Redeeming the Night (23 page)

Once he began passing on this information to the police, it became easier for Lydia to allow him to observe and question. She still didn’t like him “tagging along,” as she called it. However, she no longer threatened to arrest him when he showed up at a scene.

In fact, one of these tips started the action tonight. As the blaze consumed the remains of the house, Ryan scratched his chin thoughtfully. He climbed into his Jeep. He needed to get in place for the press conference.

• • •

Lydia eyed the collection of reporters waiting on the steps of the police station. Cameramen set up equipment along the back of a crowd. Reporters talked among themselves while they waited for her and the police chief to appear and step up to the bouquet of microphones that would catch their every word.

Inside, Lydia closed her eyes as she took a cool drink from a water fountain. Anything to quiet her shaking stomach. She hated this part of her job. She could handle a group of officers, the chief, or a stone–cold killer, but every time she stood in front of a group of reporters, she shook like a leaf.

“Simple stage fright. Nothing to worry about. You’ll get used to it,” they’d told her when she first made detective.

She’d been a detective for five years, and her stomach still did acrobatics when she had to talk in front of a large crowd. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the butterflies into a tight ball. Then she stood ready to face the cameras.

The chief of police, a short, balding man with salt–and–pepper hair and mustache, stomped down the hall in her direction. Although he couldn’t weigh more than 145 pounds soaking wet, Chief Fairweather waddled like a man three times his size.

An injury when he worked vice forced him to desk duty. His dedication to the force and his reputation for honesty got him elected as chief of police. He had an evident air of authority as soon as he entered a room.

As he approached Lydia, he winked. “Let’s do this,” he said. He was a great man.

She accompanied him through the doors, and the assembled mass of reporters quieted.

The chief stepped to the microphones. “Okay, the criminal known as the Bestial Butcher is presumed to be dead, killed in a shootout when my detective and several officers attempted to apprehend him. It also appears he was a drug dealer. As we speak, the fire department is putting out a blaze that destroyed him and the vacant house where we believe he’s been living. Once the fire is completely out, we’ll have forensic teams going over the area, and the coroner will remove and inspect the body.”

He looked out over the reporters’ heads, directly into the cameras. “Because of the dedication of the police force, another criminal is off the streets.” Again, he looked at the reporters. “We will now field questions.”

The reporters clamored. The chief pointed to a woman from Channel Sixteen News.

“So, how many people were victims of the Butcher?”

“So far, we can attribute twenty-four slayings to him. Once his body is in the coroner’s office, DNA will be taken, and we will try to match other homicides to the Butcher.”

“Can you give us some background on the killings?”

Lydia glanced at the chief, and at his nod, she responded. “At first, the laceration patterns on the victims appeared as if an animal had attacked them. In fact, after the first victim, police assumed they looked for a rabid animal.” Through act of sheer will, she kept her limbs from betraying her nerves.

“Only after the body count increased did homicide get called in; the killer was human. He hunted in an area too widespread for an animal to traverse. Several victims were attacked inside their apartments. We considered it unlikely a rabid dog would manage to go up five flights of stairs to attack a single individual in a secured building.”

More clamoring, then a man from CNN asked, “Is it true that all of the victims were women?”

Lydia answered, “No. In fact, there were several men. There was no discrimination in affluence, race, or sex. This, in particular, made it difficult to profile the killer.”

The same man asked, “What led you to believe you could make an arrest this evening?”

“We had a tip that he might strike again. During the stakeout, he appeared and attacked an officer, who was acting as bait.” Everyone started talking and Lydia raised her hand. “The officer wore protective gear and is in the county hospital with his family. He is doing fine.”

A man with the
Times
asked, “From whom did you get this tip?”

The chief stepped forward. “C’mon, Dave, you know most tips are anonymous.”

The conference continued with the reporters asking more questions about the victims and motives of the Butcher. The butterflies in Lydia’s stomach once again took flight. She shifted uncomfortably. Surely this couldn’t go on much longer. She scanned the journalists and noticed Ryan Williams. He stood at the far edge of the crowd, holding up a mini recorder. A flush warmed her face. Perhaps with the case over they could go out for drinks or dinner or —

“And have you already been assigned another case, detective?”

Still looking at Williams, Lydia startled at the question. She stammered at the reporter who spoke. “Um … My next case … ” She glanced at Ryan and he winked. “Um … ”

The chief gave Lydia an amused look. “The detective will be going on a well–deserved vacation.”

Surprised, she somehow managed a smile and a nod.

“All right, everyone, thank you and goodnight.” He lifted a hand in a wave, then touched Lydia’s elbow. She followed him through the doors.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered under his breath as they walked to his office. “That was the most vacant expression I have ever seen. And I have never seen one on you.” Walking three feet ahead, he missed Lydia’s shrug.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a second.” She entered his office. The only thing that distinguished it from hers was the sign on the desk, “Harold R. Fairweather, Chief of Police.”

“Look, Davis.” He motioned for her to sit as he rounded the desk and did the same. “I know you haven’t slept for six months.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious about the vacation. Take a couple days off. Go visit friends. Get a spot on the beach. Heck, sit around in your bathrobe and veg at the television for hours on end. I don’t care. But you’re not going to start a new case until you recoup.”

“Chief — ” she started to protest.

“I mean it. Don’t argue with me. Get out. See you in three days.” He picked up her case report and a pen. He made a show of reading for a bit, then looked at her. “You still here?”

Lydia smiled. “No, sir. Just left.” She exited, shaking her head.

He took care of his force. Everyone commented on how talking to him was like talking to a father. She didn’t remember hers, having transferred from foster home to foster home most of her life.

Shaking off emptiness, she headed to her office to grab her things. As she mulled over what to do with her newly acquired time, she smiled. First thing would be to soak in a hot bath.

“Taking a vacation?” Sergeant Adams looked up from his desk. When she gave him a quizzical look, he explained, “E–mail already went out.”

“I’ve been ordered to take a couple of days off.” She shrugged.

“Any plans?”

“I hadn’t really thought much beyond getting cleaned up.”

Adams laughed. “Make the most of it. Go somewhere you don’t have to think too much.”

Lydia chuckled as she went into her office and grabbed her tattered backpack from the corner where she’d tossed it three days ago. She’d lived out of her pack on more than one occasion.

Driving home, she wondered what she would do for her vacation. She really needed peace and quiet, somewhere outside the city. Maybe spend a couple days hiking or fishing. No neighbors thudding on the walls or sirens screaming down the street. And where the loudest sounds were birds tweeting. She smiled. Three days might be enough to unwind.

• • •

Ryan turned away as the press conference ended. He enjoyed seeing Lydia flustered. She controlled herself so well that he took great pleasure in baiting her. In his work, he’d dealt with plenty of detectives, and usually he had fun irritating them. They had a sense of importance third only to doctors and lawyers. They all took themselves so seriously. He couldn’t help poking holes in their inflated egos.

Lydia proved more fun because she was beautiful when she got angry. Her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed and …
Simply fantastic
.

At his Jeep, he paused, mulling over asking her to dinner. He wanted to grab a bite, and the way she’d reacted at the press conference made him think perhaps she would say yes.

“And then what?” he said aloud to no one as he got in and started the engine. He saw no real future for them.

How could he explain what would happen when they had their first fight? No, a working relationship was better for both of them. He turned on the radio and sang along to a rock song as he drove home.

As fate would have it, he lived across the street from Lydia’s building. Well, not exactly fate. He’d moved into the furnished apartment once he found out she was the detective working the Bestial Butcher case.

Since their first meeting, he felt compelled to protect Lydia. She had no real idea what she had gotten involved in. Although he had no doubt she could deal with society’s scum with dispatch, the Bestial Butcher was not society’s typical scum.

Entering the apartment, he tossed his keys onto the coffee table. He walked to the refrigerator and opened a can of tomato juice. As the thick, tangy liquid flowed down his throat, his mind wandered.

Prowling night streets looking for the Butcher had led him to tracks only the Butcher could leave. Lydia would follow up on the tip he’d passed her. She had to.

He tossed the empty can in the recycle bin and plopped on the sofa. Although the apartment came furnished when he started leasing it, he wouldn’t have decorated it any other way. Heavy furniture boasted solid wood and upholstery stuffed to overflowing. In the case of a very comfortable blue recliner, white filler peaked through seams on one side whenever someone sat in it.

Taupe walls gave the room a feeling of warmth. Neither the recliner nor the faded orange sofa matched the hunter green shag carpet or brick-colored curtains that covered a street–view picture window. Yet the place had a coziness about it. Aside from the perfect view into Lydia’s apartment, the ambience had influenced his reason to live there.

His tastes had not always tended toward homey. He remembered a time when he preferred deco furniture and open space. Only in the past few years had his tastes changed to a cozier den-like atmosphere.

He closed his eyes and stretched. In the morning, he would go to the station and see what information he could get out of them about the condition of the Butcher’s body... if they even found a body. He knew somehow that the Butcher hadn’t died. Not even in that fire. And if he lived, the Butcher had escaped unseen. Even with all the firefighters surrounding the house and onlookers watching from the street. Next time, he would need to get to the scene sooner if he wanted to catch him.

Having that animal slip through his fingers again built a familiar rage. Knowing this emotion all too well, he rose from the couch and stood in the middle of the room with his arms outstretched. As he slowly bent to touch his fingers to the floor, the burning in his gut began to recede. He held the posture for another few moments and moved on to the warrior.

Long ago, he’d learned to control his anger with yoga. Of all the stress–reduction and anger–management techniques he’d tried, including medication, yoga worked the best. At times, he could not completely control the crazed anger that washed over him. During these times, he was glad he didn’t own the furniture and didn’t intend to regain his security deposit. He had kept all his real possessions in storage for the past three years.

His life had turned upside down then. He’d almost gone insane with pain and anger. Luckily, he regained his lucidity before destroying anything he valued. Once he placed his things in storage, he started his quest to track down the cause of his life’s upheaval, which led him to the city and to Detective Lydia Davis. He moved into the lotus position with a smile on his face. She was something else.

She struck a chord in him that, up until they met, he did not realize existed. Oh, there had been women — some short relationships and, of course, a few one-night stands. However, in the past three years, women had held no interest for him.

That all changed when he first saw Lydia. Something awoke. It yearned for her in a primal way. It was much more than sexual, although he wouldn’t mind spending several hot, sweaty nights with her.

Ryan rose from his position on the floor. The direction of his thoughts sapped the anger out of him, but his heart rate was way up. To get any sleep, he would have to spend twenty minutes under a cold shower. He went to the window to close the drapes, but took a moment to gaze toward her apartment.

A small light shone in her bedroom, and although she had drawn the shade, he could see her faint silhouette as she moved around the room. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Then she stopped and started to undress, pulling off her shirt.

“Oh God,” he whispered out loud, gripping the drapery with both hands. The shade did nothing to hide the roundness of her breasts as she turned, bent, and then lifted her arms over her head to allow the fabric of a nightshirt to slip over her body. She moved to the right and turned off the light.

Only after the room across the street darkened did Ryan start to breathe again. He let out the air with a shudder and released his grip on the drapes. It took every bit of his self-control to push aside the idea of going over there and knocking on her door. How he longed to caress that body. He shook his head, wanting to knock the image from his mind’s eye. Finally, he turned in a daze and stalked to the bathroom and that cold shower.

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