Waking Nightmare (7 page)
“Fast work. I’m impressed.” The voice was pleased. “I’ll overnight your delivery. Same mail drop?”
“Yes.” Business concluded, the call was disconnected. It was tedious to have to deviate from planning to arrange a trip, but well worth the hefty supply of drugs and syringes received in exchange. Totally anonymous. Completely un-traceable.
Several clicks of the computer mouse fast-forwarded the movie before halting at the best part. The moment when the woman first realized her suffering wasn’t at an end. That there was something more in store for her.
Watching the sheer horror on her face was almost as thrilling as being there. Almost. Yes, Billings had been nearly perfect.
But the next one would be even better.
Ryne rested his chin on his folded arms upon the kitchen table and stared at the two fingers of Jim Beam in the glass before him. Memory, that sneaky bitch, supplied him with vivid sensory details. He could almost taste the scorching path the liquor would take down his throat. Could feel the burn as it pooled in his belly. Could remember the compulsion to follow the first shot with another. Then another.
Somehow in the grip of that thirst, it was easy to forget the repercussions of too frequent late nights, too many empty bottles. Simple to slip into the rationalizations that could almost convince him the events of a year and a half ago weren’t his fault. That Deborah Hanna’s blood wasn’t on his hands, as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.
But he couldn’t dodge the truth when his head was clear, and after eighteen months of sobriety, sometimes in the middle of a puzzling case, or after a particularly exhausting day, the truth pounced with the feral savagery of a wild animal.
Someday that truth would devour him.
But not tonight. The ring of his cell phone shrilled, cutting through his dark thoughts. He pulled it from the pocket of the jacket he’d slipped over the back of the chair, read the number on the screen. Dixon’s home number.
Ryne glanced at the clock as he flipped the phone open. Nearly 1 a.m. Surely Dixon didn’t have news about the case. Although he’d insisted on being personally involved, his role was merely supervisory.
“This is Robel.”
After his answer, there was a minute hesitation before he heard, “Ryne? Did I wake you?”
Wariness rose as he recognized the voice. Not Dixon at all, but the man’s wife. “SueAnne. Is something wrong?”
“No. Well, Holly is sick and her fever is really starting to scare me. Derek said y’all had a meeting tonight but I haven’t been able to reach him. I was just wondering if you were with him. If I could talk to him.”
She finished on a rush, and Ryne could feel lead settling in the bottom of his gut. He’d always liked SueAnne Dixon, with her pretty blond looks and Southern belle manners. He’d wondered what the hell she’d seen in the womanizing prick she’d married. The same prick who’d used him, used this case, as a cover tonight.
“Sorry, I’m at home. But if you need to take her to the hospital, I could come over and stay with Hillary until Derek gets back.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you. I’m probably worrying about nothing. But I’d like to let Derek know. If I just knew when to expect him.”
In that moment Ryne realized Holly Dixon wasn’t nearly as sick as her mother let on. And while he wasn’t going to lie for her worthless husband, neither was he willing to be the one to shatter the precarious trust she still might have in the man. “I expect he’ll be along shortly. But I mean it, SueAnne. I can be there in twenty minutes if you need me. Don’t know much about babysitting four-year-olds, but I don’t figure Hillary can give me much trouble while she’s sleeping.”
“You’d be surprised.” His words had eased something in her voice, and he didn’t know whether to be glad or ashamed. “I’ll just wait up for him. You’re probably right, and Derek is on his way. I’m sorry about bothering you, but now that I’ve got you on the phone, I’m going to scold you about turning down all our barbecue invitations.” Her tone went teasing. “I don’t think I’ve seen you more than twice since you moved down here.”
He got up and reached for the glass, carried it to the sink, and dumped it out. “You know how it is. New job. Heavy caseload. I’ll make it over again one of these days.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. Oh, I think I hear Derek now.” She hesitated. “I feel so silly . . . I sure would appreciate it if y’all didn’t mention this call to him. He’s always accusing me of overreacting.”
“Sure thing, SueAnne,” he said gently. When she hurriedly said good-bye, he disconnected, then stared for a moment at the phone in his hand. He hadn’t lied to her, but he’d misled her all the same. A better man would feel bad about that, but it wouldn’t rank too highly on his overburdened conscience.
Ryne plugged the phone into its charger before heading to his bedroom, where he already knew sleep would elude him.
If SueAnne Dixon wanted to believe the lies her husband told her, who was he to knock her faith? They all made choices.
The hell of it was living with them.
Abbie paused to appreciate the historic brick structure that housed police headquarters before heading up the steps. With its tall white-trimmed windows and ornate gingerbread, it looked to be a couple of centuries old. Spanish moss hung like ragged lace from the huge oaks surrounding it, and next door was an old cemetery. Jogging up the steps, she wondered how many of its occupants had been “guests” in this building prior to their demise.
The desk sergeant directed Abbie to the conference room, where she’d found the task force grouped yesterday morning. She slipped in the door, recognizing the detectives she’d met yesterday, as well as several uniformed officers. Only Ryne was absent.
“Good morning.”
The others nodded at her greeting, except for McElroy, who looked up from the chair he was lounging in. “Hey, Tinkerbell. Get coffee, would ya?”
Abbie raised a brow and sank into a chair. “I don’t want coffee.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t get it for the rest of us.”
She’d met plenty of men like McElroy, those who used charm if they possessed it, intimidation if they didn’t to get what they wanted. And he’d intimidate some people. He had a good foot and a hundred pounds on her, an ex-football player’s build that had softened but not yet run to fat. His swarthy skin would always make him look like he was suffering from a mild case of sunburn. With his slicked-back hair and cheap sports jacket, he looked more like a used car salesman than a cop.
“Sorry, Nick.” The door opened again as she spoke. “I hadn’t heard about your accident.”
McElroy glanced around at the others in the room, then back at her. “What’s that?”
“The one where you broke your leg. Left you unable to wait on yourself.”
The other detectives laughed, and McElroy’s expression darkened. “You want to see my
leg
, sugar, that can be arranged.”
leg
, sugar, that can be arranged.”
“A tempting prospect, but I’ll pass.”
“If you want coffee, McElroy, get it when we’re done here. I’d like to get started.” Abbie looked up to see Ryne standing at the table positioned in front of the room. A fifty ish man in a rumpled suit took a chair near him. His face was heavily freckled, and his ginger-colored hair stood up in little tufts all over his balding head. This must be Captain Brown, Ryne’s immediate superior in the case. Dixon had mentioned him, but had also emphasized that he was personally overseeing the investigation himself.
Ryne’s gaze traveled over those assembled in the room, lingering for a moment on her. He didn’t look like he’d slept much better than she had, although undoubtedly for different reasons.
“Phillips, you want to update the others on what the canvass turned up last night?”
Abbie rose, faced the rest of the detectives. “The neighbors to the south of Billings, a couple in their sixties, are on vacation in Montana, visiting relatives. There’s a divorced guy on the other side of her home, Kevin Williams, a machinist who works second shift. Said he was at work, and he checks out. Officers will be following up today with any neighbors not contacted last night. So far no one saw anything suspicious, with the exception of Ethel Krebbs, who lives two blocks south of Billings’s street.”
“Don’t tell me,” McElroy drawled. “Ethel Krebbs saw the whole thing from her picture window.”
“No, but she called in to the department with a complaint about an older-model SUV parked in front of her house. She was expecting company and wanted it moved. No one checked it out.” Abbie shrugged. “It’s not private property, so it was probably considered a low-priority call. When her company left at nine, it was gone. But she was upset enough to jot down the license number of the vehicle.” A curious stillness settled over the room. “We ran the plates and they’d been stolen off a ’99 Chevy Impala a week ago.”
Cantrell spoke up. “She get the make and model of the SUV?”
Abbie nodded and shot Ryne a questioning look. He picked up a sheaf of papers he’d brought in and walked over to Cantrell, handed it to him. “We’ve run vehicle registrations for older-model Broncos. Also have the stolen vehicle reports for the last two weeks. Wayne, you and McElroy can go through these and see what you come up with. Isaac, I want you to work the dog kennel angle. Check out the manufacturer, who sells that type around here, how many, do they keep records . . . you know the drill.”
Holmes’s expression managed to look even more hang-dog. “Needle in a haystack,” he muttered.
“Yep. But this is the haystack we’re shaking today.”
“What about Tinkerbell?” McElroy shot Abbie a pointed look. “What’s she gonna be doing? She sure as hell doesn’t fetch coffee.”
Ryne’s face went expressionless. “Ms. Phillips will be working on establishing a profile of the rapist.”
The air in the room went abruptly charged. Isaac Holmes looked at her. “What precinct you say you’re from, Phillips?”
Abbie opened her mouth to answer, but Robel beat her to it.
“She’s an independent consultant. Commander Dixon made the decision to contract with an outside agency, Raiker Forensics. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” There wasn’t a hint of emotion in Robel’s voice. To Abbie’s ears, his dispassionate tone was as damning as a shout.
“Un-fucking-believable.” McElroy glared at Ryne. “She’s not even a cop?”
“You want a profile, you should have just asked.” Cantrell’s smile was chilly. “White male, between twenty and forty. Marginally employed. History of abuse toward women. Isn’t that what you guys always come up with?”
“Depends on the evidence,” she answered evenly. “And the pattern. But it’s too soon for me to reach any conclusions. At this point, it hasn’t even been determined that the rapist is male.”
McElroy guffawed and Ryne glared at him. “I think what Ms. Phillips is saying . . .” he started.
“What I’m saying is it’s too soon to narrow our focus. It probably is a man. Better than ninety-nine percent of rapists are. But this one incapacitates the victims and never undresses. Given the haziness of the victims’ memories, I’m not ready to rule anyone out yet.”
“So I guess we know what Robel’s doing today,” McElroy said in a loud aside to Cantrell. “Tracking down those dangerous female rapists we got running all over Georgia. Lucky bastard.”
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