Waking Nightmare (20 page)
That attempt wasn’t helped by the sight of Ryne, looking lean and dangerous with a black ribbed pullover shirt and a stubbled chin. A wheat-colored collarless jacket hung over the back of his chair.
It wasn’t until his gaze met hers that she realized she was staring. Her tongue felt suddenly thick. “Do . . . do you have time to give me a quick rundown of the updates?”
Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. “I’m going to have to leave pretty soon. I’ll print out a copy for you, though.” He swiveled his chair to the computer on his desk and tapped in a command. A moment later the printer across the room whirred. He got up to retrieve the pages, and stopped at his desk for another sheaf of papers, setting both on her desk. “I wanted your thoughts on the interview with Juarez’s ex-girlfriend.”
He perched on the corner of her desk, and leaned forward to flip through some pages until he found the one he wanted. “When you talked about this guy practicing or role-playing with wives or girlfriends . . . is this what you were talking about?”
Abbie seized on the subject gratefully. Anything to tear her gaze away from the sight of that black-clad muscled thigh situated too close to her. Scanning the papers rapidly, she said slowly, “It could be. Especially for someone who was just starting to enact his fantasies, before they’d gotten very detailed. How long were they seeing each other?”
“Rivera says just a matter of weeks.”
She nodded. “It’s possible he would have gotten bolder with her . . . demanded more, if they’d stayed together longer. Of course,” she added wryly, “this could just be someone with a master-slave fetish. It’s certainly not uncommon.”
“So your answer is . . . yes? But maybe no?”
She grinned at his wry tone. “Exactly.”
“Very helpful.” He straightened, but didn’t move away. “And about as definitive as the rest of the leads in this case. Cantrell and McElroy did come up with a few names when they talked to prostitutes about guys who roughed them up. We’re following up on those. All we could charge Juarez with at this time was assault and possession, and he made bail this afternoon. I’ve got guys on him around the clock, though.” He stopped, but she didn’t respond. “Go ahead and say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know. And very loudly, too. You still don’t think it’s him.”
“I think,” she said carefully, “that forming opinions before looking at every lead thoroughly can blind us to—”
“Bull. You don’t think it’s him. But we have every reason to focus on him.”
“Yes.” Because it put a measure of distance between them, she leaned back in her chair. “Juarez is a valuable lead in this case, whether he’s the perpetrator or not.” Ryne hadn’t said where he was going. Given his dress, she’d guess he had a hot date, and the thought had her stomach clenching.
“Right.” He seemed to have forgotten all about having to leave. “Because of the positive blood match in his vehicle.”
She nodded. “His SUV was used in the commission of a rape, and regardless of his direct involvement, that makes him one more intersection. We’ve been concentrating on figuring out how the victims came to the perp’s attention. Now we have one more person to consider. If Juarez isn’t our UNSUB . . . how did
he
come to the perp’s attention?”
he
come to the perp’s attention?”
“Whether he’s the perp or another victim, we’ll pull on the threads of his life and see where they lead us.” He nodded toward the update he’d printed out. “What the detectives have gotten so far is there. They’ve talked to his neighbors, his cellmates, and all his relatives around here . . . tomorrow they’ll be hitting his workplaces and hangouts.”
She considered telling him about the half-formed theory she’d come up with today, decided against it. She wanted to finish researching it, to get all her facts together to support her case. That’s what had brought her back to headquarters tonight, to use the databases here.
With another look at his watch, he reluctantly got up. “I have to go. I’m supposed to make an appearance at one of Dixon’s BBQs.”
The revelation eased something in Abbie. So he wasn’t heading off to a date. She had absolutely no reason to feel this lighthearted at the realization. “You sound thrilled.”
“Yeah.” He crossed to his desk and grabbed his jacket, but didn’t put it on. “I hate these kind of things. SueAnne, his wife, is a sweetheart, but Dixon will have the place packed with political types I like to avoid. Only reason I agreed to show up is to get some time alone with him to talk him out of calling a press conference on the case.”
The statement had her heart sinking. “A press conference? He shouldn’t do that.”
“Tell me about it.” Ryne’s expression was grim. “I know the media coverage has been fierce but the last thing we need is a frenzy. We’ve got nothing to give them that will be helpful, so we shouldn’t give them anything at all.”
Abbie wholeheartedly agreed. The media could be invaluable when a description of a suspect or a vehicle was available. Or if a warning needed to be issued to a specific group of people. Neither scenario was the case here. If Dixon was considering using the media just to help bring in tips, a press conference wasn’t needed.
Trepidation filled her. Oftentimes the powers that be merely used them as a ploy to calm a panicked public. Or to present a competent face on the investigative effort. Neither would aid the investigation in any measurable way.
“Talk him out of it,” she said bluntly.
“Like I said, I’ll try. If Brown is there, maybe I can get some help from him.” He stopped, looked over at her. “Want to go?”
“Me? Why?” She was surprised at the sudden invitation. Almost as surprised as she was at the pleasure it elicited. After last night, she shouldn’t even consider spending more time alone with him. Not that a barbecue presented an opportunity for a reenactment of that kiss, but after it was over . . .
“You could help me talk Dixon out of a press conference.” Ryne’s smile was lopsided, and all too appealing. “We could double-team him.” Her attention was only half on his words. The material of his shirt stretched over the muscled planes of his chest that she had explored last night. Still wanted to touch more intimately. And the strength of that desire was enough to convince her.
She shook her head, with more regret than she’d like to admit. “I’m not dressed for it, and I need to work something out here.” The thought of spending time with him, away from the case, away from headquarters was all the more tantalizing for recognizing that it was an incredibly bad idea.
He still hadn’t moved, as if reluctant to leave. Because his smoldering gaze was too difficult to return, she picked up a pencil from her desk, worried it with her fingers. “I’d appreciate any insights on getting Ashley Hornby to talk to me,” she finally blurted out, compelled to fill the silence that stretched between them. “I haven’t been able to get her to answer her phone or her door, although her neighbor assures me she’s home.”
She’d succeeded in distracting him. His face lost the intent expression he’d been regarding her with, a familiar professional mask shifting back into place. And even as she felt a measure of relief, something deep inside her mourned the change. “I’m not sure if she’s even ambulatory yet. The perp did a lot of damage with that hammer. But I never got more than that first interview from her myself.”
“Maybe I’ll drop by again tonight,” she said, cocking her head to look at the watch on Ryne’s wrist. An interview with Hornby could round out the theory she was still formulating, or shatter it completely. One way or another, she felt an increasing urgency to discover which. “I couldn’t find any contact information for next of kin in the case file.”
“She’s got a sister who’s traveling in Africa. While Hornby was hospitalized, we sent word through the church that’s sponsoring her mission trip, but it’s hard to know when the message will catch up with her.”
Abbie nodded, already planning to work on any friends the woman had who might help her convince the woman to cooperate. It was unusual for a victim to withdraw completely from the investigation, but not unprecedented. If nothing else, Abbie wanted to make sure the woman’s mental health needs were being taken care of. Remaining alone and isolated after such a trauma wasn’t in Ashley’s best emotional interests, even if it felt like it in the short term.
“So.” Ryne took one last look at his watch. “I really have to go.” He sounded about as enthusiastic as if he were heading to a funeral. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nodded. “If you can corner him alone long enough, give Dixon your best shot.”
“Oh, I’ll corner him.” Ryne’s smile was grim as he picked up his coat. He gave her one last long look before lifting a hand and moving away. “Don’t work too late.”
He’d taken only a few steps before he hesitated, then turned back to her. “Listen, about last night . . .”
Panic sprinted up her spine. It took every bit of courage she could muster to meet his gaze and say carelessly, “Forget it. Never happened.” An expression flashed across his face, too quick to be identified. Anger? Frustration?
“Oh, it happened,” he retorted, his tone silky. “And I’m having a helluva time forgetting about it.”
He turned then and wended his way through the sea of desks without looking back. Which was just as well, since Abbie would have hated to be caught with her jaw open, watching those lean hips walk away.
Once he was out of sight, she leaned back in her chair bonelessly, released a shuddering breath. She’d thought he’d be relieved. By treating the matter casually, she’d given him an out. Given both of them one. But he hadn’t acted relieved. His admission had blindsided her.
I’m having a helluva time forgetting about it.
Maybe she should be gratified that he’d been as affected by that kiss as she had. Certainly she shouldn’t be feeling this blank terror as she contemplated getting involved with a man who didn’t meet any of her usual criteria.
Ryne wasn’t safe. He wasn’t easily controlled. And he wouldn’t be effortlessly dismissed. But realizing that didn’t lessen his appeal. Just the opposite.
Resolutely, she forced her attention back to the report he’d printed out for her. But after she attempted to read the first page three times, she muttered a curse and stood, stuffing it in her case folder to look it over when she got home.
She walked to the computer in the corner of the office and sat down in front of it, punching in the password Ryne had given her to allow her access to the police databases. There had never been a man alive who could distract her from a case, and Ryne Robel wouldn’t be any different, no matter how well the man could kiss.
Within twenty minutes she was so deeply engrossed in her research that thoughts of Ryne were relegated to a distant part of her mind. Not banished. That task seemed beyond her. But once again the case was uppermost. And Abbie knew she was going to have to be satisfied with that.
When people made it this easy, they sucked the pleasure right out of it.
The tipsy man stumbled out the side door of the bar into the alley, leaned against the wall of the building. Long seconds passed, but no one came to join him. He fumbled in his pockets, then a lighter flared. He’d come out for a smoke. Unfortunate for him.
“Please. Could you help me?” The voice was just right. Weak. Timid. Not the kind to cause alarm.
The man started, looking around. “Wha—? Oh.” Peered through the darkness. “Sorry, dearie. Didn’t see you there.”
“I had the same idea as you.” The rueful tone was masterful. “Came out for a ciggie and tripped over something in the alley. I may have broken my ankle. Do you think you could help me up?”
The man had already tossed his cigarette and was teetering to the rescue in his platform shoes.
Platforms. Where did people find that stuff?
Platforms. Where did people find that stuff?
“Oh, my heavens! Are you in dreadful pain? Do you think you’ll be able to walk?”
“Maybe. If you put your arm around me and lift . . .”
“Put your hand on my shoulder.” The smoker giggled breathlessly. “We’ll be a pair. I can barely walk my—” His words were cut short by the arm around his throat, holding the chloroform-soaked handkerchief to his face.
He put up a struggle. That got the juices flowing. The man spun around, clawing wildly at the handkerchief. But all too soon his struggles faded. His body went limp.
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