Waking Nightmare

by Kylie Brant

“Woman living alone, coming home late . . . it was after the bars closed, right?” She didn’t wait for Larsen’s nod before continuing. “The report says you managed to escape before the fire truck came by smashing the bedroom window with a chair and climbing out. But the lock on your front door wasn’t secured when the firemen got there.”

  Karen checked her watch. “I have to get going soon. I’ve got to be at work.”

  “By eleven, you said.” Abbie smiled easily. “We have a bit more time. Do you remember locking the front door?”

  “If you say it was unlocked, I believe you.” The woman shrugged, looked embarrassed. “You have to understand, I don’t normally hang out in bars. I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “How much did you have to drink that night?”

  “A half-dozen margaritas. And my usual limit is two, so I topped the stupidity factor in all areas that night. Now I’m living with the consequences, right?”

  Because she detected the self-recrimination in the woman’s tone, Abbie sent her a commiserating smile. “Must have been a really bad day. I’ve had them myself. Something happen at work?”

  “No.” Karen twisted a silver ring on her finger. “I was just feeling kind of blue. Lonely, I guess. I’ve only lived in Savannah since March and I haven’t met that many people.”

  “So you just wanted to get out for a while to a place where crowds gather and interact with people,” Abbie said encouragingly. She didn’t look at Ryne but was aware of the way he was sitting back, letting her assume the lead in the interview. “Sounds perfectly normal. Did you meet anyone special to pass the time with?”

  “Ran into some women I know from Memorial.”

  “Is that the hospital you work at?” asked Ryne.

  “One of them. I’m a temp nurse. I go wherever there’s a shortage. So I’ve worked at all the hospitals and some of the private practice clinics in the area, filling in as needed. You can actually make better money doing that than you can in a full-time nursing position,” she explained. “If you don’t mind the uncertain hours and last-minute calls.”

  “So you hung out with these women most of the night.”

  Larsen shook her head slowly, her gaze sliding away from Abbie’s. “Just chatted for a few minutes.”

  “Meet any interesting guys while you were out?”

  The woman’s expression closed. “I wasn’t out looking for men. I’m not a slut. I don’t do that. I’m not like that.”

  The vehemence in her voice made it obvious that Abbie had struck a nerve. Striving for a note of humor, she said, “Sometimes we don’t have to be looking, we just have to be there. Men are like flies. They don’t wait for an invitation to land.”

  An unwilling smile tugged at Larsen’s lips. “Yeah. Well, I encountered a few bar flies, but no one special. And I really have to go, or I’m going to be late for work.”

  She rose, and Ryne and Abbie followed suit. “One more thing, Ms. Larsen,” Ryne said. “Could you verify the places you went that night prior to returning home?”

  Larsen looked wary. “Why?”

  “Just part of our investigation.” He checked a page in his notebook, reading off the list she’d given to the officer on her case. Looking up, he said, “Are there any others that you forgot to mention earlier? Maybe one you didn’t stay long at?”

  She swallowed hard, shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why are you here? What difference does it make where I was? What case are you working on?”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Abbie said. She already had more questions than when they’d come here, but she knew they’d get no more from the woman right now.

  They walked themselves to the door, as Larsen seemed to be rooted in place, next to the couch. Ryne opened the door and Abbie turned, as if just remembering something. “Oh, Karen. The fire investigator’s report mentioned as many as a dozen partially consumed containers, of the type used to hold candles. Did you light them all that night?”

  “I must have.” Her voice was flat. “I probably did. Candles are romantic, right? Until one burns down your house.”

  “Men are like flies?”

  Still in the process of buckling her seat belt, Abbie smiled at the wry note in Ryne’s voice. “Just establishing a rapport. I didn’t mean it. Much.”

  He flipped his glasses open and settled them on his nose before turning the key in the ignition. “I can imagine you’ve had your share of men circling around you. And we didn’t cover this earlier, but just so you know . . . I’ll be the only one ‘landing’ on you for the near future.” The look he sent her was unmistakable, even with the shades shielding his eyes.

  “What a lovely sentiment,” she said tartly, smarting at the crude innuendo. “Maybe you can have it inscribed on a greeting card.”

  He turned his attention back to the street as he pulled away from the curb. “It was your analogy. And it’s been a long time since I’ve done exclusive. But this . . . with us . . .” He halted, then muttered what sounded like an obscenity. “As long as this lasts, I won’t share,” he said flatly. “If that’s a problem for you, better tell me now.”

  Her throat clogged, her ire of a moment ago fading as abruptly as it had formed. She believed his assertion that he hadn’t had a long-term relationship for a while. If anyone had “lone wolf” written all over him, it was this man.

  Which made her reaction to his demand all the more powerful. The fact that he wanted an exclusive relationship now, with her, had tiny bursts of pleasure pulsing through her system. And alarm. That, too, of course. His notion that she had scores of men waiting in the wings was as ridiculous as it was flattering.

  As was his assumption that she would know how to handle an “exclusive” temporary sexual relationship with him.

  She busied herself tightening the seat belt that didn’t need adjusting. “I can live with that.”

  “Good. So what’s your take on Larsen?”

  Not for the first time, she was grateful at the way he could skate from personal to professional in an instant. “She’s hiding something, that’s a given. How far did the officer go to check out her story about the bars?”

  “Not very.” Ryne took a left to head back to headquarters. “There was nothing suspicious about it. The fire investigator determined early on the source of the fire, and the insurance company is claiming negligence and balking at paying. It looked pretty cut and dried, although Shepard, the investigator, says she was damn lucky to escape through a window. The flames had already spread to block Larsen’s exit from the bedroom door. She got out a few minutes before the first fire truck rolled up.”

  “She’d have to be sleeping pretty soundly for the fire to have gotten that far without her waking up.”

  “Maybe she was passed out.”

  “And maybe she was tied up, and couldn’t get free before then.”

  They shared a glance. “A definite possibility. A good length of cord was found on the floor next to the bed.”

  They mulled that over for a moment. “All those candles,” Abbie mused. “A dozen, you said.”

  “That’s right. Nearly three o’clock in the morning, she comes home from a night of drinking, ‘wasted’ by her own account, and lights what would be, by anyone’s estimate, a large assortment.”

  “Not that it happens frequently, but when I’ve had too much to drink, all I want to do is go home and go to sleep. What about you?”

  His hesitation was barely noticeable. “I don’t drink anymore.”

  Anymore. She hadn’t missed the inflection he’d given the word. Nor had she missed the no trespassing signs in his voice. She filed the statement away to be explored later. “But she doesn’t go to sleep; she lights candles. Leaves the front door unlocked.” She shot him a glance. “What’s that sound like?”

  “Like she was expecting someone.”

  Abbie nodded. “The way she nearly lost it when I asked about meeting a man downtown . . .”

  “Guilty conscience, maybe. Like someone wh
o invited a guy she met downtown to meet her at her place. But why try to hide that? Why not give the guy’s name up?”

  “Could be like she said,” Abbie picked up the thread effortlessly. “Inviting a strange man home might be totally out of character for her. Maybe she’s embarrassed about it.”

  “A different MO, if it’s our guy, though.” Ryne braked suddenly when another car switched lanes without signaling. “He doesn’t pick up women in bars, risk being ID’d later.”

  She gave it some more thought. “Does this drug have to be injected? Can it be ingested instead?”

  “No idea. Hopefully that’s something the GBI chemist will able to answer for us. You’re thinking something could have been put in one of her drinks?”

  She nodded. “One way or another, the drug is the link. She came into contact with it during the night or once she got home. We just need to have a few more answers before approaching her again.” And she needed time to research Larsen’s background. She didn’t want to mention that to Ryne right now, unwilling to disturb the easy camaraderie they’d fallen into.

  “I want to get a look at the scene of the fire. Want to come along?”

  Although she was tempted, Abbie shook her head. She could always check out the site later. “Take me back to headquarters to get my car. I’d like to start checking out those bars she listed. I want to learn everything I can about Karen Larsen by the time she gets off work this afternoon.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Might as well show Juarez’s picture around those places, too. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Any sign of him since you assigned a door knock?”

  “He was holed up inside the apartment, just like we thought. After our guy talked to him, he started back to work the next day. We’ve still got someone on him. Maybe he’ll venture out to resume his crappy social life this weekend. No one can stay locked up in a dive like his forever.”

  Remembering the state of Juarez’s apartment from their search of it, Abbie was inclined to agree. “It will probably take me a while to find out who was working at each of the bars on the night in question and get those people in to talk to them.”

  “I’ll send a couple officers with you.”

  She’d need the show of SCMPD muscle, she realized. She had no visible means of authority to convince the management to talk to her otherwise. He pulled into the parking lot of police headquarters and cruised to a stop beside her rental. She released her seat belt and opened the door. His voice stopped her exit.

  “Abbie?”

  Turning, she found him looking at her, expression impassive, his hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. But he said only, “Keep me posted.”

  Five hours and a gallon of water later, Abbie had little to report but rapidly eroding patience and limited progress. She’d underestimated the amount of time it would take to gather time sheets and work schedules in each of the drinking establishments from that far back. After the first stop, she’d wised up and dispatched two of the three officers Ryne had assigned to the next two bars on the list, to get the process started there. And even after all that effort, she got the same story from every waitress and bartender she spoke to.

  No one could say with any certainty that they recognized Larsen, although waitresses in two establishments had hesitated over her picture. She’d scored no better showing Juarez’s likeness. The only thing lifting her spirits as she walked into The Loose Goose was that it was their final stop of the day.

  A blast of cold air hit her as Abbie pushed open the door, and squinted in the dim light to find Officers O’Malley and Dugan. O’Malley spotted her and crossed the room. “Got someone who recognized her, Ms. Phillips.” He jerked his head toward the man behind the bar, slowly wiping its surface. “Jim Cordray. He was working that night till closing time.”

  “Thanks, Tom.” Moving past the man, she approached the bar, aware of the bartender’s searching gaze all the while.

  “Mr. Cordray, I’m Abbie Phillips, with the SCMPD. I’m told you recognized a photo Officers O’Malley and Dugan showed you.”

  The bartender’s shaved head gleamed under the light overhead. From the breadth of his chest and biceps, he looked like he bench-pressed Volkswagens in his off-hours. She wondered if he doubled as a bouncer when he wasn’t mixing drinks. He was a walking poster boy for steroid use.

  “Recognized the broad, not the guy.”

  “Okay. So you were bartending that night?”

  “That’s right.” He made no effort to hide the interest in his gaze as it raked over her form. “She was downing birdbath margaritas like they was water.”

  “Birdbath margaritas?”

  He turned and got an oversized goblet and sat it on the bar in front of her. Abbie’s brows rose. Given her height and weight, she was a real lightweight in the alcohol department. Two drinks of that size would have had her incoherent.

  Karen Larsen was half a foot taller than she was, but if she’d had a few of these, it was little wonder that she’d been wasted. “How long was she here that night?”

  He shrugged. At least she thought that’s what it meant when those massive shoulders rippled toward his neck. “Don’t know when she came in. But she was sitting up here at the bar for a couple hours and she was still here at closing time. Already pretty loose by the time I noticed her. And it was hard not to notice her.”

  “Because?”

  “’Cuz she was showing off the goods, ya know what I mean? Tight top, short skirt . . . got a nice rack on her, but her ass is a little flat for my taste.” He gave up the pretense of mopping the bar and leaned his elbows on it, giving Abbie another once-over. “I ain’t got nothing against smaller packages, though.” When he smiled, a gold front tooth glinted.

  “I’m sure you’re intimately acquainted with small packages,” she replied blandly. Officer O’Malley turned his chortle into a cough as Cordray’s brows furrowed. “Did she leave alone? Did you notice anyone in particular spending time with her?”

  “She left alone. And she was chatty. Talked to lots of people while she was here. No one special.”

  Abbie studied the man then took a guess. “Did you go home with her?”

  Sending a glance at the man, presumably his boss, at the end of the bar still talking to Dugan, he replied, “Nope.” He resumed wiping the bar in a desultory fashion.

  “But she invited you, right?” When he didn’t issue a denial, Abbie went on, “See the way I figure it is, I’ve been to five other places and no one can recall her being in there for sure. The places were packed, hard to remember someone weeks later. But you not only remember her, you recall what she was drinking and wearing. That tells me there was more than simple observation going on. You and she were flirting, right? And when closing time came, the two of you were planning to see a little more of each other. Nothing wrong with that. Two consenting adults, right?”

  “Right.” Cordray gave her a slow wink. “And you know what they say about ladies all being ‘tens’ at closing time.”

  “So how’d it go? She gave you her address? You followed her home, or did she wait for you?”

  He shook his head. “Neither. I was gonna head over to her place after we closed, but then my prick of a boss”—he jerked his head in the direction of the middle-aged man at the end of the bar talking to Dugan—“he counts the take and says the register is off a couple hundred bucks and he about goes ape shit. None of us can leave until the dough is found, and that means we’re all standing around here for three more hours, unpaid, ’cause he’s threatening to call the cops and turn us all in.” He gave his employer a hostile glare. “Asshole.”

  Three hours. If his story checked out, that would mean it was at least five before he left here, and the emergency call from Larsen’s was placed at four-fifteen.

  “Were you the only one mixing drinks while this woman was in here?”

  Cordray ignored the question, clearly filled with self-righteous anger
. “’Course after all that time he finally figures out that he counted wrong—twice—but does he apologize? Hell, no. We’re all out several hours’ sleep because the asshole never passed fourth grade math.”

  Summoning patience, Abbie repeated the question.

  “Naw. There were a couple of us. Benny was working the bar that night, too. I know he fetched at least one drink for her because it was him who pointed her out to me.”

  “What about when she left? What kind of condition was she in then?” Given the drug’s disabling properties, Abbie doubted whether Larsen could have come in contact with the drug prior to her arrival here and still be functioning. But then, she’d managed to break a window and escape her bedroom, ostensibly with the drug in her system.

  “Same condition as most who left here. Drunk. But not so drunk that she wasn’t thinking straight. She called her own cab on her cell. Made it outside without help.”

  Almost certainly the woman wouldn’t have managed that if the drug was already in her system. Abbie made a mental note that they were going to have to get Larsen to voluntarily offer them a copy of her tox screen to justify their possession of the copy Dixon had given them.

  The possibility seemed no more improbable than retrieving any more useful information here today. Even realizing that, Abbie settled more comfortably on the barstool and asked resignedly, “The other guy bartending that night. Is he here?”

  Laura Bradford smiled as her date excused himself from the table. Having to take a cell phone call on a Saturday night might have raised warning flags had it been anyone else, but Warren Denton was a high-powered local criminal attorney. Given his job, she could believe he was never really off duty.

  Nerves jittered pleasantly in her stomach as she took a sip of what tasted like a very expensive wine. As a court stenographer, she was used to being invisible. It had taken Denton well over a year to even speak to her when they’d run into each other outside the courtroom; another year before he’d asked her out. And she definitely wanted this to go well. Although twice divorced, Warren was articulate, charming, well dressed, and handsome. It didn’t hurt that he was also wealthy and obviously didn’t mind spending his money. The Balustrade Revolving Restaurant, perched atop a downtown high-rise, was one of the city’s most exclusive.