Waking Nightmare
Page 17
Cynicism traced through him as all the pieces clicked into place. “And I’m supposed to trust you to be completely objective about this . . . person’s trustworthiness, right?”
Dixon bared his teeth. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Okay, my informant is the woman I’ve been banging for the last few months, happy? She knows this Larsen, actually ran the test for her, which could get her in trouble, since it wasn’t on the books. She made a copy of the tox screen and gave it to me.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable.” A man at a nearby table turned to look at them, but Ryne ignored him. It was a new low for Dixon, but he shouldn’t be surprised. He was, however, entitled to be royally pissed. “You told your girlfriend about the drug used in the course of the rapes? The most important piece of this asshole’s MO—the information we’re keeping out of the press—that qualifies as pillow talk for you?”
Dixon had the grace to look discomfited. “It’s not like that. Paula . . . the woman I’m . . . seeing is the lab supervisor at St. Joseph/Candler. She documented the results from two of the other victims treated there. Of course when she saw another similar screen, she told me.”
It was Ryne’s nature to be suspicious. Came in handy on the job and it sure as hell helped when dealing with Dixon. “Exactly when did you find out about the tox screen?”
Leaning back in his chair, Dixon checked his watch. “That really isn’t pertinent.”
“Humor me.”
“Three weeks ago. And don’t start unloading on me. It was just a few days ago that she let me know about Larsen’s PTSD. I decided the similarities bore checking out, so I’m turning it over to you. End of story.”
Incredulity fought with anger. Ryne shook his head in disbelief. “And so you decided to play God with this information and keep it to yourself until now. To hell with the fact that another woman got raped in the meantime, right? What was important was keeping your screwing around quiet.”
“I still expect that to be kept quiet,” the man snapped back. He leaned across the table, his expression grim. “My possession of that tox screen is illegal, but it might be a link to the rapist. That’s why I’m turning it over to you.” His mouth twisted. “And spare me the holier-than-thou shit. We all have our addictions, don’t we? It’s hell when they interfere with our work.”
The remark hit Ryne in the gut like a well-aimed jab. He sat back, an eerie sense of calm coming over him. He had a feeling that the words were the most sincere ones Dixon had spoken to him since he’d come to Savannah. “Why don’t you say what’s really on your mind, Derek. You want to talk about Boston? Let’s talk.”
Dixon dug in his pocket for a bill, and tossed it on the table. Rising, he shrugged into his tailor-made suit jacket. “You know the problem with being the brightest star in the sky, Ryne? All eyes are on you when you burn out and fall to the earth. I saved your career from the trash heap, buddy. How about showing a little gratitude?”
He walked away then, his acid-edged words etching a path through Ryne’s tattered conscience. His gaze dropped to the untouched glass before him, but it was the past he was really seeing. Deborah Hanna’s vacant eyes. The censure on his captain’s face. The too-impassive mask of the department shrink. No one to blame but himself. Nothing to do but find a way to live with it.
Without conscious decision, he reached for the glass. The liquor seared a path down his throat as he downed it in one gulp. Slamming the glass down, he shoved away from the table and strode out of the bar.
Senseless tragedies occurred every day, a sad fact of nature. But those that resulted from a personal failure were the bitterest of all.
A couple hours at the gym hadn’t done much to take the edge off Abbie’s mood, so she’d given up, showered, and gotten dressed. If five laps and a punishing hour in the ring weren’t enough to get her mind off the case, nothing would.
The thought of her empty house was unappealing. Although she wouldn’t trade her job, the constant travel and equally impersonal temporary living quarters were its biggest drawbacks. She’d saved a long time to buy a small wooded acreage in Virginia that she’d then spent years stamping with her own personality. She’d slowly begun to fill it with antiques and primitives she’d discovered when she had time to browse the back road shops in a three-state area. The result was a serene, comfortable residence, and the only place she’d ever really felt at home.
She’d long since discovered that one way to make the constant travel easier was to always pack a few favorite special items to give her a sense of home. But those items weren’t enough to lure her back to the rented house either, because it would be the charts she’d made that would engross her upon returning. The grids and logs detailing every fact of the case that led to knowing the UNSUB better.
And thoughts of the case would invariably lead back to Ryne.
In an effort to prevent that, she headed for the historic district. An hour spent driving along the streets lined with moss-draped oaks, admiring the intricate ironwork and varied architectural styles, went a long way toward doing what the workout had failed to accomplish. It was difficult to remain self-absorbed in the face of over two centuries of history. A city that had withstood wars, fires, epidemics, and hurricanes with such elegant grace had a way of putting personal turmoil in perspective.
And there was little reason for her turmoil, in any case. Abbie turned on Oglethorpe, the street police headquarters and the Colonial Park Cemetery were located on. She was here for one reason only, and it was time to refocus on that reason, and stop considering the reactions of Ryne Robel. Whether he agreed with her assessment of the rapist or not, she’d done her job on the profile. She was on to something; she could feel it. And she’d follow up tomorrow with renewed questions for the surviving victims and see if she could paint an even clearer picture of the offender they were hunting.
Mind more at ease, she headed for her rental. It had been well over two decades since a man’s moods had been allowed to affect her in any appreciable way, and that wasn’t going to change now. She wouldn’t let it. Ryne had a right to his opinion, but opinion wouldn’t decide the course of this case. Evidence would. They were united in their search for the facts in this investigation.
Checking her side mirror, she accelerated and changed lanes. But still the memory of the look in his cold blue eyes had a shiver snaking over her skin. Because in some ways they were farther apart than ever. And the desolation that filled her at the realization was as unfamiliar as it was frightening.
Chapter 12
Dusk had painted long shadows across the small yard by the time Abbie pulled up to her rental. The property wasn’t equipped with either garage or carport, so she always parked at the end of the drive close to the back of the lot.
She’d just gotten out of the car when she saw the figure on her back porch. Her reaction was instinctive. In one smooth move she ducked, grabbed the weapon from her ankle holster, then rose, with her Sig in her hand, using the car for cover. The entire sequence took just a few seconds.
But in the next moment recognition slammed into her. Apprehension quickly followed.
“Abbie, love, I know I haven’t been good at returning phone calls lately, but don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Callie Phillips rose from her perch, a careless smile on her face. “What? No hug for the prodigal sister?”
In a distant part of her mind, Abbie was aware of long-held defenses clanging into place. She replaced her weapon and rounded the car, into her sister’s outstretched arms.
“Oh my gosh, it’s been too long.” Callie gave her a squeeze before holding her away, a critical eye sweeping her. “Ab, you’re positively wasting away. Do you eat?”
Sidestepping the question, Abbie countered, “Why didn’t you let me know you were in Savannah?”
“I wanted to surprise you.” A laugh gurgled out of her as she mimicked Abbie’s earlier police stance. “And I did, didn’t I? I’m lucky I didn’t get a bullet for my efforts.”
But she was thinking now, furiously. Without seeming to, she watched Callie carefully as she regaled Abbie with her latest exploits, a recent trip on a friend’s yacht to the Grecian isles that had ended with motor problems, a police raid, and a marriage proposal. Her first impression was that the last four months had been rough ones for her sister.
Callie’s blonde bombshell looks were just as striking as ever, but there was a brittle air about her that had been absent the last time they’d seen each other. Was it Abbie’s imagination that her sister’s voice was just a little manic as she prattled on about boyfriends, breakups, and job prospects? Although she hated herself for it, habit had her forming a mental checklist to tally warning signs that would indicate whether her sister was off her medication.
Was the constant stream of chatter a bit too frenetic? Were her actions overly dramatic, her choice of topics too random? Abbie sent a circumspect glance at her sister’s arms, bared by the form-fitting tank top she wore. There were no visible tracks, but when Callie was abusing drugs, she was more apt to take something she could inhale or swallow.
She smiled and nodded in conjunction with Callie’s infrequent pauses, while all the time weighing every nuance in her sister’s voice, each expression on her face. The silent evaluation was second nature to her.
Probably not on anything chemical, including, unfortunately, her prescription drugs. Her movements were quick, energetic, and the monologue hadn’t stopped, but segued into a humorous recounting of Callie’s attempt to bring some French brandy through airport security. She was possibly already in a hypomanic state.
But it was possible she was just excited to see her sister, wasn’t it? That her long absence had her missing Abbie and wanting to reconnect?
Even while reason overrode emotion, Abbie was surprised at how much she wanted to believe that. To believe for at least a time that they were normal sisters, with a relationship forged in love, rather than trauma.
Following her sister into the house, she continued to study Callie, noting her lack of color, despite the tale of the long cruise, and she knew the truth. But it didn’t change her feelings. Not then. Despite the worry that always accompanied thoughts of her sister, she was the only family Abbie had. And for the next few hours she was going to concentrate on that fact and that alone.
The other woman unerringly stepped over the too-high lip where living room carpet met kitchen linoleum. Abbie had tripped over it more than once her first few days living there.
“Callie?” She waited for her to turn, her perfect profile in sharp relief as she looked over her shoulder.
Abbie shut the door behind her. “It really is good to see you again.”
Ryne knew he ought to feel worse about ending eighteen months of sobriety. But it wasn’t the two fingers of Jim Beam he’d been regretting for the last couple hours. Once he’d gotten past wanting to follow Dixon out that door and kick the shit out of him, he’d been unable to get the man’s disclosure out of his mind. He’d come back to headquarters and checked the databases for everything he could find on Karen Larsen, and the fire that had destroyed her home. The information he’d uncovered had only led to more questions.
Was it really possible that there was another victim out there? One who had failed to come forward, despite the media coverage of the rapes? Or perhaps because of it? And if so, could she have information that might, finally, give them a valuable lead in this case?
Questions without answers, at least until tomorrow. Larsen wasn’t picking up her phone, and that was probably just as well. If she’d been willing to speak to the police about the incident, she’d have done so. He had to get a handle on her mind-set to figure the best way to approach her.
And unfortunately, the person best able to predict that for him was going to be in no mood to talk to him right now, about the case or much else.
Thoughts of Abbie had his jaw tightening. Whatever his opinion of her latest theory, he’d have preferred to keep her profile within the department. Dixon had blown that possibility by releasing it to the press, who, from all accounts, were having a field day with it.
That wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t deny blaming her earlier today when Dixon had announced his intent. He shoved back from the computer. The only thing he hated worse than apologizing was recognizing how badly he needed to.
Scowling, he rose and grabbed the jacket he had hanging on the back of the chair, before heading out of the building. Abbie might be tempted to throw the apology back in his face, but she was too professional to allow her temper to impact the case.
He lifted a hand in an absent farewell to the desk sergeant and pushed open the double doors to the outside, jogged down the steps. Even while he remained adamantly unconvinced of the validity of Abbie’s theory, he wanted—needed—her opinion on another aspect of the case. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be lost on Abbie either.
But the woman who answered the door was definitely not Abbie. Blonde and stacked, her skimpy clothing showed off a figure that was centerfold material, minus the staples.
“Well, hello there,” she purred, leaning one hand against the doorjamb as she opened the door wider. “If you’re part of Savannah’s welcome wagon, I just might make my stay here permanent.”
Over the woman’s shoulder Ryne saw Abbie approaching quickly. He noted the exact moment she saw him. Observed the falter in her step. The way her expression closed. There was a kick in the gut at her reaction, but he pushed aside the response.
“Detective Robel.” Abbie’s formal tone was surely for the other woman’s benefit. “Callie, I need a few minutes with the detective. We won’t be long.”
Callie. Ryne’s attention bounced back to the blonde. Whatever he’d pictured from Abbie’s brief description of her troubled sister, this woman didn’t come close to matching it. There was no family resemblance to speak of. She was several inches taller than Abbie, light to her dark. Everything about her, from her casually tousled long hair, to her careful makeup, to the clothes that could have been spray painted on, was designed to draw attention. Next to the flash of her sister, Abbie should have faded into the woodwork.
But she didn’t. He wondered now if she’d spent her childhood trying to, starting with the clothing she chose, which covered up as much as her sister bared. Callie would draw a man’s attention, but Abbie would keep it. Her smoke gray eyes whispered of secrets that were a hundred times more seductive than the blatant promise in her sister’s gaze.
“Don’t be rude, Ab. Let the man in.” Callie moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and stepped aside. Abbie was about to move past her sister, clearly set on a brief conversation with him on the porch. He forestalled her action by stepping inside.
In a movement meant to seem accidental, Callie shifted as well, so that he had to brush up against her to get into the house. She gave a husky laugh, laying one hand lightly on his chest. “My sister isn’t used to having men show up on her doorstep unannounced. Unless . . .” She threw a speculative glance at her sister. “Were you expecting company, Ab?”
“Detective Robel and I are working together on a case.” Abbie’s tone was flat.
“And here all this time I thought your work was boring.”
When Callie’s fingers started to trace lightly down his shirtfront, Ryne caught her wrist and removed her hand. “You’re Abbie’s sister, right? How long have you been in Savannah?”
She pouted a moment, then backed up to rest a hip against the cupboard. “Not long.”
He considered her for a moment. If she was responsible for the break-in and the brick through Abbie’s car window, she’d been here since the beginning of the week, at least. “Savannah’s a beautiful city. I’ll make you a list of ‘don’t miss’ sights if you want.”
Callie’s smile was e
nigmatic. “I’m not much for sightseeing.”
He folded his arms across his chest, ignoring the simmering impatience emanating from Abbie. “If you’re into the night scene, I understand that Houlihan’s or Starz are pretty popular. Steer clear of Joe’s on Forty-Ninth. And there are some dives over on Locust that get pretty rough. Someone got stabbed at Topsiders earlier this week. I think it was the bartender.”
“It was a customer. But don’t worry.” She fingered her necklace, an action meant to draw attention to her cleavage. “I can take care of myself.”
“Good to know.”
“Was there something pressing that brought you here?” Abbie’s tone was pointed.
Ryne allowed his gaze to drift back in her direction. There were storms brewing in her eyes. He seemed to have a knack for putting them there.
“Is that pizza?” He walked by them to the box sitting on the stove. “Any left?”
“Help yourself.” Callie sauntered over to open the box for him, revealing four slices of pepperoni. He would have preferred sausage, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“You can take it with you,” Abbie said from behind him. She wasn’t attempting a dispassionate tone anymore. He took a bite of pizza and looked at her. She was well and truly pissed, and something inside him lightened. He didn’t know what it said about him that he’d rather see her irate than to look at him with that blank expression she had down pat, but there it was.
“Abbie, stop. The man’s hungry.” Callie gave him a slow wink. “I enjoy healthy . . . appetites . . . myself.”
Because he suddenly had trouble swallowing, Ryne continued chewing. Subtlety obviously wasn’t a trait Callie cultivated. “Did you fly into Savannah from Atlanta? Any problems with that?”
As Callie launched into an animated tale of her travels, he listened silently while he demolished the rest of the leftover pizza. And it occurred to him somewhere between the second and third slice that there was yet another difference between the two women.