Waking Nightmare by Kylie Brant Page A

historic brick structure that housed police headquarters before heading up the steps. With its tall white-trimmed windows and ornate gingerbread, it looked to be a couple of centuries old. Spanish moss hung like ragged lace from the huge oaks surrounding it, and next door was an old cemetery. Jogging up the steps, she wondered how many of its occupants had been “guests” in this building prior to their demise.
    The desk sergeant directed Abbie to the conference room, where she’d found the task force grouped yesterday morning. She slipped in the door, recognizing the detectives she’d met yesterday, as well as several uniformed officers. Only Ryne was absent.
    “Good morning.”
    The others nodded at her greeting, except for McElroy, who looked up from the chair he was lounging in. “Hey, Tinkerbell. Get coffee, would ya?”
    Abbie raised a brow and sank into a chair. “I don’t want coffee.”
    “That doesn’t mean you can’t get it for the rest of us.”
    She’d met plenty of men like McElroy, those who used charm if they possessed it, intimidation if they didn’t to get what they wanted. And he’d intimidate some people. He had a good foot and a hundred pounds on her, an ex-football player’s build that had softened but not yet run to fat. His swarthy skin would always make him look like he was suffering from a mild case of sunburn. With his slicked-back hair and cheap sports jacket, he looked more like a used car salesman than a cop.
    “Sorry, Nick.” The door opened again as she spoke. “I hadn’t heard about your accident.”
    McElroy glanced around at the others in the room, then back at her. “What’s that?”
    “The one where you broke your leg. Left you unable to wait on yourself.”
    The other detectives laughed, and McElroy’s expression darkened. “You want to see my leg , sugar, that can be arranged.”
    “A tempting prospect, but I’ll pass.”
    “If you want coffee, McElroy, get it when we’re done here. I’d like to get started.” Abbie looked up to see Ryne standing at the table positioned in front of the room. A fifty ish man in a rumpled suit took a chair near him. His face was heavily freckled, and his ginger-colored hair stood up in little tufts all over his balding head. This must be Captain Brown, Ryne’s immediate superior in the case. Dixon had mentioned him, but had also emphasized that he was personally overseeing the investigation himself.
    Ryne’s gaze traveled over those assembled in the room, lingering for a moment on her. He didn’t look like he’d slept much better than she had, although undoubtedly for different reasons.
    “Phillips, you want to update the others on what the canvass turned up last night?”
    Abbie rose, faced the rest of the detectives. “The neighbors to the south of Billings, a couple in their sixties, are on vacation in Montana, visiting relatives. There’s a divorced guy on the other side of her home, Kevin Williams, a machinist who works second shift. Said he was at work, and he checks out. Officers will be following up today with any neighbors not contacted last night. So far no one saw anything suspicious, with the exception of Ethel Krebbs, who lives two blocks south of Billings’s street.”
    “Don’t tell me,” McElroy drawled. “Ethel Krebbs saw the whole thing from her picture window.”
    “No, but she called in to the department with a complaint about an older-model SUV parked in front of her house. She was expecting company and wanted it moved. No one checked it out.” Abbie shrugged. “It’s not private property, so it was probably considered a low-priority call. When her company left at nine, it was gone. But she was upset enough to jot down the license number of the vehicle.” A curious stillness settled over the room. “We ran the plates and they’d been stolen off a ’99 Chevy Impala a week ago.”
    Cantrell spoke up. “She get the make and model of the SUV?”
    Abbie nodded and shot Ryne a questioning