’s height and weight were general matches to the description Barbara Billings had given. But the sullen answers he’d made to Ryne’s questions gave the impression of someone with low-average intelligence. She’d been betting their UNSUB—unknown subject—was batting a heck uva lot higher in the cognitive lineup.
Ryne let out a low whistle. “Appears you’ve been holding out on us, Hidalgo.”
The other man slumped a little farther in his chair. “Told you I did a stint at Dodge.”
“For B and E’s, you said. Failed to mention you were a weenie wagger.”
“I never did time for that.”
“Lucky public defender or a lenient judge. Doesn’t matter. You like to expose yourself to women. Young, old.” Ryne was skimming the record. “Weren’t too discriminating, were you?”
Abbie felt her interest sharpen. It was a myth that so-called nuisance crimes never escalated to something far more serious. She’d worked plenty of cases where the perps had started out as Peeping Toms or obscene phone callers.
“That was a long time ago,” muttered Juarez. “Not anymore. Besides, what’s that got to do with stolen plates on my Bronco?”
Ryne snapped the folder shut. “Unfortunately for you, a lot. Your vehicle was seen in the vicinity of a rape that occurred a couple days ago.”
“What?” Juarez rose from his seat, his expression panicked. “I didn’t rape no one! I don’t have to. I got a girlfriend. You can ask anyone.”
“You’re going to want to sit down, Hidalgo.” Ryne’s voice had gone steely. He waited until the man sank into the chair again before continuing. “Your vehicle, bearing stolen plates, was described in a police report a block away from the location of the last rape. If we find any trace evidence inside linking the Bronco to the attack, then we’ve connected it to the rape, you got that? And given the fact that you ran when we came to question you . . . well, you can see how that looks to us.”
Abbie watched the man intently. He was sweating profusely, despite the air-conditioning. “You know why I ran.�
� “The baggie we found on you?”
Juarez nodded. “I don’t wanna get sent back to Dodge. I figured if I took off, dumped the pot before you caught up . . . nothing to tell my parole officer, you know?”
“Let’s forget the marijuana for the moment.” Ryne braced his hands on the table, leaned closer to the man. “Let’s even forget the little matter of assault on a law enforcement officer.” When Juarez screwed up his brow, Ryne elaborated, “You threw that meat cleaver, remember? But for now let’s focus on the Bronco. If you weren’t driving it, you must have loaned it out to someone.”
Juarez shook his head doggedly. “No, I never do that. I don’t got insurance. If I’m not using it, I have it parked in back of my apartment. I’m the only one with keys.”
“So maybe you can tell us where you were three days ago. Between five p.m. and twelve a.m., specifically.”
The man swung his gaze to Abbie, as if looking for help. She had none to offer him. Her interest in his answer was as keen as Ryne’s.
“I don’t know. Sleeping probably. I work two jobs. Usually first shift at Valu-Mart. Six in the morning ’til three.” “You were there tonight,” Ryne reminded him.
“Yeah, ’cuz I picked up another guy’s shift for him. He needed someone to cover and I could use the money, you know? Usually I get home around four and sleep until midnight, when I go to sweep up at Shorty’s Garage, over on First and Levine.”
“Do you drive to Shorty’s?” Abbie asked.
Juarez shook his head. “Naw, it’s only a few blocks. I always walk.” A few beats later he straightened, face brightening. “Someone must have taken my Bronco or something. It sits out back from four in the afternoon until I leave for work in the morning. I’d never know the difference.”
“Yeah, that’s a convenient story, all right.” Ryne’s sarcasm was all the more cutting for being controlled. He leaned forward, pushed a yellow notepad and pen toward the man. “Write down your whereabouts for last Tuesday night, from five p.m. until twelve a.m. I want every minute accounted for.”
