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.
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.”
Derek nodded. “That’s good. Once we
know the particulars of Errol’s murder, we’ll be able to compare
them to the details of the other four murders.”
“I’m taking Nic home tomorrow. I didn’t
want her to accompany me on this trip, but she insisted. Why she
has to be so damn stubborn . . .” Griff cleared his throat. “She
thinks she has to be in the thick of things, getting emotionally
involved and putting herself out there in harm’s way.”
“You know you wouldn’t change her if
you could.”
“Damn right, I wouldn’t.” Griff glanced
into the living room at the two women sitting side by side, deep in
conversation. “Like I said, I’m taking Nic home tomorrow. But I
want you and Maleah to stay here a couple of days and find out
everything you can.”
“Sure thing.”
“Richter will be staying on for at
least another week or two, keeping tabs on the police investigation
and doing some independent investigating. Holt volunteered to go to
Cullman to follow up on things there with Winston Corbett’s murder.
I think he, of all people, can persuade Ben not to try to do any
investigating on his own.”
“Agreed. And I think once Maleah and I
finish up here, we should return to Georgia,” Derek
said.
“You think Browning really knows
something about these copycat murders?”
“He knows something, but my gut tells
me he doesn’t know as much as he’s pretending he does. Maleah’s
willing to play his cat and mouse game on the off chance he
actually does know something and will willingly or inadvertently
share it with us.”
Griff moved closer to Derek and lowered
his voice. “I plan to send Luke Sentell to London. He’ll be
traveling wherever the rumors take him, on to France and
Switzerland and Italy.”
“You haven’t told Nic, have
you?”
“No, not yet. She thinks I’m obsessed
with the notion that I’m the killer’s real target and this killing
spree is somehow connected to my past . . . to Malcolm
York.”
“Is she right?”
Griff didn’t respond immediately and
then before he could reply, Nic called to them. “What are you two
talking about in there?”
“I was filling Griff in on Jerome
Browning,” Derek lied as he entered the living room area of the
suite.
“What a coincidence,” Maleah said. “I
was doing the same thing—filling Nic in on my visit with
Browning.”
“I ordered dinner half an hour ago,”
Nic said. “It should be here in the next few minutes.”
“Anyone care for a drink?” Griff asked
as he headed toward the bar area.
The room telephone rang. Griff paused
and stared at the phone. Nic and Maleah stopped
talking.
“It’s probably room service calling
about our dinner order,” Maleah said.
When she stood, obviously intending to
answer the phone, Griff told her he’d get it. He picked up the
receiver and said, “Yes, this is Mr. Powell.”
Whatever the person on the other end of
the line said, Griff did not reply. Without uttering a word, he
replaced the receiver.
“Who was it?” Nic asked.
Griff looked at her.
Derek suspected bad news of some
sort.
“Griff?” Nic prompted.
“I don’t know who it was, but the voice
sounded male.”
“What did he say?” Nic rushed to
Griff’s side.
Reluctantly, as if he considered lying
to his wife, Griff finally replied, “He said ‘If I don’t decide to
kill her first, your wife will make a lovely widow.’”