The Dying Game (25 page)
Barbara Jean looked up at Griff and lifted her hand. “Thank you. I couldn’t have given Gale Ann a funeral like this without your help. It was everything I wanted for her … and more.” She glanced back at the open grave surrounded by numerous floral arrangements, over half of them provided by the Powell Agency.
Griff grasped Barbara Jean’s hand. “I’m just glad I could do something.”
Tears streamed down her face. She dabbed her eyes and cheeks with the handkerchief Sanders had provided for her.
Griff had never carried a handkerchief before he met Sanders. He had learned everything he knew about being a gentleman from his friend.
Griff called Rick Carson to inform him that he wanted all the Powell agents to go with Angie when she took Barbara Jean to the limousine. Once that was done, Griff walked through the disbanding crowd and up the hill to where Judd and Lindsay waited.
Judd didn’t like what was happening to him, but his gut instincts told him that being able to feel again wasn’t a bad thing. It might hurt like hell actually to give a damn, but at least now he knew he was still alive, that there was something left of him other than a revenge-crazed shell of his former self. It wasn’t that he had changed overnight. He hadn’t. And it wasn’t that he’d changed all that much. Six months ago he hadn’t given a damn that he’d hurt Lindsay, that he had ripped her to shreds and sent her running.
That had been what he’d wanted.
At least that’s what he’d thought at the time. He had convinced himself that she didn’t matter to him, that no one mattered. But there had been a few niggling moments during the past six months when he’d thought of her, wondered what she was doing, who she was with. And in those moments, he had damned her, determined not to care, not to feel.
Asking to come along today to attend Gale Ann Cain’s funeral had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, not something he’d thought about or agonized over. Two seconds after he’d made the request, he’d wanted to take it back. He could have. Griff hadn’t questioned Judd’s reasoning, though he had been somewhat surprised by the request.
“You’ll have to stay with Lindsay during the services,” Griff had said. “And if you say or do anything inappropriate, I’ll have your ass hauled away so quick—”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“You’d better be.”
Griff was a man of his word. Judd didn’t doubt for a minute that his old friend would follow-through on his threat. Griff had his own set of rules by which he lived, but in Judd’s estimation, Griff was honorable and loyal. Yet at the same time, he was capable of being ruthless and dangerous.
During the past four years, Judd had both relied on Griff’s friendship and had resented it. He had abused their relationship time and again, which spoke to the depth of Griff’s affection for him. He hadn’t deserved that kind of loyalty. Not from anyone, especially not from Griff. Or from Lindsay.
He glanced at Lindsay, who stood beside him on the knoll overlooking the cemetery. Apparently her cell phone had vibrated. She flipped it open and spoke so softly that he could barely hear her.
“We’ll wait here for you,” she said.
“Griff?” he asked.
She nodded, but avoided touching Judd or looking at him.
Lindsay had to know that during the service in the chapel and the one here at the cemetery, he’d been thinking of Jenny. Of her funeral. What little he could remember. Cam and Griff had somehow slipped some prescription medication into him the day of Jenny’s memorial service. He’d been not only numb with grief, but doped to the gills. He recalled bits and pieces of the service, which he’d later learned Cam had arranged. Someday, he’d have to thank Cam for taking over and doing what he’d been unable to do.
Judd did remember that Cam and Griff hadn’t left him alone for several weeks after Jenny’s murder. One or the other was with him twenty-four-seven. When he’d come out of that initial numbness, he had realized that his two best friends had been afraid he’d kill himself.
God knew he’d thought about it, but the anger inside wouldn’t let him die. Concentrating on revenge had given him a reason to live. He had been damned by his own hatred, embracing the agony of losing Jenny, wallowing in the mire of unrelenting grief.
How had the families of the other victims dealt with their deaths? How had the men who had loved them survived? Had they drowned in their anger and bitterness, as he had, or had they found other reasons to live?
If he and Jenny had had a child …
She had wanted a baby. Someday.
And he had wanted whatever Jenny wanted.
“Let’s go,” Lindsay said, bringing Judd out of his melancholy thoughts. “Griff’s ready to leave.”
Judd glanced at her and then a few feet away where Griff had stopped to speak to a stocky, sandy-haired man in uniform, a high-ranking police officer.
“Who’s Griff talking to?” Judd asked.
“Chief Mahoney.”
Judd watched the interchange between the two men and surmised that the Williamstown chief of police didn’t share Special Agent Baxter’s animosity toward Griff. The two shook hands before the chief walked off and Griff motioned to them.
When they caught up with Griff halfway to his rental car, he stopped, glanced around and said in a low voice, “Someone else saw our mystery man leaving Gale Ann’s apartment the day she was killed.”
“What!” Lindsay said a little too loudly.
“One of the other tenants was taking out his garbage and caught a glimpse of Barbara Jean entering the building and this guy leaving.”
“When did the witness come forward?” Lindsay asked.
“Only a few days ago,” Griff said. “It took him awhile to build up his courage and go to the police.”
“Can he ID the man?”
“No, not really. His description is less detailed than Barbara Jean’s. But I want to tell her that she’s not the only witness, that someone else saw the guy. That might reduce some of the pressure on her to remember.”
“But it doesn’t help us, does it?” Judd knew the others understood his comment was rhetorical and required no response. “Do we need to stay on in Williamstown and question this witness?” Lindsay asked.
“We can’t,” Griff replied. “It seems Nic Baxter has him in protective custody.”
* * *
Ruddy had never attended a victim’s funeral. Not until today. He had been unable to resist the overwhelming urge to come back to Kentucky and watch Gale Ann Cain being laid to rest. She’d been a lovely woman. And such an easy kill. He would never forget her, just as he wouldn’t forget any of the others. They were all precious to him, especially the redheads.
Pausing in the midst of the mourners, he watched while the Powell agents descended on Barbara Jean Hughes like a swarm of locusts, surrounding her as Griffin Powell’s man, Sanders, wheeled her away from the graveside.
Did these fools actually think he would try to kill her today?
He knew that Griffin had intentionally released the information that Gale Ann’s sister had seen a man who might be the killer.
It was possible that Griffin had hoped he would be lured in by the information, that he would try to kill Barbara Jean and they could trap him. But after being a part of his and Pudge’s little game for nearly four years now, surely Griffin knew better.
He has to know I’m too intelligent to fall into a trap. I
haven’t been caught yet and I won’t be. Part of the fun is outsmarting
not only the local lawmen and the FBI, but in eluding
the famous private detective Griffin Powell
.
Ruddy had enjoyed the service at the church and also this graveside farewell. If he had known how entertaining these events were, he would have gone to the previous ones. He could have brought along a small hidden camera and taken pictures and added the photographs to his collection.
Next time.
He wouldn’t have to wait long. He had already chosen the next pretty flower. A brunette. Only ten points. But ten points would keep him ahead of Pudge, enough so that he didn’t have to worry the least little bit.
He supposed he could have continued searching until he found a blonde, but the moment he saw LaShae, he knew she was the one. Her photo on her Web site probably didn’t do her justice. A former Miss Birmingham who went on to model professionally for a few years in her early twenties, LaShae was tall, slender, elegant. At thirty she had her own successful talk show on a local TV station, was happily married to an up-and-coming lawyer with political aspirations, and had a four-year-old son.
So much to live for. Ruddy sighed.
But better for someone as lovely as you are, my dear LaShae, to die young and leave behind memories of how beautiful you were. You would hate growing old, losing your looks, becoming withered and wrinkled.
Ruddy hurried along, keeping himself surrounded by the scattering mourners all the way to the parking area at the nearby Baptist church. Although he wore a disguise, he didn’t want to risk anyone noticing him in particular. And he certainly didn’t want to come face-to-face with Griffin Powell and risk Griff recognizing him.
LaShae Goodloe loved her house in Mountain Brook in a way she loved little else, except her son Martin. This beautiful home represented her success in life, her climb from poverty to riches. She had never been ashamed of her humble beginnings, had in fact used her own life story in the inspirational talks she gave to various organizations in and around Birmingham. The fact that her father had been a school janitor and her mother a cook at another school in her hometown of Bessemer had been a source of pride for her and her brother, Tony, who both now held Master’s degrees from the University of Alabama.
As LaShae made her way up the staircase to the second floor, she sighed deeply, weary from a long day at the station, and then dinner with her husband to discuss the terms of their legal separation. Rodney had moved out only a week ago, after another of their heated arguments. Neither of them wanted to rush into a divorce. For many reasons, they wanted to try to make their marriage work. Martin being the main reason. They both adored their son. Another reason was because Rodney had plans to run for state senator. He understood
that a family would be a benefit for him in any election. And LaShae had her own selfish reasons for wanting to remain Mrs. Rodney Goodloe. Her husband was quite wealthy and she enjoyed the lifestyle they shared. Although her local TV show was fairly popular, she had no false hopes of ever hitting the big time, of becoming the next Oprah Winfrey. No, she was lucky just to be doing local TV in a big city like Birmingham and she knew it.
As she passed Martin’s open bedroom door, she paused and glanced inside. Her four year old slept soundly in the antique spindle bed that had been his grandfather Goodloe’s. LaShae wasn’t all that fond of antiques, but Rodney loved them. One of their many differences. Differences that seemed unimportant five years ago when they married, but now those tiny molehills had become mountains.
LaShae tiptoed into her son’s room and paused by his bed. Looking down at him, she smiled. He was such a beautiful child. Long, lean, and sturdy, his body build a great deal like hers. His black hair was thick and coarse like Rodney’s, and his face round, his cheeks full like his father’s.
She wanted to wake him, lift him into her arms and hug him. She had never realized she could love anyone so much, not until she’d given birth to this perfect little boy. Another thing she could thank Rodney for. He’d given her so much. She should love him.
She did love him. Just not as much as she should. Not in the way she should.
What will it do to you, sweet baby, if your daddy and I get
a divorce?
Lying there in innocent bliss, he knew nothing about his parents’ marital problems. When Rodney moved out, they’d told Martin that Daddy had to work at night for a while. Being a partner in one of Birmingham’s most prestigious law firms was time-consuming for Rodney and occasionally she felt that he neglected Martin as much as he neglected her.
“I won’t make a selfish decision,” she whispered to her son. “I promise I’ll do what I think is best for all of us, but especially for you.”
As she crept silently out of the room, she didn’t hear her aunt Carol approaching. When she came face-to-face with her mother’s sister, she gasped.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, child.”
“You didn’t,” LaShae said. “You just startled me.”
Her aunt, now nearly seventy, had moved in with them shortly after Martin was born. Neither LaShae nor Rodney had wanted to put their child in daycare or allow a stranger to come into their home to raise him. Having Auntie Carol as Martin’s nanny had been a godsend for the entire family.
“Did you and Rodney have a nice dinner?” Aunt Carol asked.
Towering over her by a good seven inches, LaShae put her arm around her five-two aunt. “Dinner was very nice. But before you say anything else—no, we are not going to get a divorce. And yes, we are going to try a trial separation.”
“Separations ain’t no good. His eye will start wandering and before you know it, he’ll take up with another woman.”
LaShae smiled indulgently. She could hardly tell her aunt that it wasn’t Rodney who had a wandering eye. She was the one who had had an affair. The sexual attraction between her and the morning-and-noon news anchor at WBNN, Ben Thompson, had exploded a couple of months ago.
Frustrated to the breaking point, Ben had put out feelers about a job at other stations: In Nashville, Knoxville, Mobile, and even in Louisville.
Walking her aunt to her room, LaShae said, “Don’t worry so much about Rodney and me. We just need some time apart. We both need to reevaluate our marriage, our careers, and decide what is best for everyone involved.”
“Staying married is what’s best for all of you, especially little Martin. Babies need their mama and daddy together. Think about your own dear mama and your good daddy.”
After stopping at her aunt’s bedroom door, LaShae leaned down and kissed her on both cheeks. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, Auntie?”
