“Young lovers engaged in public displays of affection on a brilliant fall day. Could there be anything more revolting?”
The familiar voice had Abbie jerking away. But Ryne kept her close with one arm around her waist. “Adam. What are you doing here?” Having her boss catch her in a clinch with Ryne ranked right up there with getting caught in class passing notes.
Adam Raiker set both hands on top of his cane in front of him, and leaned his weight against it. His expression was cynically amused. “You mean other than being forced into the unwilling role of voyeur? I came to talk to you. Are your lips free?”
“Not for long,” Ryne put in, not a bit embarrassed. “So talk fast.”
Raiker fixed him with a gimlet stare from his lone eye. “Robel. Reconsidered my job offer yet?”
“Nope.”
“You will.” That absolute certainty of his put a lot of people off, Abbie knew. But Ryne just gave him an enigmatic smile and said nothing.
“Walk with me. I’ve got a meeting in a couple hours at Quantico and traffic is always a bitch.” They fell into step alongside the man. “Got a call on my way there, as a matter of fact. Headquarters said you were here, Abbie, so thought I’d swing by and pass on the news.”
“A new development on Grant?” She exchanged a look with Ryne. Karen Larsen, aka Sean Grant, had been in custody for months. But he’d lawyered up immediately and had refused to answer any questions. The last she’d heard, his attorney was trying to line up expert witnesses to bolster a diminished capacity plea.
“Indirectly. Ryne’s contact, that sheriff in Montana, finally moved on Trevor Holden.”
“They’ve had Holden under surveillance for weeks,” Ryne put in. “Ever since testing on that tox screen he sent me matched those of our victims. Jepperson finally tracked down that runaway who had been assaulted and she tentatively ID’d Holden as the guy.”
“No doubt now that he was responsible,” Raiker said grimly. “They caught sight of him burying something in back of his barn. Got a warrant and swarmed the place.”
“A body?” Abbie guessed.
Raiker nodded. “And they discovered four more before they were finished. All had been tortured. He had the barn equipped with a sort of home lab, where he was manufacturing the drug. Had a big enough supply to keep him and Larsen in business for a long time. The place was also outfitted with small cells and equipped with some pretty heavy-duty torture devices.”
“He must have been stealing samples of TTX all along and running his own experiments until he had a perfect product for his perversions,” Abbie surmised. “But I thought he was just a tech at Ketrum. How would he have the expertise?”
“It was your idea to look for a relationship between him and the rapist,” Ryne said in an aside to Abbie. For Raiker’s benefit, he added, “A high school classmate of his claimed he was some kind of chemistry brain. I got a yearbook photo of Holden and another of someone he’d befriended at the juvie center.” He shook his head, as if the shock of recognition were still fresh. “I wouldn’t have recognized the name. Larsen was the name of his sister and stepfather. But once I saw his face, things started coming together pretty quickly.” His focus shifted back to Abbie. “Then I got your call. Heard enough to figure out you were in danger and headed over.”
The phone call on her cell after she’d been surprised by Grant. The memory of the scene could still bring a prickle to her skin, despite the warm temperature. “Grant claimed the fire that killed his parents was deliberate.”
Raiker scowled, the expression, coupled with his eye patch and the scar bisecting his throat, making him look like a ferocious modern-day pirate. “Three guesses who set it.”
“Holden,” Abbie breathed. Of course. It would have seemed the perfect crime. If the police had been suspicious, the first one they would have looked at was Sean Grant, who would have still been safely locked away.
“Not surprisingly, Holden’s feeling pretty talkative faced with five homicide charges. He’s spilling everything he knows on Grant in hopes of a reduced plea. He admits he was released three weeks prior to Grant, and set the fire at his request. Apparently he’s been calling in favors, first for that and then for sharing the drug. He claims his last three victims were delivered to him by Grant.”
“Busy little fuck,” muttered Ryne.
Raiker’s answering smile was chilly. “There’s more. Holden also maintains that Grant killed Karen more than six years ago and disposed of her body.”
“I was afraid of that,” Abbie said softly. She’d done a thorough background check on Karen Larsen. The woman had existed. Long enough to establish an identity her brother could later don at will. He’d even followed his half sister into nursing school, although he’d only gotten a two-year degree.
“You said it all along,” Ryne told her. “That women will confide personal stuff to someone they trust. That’s got to be how he got to some of the victims. Maybe they came into whichever medical place he was working at as Karen Larsen. Or he ran across them at the volunteer sites. Whatever. They’d open up to a woman in a way they never would to a man.”
Abbie’s smile was sad. “I also said the perp might try to insert himself into the case, to try to keep tabs on our progress. But I sure never saw what was right in front of me.”
His arm grew tighter around her. “Neither of us did. He made a believable woman. He’s not a large guy. Might even have had electrolysis treatments on his face to help with the disguise.”
Expression hard, he looked at Raiker again. “I sure as hell hope they aren’t going to give Holden a plea bargain. We have more than enough to get life for Grant without his testimony. The bloodstains in Bradford’s apartment and in the Crown Vic tie him to her assault. And his DNA matched the CODIS files for two other sexual homicides in the last few years, one in New Jersey and another in Tampa.”
“Not to mention Amanda Richards’s hair in the bag you recovered.” Abbie shuddered, reminded again of just how easily Callie could have fallen victim to him. Had he trolled those bars for unwitting dupes, like Juarez? Or had he been looking for high-risk women to rough up, while he was in between attacks? With Callie’s pattern of self-destructive behavior, she must have seemed perfect.
And then there had been her unwise openness about her relationship with Abbie, the profiler on his case. And about their childhood. Arming Grant with that knowledge then unlocking Abbie’s bedroom window for him had almost sealed their fate.
Giving a hard smile, Raiker said, “I know the director in charge of Montana’s FBI office. I’ve let him know exactly how strong the case is against Grant already. Tracing that key you found in his place to the apartment he was using as a safe house was the final nail in his coffin. The DVDs documenting the rapes will be the most damning evidence against him.” He checked his watch. “And I’m going to be late.” With his usual disregard for formalities, he abruptly left them, angling toward his car.
Watching him, Ryne noted, “Well, he can’t be boring to work for.”
“No.” Abbie’s tone was rueful. “That’s an adjective that never comes to mind in relation to Adam Raiker.” But she’d spent as much time as she was willing to discussing her boss. The case. Or anything that didn’t directly relate to her and the man beside her. Their time together was always brief, and she could already feel the precious minutes ticking away. “Drive us back to my place. And then I’ll let you cook me some of your famous pasta.”
Dropping an arm around her shoulders, he steered her toward his car. “On the way here I started tallying how much time we spend on the road. Or in the air.”
Panic slicked down her spine. Was he already tired of the schedule they were keeping? Granted, it was chaotic with the demands of their jobs, coupled with the distance between them. But the time she got to spend with him made every sacrifice worthwhile.
“Maybe it’s time to rethink this whole thing.” Reaching the car, Ryne leaned against the driver’s door, surveying her soberly. “We could be making it too complicated.”
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to filter through her dismay. When it did, hope bloomed. “I could commute,” she suggested cautiously. “When I’m not on a job, we’re expected at headquarters three days a week for training. But maybe I could arrange those days all in a row, at the beginning of the week, or something.”
“I was thinking, too, there’s nothing tying me to Savannah. With my background, I could find something around DC.”
“You’d hate the politics.” But her mind was spinning, racing with possibilities. “Raiker’s serious about the job offer, too.”
He reached out and tugged on her hand, pulled her against him. “We don’t have to decide anything right away. But we have options, so let’s just start looking into them. Time spent traveling is less time we have together.” One corner of his mouth kicked up. “A good cop knows how to manage his time efficiently.”
Heart bursting, she linked her arms around his neck and smiled radiantly up at him. “Yep, that’s what I love about you. Your head for efficiency.”
Eyes glinting, he lowered his mouth to hers. Against her lips he whispered, “Know what I love about you? Damn near everything.”
Turn the page for a preview of
the second book in Kylie Brant’s
exciting Mindhunters series
WAKING EVIL
Available October 2009
from Berkley Sensation!
The helicopter landed in the clearing with a slight bounce before settling on the ground again for good. Ramsey Clark shouted her thanks to the pilot, shoved open the door, and jumped lightly to the ground, her lone bag slung over one shoulder. She ran in a crouch to avoid the rotors, heard the
whop-whop-whop
behind her indicating the pilot taking off.
She scanned the cluster of four people waiting nearby as she jogged toward them. The three men wearing suits each held a hand over his tie to prevent it from dancing in the breeze generated by the chopper’s rotors.
“Director Jeffries.” The hand she offered was engulfed in the older man’s pawlike grip and squeezed until she had to hide a wince. The chief of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation hadn’t changed much in the years since she’d left its ranks. His craggy face might be a little ruddier. His mop of white hair a bit shorter. But his six-foot frame was still military straight and as lean as ever.
“Good to see you again, Clark. I hear you’ve been makin’ quite a name for yourself with Raiker Forensics.”
Since the director wasn’t prone to flattery, and since he could have heard it only from Adam Raiker himself, Ramsey allowed herself to feel a small glow of satisfaction. “Thank you, sir. I think I’ve learned a lot.”
Jeffries turned to the two men flanking him. “TBI agents Glenn Matthews and Warden Powell. You’ll be assigned to their team. If you need more manpower, give me a holler and I’ll talk to the boss.”
Ramsey nodded her appreciation. Jeffries had no superior at TBI, so they were being given carte blanche. Raiker had told her to expect as much.
The director turned to the man in the sheriff’s uniform on her right. “I believe you know Sheriff Rollins.”
Frowning, she was about to deny it. Ramsey knew no one in Buffalo Springs, Tennessee. But the sheriff was taking off his hat, and recognition struck her. “Mark Rollins?” She shook her former colleague’s hand with a sense of déjà vu. “I didn’t even know you’d left TBI.”
“Couple years ago now. Didn’t even realize I was interested in movin’ back home until the position of sheriff was open.” Rollins’s pleasantly homely face was somber. “Have to say, tonight’s the first time I’ve regretted it.”
“I assume you’ve looked at the case file.”
Ramsey’s attention shifted back to Jeffries at his comment. At her nod, he went on.
“Rollins has his hands full here calmin’ the local hysteria, and after a week, we aren’t progressin’ fast enough to suit the governor’s office. The area is attractin’ every national media team in the country, and the coverage is playin’ hell with his tourism industry expansion plans.” The director’s voice was heavy with irony.
“I understand.” And she did. Being brought in as a special consultant to the TBI pacified a politically motivated governor and diminished some of the scrutiny that would follow the department throughout the investigation. If the case drew to a quick close, the TBI reaped the positive press. If it didn’t . . . The alternative didn’t bother her. Ramsey had served as shit deflector many times in the past in her capacity as forensic consultant. If the investigation grew lengthy or remained unsolved, she would be served as sacrificial lamb to the clamoring public. Or to the state attorney’s office, if someone there decided to lay the blame on Jeffries.
“Raiker promised a mobile lab.”
“It’ll be here tomorrow,” she promised the director. “But for certain types of evidence, we may need access to the TBI facility on an expedited basis.”
“We’ll try to speed any tests through the Knoxville Regional Lab.” Jeffries beetled his brows. “Just help solve this thing, Clark. It’s causin’ a crapstorm, and I don’t want a full-fledged shit tornado on my hands.”
Ramsey smiled. She’d always appreciated Jeffries’ plain spokenness. “I’ll do my best, sir.”