Waking Nightmare (8 page)
With effort, Abbie kept a smile on her face as the detectives laughed. “I’ve worked more than a dozen serial rapist cases in the last five years. Female perpetrators are rare, but I don’t rule out anything until the evidence warrants it. Generalizations are dangerous because they blind us to other possibilities.”
“Okay, let’s get to work.” At Ryne’s order, everyone rose, including Captain Brown. “If you run across something that sounds promising, I want to hear about it.”
The detectives filed out of the room.
“Ms. Phillips.” Brown paused before her and extended his hand. “Captain Dennis Brown. I want to welcome you to Savannah and the team.” His grip was firm, his faded blue gaze searching. “I’m sure Ryne will get you everything you need, but if there’s anything I can do, my office is upstairs.”
“Thank you. I look forward to getting started.”
He inclined his head and followed the others out the door. Abbie eyed his retreating figure speculatively. It was always telling to analyze the dynamics of the groups she worked with. And in those brief moments she’d gotten the distinct feeling that Brown was no happier about her being here than Robel was.
“I had another desk moved in, next to mine.” The detective gathered up his files quickly then straightened. “That will be your space for the duration.”
Next to his. Great. “Thanks.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” He fell into step beside her, his voice openly skeptical. “All that you were saying about women raping women. I mean. . . seriously.”
She stifled a sigh. Leave it to him to completely miss the message she’d tried to get across. “It’s a remote possibility. But it’s a possibility until we prove otherwise.”
“You really think this guy on the loose in Savannah might be a female?”
“No.” She pushed by him and went in search of her desk. “I
think
he’s a perverted sadist—a male sadist—who gets off by inflicting horrendous torture on his victims and then fantasizes about it for weeks afterwards. We just don’t have enough to prove it yet. But that’s what I’m being paid for, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
think
he’s a perverted sadist—a male sadist—who gets off by inflicting horrendous torture on his victims and then fantasizes about it for weeks afterwards. We just don’t have enough to prove it yet. But that’s what I’m being paid for, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
It was nearly dark before Abbie reached her house again. When she was on the job, there were few other distractions, so she usually kept long hours. If she was going to be here for any length of time, however, she needed to find a gym to work out in. She made a mental note to ask Robel about it tomorrow.
Robel. She parked the rental car in the driveway and then got out, locking it with the remote. His attitude toward her assignment to the task force hadn’t softened appreciably. But she’d completed entire cases without having the lead investigators ever make nice. The job was still possible. It just made for a tense way to work.
She started toward the house, still preoccupied with the case. She wanted to interview all the victims herself. She’d already set up a meeting with Amanda Richards, the mayor’s granddaughter, for the next morning, in her hospital room. She was being prepared for her third surgery since the attack. From the photos in the file, it was apparent the damage had been. . .
Abbie stopped. Then in one smooth movement she bent, slipped the weapon from her ankle holster, and trained it on the back door, which was standing ajar.
Glass littered the steps from the shattered window in the door. The method of entry had been crude, but effective. She thumbed off the safety on her Sig, while reaching for the cell phone in her purse. After calling it in, she replaced the phone and circled the house.
The front door was still shut. She climbed the porch and tried the doorknob. Locked. Completing her journey around the house, it was evident that the intruder had entered and left the same way.
If he’d left at all.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Keeping her weapon steady, Abbie climbed the back steps and nudged the door open with the toe of her shoe. She stepped into the kitchen, surveyed the area, and found it empty.
The house was a small L shape. The kitchen opened on to the living room, and the bedroom and bath were on its right. Her gaze flicked to the cellar door. The latch was in place. She continued into the house carefully, the glass crunching underfoot the only sound in the stillness.
The only things out of place were the three framed pictures she’d brought with her and set on the mantle of the small fireplace. These were lying facedown on the floor, as if someone had knocked them off with one swipe of a forearm.
There were few hiding places in the room, but she checked them all. Behind the couch. In back of the recliner. And more cautiously, the front closet. Nothing.
She could hear tires screeching to a halt in front. Giving the bathroom a swift look, she focused on the bedroom. A quick search convinced her the prowler was no longer around. Abbie reholstered her weapon, her gaze trained on the gaping doors to the bedroom closet. Fabric littered its floor. She approached it, stared at the savagery that had been done to her wardrobe, and felt her stomach hollow out. For the first time she considered that the “intruder” was probably all too familiar to her.
She walked back through the house and met the two officers at the back door, hands by her sides. “I live here. I made the call about the break-in.”
“Please step to the side, ma’am.” One officer passed by her, weapon ready, while the other stopped in front of her. “I’ll need to see some ID.”
The officer was young, no more than mid-twenties, with the regional drawl rounding the vowels of his words. But his gaze was sharp, shrewd, and he hadn’t lowered his weapon.
“Abbie Phillips. This is my SCMPD identification badge.” She unclipped it from the pocket of her shirt and handed it to him. He scanned it, looked at her.
“Special consultant? To what?”
“I’m working with the serial rapist task force.”
The other officer returned to the room. “Place is empty.”
“You shouldn’t have entered the place before we got here, ma’am.” A hint of censure colored the first cop’s tone as he handed the badge back to Abbie. “Whoever broke in here could have still been on the premises.”
She didn’t want to complicate the matter by explaining that she was armed. That Raiker refused to allow his investi gaters to work without weapons. The cop, Dale Mallory, was right, in any case.
“Doesn’t look like anything is missing,” she said. The only things of value she brought on a case were her Sig and laptop, and she’d had both with her. “Just vandalism. Is this neighborhood prone to that sort of thing?”
Mallory had holstered his gun and pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. “Not really, but there’s a high school a block from here. Could’ve been kids.”
An all-too-familiar apprehension knotted her stomach. Now that she’d been over the premises, she was anxious to have the officers gone. Anxious to be alone to consider the complicated ramifications of the situation. But the cops methodically took down her information, asking her questions that she couldn’t answer entirely truthfully. No, she hadn’t lived here long. She’d only gotten to town a couple days ago. Yes, she was living alone. No, she hadn’t met anyone outside of work since arriving. She had no idea who could have done this.
She uttered the last lie without a qualm. She’d long ago mastered the art of delivering one without hesitation. Remarkable how old talents surfaced under times of stress.
“Officers.” Abbie’s head jerked at the familiar voice. Ryne stepped in the back door and flashed his shield at the two policemen. “What have you got?”
Both men’s attention switched to the newcomer, and Abbie attempted to hide her dismay. His presence seemed to shrink the already small area of the kitchen in a way the other officers’ hadn’t. She didn’t miss the deferential tones with which the two men addressed him, nor the fact that after that first lightning glance over her, his attention hadn’t strayed in her direction again.
She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want that shrewd focus narrowed on her, on her personal effects, asking questions she had no intention of answering, and drawing his own conclusions.
His appearance rattled her in a way the break-in hadn’t. Abbie got a garbage bag from beneath the sink and left the officers explaining the situation to the detective. Swiftly, she returned to her bedroom and gathered up the fabric littering the closet floor, stuffing it in the bag. Then she removed the ruined shirts from their hangers and discarded them as well. There was no way of salvaging the shirts after the sleeves had been hacked off, in any case.
She suspected the “vandal” had counted on that.
“So, the uniforms said there wasn’t much damage.”
Abbie rose, the half-filled garbage bag clenched in one fist. The doorway framed him, and she knew, with a sinking certainty, that the image of him standing in it would prove difficult to dismiss from her memory. He was an intriguing man, even when he annoyed her. Which so far was most of the time. “More of a nuisance than anything else.”
His gaze went beyond her, lingering on the open closet and empty hangers. “Weird sort of thing for an ordinary vandal to do.”
“Breaking and entering falls under the ‘weird’ category altogether, doesn’t it?” She brushed by him, went back to the kitchen, dropping the bag and grabbing a broom tucked into the corner. The policemen were gone, no doubt dismissed by Robel. If she’d had her preference, she’d have taken their presence over his.
If she had her choice, he’d never have come at all.
“I can patch that window for you.”
“It’s okay.” Aware her tone had been short, Abbie softened it. “Thanks, but I can take care of it. Tomorrow I’ll call a glass company to come do a permanent fix.”
“And a security company. Whoever did this could return. Next time they might damage more than just your shirts.”
“And a security company,” she repeated, straightening to face him. She’d have agreed to just about anything at that point to get rid of him. To be alone with the worry that had lodged in her chest ever since seeing her closet.
His gaze searched hers, but she kept her expression blank. She knew that fact didn’t escape him, but he said only, “I think I’ve got some things in the trunk to fix the window.”
“That really isn’t . . .” He was already walking through the door.
Frustrated, she used the handle of the broom to knock out the remaining shards of glass from the pane. His stubbornness wasn’t exactly a newsflash, given their association up to this point. But somehow right now she found it even more irritating.
She finished sweeping up the glass and dumped it in the trash bag. Then, when he approached the back porch again, she went back to the living room and picked up the displaced pictures. The glass in each had been cracked by the fall, so she removed each picture from the frame and discarded the ruined glass. Then she replaced the photos on the mantle.
“All done.”
She turned when the voice sounded behind her. “That was fast.”
Ryne approached. “Just some cardboard and duct tape. It won’t hold long. Don’t put off calling that glass company.”
“I won’t.”
He passed by her to study the pictures. Nerves skittered along her spine. It was ridiculous to feel exposed as he perused the only faintly personal touch in the entire room. Ridiculous to feel weak, as if his learning anything about her left her vulnerable in a way she was always careful to avoid.
He tapped the unsmiling man next to her in one picture. “Who’s this?”
“Adam Raiker.”
“I remember reading about his last case for the Bureau. Caught by the serial killer he was pursuing, right?”
Although she doubted she knew much more than he did, she said, “Wilson Corbin. Raiker rescued his hostage, but Corbin got away. Adam pursued him and ended up being captured. He was held for three days before he managed to get free and kill the man, despite his injuries.” And the injuries Raiker had sustained had been substantial. That was clear from the picture, even after nearly seven years. A hideous scar bisected his throat. The cane he walked with was clutched in one hand, the eye patch he wore giving him a formidable look. It was an accurate enough depiction of his personality. Adam Raiker was the most formidable person she’d ever met, with a staggering intellect, caustic tongue, and incomparable talent. She considered herself fortunate to be working for him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t intimidated by him.
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