Dead by Morning (9 page)
And so he waited, giving her the time she needed to decompress after game playing with a cunning madman.
When they reached the designated parking area, she said, “You drive.” And then she tossed him her keys. He grabbed the keys mid-air, remotely unlocked the SUV and, gentleman that he was, opened the passenger door for her.
And then he waited until they were several miles from the penitentiary before he said, “The warden is going to have a list of all of Browning’s visitors for the past year, along with the names and addresses of the people who have written to him and the names and phone numbers of the people he’s called compiled and sent to me and to Powell headquarters as an e-mail attachment. He’s promised we’ll have the information by the end of the day.”
“Great. We’ve finally got something to work with, don’t we?”
“Yep.” When she didn’t continue their conversation, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“We’ll have to talk about your interview with Browning. I’ll need to know what he said, everything you can remember.”
Maleah adjusted her seat so that she could lean further back. She rested her head on the cushioned leather and folded her hands together in her lap.
“He asked what color my panties were and I told him beige with lace trim and that I was wearing a matching bra.”
“Son of a bitch.” Derek growled the comment under his breath.
“He still didn’t give me the copycat killer’s name or a description of him. But he did say that he knew things about this guy that could help us find him.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I didn’t disbelieve him.”
“He’s playing you. He may not know a damn thing.”
“He said if the copycat follows the Carver’s MO, he’ll alter the sex of his victims pretty much willy-nilly.”
“Something we already knew.”
“We didn’t know that his next victim wouldn’t have brown eyes.”
“What?”
“He called out to me just as I was leaving. He said the next victim wouldn’t be brown-eyed.”
“How could he possibly know that?” Derek suspected that Browning wouldn’t say something like that off the top of his head. If he wanted Maleah to come back to see him, he would try to impress her with his knowledge.
“I have no idea, but maybe we should check and see what color the first four victims’ eyes were. Maybe there’s a pattern.”
“We’ll contact the agency—”
Derek’s phone rang. No music. Just a strong, routine ring tone.
With one hand on the wheel and his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he pulled the phone from his pocket, hit the On button and said, “Derek Lawrence speaking,” without checking caller ID.
“I want you and Maleah at the Vidalia Municipal Airport as soon as you can get there,” Griff Powell said. “There’s a charter plane waiting to fly y’all to Atlanta. Nic and I will be taking off in the Powell jet within the next thirty minutes. We’ll pick y’all up in Atlanta. We’re flying from there straight to Nassau. The copycat struck again last night. He killed Errol Patterson. Errol’s wife found his body in the bathroom of their hotel suite. She’s under a doctor’s care at the moment and heavily sedated. She’s going to need all the help we can give her.”
“We’ll pick up our bags at the hotel and drive straight to the airport.”
Succinct and to the point. Conversation ended.
“What’s happened?” Maleah asked.
“The copycat killed Errol Patterson last night and his wife . . . his new bride . . . found his body this morning.”
Chapter 9
Derek and Maleah boarded the Powell private jet in Atlanta. Nic met them the moment they arrived, but Griff was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s in the bedroom making phone calls,” Nic explained. “He’s double checking with Barbara Jean about the arrangements for Cyrene’s sister to fly in to Nassau as soon as possible. From what we understand, Cyrene is in no condition to return home alone and we felt it best for a family member to be with her.”
Maleah had known Errol for several years, but only in a professional capacity. They had never worked a case together and she had probably seen him, at most, a dozen times. And she had never met his wife. With more than fifty agents employed by Powell’s, some had never met and many knew one another only in passing. Agents were chosen for cases by their specific qualifications for the job and by their availability. Only when partnered with another agent or when pulling duty at Griffin’s Rest together did the agents get a chance to form friendships.
It was not a surprise that when Nic introduced them to Brendan Richter, the agent who had accompanied Griff and Nic, Maleah drew a blank. She had no memory of ever meeting the somber, auburn-haired Powell agent.
“Good to see you again, Richter,” Derek said as he shook hands with the spit-and-polished man who looked as if he should be in uniform.
Maleah wondered if he had come straight out of the military.
“Likewise, Mr. Lawrence,” Richter replied with a slight, almost indiscernible accent.
To Maleah’s ear, the accent sounded German.
“That’s right, you two know each other,” Nic said. “Brendan is accompanying us to Nassau. He will be staying and overseeing Powell Agency concerns connected to Errol’s murder.”
“How long have you worked for our agency, Mr. Richter?” Maleah asked. She also wanted to ask how he and Derek knew each other, but she didn’t.
When Richter looked at Maleah, his cold blue eyes inspected her with aloof detachment. “Six months.”
He had answered her question without giving her any other information. “Are you retired military?”
“No, Ms. Perdue, I am not.”
Seeing no point in continuing this line of conversation, she turned to Nic. “How much information do we have about Errol Patterson’s murder?”
“Nothing really, except that he’s dead and that his wife found him in the bathroom of their hotel suite. So far, Griff hasn’t been able to find out anything else, no details.”
“Then we don’t know for sure that his throat was slit or that his body was mutilated?” Maleah asked.
“No, we don’t know for sure, but Griff is convinced that the Copycat Carver has struck again.” Nic glanced at Derek. “What do you think?”
“I think Griff is probably right.”
Maleah’s mind whirled with various thoughts, combining information and mixing it until an idea hit. Suddenly, she said, “I know this is going to sound like a really stupid thing to say, but—Errol was African American, but he had green eyes, didn’t he?”
Everyone stared at her. Her comment didn’t make sense to anyone except Derek.
“Is there some significance to the fact that Errol was green-eyed?” Nic asked.
“Jerome Browning told me that the copycat’s next victim would not be brown-eyed.”
“Perhaps it was only a lucky guess,” Richter said. “Or perhaps Mr. Browning chose his victims by eye color, eliminating those who had brown eyes, and he assumes the copycat killer will follow his lead. Do we know the eye color for the first four victims?”
“Shelley had blue eyes,” Maleah said. “And so did Kristi.”
“I don’t know about Holt’s brother or Ben’s father,” Nic said. “But I can find out.”
“How would the copycat have acquired such a seemingly unimportant piece of information about the original Carver’s victims?” Richter asked.
“Two ways,” Derek told them. “Either he has access to police records or Jerome Browning told him.”
“Neither Norris Keinan nor Winston Corbett were brown-eyed,” Griff said from where he stood in the open doorway to the bedroom suite. “I had met both men in the past.”
Everyone stared straight at Griffin Powell, his huge frame filling the doorway.
“My guess is that none of Jerome Browning’s victims were brown-eyed.” Griff came over, sat down beside Nic, and looked at Maleah.
“So the information he gave me is useless.” Maleah wanted to hit something or someone, preferably Jerome Browning.
“Not entirely useless,” Griff said. “If the copycat follows suit in this one area, then no brown-eyed Powell agents or brown-eyed family members are at risk. That means Nic is not in danger, nor are you and Derek.” He glanced at Richter. “On the other hand, you and I, Brendan, are possible victims.”
Before the conversation could continue, the pilot informed Griff that they were ready for take-off. Richter immediately moved toward the front of the cabin and isolated himself from the others. Maleah watched him pick up a leather briefcase beside the plush seat and place it in his lap before buckling his seatbelt.
While Nic and Griff put their heads together in a private conversation during take-off, Derek took the seat next to Maleah, but didn’t say anything until they were airborne.
“Some of the information you’ll get out of Browning will be useless, some only marginally helpful and some could even be misleading. But you never know when he’ll let something slip and actually give us a diamond mixed in with all the rocks and pebbles he’ll be tossing out.”
“You’re assuming that I’ll actually go back to see him.”
“You’ll go back and you’ll play his game.”
“Think so, do you?”
“Know so.”
“And if you were a betting man, who would you lay odds on to win, Browning or me?”
She held her breath, waiting for Derek’s response. He looked at her and grinned. “I’d put my money on you, Blondie.”
Maleah exhaled. She didn’t know if she should believe him. He could have told her what he knew she wanted to hear, what she needed to hear in order to work up the courage to face Browning again.
“He mentioned Noah Laborde,” Maleah said.
“Bastard.” Derek murmured the word under his breath. “He didn’t waste any time, did he? He was testing you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, I know.”
“How did you react when he asked about Laborde and how quickly did you recover?”
“You assume that I—”
“I know you. If he took you off guard, and I assume he did, then you reacted, even if only for a second.”
“Okay, so I reacted,” she admitted. “He might have seen me flinch, but that’s all.”
“He’ll try to use Laborde again. I wouldn’t put it past him to share the gory details of the kill. If he does, can you take it?”
Could she? Would she be able to listen to Browning describe how he had killed Noah without running from the room in tears or physically attacking the SOB?
“I don’t know.”
“You’d better know,” Derek said. “You’d better be prepared. Once he’s done his worst with it, he’ll move on, so all you have to do is hold your own against him and survive the attack.”
“I’m wondering if it’s worthwhile to play his sick little game. Do you honestly think that Browning is going to help us?”
“Not willingly. Not without getting something out of it and since there are no more deals to be made through legal channels, we both know that what he wants is the pleasure of tormenting you.”
“Lucky me.”
Derek laid his hand over hers where she clutched the padded armrest. Her first impulse was to pull away, but she didn’t. If she intended to continue interviewing Browning and survive the assignment, she would need Derek Lawrence.
There, she had admitted it. She couldn’t do this alone.
Maleah flipped her hand over, grasped Derek’s hand and squeezed. “Just don’t go all macho-protective on me. I’m not some helpless female who—”
Derek chuckled. “Blondie, you are the least helpless female I know.” He released her hand.
“And don’t you forget it. And don’t think that this changes anything between us or that we’re going to wind up being friends. We’re co-workers and partners on this case. That’s all.”
“Ah, shucks, Miss Maleah, I thought for sure that you and me would wind up getting hitched.”
How he kept a straight face, she’d never know. But he did. She stared at him. Then, unable to stop herself, she smiled. “All right. I get your point. I made a big to-do over nothing.”
He nodded.
Feeling somewhat relaxed, in large part to Derek, she glanced around the cabin. Griff draped his arm around Nic as she rested her head on his shoulder. Were they thinking about Errol and Cyrene Patterson and how less than twenty-four hours ago, the newlyweds were enjoying their honeymoon? Were they thinking about how life can turn on a dime, that you can be blissfully happy one moment and dragged down into the misery of hell the next?
Brendan Richter seemed totally absorbed in whatever he was doing on the laptop he had removed from the leather case.
Noting her interest in the new Powell agent, Derek said in a low, quiet voice, “Richter was with the Criminal Investigative Division of Interpol. We worked together when I was with the Bureau.”
What an interesting coincidence that he should be leaving the Grand Resort just as the Powell entourage arrived. Although he had never met the famous Griffin Powell, he knew a great deal about him. Others might see him as strong and powerful, practically invincible. But they were wrong. Powell allowed his conscience to weaken him. He was a man on a mission to do good. He was loyal to his friends and benevolent to his employees. And he loved his wife. Loyalty was a weakness, as was kindness. But love was the greatest weakness of all.
They didn’t notice him as they passed him in the lobby, Powell and his beautiful wife Nicole, along with Derek Lawrence, Maleah Perdue, and Brendan Richter. But then there was no reason for any of them to recognize him. He appeared to be nothing more than another tourist, an invisible man no one was likely to remember.
Richter and Lawrence were former law enforcement heavy hitters, but oddly enough, out of the three agents, Ms. Perdue possessed the most power at the moment. Ordinarily, she was a lightweight, a political science major with a desire to right wrongs, defend the underdog, and help the helpless. Using her connection to the Carver had been a stroke of genius, even though he couldn’t take credit for the idea himself.
Without a backward glance, he waited outside for the bellboy to load his suitcase into the hotel’s van. He had a nonstop 3:00
P.M
. flight to Atlanta.
P.M
. flight to Atlanta.
Once seated inside the air-conditioned luxury van, he avoided direct eye contact with the other occupants.
“I can’t get away from this place fast enough,” the skinny, gray-haired woman sitting across from him said.
If she was talking to him, he would ignore her.
“I heard that the poor man was butchered like a pig,” another woman replied. “They say there was blood everywhere.”
“His wife probably killed him,” someone else said. “It’s usually the spouse.”
“One of the maids told me that the wife had to be sedated and is under a doctor’s care.”
“She’s probably crazy. Anyone who could cut a man to pieces that way . . .”
He settled into his seat, closed his eyes and mentally escaped from the chattering magpies. Since he had gotten no sleep last night, he would probably sleep on the plane. Once he arrived in Atlanta, he would make one phone call from the airport.
In the morning, he would rent a car and drive to Savannah, where the Copycat Carver’s next victim lived.
Griff had called Derek’s room and asked that he and Maleah join them for dinner in his suite that evening.
“Nic needs Maleah,” Griff had said. “You know, another woman to talk to about things. Seeing Errol’s wife . . . his widow . . . was difficult for Nic.”
“When are you expecting her sister to arrive?”
“Tonight. I’ve arranged for a doctor to fly in with her and to accompany Cyrene back to the States.”
When they arrived at the Powell suite, Derek could tell that Nic was still visibly shaken after seeing Cyrene Patterson. Even though she had freshened up and changed clothes, she still looked shell-shocked.
Nicole Baxter Powell was a strong woman who had excelled in her position as a special agent for the FBI. She was definitely all woman, but she didn’t have a silly, frivolous, or clinging bone in her body, like so many women he knew. But Nic had a kind heart. She genuinely cared about other people.
Derek lingered in the foyer with Griff, while Maleah and Nic went into the living room and exchanged hugs before sitting down on the sofa.
“I’ve arranged for you and Maleah to go with Richter in the morning for a meeting with the Chief Inspector and the inspector assigned to the Patterson case,” Griff said. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem getting whatever information you want.”
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