Waking Nightmare (16 page)
“This was a waste of time.” Nick McElroy slouched in the front seat of the unmarked car as Wayne Cantrell pulled away from the curb. “How many prosses did Robel expect us to find walking the streets during the daytime?”
“We got some names.” Wayne slid him a glance. “It’s not like we didn’t know the places to hit to talk to some of these girls.”
“Yeah, the names of johns who like to slap them around a little. A couple pimps that get overly zealous about their ladies slacking off.”
“Maybe we need to concentrate on the prosses that specialize.”
McElroy shot him a lazy grin. “You got a habit that needs specializing, Cantrell? ’Cuz if your birthday is coming up, maybe we’ll find one who specializes in spanking guys in loincloths. She could play squaw to your noble savage.”
“Bite me,” suggested Cantrell without heat. There was no use wasting energy on anger toward McElroy. The man’s mouth ran on wheels and he had a one-track mind. But he was grateful that they’d work together only for the length of this investigation.
“Bite you? I’m not into that kind of thing, but don’t you worry.” McElroy leaned over and patted his cheek. “We’ll find just the right girl for you.” Cantrell jerked away from him and accelerated to turn left on a yellow light.
“Where you going? It’s after quitting time already. And we still have to type up our notes from today.”
“Figured we could check out Mistress Chan,” Wayne said laconically, keeping his gaze fixed on the traffic. “Her name came up a couple times today as one who caters to the S and M crowd. According to Phillips, she might be the type who would role-play with this guy.”
“Phillips,” scoffed McElroy. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Like she’s got anything to add to this investigation. She’s just a kid with some fancy letters after her name. She’s no cop.”
“But we are. So we do our job.” Wayne slowed, looking at addresses on the nearby buildings. The street was fairly reputable, lined with storefronts in varying degrees of upkeep. Meat markets were snugged up against boutiques and hair salons in row after row of small businesses. But above the businesses were apartments.
“Let’s skip it. Leave Chan to the uniforms. Probably make their night.”
“We’re here. Might as well check it out.” Wayne pulled into a no parking zone and switched off the ignition.
“Jesus, you’re like a dog with a bone.” McElroy grabbed his suit jacket, which he’d folded and laid in the backseat. “Tell you what, I’ll check up on this Chan pross you’re stuck on. You go back and write up the notes for today. Saves us both some time.”
Cantrell looked at him with surprise. “How are you getting back to headquarters?”
“Grab a bus, probably. Don’t worry about it. If you hurry, you can still swing by the nursing home on your way home. You were going to visit your dad tonight, right?”
“Yeah.” Although the man was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s and wouldn’t know him, he’d go, just like he went every week. Then he’d spend the next few days depressed over the shell of a man his father had become, and grappling with the guilt that came from having done too little, too late.
“So go ahead, before I change my mind.” McElroy got out and shrugged into his jacket on the sidewalk.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.”
With a wave, Cantrell pulled away from the curb, leaving the other detective scanning the apartments facing the street.
The woman that leaned provocatively against the opened door was dressed in vintage dominatrix. Black thigh-high fishnets clung to slim legs. The knee-high stiletto leather boots matched the leather thong and bra top she wore. Black elbow-length gloves encased her arms and in one fist she held a short whip. “Detective,” she purred. “Always a pleasure.”
She snapped the whip alarmingly close to his johnson. “Bitch.” Nick reached out and snatched the whip from her. He knew from experience what she could do with it. Stepping quickly inside, he shut the door, looked around. “Did you get rid of him?”
Mistress Chan shook back her waist-length black hair. “You just called,” she protested. “And he’s a regular. I can’t just turn paying clients out on the street every time you get a boner.”
Her head swiveled with the force of the slap he dealt her. “You need to learn to do what you’re told.” But after a quick glance, he was satisfied she had the client safely secreted away somewhere. Probably cuffed naked in a dog kennel, dumb bastard.
She turned back to him, tongue darting out to lick the blood from her mouth. And her eyes, those damn sinful eyes, were alive with desire. “You’re in a mood,” she murmured. She laid her palms on his chest, stroked them up and down languidly.
He felt his breath quicken. “This is business. Told you that on the phone. I need to talk to you about an investigation I’m working.”
Her eyes widened in mock interest. “Do tell.” Then she rammed her fist into his solar plexus with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. “I love talking business.”
He knocked her to the floor this time, and the sight of her crumpled there had lust abruptly flaring. Reaching down, he hauled her to her feet, shoving her to sprawl over the arm of the couch. With two quick steps he was behind her, pinning her in place and keeping a careful eye on those heels of her. Damned things were needle sharp and hurt like a bitch if she managed to stomp on him.
“Don’t forget,” she gasped, “I got a client in the next room.”
“I’m guessing he’ll wait.” Shoving her thong aside, Nick unzipped his pants. “And so will business.”
Chapter 8
After doing three miles on the track and then hitting the free weights, Ryne took his frustrations out on a punching bag in the corner of the gym. Following the afternoon’s task force meeting, he’d met with the DA and the conversation had been depressing. They could only hold Juarez forty-eight hours without charging him, and time was running out. There was no telling when Han would complete the tests on the contents of the syringe, and without something conclusive to tie the man to the rapes, the DA wasn’t ready to charge him.
Get me a latent off the license plates or syringe. Or better yet, something that places Juarez in the victim’s house.
The echo of the DA’s voice in his mind was drowned out by the sound of voices behind him at ringside. Ryne hammered the bag even harder. Like it was that easy. Like anything about this case had been simple. CSU had checked the syringe after he’d transferred the contents to a liquid-tight container, and it had been clean. Nor had they found a print on the tip found in Juarez’s apartment. So barring an unforeseen miracle, by tomorrow evening Juarez was going to be released, and they’d have to use a half-dozen officers to watch him around the clock. Which would pay off if he was really the perp they were after, but . . .
The cheer that went up then succeeded in distracting him from the morose direction of his thoughts. He held up a stationary fist to stop the bag’s momentum and turned toward the sound of the voices. A crowd had gathered around the ring where two opponents were sparring. A second look had a frown forming. Two seriously mismatched opponents, from what he could see between the wall of bodies surrounding the pair. One of the participants had a foot and a hundred pounds on the other, and Ryne wondered who would be stupid enough to voluntarily climb into the ring for a certain pum meling.
He started to drift in that direction. Some guy with short dick syndrome, probably. A couple likely candidates immediately sprang to mind. He craned his neck, was able to recognize the larger of the two as Jack Barlow out of the second precinct. He was a decent amateur boxer, so Ryne jockeyed for position in the crowd, prepared for a bloodbath.
He blinked when, in the next second, the shorter opponent spun and landed a lightning-speed kick to the side of Barlow’s jaw. Another cheer went up from the men around the ring, amid catcalls questioning Barlow’s manhood.
Ryne elbowed his way through the front row, earning himself a “Watch it, asshole” along the way. He barely heard the irritated voice. His attention was riveted on the smaller figure moving out of reach of Barlow’s gloves. It was obvious from the stance, from the moves, that this participant, though much smaller, didn’t lack for experience.
It was also obvious that the second participant was female.
Only the crowd around the ring had disguised that fact from him earlier. She was slight, but there were distinctive, all-too-distracting curves beneath her long-sleeve tee and shorts. And although club rules dictated that sparring participants wear headgear and mouth guards, she was easily recognizable.
Abbie Phillips.
The spandex shorts she wore clung to what, he’d already reluctantly noticed, was an outstanding butt. She pulled her head back a split second before Barlow sent a fast right jab that would have knocked her on that delectable ass had it connected. She landed a punch to the man’s stomach that he seemed to barely feel, and from the looks of the shit-eating grin on Barlow’s face, he was enjoying himself hugely.
She brought her knee up to deflect a blow that was meant for her midsection and then with a blurring swiftness shifted her weight and used the other knee to strike Barlow in the side, drawing a surprised grunt of pain from the man. Ryne joined in with the laughter of the onlookers.
He must be losing it. Not only was he growing too interested in a woman on his task force, he was getting more than a little turned on watching her beat the hell out of a detective twice her size.
“I’m next, sweetheart,” someone shouted. “Be gentle.” The crowd laughed again.
He wasn’t versed in boxing or martial arts, but he knew enough to be impressed by her footwork. And when she feinted with her left, then quickly shifted position for a kick to Barlow’s shoulder, the man staggered back a good three feet.
There was an odd sort of beauty in the way she moved, the fluid strength and jaw-dropping speed. And Ryne found himself intrigued by her in a way he’d been interested in no woman since . . . he failed to remember how long.
“Hey, which one of you guys drives a black Accord? Some punk just shattered its windshield.”
Two things happened in quick succession. Abbie stopped, her attention on the speaker, just as Barlow released a punch. She recovered quickly, dodging away, but the blow still clipped her on the jaw, snapping her head back and surprising a sudden oath from Ryne. Jeers rose from the men.
“Cheap shot, Barlow.”
“Seeing stars, sugar?”
Abbie shook her head hard, as if to clear it. Barlow came to a stop and pushed up his face mask, regret written on his expression. When he raised his gloves, the gym trainer jumped into the ring and shuffled over to unlace the man, who then spit his mouth guard into his hand.
“I’d already swung, honest. I wasn’t cheap-shotting you.”
Once the trainer helped Abbie get her gloves off, she dispensed with the face guard and mouthpiece. “Not your fault,” she said wryly. “I know better than to lose my concentration. But that Accord.” She scanned the crowd in search of the speaker. “Does it have rental plates on it?”
“Yeah, it does. I heard the noise when I was crossing the parking lot and saw someone running. Chased him half a block but he had too much lead.”
Ryne didn’t recognize the speaker, a stocky balding man in his mid-fifties. Given the size of his girth, though, Ryne doubted the man had chased the guy too far or too hard.
Abbie handed her gear to the trainer, and jumped down from the ring. Ryne rounded the corner to join her as she walked rapidly toward the exit. “How’s the jaw?”
She looked at first shocked to see him, then resigned. “Of course you would have to see that,” she muttered. “Like my day hadn’t already gotten bad enough.”
He reached to touch the red mark already blooming on her chin. She jerked away, then wiggled her jaw gingerly. “I’ve had worse. It was a stupid mistake. I know better than to get distracted like that.”
He followed her through the door and across the parking lot silently. He could have told her that “knowing better” wasn’t much help when it came to distractions. He should know. He was having a helluva time resisting the one she presented.
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