A Raging Dawn (18 page)

This was why he preferred having no partner, why he preferred working with victims one-on-one, like he did at the Advocacy Center. Little glory, but less bullshit.

The cold felt good, cleared his head from the bloodbath inside, eased the nausea threatening to bring that stale protein bar back up again.

Animals.

Same thing he’d thought when he’d seen Tymara’s body splayed open like a dissection class gone horribly wrong.

More than animals. Predators. Powerful. Using others as their tools. Manipulative. Coercive. Controlling. He glanced around the front of the building, his mind assembling and reassembling multiple versions of the crime from alternative points of view.

Had he seen them on the street? No, they would have already been inside. Watching.

The woman, the final victim. What had Littleton said to her? Some kind of message? Or a delaying tactic while his partners made sure everyone inside was dosed with whatever drug they’d used?

Why was she singled out for special treatment, forced to watch, her death delayed until after the others were gone? Wait. Victim or one of the perpetrators? A proxy, like Littleton claimed to be? He glanced at the squad car. Littleton had his face pressed against the window, eyes wide with delight. Feasting off the pain that he had helped wrought. Feeling superior.

If Littleton felt that way without even stepping inside the scene, his only role to lure Ryder here as witness, then how much more powerful did the men who controlled him feel?

He waved the officer standing guard over Littleton to him. “I’ve got a list for you. There are cameras on a few of the businesses across the street. Get the video for the entire day.”

“The full day? But we know when—”

“The full day. Someone was here earlier, set up the drinks, coffee, brought the cookies, whatever. It’s going to all be spiked, and they would have seen to it that no one at that meeting missed out.” He was rambling, but it helped to think out loud. If this Brotherhood fed off the excitement that came from manipulating others to do their dirty work, maybe that someone was the final woman, the one who’d been forced to stay alive long enough to witness the results of her handiwork.

And then they’d killed her.

“Wouldn’t the cameras inside the school show that better?”

Ryder shook his head. “They’ll most likely be useless.” The men behind this, Littleton’s so-called brothers, would have seen to that. “Take a few guys and scout for cameras outside the other exits. You’re going to find an exit that’s open but isn’t supposed to be—that’s how they left. Get any security footage and secure that door for the techs to check for evidence.” The last was an easy leap in logic. Someone had fired that gun and left
after
the others were dead. And they hadn’t come out the front.

The officer nodded and galloped off. Ryder straightened, his gaze locked on Littleton. Fuckwad had used Ryder. Forced him to bear witness, turned Ryder into one of their goddamned proxies.

A game. That’s what this was to the men pulling the strings.

It’d been seven months since Littleton raped Tymara and offered her up to his partners. No, not partners. Bosses. Hmm. That didn’t feel quite right either. Maybe Littleton had nailed it the first time. Brothers. Big, bossy brothers who could persuade you to do anything.

Ryder stopped, halfway down the steps to the squad car. Brothers in blood. A fraternity hazing, taken to the extreme. The pledges so desperate to become members of the family that they’d debase themselves, sacrifice anything. He glanced back at the school.

Littleton wasn’t important enough for them to stop while he’d sat in jail. In fact, Ryder guessed he was damn lucky he hadn’t ended up executed like the woman inside. Maybe he’d been their first, and only after he was arrested did they realize it was safer to kill their proxies, their pledges? Hmmm…felt closer, but still not quite right.

Not quite right. That pretty much described this whole scenario. Everything felt faked, staged, from Littleton’s outburst in court today to the smirk he’d given Ryder while people were dying behind the doors of the school.

He reached the patrol car, strolled around it twice before he was certain he’d reined in his anger. Then he got into the driver’s seat. He didn’t want anyone to have any reason to believe he’d physically intimidated Littleton—although, Lord only knew how much he wanted to.

Not tonight. Tonight, Littleton was going to be treated like a precious gem.

One of the most effective interview tools Ryder had cultivated over his years as a police officer was silence. It took no more than a minute before Littleton broke.

“What did you find inside?” Littleton asked, his voice breathless.

“Exactly what you wanted me to find,” Ryder said, purposely avoiding any salacious details. “You and your brothers.” He allowed Littleton to maintain the illusion that he was equal to the men who’d orchestrated tonight’s atrocities. In reality, Littleton was a dead man walking. As soon as his usefulness ended, his brothers would silence him.

Littleton leaned forward, unable to mask his excitement. “Tell me.”

“You’re admitting to being involved?”

“Hell no. Besides, I’m technically in custody back here, so anything I say is inadmissible, even if I did. But I’m not.”

Apparently, Littleton fancied himself a bit of a jailhouse lawyer. “Off the record. Hypothetically. How many other performances,” he hated the word, but it was the best description he could come up with, “did your brothers stage while you were in jail? This was much too sophisticated to be their first.”

Littleton leaned back, frowning. He obviously hadn’t considered what his brothers had been doing while he’d been abandoned in the county lockup, protecting them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ryder went with the flow, changed direction. “It must have taken a lot of time and effort, convincing that woman to kill all those people. Did she know she was also condemning herself to death?”

“She’s dead?” He sounded surprised.

“Throat slit.” Ryder didn’t mention the more personal message of his business card. “Is that what you and your brothers are running, some kind of bizarre suicide cult?”

Littleton shook his head. His eyebrows drew together in thought. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he seemed. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then he slumped and opened it once more. “I’m not saying anything.”

Not yet, Ryder thought. But the night was young.

He settled in, letting the silence lengthen and coil itself around Littleton, strangling his resistance. Littleton glared at him in the rearview, shuffled his weight, his handcuffed wrists restricting his movement. Then, finally, he stilled.

Ryder watched and waited, giving him a few more seconds to marinate. Time to talk.

A rap on the window opposite broke the spell. It was Manny Cruz and John Marsh, the Major Case commander. Ryder left the car, closing the door on Littleton, and circled around to join them on the sidewalk. Manny’s coat, unlike Ryder’s, was buttoned against the cold and fit as if it’d been custom-tailored. He wore a black silk scarf around his neck and an old-fashioned fedora, like Frank Sinatra’s. Marsh, despite his rank, was dressed like Ryder, an inexpensive suit beneath a wool overcoat, no hat, no gloves.

“What the hell, Manny?” Ryder said. And then to the commander, “Littleton was just getting ready to talk.”

The commander answered, “It’s not your case, Ryder. From my understanding, Mr. Littleton has you as his alibi. There’s no way he committed this crime.”

“Gena Kravitz is going to own your ass,” Manny added. “She hears of this, she’ll sue you and the department for harassment.”

“Release Littleton,” Marsh ordered. “My guys will invite him for an interview in the morning once we have more from the scene.”

Ryder shook his head. “He’ll be dead by then. Did you guys see what these actors did to that woman? What they had her do? They’re mocking us and getting off on it.”

Manny and the commander exchanged glances.

“We ID’d her,” Marsh said. “Sylvie Wysycki, a pharmacist’s assistant. Lost her job after abusing prescription drugs.”

“The ME agreed with the medics. Looks like some new form of PXA,” Manny added.

Death Head. Easy enough for a pharmacist to make or get hold of. Damn, he’d been hoping they’d seen the last of that shit. “Those words, written on the wall—”

Manny and the commander exchanged glances again. “‘I hate all your faces,’” Marsh said.

Christ. “Under the influence of PXA—”

“They all felt compelled to do something about that. Destroyed their own faces.”

Ryder turned back to the patrol car. Littleton watched through the window, lips pressed so tight Ryder knew they’d never get anything out of him now. Too late, the moment had passed.

“I’m sorry,” Manny said. “I’ve no choice. We have to let him go.”

The commander wasn’t as sympathetic. Of course not. He was the guy who’d transferred Ryder out of the Major Case Squad to the Advocacy Center last month. Probably hated that Ryder was caught up in one of his cases again.

“My guys will give you a call if they think of anything you can contribute.” His tone suggested it was highly unlikely that he could imagine Ryder having anything to contribute to any case. Ever.

Marsh strode to the patrol car and opened the door to release Littleton. Ryder turned to Manny. “You know damn well he’ll be dead by morning. They only let him live this long to set me up. They wanted me to see this, to see how powerful they are.”

Manny’s gaze was skeptical. “You’re reading too much into this, Ryder. If the men working with Littleton were really that powerful, there’d be a string of violent offenses. Maybe they don’t even exist. Maybe it’s all just Littleton and a few of his buddies, making sure he’ll never go back to jail or be tried again.”

“No,” Ryder said. “There’s more going on here, I can feel it.”

“Get some rest.” Manny clapped his hand on Ryder’s shoulder as if they were friends. They weren’t. Or maybe he felt sorry for Ryder, clutching at crazy conspiracy theories—in front of the commander, no less. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Littleton stood on the sidewalk a few feet from them, rubbing his wrists now that he was free of the handcuffs. Manny left to join Marsh and the detectives. It was just Ryder and Littleton, nothing standing between them, facing each other like old-fashioned gunslingers.

Littleton regained his cocky attitude as he watched the police and crime-scene techs swarm the scene, his eyes gleaming in the bright lights of a TV crew setting up down the block. He placed his hands in his coat pockets and strolled toward Ryder.

As he came abreast, he said, “While you’re wasting time here, I wonder who my brothers are calling upon next. Maybe that pretty doctor?”

It took everything Ryder had not to grind Littleton’s grin into the pavement. Instead, he spun and headed for his vehicle. Trying hard not to run. Or panic.

He fumbled his phone free. Dialed Rossi.

No answer.

I SPOKE WITH
the other families, one at a time, Devon watching and listening with their consent. Variations on a theme. All elementary school-age children, all fine until August or September. Some attended St. Tim’s, some public school, so I couldn’t blame it on that. All had the same progression of symptoms, including two more children with fugue states that their parents had witnessed. All had been cleared by the clinic or their doctors.

And none with a family history of fatal insomnia. Or seizures. Or anything that might explain their symptoms.

After the last family left, Devon and I were alone in the small exam room. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked, pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

“You have fourteen more? All from the Tower?”

“That I know of. Might be others.” He hesitated, but his face said it all. “Esme?”

I wished I had better news for him. “You said she’s had trouble sleeping. Do you think—”

“I don’t know what to think. Was hoping you’d tell me it’s nothing, but now…after hearing all that.” He pulled his phone out, glanced at it, didn’t see what he wanted, and returned it to his pocket. “I called and texted Flynn, told her to bring Esme home. Until we get this straightened out, I want her here, near me.”

I touched his arm. His muscles were knotted with tension. “I’ll do everything I can to help. But first we need to know what we’re dealing with.”

“Whatever it takes.” He broke away from me and faced the wall, pressing one palm against it as if he needed to rest his weight. Another heaving breath, and he pushed away, spun back to me. “What’s the next step?”

“Louise Mehta, my neurologist. She has a new fellow who did a rotation at the fatal insomnia research center in Venice. We should get them involved.”

“I’ll arrange it, pay for everything. Anything you need.”

We left the room, collected Ozzie, who waited patiently by the door, and walked back to the alley where the car was parked. The wind had picked up, and the snow the weathermen had promised had begun—a wet, thick snow that left a coat of ice beneath it.