“And you’re a typical die-hard tough-on-crime conservative who believes the death penalty is the solution for most of society’s ills,” she retorted, leaning back in her chair, pleasantly full.
“Not all ills,” he said lazily. “Just about half the incarcerated population.”
“You act tough.” She sipped slowly. “But you don’t see things nearly as black and white as you pretend.”
“Really.” His tone was challenging. “And you know that how?”
“I’ll bet you never reported the run-in with McElroy last night.” It was a guess, but she knew immediately from his expression that it was an accurate one. “You never told Dixon. Or Captain Brown.”
His gaze slid away. “There was no point. He isn’t dumb enough to bother you again. He’s a fuckup, sure. But just because he made his coffin, doesn’t mean I want to be the one who nails down the lid.”
She smiled, satisfied that she’d read him correctly. “I agree. He’s dug himself a deep enough hole. And Dixon doesn’t strike me as the type to be too tolerant of mistakes.”
“Only his own.” Ryne mopped up the remaining sauce on his plate with the last of his bread.
“How’d he ever happen to leave Boston?”
“I don’t really know. There was talk that he screwed up big-time in the mayor’s office, but then a few weeks after he’d left, I heard he’d landed this job down here, so it was probably just gossip.”
“I understand his wife is the chief’s niece.” At his raised brows she said, “You’re not the only one who hears talk.”
“That’s true, but he’s done well enough for himself here.” Pushing away from the table, Ryne crossed to the refrigerator and took out another water. Twisting off the cap, he asked, “Have you heard from Callie today?”
The question had a sliver of worry piercing Abbie’s sense of well-being. “She isn’t answering her cell or her room phone. She’s staying at the A-1 Suites on Oglethorpe. I’ll swing by and see her tomorrow.” And make sure she was still taking the medication that had been prescribed. She’d feel better once Callie kept her appointment with the new psychiatrist. She also planned to go with her. Her sister couldn’t always be trusted to be forthcoming with a new therapist. Abbie didn’t really think Callie had any meaningful insights into her own behavior.
“You said she was bipolar. There’s medication for that, right?”
A feeling of unease filtered through her. She’d never discussed her sister’s problems with anyone other than Callie’s therapists. It always felt disloyal somehow. “She’s had a lot of diagnoses over the years, and accompanying treatments. Bipolar is probably the one that’s most accurate. She’s also been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder.” And truth be known, that was probably accurate as well. The identification of Callie’s problems was really only of value in terms of treatment, and in understanding the choices she made.
He drank, then lowered the bottle to regard her steadily. “Prone to bouts of aggression and violence? Uncaring of the consequences her actions have on others? History of sexual promiscuity?”
Her earlier lighthearted mood evaporated, to be replaced with a sense of foreboding. Setting her glass down carefully on the table, she said, “What’s all this about, Ryne?”
His expression grew dogged, a sure sign that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I’ve done a little research. Enough to know that you could probably get her put away for observation for a while. Just long enough to be sure she’s getting the help she needs.”
Her smile was tight. He was lecturing
her
on how to handle her sister? That was rich. Abbie was well versed in several different states’ laws for involuntary committal. But legality never took into consideration the emotional price of taking such measures. A price she paid, along with her sister. “I know how to take care of Callie.”
He looked away, his mouth drawn into a flat line she was beginning to recognize. “Sometimes we can be too close. Can’t see what needs to be done because we’re blinded by emotion.”
“She hurt you, Abbie. You told me once that she never would, but she hurt you bad enough to send you to the emergency room. Even if she’s not a danger to anyone else, she’s sure as hell a danger to you. You have to recognize that. Hell, the profile you developed of the UNSUB should convince you of the kind of damage that can be inflicted by people with abuse in their backgrounds.”
A steel band was constricting her chest. Abbie struggled to draw in a breath. That he would take what she’d confided to him about the childhood she’d shared with her sister and use it to bolster his argument was more than hurtful. His betrayal sliced through her like a blade. “You’re comparing my sister—
my sister
—to this sick bastard we’re hunting? Where the hell do you get off?”
“She’s shown up in the photos. Lots of them that were taken at Juarez’s hangouts. You have to admit there are parallels there . . .”
“There’s a significant percentage of violent offenders with abuse in their backgrounds,” she said, her voice shaking. Her hands balled in fists, her nails biting into her palms. “But those offenders represent only an infinitesimal percentage of all abuse victims. What happened the other night . . .” She hesitated as a sneaky splinter of doubt stabbed her. “It was a one-time thing,” she said with a certainty she wished she felt. Ryne was responsible for this doubt. Questioning and advising in an area he knew nothing about, all to strong-arm her into making a decision she suspected would cost both her and Callie for years to come.
His expression was bleak, his voice low. “I don’t want this to come between us. But it’s clear to me that she’s a ticking time bomb, and when she goes off, you’re the one most likely to get hurt. Think about it. You of all people should know the value of listening to all sides of an issue.”
The lump in her throat grew boulder sized. And in a quick flash of clarity, she understood exactly why she’d never allowed a man this close before.
Without another word, she stood, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door.
His chair scraped behind her. “Abbie, stop. I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t care.”
She stopped at the door, gave him one last glance over her shoulder. The sight of him, face resolute, fists clenched, carved a jagged furrow through her chest.
“Maybe you do. But if this is your definition of ‘caring,’ it comes at too steep a price.”
Chapter 20
“I’ll need to take some personal time tomorrow afternoon.”
Given that they were the first words Abbie had directed toward him since last night, Ryne supposed he should have been grateful. He looked up from the ViCAP binder he was studying to where she stood beside her desk. She’d been gone most of the day, making a return visit to Amanda Richards to update her on the investigation, and then coordinating the removal of some personal things from Bradford’s for Laura’s stay in a motel across town.
There was no sign of the temper she’d faced him with last night. And, thank God, no sign of the shocked hurt he’d seen in her eyes before she’d left his place, the one that had lanced him with seven kinds of remorse. She wore the same composed mask he recalled from when they first started working together. Its reappearance made him irritable.
Although his mood could just as easily be blamed on lack of sleep. Or the self-reproach that had plagued him all night, lying awake in his bed, knowing he’d been the cause of her misery.
“But you’re planning to be here tomorrow morning?” Hell, he could do the self-possessed thing as well as she could. Better. In the last year and a half, he’d become a master at ensuring his personal life never splashed over to his professional.
“I’ll be at the briefing. Then I have an appointment to talk to Karen Larsen again.” She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and withdrew her purse. “I want to get some more background from her, especially about the fire that killed her parents. See if I can find any parallels to the one that destroyed her house a few weeks ago.” She straightened, clutching the strap of the bag tightly, and he thought for a moment she meant to say more.
There were smudges beneath her eyes that suggested she’d slept as badly as he had. He’d shoulder the responsibility for that, too, and add it to his growing list of regrets. He’d handled last night’s conversation poorly. But identifying Callie in those pictures, cozied up against lowlives in places most women would steer clear of, had only hammered home his concern for Abbie’s dealings with her sister.
That fresh slice in her arm, the stitches, and her refusal to talk about how she’d gotten them told a story that was all too easy to guess. And he wouldn’t take back what he’d said last night, even if he could. Callie was an explosive waiting to detonate. And Abbie was the closest in her path.
When she failed to say anything else, Ryne forced his gaze back to the binder on his desk. “All right. See you then.”
He felt, rather than saw, her hesitation and tensed in anticipation. Then a moment later he heard her footsteps as she walked swiftly away.
Jaw set, he turned to his computer screen and began submitting the names of the Ketrum employees into the databases.
He printed out each individual’s report in turn, willing his focus away from Abbie and on to the case. As the last set of results were printing out, Detectives Marlowe and Cantrell veered toward him on their way toward the door, each of them shrugging into their suit jackets. “We just got a call,” Marlowe informed him. “We might have found the Crown Vic the perp used for the Bradford assault.”
Ryne’s head snapped up. “Where?”
“Private parking garage over on York and Montgomery. Elderly owner called to complain that the vehicle’s front end had been damaged, although she hadn’t used the car for well over a week. We’re on our way over to take a look.”
“Private garage should have decent security. If there’s any chance of this being the vehicle, let’s get the tapes. I’ll send CSU over if you find anything.”
Mallory nodded and the two men fell into a low-pitched conversation as they headed toward the exit.
Ryne watched them go, a sense of excitement filling him. The walls were closing in on the perp. It was only a matter of time now.
Marcy Bennett swung by his desk. “I showed a visitor for you into the conference room, Ryne.”
“Who?”
But the woman was already hurrying back to take her position behind the receptionist desk, where the phone lines were ringing in raucous chorus.
He collected the papers that had printed out, and shoved them in a desk drawer before making his way back to the conference room. But once he’d pushed open the door and seen the room’s lone occupant, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk out again.
“Hear me out, Robel.” Nick McElroy stood, a manila envelope clenched in one large hand. “I know things the other night got fucked up, but this is different.”
“What are you doing here?” Ryne let the door shut behind him and leaned against it, fighting the burn of impatience. He didn’t have time for this shit. Not now. McElroy had a gift for digging the hole he was in deeper and deeper, and there was nothing he could say that Ryne wanted to hear.
“I just wanted to give you these.” McElroy opened the envelope and shook out some five-by-seven photos. “I told you I could still contribute to the case. I’ve been hanging out at the places we had targeted. The ones Juarez frequents sometimes, and I saw something you should be interested in.” He shrugged one beefy shoulder. “Hell, I got nothing else to do, right?”
Reaching for his flagging patience, Ryne said, “Nick, I told you before. More than once. Stay away from the investigation. You can’t help us. Your involvement could screw things up.”
“Just look at these.” McElroy walked over and jammed the photos in his hand. “And if you think this doesn’t have anything to do with the case, you’re a damn fool.”
Ryne glanced through the pictures, recognizing some of the places depicted. He already had officers staking the places out, which McElroy knew. Already had a stack of photos, similar to these, so there was no point in him . . . His interest sharpened as he stared harder at one picture, the woman in the tight long-sleeved sequined top instantly recognizable.
Callie Phillips.
“When was this taken?”
Pleased with Ryne’s interest, Nick said, “Last night. Around midnight. You know who that is? Phillips’s sister. She’s quite a party girl. Everyone in these places seem to know her, and I mean
know
her.” He reached for the pile and took out another to place on top. “She’s not shy about spreading it around.”
Although Callie was alone in some of the photos, most had her cuddled up against one man or another. Others showed her engaged in even friendlier poses. Once again Ryne was struck by how little Abbie and her sister were alike. There were a few familiar faces in the photos. He’d probably run across some of them in the pictures taken by the officers he’d placed inside these places.
“We’ve got similar pictures already,” he said finally, looking up at the man. “You knew we had this angle covered, Nick. There’s no point in you following up on this yourself.”