Chapter 11
Derek had misgivings about Maleah
seeing Browning again, but had kept his concerns to himself.
Although he hadn’t tried to talk her out of coming to the
penitentiary today, he had insisted on accompanying her. She tried
not to think about how protective Derek was, chalking it up to just
a generic masculine trait that all men possessed. It was nothing
personal.
She had to admit that in some ways
Derek reminded her of her brother Jackson. She suspected that as
Jack had once done, Derek would volunteer to be her standin and
take any beatings intended for her. And that, too, wasn’t personal.
The guy probably saw himself as hero material. After all, it was no
secret that Derek Lawrence had a reputation with the ladies. Women
tended to take one look at the guy and swoon at his
feet.
She could not deny she understood why
women swooned. He was incredibly handsome.
Good God, Maleah, is
that ever an understatement.
Derek was drop-dead,
eat-him-with-a-spoon gorgeous. And he was highly intelligent and
rich and charming. And he made her laugh. But on the other hand, he
could be an arrogant know-it-all. And his way-with-the-ladies was
just a nicer way of saying he was a womanizer.
Maleah didn’t want Derek or anyone else
protecting her from the big, bad world. She no longer needed a big
brother to run interference for her. She was fully capable of
taking care of herself in every way. She was an excellent marksman,
adept with both a handgun and a rifle. She had earned a black belt
in karate, thanks to Michelle Allen’s excellent tutelage. She
earned a six-figure yearly salary as a Powell agent, so she
certainly didn’t need to depend on anyone else financially. And
after several years of intensive counseling, she was in a
reasonably healthy place mentally and emotionally.
Okay, so she still had some control
issues.
The creak of an opening door followed
by the clinking of chains against the floor brought Maleah from her
thoughts and into the present moment.
Standing with her back rigid, her hands
gripping and releasing repeatedly, she took several deep breaths
and did her best to relax. Browning would instantly sense her
nervousness and use it against her. He was the type of animal who
would pick up the scent of fear and gladly use it against his
opponent, quickly seeing them as easy prey.
Maleah was once again slightly
disoriented by the man’s good looks and air of sophistication, even
in his simple prison attire. And once again she wondered how many
people had been fooled by this man’s physical
appearance.
“How delightful to see you again,
Maleah,” Browning said as the guard indicated for him to sit.
“You’re looking quite lovely. That shade of teal brings out the
green in your eyes.”
She ignored his compliment. Odd that
the salesclerk who had sold her the blouse had said exactly the
same thing about the teal bringing out the green in her hazel brown
eyes.
“Your copycat has killed again,” Maleah
said. Succinct and to the point.
“Has he? Male or female?”
“Male.”
“Not brown-eyed.”
“No, not brown-eyed. But then none of
your victims were brown-eyed, were they?”
“My mother was brown-eyed. I loved my
mother. She died when I was six, you know.”
“Yes, I know. You were an only child.
Your father married a woman with two daughters and a son. You tried
to strangle one of the daughters. You were ten years old. Your
father sent you to live with your mother’s uncle.”
His sickening sweet smile never
faltered, but she noted the momentary flash of anger in his eyes.
“Did you find my life story fascinating?”
“I found it instructive. Tracing your
life from birth to the present allowed me to see the slow, steady
progression of a psychopath from a boy who tried to kill his
stepsister, to a teenager who killed six young women, to an adult
serial killer who got his kicks from slitting his victim’s throats
and slicing pieces of their flesh from their arms and
legs.”
“Souvenirs. Little trophies that I
could take out and look at from time to time.”
“In order to relive each
kill?”
“Something like that.” He looked up at
her. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, or do you think standing over
me gives you some type of psychological advantage? I assure you, it
doesn’t.”
“Then what difference does it make to
you whether I sit or stand?”
He shrugged. “I simply thought you
might be more comfortable sitting. And it might be more pleasant
for both of us if we’re facing each other, eye to
eye.”
Maleah made an instant decision. She
walked over and sat down in the chair facing Browning, the
protection of two guards securely between her and any physical
danger. But she and Browning were now at the same eye level. She
squared her shoulders and calmly rested her loosely clasped hands
in her lap.
“Now, isn’t that better?” Browning
asked.
“I have a question.”
“Let me guess . . . hmm . . . You want
to know what I did with my souvenirs. The police never found them,
you know.”
“I’m not interested in your souvenirs.
It doesn’t really matter where you stored them. Not to the police.
Not to me. Not to anyone.”
“He’s not keeping them the way I did,
is he?”
How the hell did he
know that? “No, he isn’t.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I
knew?”
“If I did, would you tell
me?”
Browning laughed, the sound as smooth
as his silky voice. It was a practiced laugh, nothing about it
genuine. “I find it curious that you have no interest in my
trophies, considering the fact that I took eight little triangular
souvenirs from Noah Laborde’s body. I could tell you about that
night, every detail, from the moment I punctured his jugular until
I left him on the banks of the Chattahoochee River.”
Noah’s smiling face—young, handsome,
sweet—flashed through her mind. “I want the answer to a
question.”
“Then ask your question.” He seemed
only slightly perturbed that she remained unfazed by his reminder
that he had killed Noah.
“Who’s Cindy Di Blasi?”
Browning stared at Maleah as if trying
to see inside her head, wondering how much she already knew and
what price she was willing to pay for his answer.
“Cindy is a lady friend.”
“How did you meet her?”
“We have friends in
common.”
“How long have you known
her?”
“For a while.”
“How long is a while?” Maleah
asked.
“That’s four questions,” he reminded
her.
“And only three answers.”
“A mutual friend on the outside hooked
me up with Cindy. A guy gets lonesome for a little female
companionship in a place like this.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You could say that Cindy is my
girlfriend.” Browning winked at Maleah. “If Cindy finds out about
you, she’s going to be jealous.”
“I won’t tell if you
don’t.”
Browning laughed again, just a hint of
sincerity in the sound.
Maleah didn’t buy any of it. Not the
part about Cindy being a friend of an old friend. Or that she
visited Browning, wrote him letters, and took his phone calls
because she was now his girlfriend. Maleah didn’t know who Cindy di
Blasi was or what her real relationship was with Browning, but she
intended to find out.
“Is Albert Durham a friend, too?” she
asked.
Browning smiled. “An acquaintance. And
before you ask, Wyman Scudder is my lawyer.” He leaned forward, his
piercing gaze unnerving and intimidating.
Maleah didn’t flinch, didn’t even
blink. Good try, you cunning son of a bitch, but no
cigar. Not this time. That crazy, I’m-dangerous glare doesn’t scare
me.
“Interesting,” Browning said. “Nerves
of steel, huh, Maleah? Makes me wonder just what it would take to
unnerve you, just how hot the pressure would have to be to melt
that steel.”
He knew that she knew what this game
was all about, that his ultimate goal was to see her fall apart
completely. He would keep chipping away at her armor, searching for
the weak spots.
“Sticks and stones, Jerome,” she told
him. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He studied her for several minutes. She
examined him just as thoroughly. Whatever he dished out, she could
take, and then dish it right back to him.
“I’m glad that you’re not afraid of
me,” he finally said. “Makes things all the more interesting,
doesn’t it? I’ll be thinking about you during the time between your
visits. Thinking about curling your long blond hair around my
finger.” He held up his right index finger. “Thinking about running
my hands down your throat. Thinking about what I could do to make
you afraid of me . . . very afraid.”
“If you don’t tell me something I
consider useful in my investigation about Cindy Di Blasi or Albert
Durham or the copycat killer, I won’t be coming back for another
visit.”
“Oh, Maleah, you disappoint me.
Resorting to idle threats?”
“Not a threat. Just stating a fact. I
have no intention of wasting my time pursuing a dead end. And
that’s what you’re becoming, Jerome—a dead end.”
He tensed his jaw and narrowed his
gaze. One hand curled into a tight fist. She had pushed the right
buttons. Mentally patting herself on the back, Maleah rose to her
feet.
“Leaving already?” he
asked.
“Unless you want to answer my
questions.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
“You’ll come to see me again,” he told
her.
“Only if I get what I want before I
leave today. And I’m on my way out right now, so you’d better
hurry.”
Silence.
She turned her back on him and walked
toward the door where her escort waited. “I’m ready to go now,” she
told the uniformed guard.
The guard opened the door.
“Wait,” Browning called to
her.
She paused.
“Albert Durham is writing my
biography,” Browning said.
Maleah’s breath caught in her throat.
Durham was a writer? If so, then he had come to the prison to
interview Jerome, to pick his brain for information. Was it
possible that Durham was the copycat killer?
“Thank you, Jerome.”
“You’ll come back
tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow,” she told him. “But
soon.”
Derek didn’t immediately question
Maleah about the interview. Outwardly, she seemed completely
unaffected by today’s encounter with Browning. She shook hands with
Warden Holland, thanked him and requested a third interview for
next Monday.
Why wait until next Monday?
Don’t ask. She’ll explain
later.
On the way to the parking area, Derek
glanced at the overcast sky and commented about the weather. “Looks
like rain.”
Her gaze followed his. “Hmm . .
.”
“I was thinking we could have a nice
lunch at the Steeplechase Grill when we get back to Vidalia,” Derek
said. “I checked the place out online after the clerk at the hotel
mentioned it was a great place to eat.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Maleah unlocked her
SUV. “Have you heard anything from Sanders this
morning?”
Derek opened the passenger side door.
“As a matter of fact, he sent us the info we requested about
Browning’s recent visitors while you were chit-chatting with the
guy.”
Maleah shot him a screw-you glare
before opening the door and sliding in behind the wheel. She waited
until he got in before asking, “Do we have addresses? Phone
numbers?”
“We have an address for Wyman Scudder.
He isn’t Browning’s original attorney nor is he even with the same
law firm or in the same city. Someone hired him six months ago to
represent Browning’s interests.”
“Why would a man who confessed to
murder, struck a deal with the DA, and exhausted all of his appeals
need a new lawyer? It’s not as if Browning has been screaming ‘I’m
innocent’ for the past ten years.”
“Scudder isn’t exactly the best money
can buy. According to Sanders’s report, the guy’s reputation as a
lawyer isn’t all that great. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs, has
an ex-wife who’s still bleeding him dry after their divorce two
years ago, and he was living in his office up until six months
ago.”
“Who retained Scudder for Browning and
why? Sanders needs to get the Powell team to dig deeper and get us
the answers.”
“He’s already on it.”
Maleah started the engine and pulled
out of the parking slot. “Is that all you’ve got on
Scudder?”
“For now.”
“What about Cindy Di
Blasi?”
“Cindy Di Blasi is a mystery woman.
Seems the Georgia driver’s license that she used as ID for her
visits to Browning is a fake. The street address on the license is
for a church in Augusta. The phone number Browning called when he
talked to Cindy was for a pre-paid cell phone. No way to track
it.”
“Interesting.”
“Confusing.”
“Do you think Cindy Di Blasi is an
alias?”
“Could be,” Derek said. “Using the
description of the woman we got from the guards who remember her,
the Powell team will compare her description, along with
approximate age, to see if there’s a woman by that name anywhere in
the state of Georgia.”
“Browning told me that Cindy is a lady
friend and that a mutual friend hooked them up.”
“And that mutual friend could be Wyman
Scudder or—”
“Or Albert Durham.”
“Albert Durham is a real person, not an
alias. Sanders is checking out the info on the driver’s license ID
he used when he visited Browning. The man’s a writer. He writes
biographies about historical figures, presidents and generals,
world leaders in various areas.”
“This is becoming more and more
curious, isn’t it?” Maleah glanced at Derek. “Do you have a
theory?” She refocused on the road immediately.
“I think we have three possible
scenarios,” Derek told her. “The Copycat Carver hired Scudder,
Durham, and Cindy and has used them as go-betweens to contact
Browning. Or the Copycat Carver is actually one of them—Scudder or
Durham or Cindy.”
“Cindy? I thought everyone was in
agreement that the copycat is a man.”
“Who said Cindy was a
woman?”
Maleah snorted. “I say Cindy is a
woman. Either a woman or a very small man. The guards said she was
about five-two and maybe weighed a hundred pounds soaking
wet.”
“Yeah, Cindy is probably female. But
that still leaves Scudder and Durham.”
“Agreed. So, what’s your third
scenario?”
“Ah yes, my third
scenario.”
“Stop being so dramatic and just tell
me.”
Derek grinned. “Someone hired Scudder,
Durham, and Cindy, as well as a professional killer to copy
Browning’s murders.”
“This is the Griffin Powell theory,
isn’t it? Some mystery man over in Europe who is using the name
Malcolm York is striking out at Griff by killing Powell agents and
members of their families.”
“It’s one of three theories. At this
point, I don’t have a favorite. I don’t know enough to make a
judgment call. I don’t even have a gut instinct pick.”
Maleah remained silent for several
miles, but Derek knew she was thinking, mulling things over, and
deciding what she wanted to say.
“Browning was careful not to tell me
anything I couldn’t easily find out on my own,” Maleah said. “That
Scudder was his lawyer and that Cindy was his lady friend. But he
did share something about Durham that seems odd to
me.”
Derek waited, allowing her to progress
at her own speed.
“Just as I was leaving, Browning told
me that Albert Durham was writing his biography.”
“Why would a renowned biographer of
historical figures choose to write the bio of a condemned serial
killer?”
“What if he’s not the real Albert
Durham?”
“If he is or isn’t the real Durham, you
do realize that Browning probably believes he is,” Derek said. “And
Browning would have been inclined to share numerous details about
the murders with his biographer.”
“Which means Durham would have the info
he needed to duplicate those murders.”
“If we can find Albert Durham, we just
might find the Copycat Carver.”