Dead by Morning (5 page)
Griff nodded. “I want the copycat killer found and stopped before anyone else dies.” He downed another gulp of the Macallan, huffed out a deep breath, and took another swig.
It was Derek’s opinion that recently Griff had been drinking too much. The man had a high tolerance for alcohol, was able to drink enough to knock another man on his ass, and usually knew his limit. But for the past couple of months, Derek had noticed a distinct change in his boss, and not only in his drinking habits.
“You do know that these murders are not your fault,” Derek said.
Griff’s grumbling growl came from his chest, a combination of anger and pain. “He is sending me a message. No matter what anyone thinks, I know that I’m the ultimate target. He wants me to suffer, to know that he’s killing these people because they are in some way associated with me.”
“I know that’s what you believe, but there is no way you can be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Look, Griff, I’ve never asked for specific details about your past, about those missing ten years,” Derek said. “I figured everything that happened to you and how you earned your billions was nobody’s business. Certainly not mine. What I know, you’ve told me yourself, and I appreciate your trusting me with the information. But if there’s something specific that I need to know, something that could help me—”
“Go with Maleah to see Browning. Size up the guy. Get all the info you can out of him and then we’ll talk.” Griff finished off his glass of whisky.
Derek didn’t need to say more. He understood that Griff had dismissed him. He stood, said good night and closed the door behind him when he left.
As if he were standing guard, Sanders waited across the hall from Griff’s study, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. With a stocky, fireplug build, every muscle toned, a sharp mind always in observation mode, the man appeared to be battle ready at all times.
“He’s drinking too much.” Derek paused long enough to make direct eye contact with his boss’s right-hand man.
Sanders nodded.
“He thinks the murders are his fault.”
“Griffin carries the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Sanders said.
“Someone who knows him far better than I do needs to convince him that he’s not to blame, no matter what the killer’s motives might be.”
“Griffin is a man who accepts responsibility.”
Derek stared at Sanders, not quite understanding his comment. Did he believe that Griff was in some way responsible for the actions of a psychopath?
“No one person can right all the wrongs in the world, no matter how rich and powerful they might be,” Derek said.
“One person can try.”
“My God, what grievous sin did he commit that he feels compelled to atone for by wearing a hair shirt the rest of his life?”
“I advise you not to profile Griffin Powell with that analytical mind of yours, Mr. Lawrence.”
Derek nodded. He now knew that he had hit too close to home to suit Sanders. Griff lived with his past sins haunting him and they were no doubt the driving force behind his need to rid the world of evil. He had founded the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency as a means to bring to justice those whom regular law enforcement had difficulty apprehending and punishing. His clients paid according to their ability to do so and many cases were worked pro bono.
Without replying to Sanders, Derek walked away, his thoughts centered on Griffin Powell’s mysterious past. Why was Griff so certain that the copycat killer was sending him a message?
Errol watched Cyrene while she slept. He had never thought it possible to love a woman the way he loved her. He couldn’t look at her enough, couldn’t touch her enough, couldn’t make love to her enough. After his disastrous first marriage and the death of his little girl, he had thought he was destined to be miserable the rest of his life.
And then he had met Cyrene. In a coffee shop of all places. He’d stopped by to meet his sister for breakfast on his way to work and had accidentally bumped into the most gorgeous woman in the world while waiting in line. The moment she smiled at him, the whole world lit up, bright and warm and joyous. Yeah, sure, he hadn’t missed the fact that she had a great body. And yeah, right after her thousand-watt smile, her big boobs had been the first thing he’d noticed. But her body was icing on the cake. The woman inside was as beautiful as the sexy wrapping.
They had dated for six months before they slept together. She was a cautious lady, determined that no man would ever take advantage of her. By the time they made love for the first time, he was already in love. And so was she.
When he asked her to marry him a few weeks later, she had only one request—that he change jobs.
“I want a husband who doesn’t put his life in danger every day the way you do being an Atlanta police officer. I don’t want to have to worry if the father of my children may not come home one night because he got killed on the job.”
Errol reached down from where he lay beside her, his body propped up on his folded arm, and tenderly caressed her cheek. As much as he had loved being a police officer, he loved Cyrene more. Then and now.
He’d been lucky to find another job that he truly liked, one that actually paid better and afforded him and his new bride a more affluent lifestyle. He’d been with the Powell Agency for four months, having hired on a few weeks after his engagement. They had just bought a new house in Farragut a month before their wedding. And his new boss—Griffin Powell—had given them an all-expenses-paid two-week honeymoon at the Grand Resort in the Bahamas.
He laid his head on his pillow, stretched out his naked body beneath the cool, slightly wrinkled sheet, and closed his eyes.
Life was good. At long last.
Errol knew he was one damn lucky SOB.
Wearing tan cargo shorts and a hideous floral shirt, he sat at the end of the bar nursing some elaborate rum concoction, doing his best to look like a typical tourist. Most of the visitors at the resort were couples, many newlyweds or second honeymooners. In order to fit in, he had made a point of flirting with several single ladies who were obviously there man-hunting. He had already decided that tomorrow night he’d take one of those ladies to his room and ease some of the pre-kill tension he always experienced. A night of rough sex would do wonders for him.
He was in no rush. The most important thing was timing. Errol and Cyrene Patterson were on their honeymoon and spent a great deal of time in their room. The couple had been inseparable since their arrival at the resort last week. He didn’t want to kill both of them, but if necessary, he would. But only one was his target, only one was destined to become the Copycat Carver’s fifth victim.
Just as he took another sip of the syrupy sweet rum drink, his mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He lifted the phone from the pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
No information. Unknown number and name.
He tapped the answer key and put the phone to his ear. “I’m enjoying my vacation in the Bahamas. I’ve met some lovely ladies. Unfortunately some of the prettiest women are married and here on their honeymoon. There’s one woman . . .”
“I don’t need to know the details tonight. I prefer to allow my imagination to paint a mental picture of all the gruesome details.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Did you send Ms. Perdue her gift?”
“She should have received it today.”
“You sent it in care of her employer?”
“I did.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before he arranges for her to visit the Georgia State Prison.”
Chapter 5
Maleah wasn’t surprised that Griff had managed to arrange for visitation privileges for Derek and her at the prison in Reidsville so quickly. He had placed a call to the governor over the weekend and by noon Monday, she and Derek were packing their bags. Barbara Jean, who handled a lot of the mundane details for the agency, booked them two rooms at the Hampton Inn in Vidalia, a twenty-minute drive from Reidsville. They had checked into the hotel before six and then had driven over to the county seat of Tattnall County where the state prison was located. Before they had left Griffin’s Rest yesterday, Sanders, who had confiscated their laptops earlier that morning, had informed them that all pertinent files on Jerome Browning had been loaded into a file folder. One file contained info on the penitentiary, the oldest state prison in Georgia. Constructed of marble in 1937 and opened in that same year, it remained the largest contributor to the city’s economy.
Numerous buildings containing four two-tiered cell blocks with single cells, the newer buildings spanning from the original structure, housed the convicts. The cell blocks were divided by population into two categories: general population units and one special management unit. As a convicted serial killer serving multi-life sentences, Jerome Browning was housed in a maximum security area.
Maleah hadn’t slept worth a damn. She would never admit it to Derek, but she was more than just a little nervous about meeting Browning. In all honesty, she was borderline terrified—terrified by the thought of how she might react when she actually came face-to-face with Noah’s killer. While she had tossed and turned for hours, longing for sleep that wouldn’t come, her mind had wandered back more than a dozen years, to the day she had met Noah Laborde, sophomore class president. It hadn’t been love at first sight. She didn’t believe in such a thing, not then and certainly not now. But it had been interest at first sight. They had dated for nearly a year before she had finally agreed to have sex with him.
Remembering the past in such vivid detail, recalling moments with Noah that she had thought long forgotten didn’t help Maleah’s already frayed nerves that morning. After grabbing a quick shower and brushing her hair up into a loose bun, she dressed in her professional garb—navy slacks, white shirt, lightweight tan jacket, and a pair of sensible low-heel navy shoes. After applying a minimum of makeup, she put on her wristwatch and small gold hoop earrings. She took all of half a minute to inspect herself in the mirror before slipping her small leather bag over her shoulder and leaving the room.
She didn’t bother stopping to knock on Derek’s door as she headed for the elevator. During the entire time they had worked together on the Midnight Killer case, she couldn’t recall a single morning that he hadn’t gotten up early, always before she did. The Hampton Inn provided a full breakfast, which meant they wouldn’t have to search for a place to eat this morning. Just as she had figured, he was waiting for her in the dining area adjacent to the lobby. Sitting alone at a table for two, a cup of coffee in front of him, a folded newspaper in one hand, and a soft-grip mechanical pencil in the other, he glanced up from the crossword puzzle and motioned for her to join him. As she approached, he laid down the paper and pencil and rose to greet her with a smile.
“Morning, sunshine.”
God, she hated that he could be so chipper at sixthirty in the morning. And she hated even more that she had noticed how damn good he looked. Derek was nothing more to her than her partner on this case, just as he had been on the Midnight Killer case. Their personal relationship went no farther than that. They certainly weren’t friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. On good days, they worked well together. On bad days, they tolerated each other.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“Nope.” He glanced at the half empty cup on the table. “However, this is my second cup of coffee.”
“Coffee sounds good. I think I’ll grab some cereal and a cup of yogurt.”
“You do know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he told her. “You should fill up on protein—bacon and eggs. And of course, a couple of biscuits smothered in butter and jelly.”
“If I ate like that every morning, I’d soon be waddling when I walk.”
When she headed toward the self-serve breakfast setup, she felt Derek’s gaze on her and knew he was looking at her butt. Okay, so she had a bit of a hang-up about her wide hips and ample rear-end. Nic had told her guys didn’t like flat asses, that her JLo butt was a definite asset. If that was true, then why was it that Derek seemed to prefer the long, lean, borderline skinny model types?
Damn it, why do you care what type of woman Derek prefers?
Maleah hurried through the line, grabbed a carton of non-fat strawberry yogurt and, deciding against eating cereal, headed toward the coffeemaker. Not fully concentrating on what she was doing, she bumped into Derek and quickly apologized before she even looked at him.
Their gazes met and locked for a full thirty seconds before Maleah broke eye contact.
“It’s okay to be nervous about meeting Browning,” he told her.
Ignoring his comment, she grabbed a cup, filled it with hot coffee, and picked up a packet of Splenda and a stir stick.
By the time Derek joined her at their table, she had drunk half her coffee. As he set down a plate filled with bacon, eggs, and biscuits, he glanced at her unopened yogurt carton. After he sat across from her, they ate in relative silence for several minutes.
“You aren’t nervous, are you?” Maleah asked.
“Unsettled would be a better word to describe how I feel about meeting Jerome Browning this morning,” Derek told her. “Unsettled, curious, and wary. You need to be wary of him, too. He’s cunning. If he senses any weakness in you, he’ll use it against you.”
“And you and Griff think I’m weak, don’t you? You think I’ll fall apart just because Browning murdered my college boyfriend.”
“Neither Griff nor I think you’re weak. But you will be vulnerable because of your connection to Noah Laborde.”
She heaved a heavy, labored huff. Derek was right. There was no use denying the obvious.
He reached over and laid his open palm across her tightly fisted hand. The moment he touched her, she jerked her hand away and lifted it off the table.
Ignoring her reaction, he said, “The way I see this interview with Browning is you and I act as a tag team, both of us questioning him. If at any time you become uncomfortable and want to terminate the interview, then don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“And you’ll whisk me up in your big strong arms and carry me off on your gallant white charger.” The moment the silly comment left her lips, Maleah regretted it. She had a problem about speaking before thinking things through, and this was especially true with Derek.
He didn’t respond.
She groaned. “Sorry.”
He laughed. “I didn’t know you thought of me as a knight in shining armor.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “Most of the time, I think of you as a royal pain in the butt.”
“Likewise, Blondie.” He lifted his coffee cup and saluted her with it.
Barbara Jean had lived at Griffin’s Rest for several years, ever since Griff had placed her under the agency’s protection during the hunt for her younger sister’s killer. Within a few days, he had put her to work, there in his home, under Damar Sanders’s guidance. Her attraction to Sanders had not been love at first sight, but rather a recognition of two lonely, wounded souls in need. Despite the fact that they were lovers and sometimes in their intimate moments she called him Damar, she thought of her friend and lover as Sanders. No one used his first name, not even Griff and Yvette, his closest friends.
She admired and respected Griffin Powell as she did Sanders and shared a deep affection with Nicole. She considered Yvette Meng a friend, but they were not close, not the way she and Nic were. The beautiful Eurasian psychiatrist possessed a quiet, gentle personality. Almost shy. Her unique empathic abilities that allowed her to gain insight into a person’s thoughts and feelings by a mere touch separated her from others. Until recently, Yvette had lived in London, half a world away. But then, three years ago, Griff had begun construction at Griffin’s Rest on a retreat for Yvette and a small group of her protégés, young men and women with special psychic talents.
Barbara Jean knew less about the missing years of her employer’s life, from age twenty-two to thirty-two, than Nic knew. And even though Sanders had told her that he and Yvette had shared those years with Griff, he had not divulged very many details. Sanders had been married long ago and had lost his wife and child. He had never told her the specifics and she had never asked. He, Yvette, and Griff had been held captive on an uncharted Pacific island by an insane billionaire named Malcolm York. They had eventually escaped, after they killed York. The horrors they had endured together had united them as comrades and bound them to one another forever.
Nic and Yvette shared a precarious friendship, somewhat one-sided since Nic couldn’t quite manage to overcome her concerns about Griff’s love for the other woman. Where Nic needed to know more about her husband’s past and allowed the secrets he couldn’t share with her to come between them, Barbara Jean accepted Sanders for who and what he was. His past was just that—his past. It had made him the man he was today, but other than that, it had nothing to do with her.
If only Nic could see things as she did.
Barbara Jean maneuvered her wheelchair out onto the patio where Nic sat in a chaise lounge, her computer resting in her lap.
“I’ve put on the kettle for tea,” Barbara Jean said. “Would you care for a cup?”
“No, thanks.” Nic glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “I’ve been going over the information on Jerome Browning again and some things don’t add up.”
“Such as?” Barbara Jean asked as she wheeled herself out into the morning sunshine.
“The original Carver didn’t mail the pieces of flesh he removed from his victims to anyone. Those triangular pieces were never found.” Nic paused for a moment, closed the lid on her laptop and faced Barbara Jean.
“So, the copycat killer is not following every detail of the Carver’s MO, is he?” Barbara Jean said.
“No, which makes me ask why he isn’t. And if he’s differing in one aspect, then he’s possibly going to differ in other areas.”
“I haven’t actually studied copycat cases in general, but it stands to reason that there might be differences between the original and the copy.”
“In most cases, the copycat closely mimics the original, but often deviates in small details,” Nic said as she closed her laptop and set it on the glass and metal side table to her right. “Our killer sending Maleah the triangles of flesh from the first four victims, coupled with the fact that he’s copying the killer who murdered Maleah’s college sweetheart, tells me that he wants her involved.”
“Does that mean that neither you nor Griff is his ultimate target?”
“I don’t know. My gut tells me that it’s one of us, but what if this new Carver has been killing Powell Agency people in order to set things up to lure Maleah into some sort of vicious game he’s playing?”
“Have you talked to Griff about your theory?” Barbara Jean asked.
“I’m afraid Griff is concentrating so much on a possible connection between the Powell Agency murders and the rumor in Europe about Malcolm York being alive that he isn’t giving consideration to any other possibility.”
“Sanders says there is no way York can still be alive.” She lowered her voice. “When they left the island, York was dead. They were certain of it.” Barbara Jean preferred not to think about the fact that Sanders was more than capable of cold-blooded murder, as were Griff and Yvette. She understood why they had killed York and knew in her heart that under the same circumstances, she would have done what they did. They had destroyed the monster who had tortured them with such great pleasure.
“Griff says the same thing.” Nic stood to her full five-ten height, her feet bare, her long, tan legs clad in white walking shorts. An oversized orange and white UT T-shirt hung loosely to her hips. “He’s convinced that someone in Europe is using York’s name, but he has no idea who or why.”
“I know very little about the years Sanders spent on Amara, only that he blames York for the death of his wife and child, and that York forced him to do some terrible things.”
“I’ve grown to hate Malcolm York with every fiber of my being.” Nic walked to the edge of the patio and gazed out over Douglas Lake. “Even after all these years, he still haunts Griff.”
“As he does Sanders and Yvette.”
At the mention of Yvette’s name, Nic glanced over her shoulder at Barbara Jean. “They both love her, you know. My Griffin and your Sanders.”
“Yes, I know. And she loves them. But . . .” Barbara Jean paused, hoping to find the right words. “Griff worships the ground you walk on. You are the love of his life. Never doubt that for a moment.”
Nic offered Barbara Jean a forced smile, then looked back out over the lake. “I don’t doubt his love for me. But as long as he doesn’t trust me with the complete truth about his past, that past will stand between us.”
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