Waking Nightmare (23 page)
“I did that. The last time she let me inside.”
Ryne looked at Clemons. “What did you do exactly?”
“Ashley had me get a box from the bedroom and put a bunch of things away for her. Said she couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. I put the box in the spare bedroom closet.”
Turning on his heel, Ryne followed Abbie into the smaller of the two bedrooms. She already had the closet open and was on all fours, pulling out a good-sized box that had been shoved to the back of it. He squatted down next to her. “What do we have?”
Silently, Abbie drew one object after another out of the carton and handed them to him. Plaques. Medals. He read the engraving on one and frowned. “Princess Grace Award. What’s that?”
She put a framed photo in his hands in answer. He recognized a younger Ashley Hornby in the image, dressed in one of those frilly things dancers wore. The photographer had caught her in a gravity-defying leap.
“She was a ballerina.” Abbie spread the rest of the photos out on the floor next to them. “Or at least she had been. And judging from the awards, she was good.” She looked up at him now, and this time her face wasn’t expressionless. Bleakness had settled in her eyes. “An award-winning dancer reduced to a wheelchair. I think the UNSUB picked a great way to make her suffer, don’t you?”
Chapter 11
“How did Dixon learn of Hornby’s suicide so fast?”
Abbie and Ryne were heading up the stairs to Dixon’s office. They’d been ordered—there was no other word for it—to appear in the man’s office by two. And given Ryne’s expression during the course of the terse cell phone conversation with his superior, it hadn’t been a pleasant exchange.
“Who knows? But when he called, he’d already been contacted by the
Savannah Morning News
and WTOC.”
Savannah Morning News
and WTOC.”
Given the press this case had gotten, Abbie shouldn’t have been surprised the news had broken so quickly. Some enterprising reporter had been monitoring the scanner, probably, and followed the emergency personnel to the home. Once its occupant had been identified, it was only a matter of time before the media would be alerted.
She slid Ryne a sidelong glance. “I take it Dixon is . . . agitated.”
He gave her a grim smile, leaned to open the door to the man’s outer office. “I’ll let you judge that for yourself. Don’t know why he felt the need to have you here, though. I’m the one he wants a piece of.”
“Detective.” The attractive middle-aged woman behind the desk looked relieved at their appearance. “Commander Dixon has checked twice to see if you’ve arrived. You’re to go right in.”
Abbie raised a brow. She’d never been in the office when she hadn’t been kept waiting. Her stomach muscles tightened as she followed Ryne through the next door, into the inner office.
Dixon was standing before the bank of windows, arms clasped behind his back. Fingers of sunlight stretched through the blinds to gild his hair an even brighter shade of gold. Abbie had the cynical thought that the pose was a photo-op in waiting. Although their meetings had all been cordial, she was more familiar than she’d like with his type. He was an inch or so shorter than Ryne, a bit slighter in build, but any physical similarities stopped there. He lacked the detective’s outer toughness; he was more bureaucratic spin machine than cop.
Which only meant he presented a very different kind of danger.
The commander turned at their entrance, a somber expression on his face. “Ms. Phillips. Detective Robel. Thank you for coming so promptly. I know you both can appreciate how this suicide complicates an already complex investigation.”
“Right. It was pretty inconsiderate of Hornby,” Ryne replied laconically. Abbie wondered if she was the only one aware of his veiled sarcasm. Dixon seemed oblivious.
“Exactly. But as I mentioned on the phone, if you had kept up regular personal contact with her, perhaps this could have been prevented.”
The unwarranted accusation had Abbie springing to his defense. “Ashley Hornby’s despondence is most likely related to the assault and the lack of a support system around her.”
Dixon nodded. “Just as I—”
Abbie went on, “I’d tried to contact her numerous times in the last few days myself with no success. It appears that she’d cut off contact with her neighbor, with her doctor and physical therapist . . . short of breaking into her house and forcing a conversation, I’m not sure what else you could expect of Detective Robel.”
With a wave of his hand, Dixon dismissed her words. “We’ll never know, will we? Now we’re left with a situation, one that has to be handled in a proactive manner. I’ve contained the media up to now with press releases, but the mayor and the chief feel—and I agree—that today’s discovery calls for a different approach.”
A curious stillness came over Ryne. “You can’t believe that’s a good idea.”
Lost, Abbie looked from one man to another. There was an unspoken message passing between the two. The air in the room grew charged.
“You just assured the captain and me last night that you could put them off.” Ryne fairly bit off the words, his fingers curling into fists. “Hornby’s suicide is tragic, but we have no reason to believe it will change the scope of the investigation. Involving the media at this point will serve no useful purpose, and might even hinder us.”
Dixon took two steps to his desk, and braced his hands on it. His voice hardened. “Everything has changed, don’t you get that? I know you like to sneer at the public relations responsibilities of my job, but I have enough experience to know we’re about to reach a critical juncture here. If we don’t give the media something substantive, they’re going to start crucifying us in the press. And then, in short order, the public is going to be in a panic.”
He was actually considering a press conference. Abbie’s frustration matched Ryne’s. “I suspect this perp gets gratification from media attention. Why give him what he wants when there’s no benefit to us?”
The commander pinned her with a hard look. “Can you say with any certainty that the attention will cause him to escalate?”
She hesitated, shot a look at Ryne. He was regarding his superior with a carefully blank expression. “No,” she admitted with reluctance. “He doesn’t have a set pattern, but he acts fairly quickly. I think he gathers several prospective targets that meet his criteria, then singles one out and begins stalking her to learn her habits.”
With a humorless smile, Dixon said, “Well, then we have nothing to lose on that end. According to the profile you gave me this morning, you believe he’s already on the hunt for his next victim.”
That drew Ryne’s attention. His gaze nearly blistered her, but she answered honestly, “I think he’s selected her, yes.”
Slapping his hands on the desktop, Dixon straightened. “Even more reason to alert the public then. As a safety precaution. God knows we’ve got nothing of substance to give them. No description of the perp or vehicle . . .” He stopped, directed a look at Ryne. “Unless Juarez is looking good for the rapes.”
“We have no reason to eliminate him as a suspect.”
He couldn’t have said any more clearly that he still put no stock in the theory she’d run past him this morning. His skepticism still stung, but it wouldn’t be allowed to affect the way she did her job. It couldn’t be.
“We’ll have to tread carefully there,” mused Dixon, rubbing his chin. He was the picture of a man grappling with a weighty decision. Abbie wondered cynically if he was already practicing for the press conference. Every move he made seemed rehearsed, like an actor remaining in character. “If we say we have a suspect and then there’s another rape, we risk looking incompetent. But we have to provide assurance that the investigation is making progress.”
“The investigation
is
making progress.” The snap in Ryne’s voice was barely discernible. “But giving away too much will impede it. Nothing can be said about the rapist’s signature—the drug, the torture. Leave us something to use in any suspect interviews.”
is
making progress.” The snap in Ryne’s voice was barely discernible. “But giving away too much will impede it. Nothing can be said about the rapist’s signature—the drug, the torture. Leave us something to use in any suspect interviews.”
Dixon’s expression had gone deadly. The palpable antagonism between the two momentarily distracted Abbie from her concern over the publicity. There was history here, something that went beyond the professional to personal. She was finding it difficult to reconcile the man who had spoken so glowingly of Ryne’s abilities when she first arrived to the one who was skewering him now.
“Don’t forget, I’m still a cop, Robel.”
“Sometimes I need to be reminded.”
For an instant Abbie thought the commander would lose his careful poise. His nostrils flared, and patches of scarlet painted his cheekbones. But with a quick glance toward her, he visibly reined in his temper. Drawing his chair out from his desk, he sank into it.
“We’re done here. Press conference is in fifteen minutes. See Jean in the outer office for details. You have time to get your jacket, Robel.” The smile he directed at Abbie didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s time for you to freshen up, although I can’t say I can find room for improvement.”
Ryne’s expression mirrored her own wariness. “Us? Why do we need to be there?”
“Didn’t I mention that?” Dixon picked up a slim gold pen and threaded it through his fingers. “You two are the face of the investigation. You’ll be on camera, by my side.”
“ . . . and although we are deeply saddened by the death of Ms. Hornby, we cannot allow ourselves to be distracted from the hunt for the serial offender who assaulted her. This department is sparing no expense toward that end. We have nearly forty officers devoted to the case and they are pursuing each and every lead with all due diligence.”
Just stick to the sound bite, Abbie thought. If Dixon didn’t stray from generalities, he at least would do no damage to the case. She suppressed the urge to steal a look at Ryne, standing between her and Dixon. Captain Brown flanked the commander’s other side. The simmering fury that had been seething in Ryne when they’d left Dixon’s office probably looked good on camera. It could be mistaken for steely determination. She had less confidence in her own demeanor, which she was fighting to keep carefully expressionless.
“Is it true you have a suspect?” a reporter from the crowd called out.
“I’ll let Detective Robel respond to that one.”
Abbie hoped her shock didn’t show. Dixon had never indicated that either of them would be speaking. Ryne’s face when he took over at the microphone was grim.
“We have an individual of interest,” he said. Ignoring the excited buzz created by his words, he went on, “But everyone is a suspect until they’re eliminated. There is no call for public alarm, but basic safety precautions are always a good idea. Keep the entrances of the home well lit. Landscaping around the house should be low enough that it doesn’t offer concealment to an intruder. Dead bolts should be installed on all doors, and lower-level windows outfitted with tamper-proof locks or grills. Look out for your neighbors’ homes. Report any suspicious people or vehicles in the neighborhood. In short, be alert.”
He stepped away from the mike as another journalist shouted, “Commander, how do you answer the criticism that your department hasn’t made an arrest yet?”
Abbie held her breath. Even on their short acquaintance, she knew that type of question was sure to provoke a reaction from Dixon. While the conference had maintained an informational style, it was controlled. But there was usually nothing to be gained in taking questions.
“I can assure you that no one familiar with the case would level such a criticism.” For all his faults, Dixon’s composure was flawless when dealing with the press. “I happen to know the man-hours going into this investigation, and the overtime being put in by my lead detective to bring this offender to justice. We’ve put unprecedented resources toward that end, including hiring a private expert.”
Abbie’s bones turned to ice as the man raised a hand to indicate her before continuing, “Abbie Phillips is an expert in criminal profiling, and with her help we have a detailed picture of the sort of individual who would perpetuate such crimes. We will, of course, release the profile she’s prepared to the media.”
The clamor of voices intensified, but Abbie was oblivious to it. The blood was pounding in her ears, and nausea churned in her stomach.
And the hell of it was, she couldn’t be sure whether the sensations were due to Dixon’s unexpected ambush, or the cold hard condemnation she read in Ryne’s eyes.
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