Chapter 4
Despite her earlier claims to Derek
about being hungry, Maleah skipped dinner that evening. The
information that Nic and Griff had shared with her had not only
taken her appetite, but it had given her the mother of all
headaches. Why me? was the one question that
replayed itself over and over again in her mind. Could it really be
he had chosen her only because she and Nic were close friends? Or
was it possible that she was simply the only Powell agent with a
connection to a serial killer? She’d have to remember in the
morning to ask Nic.
Lying there staring up at the ceiling,
she positioned her index fingers on either side of her head and
rubbed her temples in a circular motion. She had been prone to
having tension headaches all her life. Usually a couple of aspirin
or Aleve gave her relief within an hour or less. But this headache
was hanging on.
“Maleah?” Nic asked after rapping on
the bedroom door.
“Yes, what is it?”
“May I come in?”
Maleah sighed heavily, lifted herself
into a sitting position and replied, “Sure, come on in.” After all,
she was a guest in her friend’s home. And Nic was probably worried
about her.
No sooner had Maleah’s bare feet hit
the floor than Nic entered, a serving tray balanced in one hand. “I
brought you something to eat.”
Maleah rushed toward her friend and
took the tray from her. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. I
don’t think I can eat a bite.”
“It’s Barbara Jean’s mac and cheese,
with her Mexican cornbread. If that doesn’t tempt you, nothing
will.” Nic closed the door and then followed Maleah into the small
sitting area of the bedroom. A couple of sky blue upholstered arm
chairs flanked a small, low mahogany table set between the chairs
and love seat covered with yellow and blue floral material. Maleah
lowered the tray to the table, removed the cloth covering and eyed
the plate of food. Her stomach growled.
Maleah and Nic smiled at each
other.
“See,” Nic said. “Your stomach knows
you’re hungry, even if you think you’re not.”
Realizing it was useless to argue with
Nic, especially when she was right, Maleah sat down on the loveseat
and picked up a fork from the tray. “I’ve read through the folder
Griff gave me, but I’m afraid I didn’t retain much of the info. I
have a splitting headache. I’ll read the files again
later.”
“Did you take something for your
headache?”
Maleah lifted the plate from the tray.
“A couple of aspirin. They helped a little.”
“Eat something. It could be a hunger
headache.” She scanned Maleah from head to toe. “You look like
you’ve lost weight.”
Maleah groaned. “Don’t I
wish.”
They both laughed.
“Why don’t you wait until in the
morning to re-read the files on the Carver,” Nic said. “It could be
days before you can interview him. Griff is still working on
pulling some strings to get you and Derek permission to visit him.
There is a lot of red tape involved in being granted visitation
privileges. If we were a government agency, it would be a lot
easier. Under normal circumstances, since we’re an independent
firm, it would be highly unlikely one of our agents would be
allowed to see Browning. Unless of course, he asked to see one of
us.”
Maleah lifted a forkful of macaroni and
cheese to her mouth, ate the delicious casserole and dived back
into the plate for more. “This is delicious.” She ate several more
bites before asking, “I don’t suppose y’all have checked to see if
any of the other agents have any connection to a serial killer,
have you?”
Nic’s eyes widened as her expression
changed from puzzlement to understanding. “No, we haven’t.
Narrowing down the copycat killer’s MO to perfectly match a former
serial killer took some time, so we only recently came to the
conclusion that our Powell Agency killer was mimicking the Carver.
But I see what you’re getting at. Did he choose the Carver because
he’s the only serial killer with any connection to one of our
agents?”
Maleah munched on the Mexican cornbread
and washed it down with iced tea. “I realize that with nearly two
hundred people now employed by the agency, it could take forever to
make any kind of connection. So, how did our killer unearth the
connection between Jerome Browning and me when I didn’t even know
about it myself?” Maleah tightened her hold on the cool, damp
glass. “God, I should have asked more questions about Noah’s murder
when his sister Jacque called me. But I hadn’t seen him or spoken
to him in over a year when it happened.” Quick jabs of pain shot
through Maleah’s right temple. She pressed the side of the iced tea
glass against the throbbing pain.
“Are you okay?” Nic studied Maleah
closely. “Maybe you need something stronger than
aspirin.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m just feeling a
little guilty remembering how unaffected I was by Noah’s death.”
She set the glass on the tray. “He was such a nice guy. Any woman
in her right mind would have snapped him up in a New York minute.
But not me. I think I broke his heart when I turned down his
proposal.”
“Why did you turn him
down?”
“I didn’t want to get married.” Maleah
slid her left hand beneath her hair at the nape of her neck and
massaged her scalp. “I feel as if my entire head is being squeezed
in a vise. I know it’s just tension, but . . .”
“You don’t need to tell me tonight.
Maybe you should lie down and rest.”
“I want you to know, to understand why
I rejected him. At the time, I told myself that I didn’t marry Noah
because I didn’t want to get married, that I intended to never
marry anybody. But looking back, I realize that was only half of
the reason.”
“And the other half was because . . .
?”
“I don’t think I was in love with Noah.
I loved him, yes. But something was missing. I wanted to be in
love, told myself that I was, needed to be, at least in my own
mind, enough to justify the fact that he was my
first.”
Nic smiled. “No one ever forgets their
first, do they? But we all know that most of the time, the first
one is not The One, not for a lot of woman and certainly not for
most men. Of course, there are exceptions, especially for our
parents’ generation.”
“It breaks my heart to think about the
way Noah died. He deserved to live a full life, with a wife and
kids and . . .” Maleah exhaled a huffing breath. “Dear God, how am
I going to face the man who killed Noah? How am I going to
interview him without wanting to strangle him with my bare hands
for what he did?”
“You’ll be able to do it because you’re
a professional. If Griff or I had any doubts about your ability or
your competence, we would never pair you with Derek again and put
the two of you in charge of a case that is highly personal for
us.”
“Griff really does believe that these
murders are somehow connected to his past, doesn’t he?” Maleah
looked squarely at Nic.
“Yes. And he could be right. But it’s
also possible that the killer wants us to believe that. He may want
us to think that Griff is the ultimate target, when actually it may
be me.”
“Have you ever considered the
possibility that neither of you are?”
“No, not really,” Nic said. “The killer
has murdered agents and members of their families, which means he’s
targeting the agency. Griff and I own the agency. It stands to
reason that this killer wants to harm the agency, wants to hurt
Griff and me.”
“Then why involve me?” Maleah asked.
“Both you and Griff have been personally involved with serial
killer cases in the past. Why not copy one of them? Why go back
into my past and choose someone who had killed my college
boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a conclusive answer for
you because I simply don’t know. It could be what we said earlier,
that he’s getting to me through you, my best friend.”
“Maybe. If you’re the one he wants to
hurt. But if his real target is Griff, then maybe I’m simply phase
one in his plan.”
“Which would make me phase two,
right?”
Maleah shook her head and waved her
hand in the air. “It’s all conjecture at this point. I’m probably
talking nonsense. I shouldn’t come up with conspiracy theories when
I’m tired and sleepy and can’t shake a bad headache.”
“Look, I’m going to leave you alone so
you can finish eating, grab a shower, and then go to bed.” Nic rose
to her feet. “We’ll both have clearer heads in the morning and be
able to get a fresh perspective on things.”
Maleah stood and walked Nic to the
door. They exchanged hugs and pecks on their cheeks. Once Nic
walked down the hall, Maleah closed the door, leaned back against
it, and closed her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Noah. Sorry that you
were so brutally murdered. Sorry that I didn’t ask for details
about your death when your sister called me. Sorry that I didn’t
love you enough to marry you.”
Griff poured Macallan single malt
Scotch whisky into two glasses, handed one to Derek and lifted the
other to his lips. After taking a sip, he motioned for Derek to
take the left of two leather chairs flanking the seven-foot-high
rock fireplace in his private study. As Griff sat in the opposite
chair, Derek studied the man briefly, noting the weariness in his
expression. The four recent Powell Agency–related deaths had begun
to take a toll on the seemingly invincible
billionaire.
“I had Sanders put a call in to the
Georgia governor,” Griff said. “I saw no point in wasting my time
going through the normal channels to acquire visitation privileges
for you and Maleah at the Georgia State Prison.”
Derek nodded. Why indeed? There would
be no point in Griff calling the prison’s warden when he was on a
first name basis with the governor.
Born into a wealthy, old Southern
family, Derek had taken for granted all the things most people
struggle for on a daily basis. His mother hobnobbed with other
society matrons, his sister married a suitable young man from a
proper family, and Derek’s grandparents had left him a trust fund
worth more millions than he’d ever spend in one lifetime. Griffin
Powell had been born dirt poor, but was now one of the wealthiest
men in the world. No one knew how the former UT football hero had
earned his billions during the ten years after he had mysteriously
disappeared.
“I’d rather not send Maleah to do the
initial interview even if she is one of our best agents. But under
the circumstances, I feel she’s the only choice. The killer didn’t
choose to copy the Carver’s murders without a reason.”
“You’re assuming Maleah is the reason,
right?”
“In a roundabout way,” Griff said. “He
wanted a connection between the killer he copied and one of our
agents. It could be a coincidence that Maleah is that agent. Or it
is possible that Maleah’s friendship with my wife is the reason.
What hurts Maleah hurts Nic and what hurts Nic hurts
me.”
“That’s the way love and friendship
works.”
Griff took a hefty swallow of the aged
whisky. Holding the drink in one hand, he absently stroked the side
of the glass with his other hand, tapping his fingers rhythmically
on the smooth surface.
“Do you think Browning personally knows
our killer?” Derek asked. His gut instincts told him that the
Powell Agency killer and Browning were at the very least
acquainted. Possibly friends. Or more likely, student and
teacher.
“Probably. What do you
think?”
“Probably.”
“Browning could well be the key to
unlocking our killer’s identity.”
Derek took his first sip of the premium
Scotch whisky. He wasn’t a drinking man himself, but he did enjoy
an occasional sip of the good stuff. Not that he was a teetotaler
by any means. But seeing what alcohol addiction had done to his
father and older brother made Derek conscientious about his
drinking habits. After the smooth liquor made its way down his
throat and warmed his belly, he glanced at Griff, who was staring
into the cold fireplace.
“We both know that Browning isn’t going
to willingly offer us any information,” Derek said.
“No, he’ll sense from the get-go that
he has the upper hand. And he’ll use it to his advantage. He’ll
want something in return for anything he gives us.”
“For anything he gives
Maleah.”
Griff nodded. “She’s strong and smart
and I’d trust her with even the most difficult assignment. But this
is different. From what I’ve read about Jerome Browning, he’s going
to play hardball and I don’t know if Maleah is a tough enough
opponent.”
“She’s not going into this alone,”
Derek reminded his boss.
“That’s true.” Griff stared at Derek,
as if he was judging his worth as a warrior. “She’s going to need
you. She won’t like it and may even resist your advice and
assistance. You know what a stubborn little mule she can
be.”
Derek chuckled. “That’s an
understatement. She is without a doubt the most stubborn woman I’ve
ever known.”
“Nic is worried about her. She
understands why Maleah is the one who should interview Browning,
but they’re close, almost like sisters, and know each other’s
weaknesses. Nic’s concerned that Browning may use any weakness he
senses in Maleah against her.”
“If Browning picks up on any weakness
in her, I have no doubt that he’ll use it. But I’ll be there to
advise her.” Derek took a second sip of whisky and then set the
glass down on the floor beside his chair. “Before we leave for
Georgia, I’ll go over all the files we have on Browning and do an
in-depth study on the guy. After we meet him, I’ll work up my own
profile and compare it to the old FBI profile the agency put
together.”
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.”