Chapter 17
Damn! Double damn!
Maleah believed Albert Durham. He
didn’t know Jerome Browning, had never met him, and was not writing
his biography. One glance at Derek told her that he, too, believed
Durham. So where did that leave them? Definitely with more
questions than answers.
“Won’t y’all come in,” Durham said. “I
have iced tea, fresh lemonade or I can stir up some cocktails, if
you prefer.”
“Thank you,” Maleah said. “We’ll forgo
any refreshment, but we would like to talk to you about this
mixup.”
Derek followed her into the large
living room /dining room and kitchen space. The walls were pale
yellow, the floor covered with beige tile, and the furnishings were
a mix of new and antique, decent quality but not
expensive.
“Have a seat.” Durham indicated the
sofa. He took the brown leather recliner.
They sat on the sofa, side by side,
Maleah on the edge of the seat cushion, Derek reclining, settled
and relaxed.
“I suggest y’all start by telling me
why you believed I was writing a serial killer’s biography,” Durham
said.
“I’ve been to the Georgia State Prison
to visit Jerome Browning, who during a murder spree a dozen years
ago was known as the Carver,” Maleah explained. “He told me himself
that Albert Durham was writing his bio and had personally
interviewed him.”
“The description the guards gave us of
the Albert Durham who visited Browning fits your general
description,” Derek added.
Durham rubbed his chin, scratching his
fingers across several days’ growth of gray-brown beard stubble. “I
have no idea about this other Albert Durham. All I know is that
I’ve never visited anyone in prison and until you mentioned his
name, I’d never heard the name Jerome Browning.”
“I don’t want you to take this the
wrong way, but . . .” Maleah paused, waiting to observe Durham’s
reaction and when his expression remained neutral, she continued.
“If I give you the dates when a man calling himself Albert Durham
visited Jerome Browning, do you think you could tell us where you
were on those dates?”
Durham smiled. Maleah thought he had a
nice face. Not handsome by any means. A bit weathered, as if he
spent a great deal of time outdoors. And kind eyes. A soft
blue-gray. The deep-set wrinkles of a longtime smoker crisscrossed
his forehead and curved alongside his mouth and into
cheeks.
“You want me to provide myself with an
alibi,” Durham said.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I’d like
for you to do,” Maleah told him. “That way we can verify there’s no
way you can be the Albert Durham we’re searching for in connection
to our case.”
“Certainly. I understand. And if you’ll
give me those dates, I’ll check my calendar. Since I keep a date
book, I should be able to tell you what you need to
know.”
Maleah reached into her pocket and
pulled out a notepad filled with scribbled notes. She called off
the dates. Durham pursed his thin lips as he listened.
“The dates that you mentioned are easy
enough for me to remember. I spent six weeks in Japan and was there
on those dates.” When Maleah and Derek stared at him questioningly,
he added, “I was doing research on the subject of my next
biography, Emperor Hirohito, who ruled Japan during World War
II.”
“An interesting choice for a bio,”
Derek said.
“My father was a WWII veteran and I’ve
always been fascinated by that era,” Durham said. “To verify where
I was, I can let you take a look at my passport, and I can probably
dig up credit card statements that show my expenses while in Japan,
including hotels and restaurants.”
“That would be great, Mr. Durham,”
Maleah said. “And I apologize for having to ask you to do
this.”
“No apology necessary, Ms. Perdue. If
someone has been using my identity for any reason, especially to
commit a crime, then I want them found and stopped as much as you
do.”
“More than likely the man we’re looking
for chose your identity because you’re a biographer,” Derek said.
“For his own reasons, he needed to be able to pass himself off to
Jerome Browning as a writer interested in gathering information for
a biography.”
Durham rose. “I keep my passport with
me when I travel, even in the U.S. I never know when I might want
to take a jaunt down to the islands for a few days. I can show you
the passport, but I’m afraid I’ll have to send you copies of my
credit card bills when I return home.”
“I’ll leave you my business card,”
Maleah said. “I’ll contact you if we need them and you can e-mail
them to us.”
While Durham disappeared into one of
the bedrooms, Derek and Maleah stood and looked out the windows at
the Atlantic Ocean.
“How do we even begin to find a man
with no name, no face, and no ID of his own?” Maleah asked. “He
used Durham’s name and undoubtedly disguised himself to look like
the real Durham.”
“We’ll start with a profile,” Derek
told her. “Now that we know who this man is not, we can begin
figuring out who he really is.”
“He’s smart, whoever he is. Apparently,
he fooled Browning, who may be a psychopath, but is far from
stupid. And he’s led us on a merry chase while he eliminated the
only two other people who might be able to tell us something about
him.”
“With Wyman Scudder and Cindy Di Blasi
both dead, that leaves only Jerome Browning. If Browning really has
no idea that the Durham who interviewed him was a phony and had no
intention of writing his bio, he may be willing to give up some
information once he does know the truth.”
“He won’t give it up without a price,”
Maleah said.
“Yeah, with a guy like Browning,
there’s always a price to pay.”
The real Durham cleared his throat as
he returned to the living room. “Here you are.” He opened his
passport and handed it to Maleah.
She looked at the stamped dates for
Durham’s entry and exit from Japan, which proved he was out of the
country on the dates that Albert Durham had visited
Jerome.
“Thank you, Mr. Durham. We appreciate
your cooperation.”
“May I ask y’all a question?” Durham
asked.
“Yes, certainly,” Maleah
replied.
“Why do you think this man who visited
a convicted serial killer has been impersonating me?”
Maleah and Derek exchanged a
how-much-do-we-tell-him glance.
Then Derek made the decision for them.
“We believe that this man is copying Jerome Browning’s MO and has
become a copycat killer. By posing as a biographer, he was able to
elicit details of Browning’s murders from him, enough so that he
could replicate those murders as closely as possible.”
Durham’s eyes narrowed, furrowing his
brow. His mouth turned down in a pensive frown, deepening the
grooves around his mouth. “And this man is using my name.” He
looked right at Derek. “My God, you have to find him.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Derek
said. “The entire Powell Agency is working toward that goal—finding
the copycat killer and stopping him before he kills
again.”
“How many people . . . ?” Durham
swallowed. “How many has he killed?”
“Five.”
“Did one of the victim’s families hire
your agency?” Durham asked.
“In a way,” Derek said. “You see, each
victim was connected to our agency, either an employee or a
relative of an employee.”
“Then finding him is as important to
you as it is to me. It’s personal.”
“That’s right.”
Durham nodded. “I wish there was more I
could do to help you, Mr. Lawrence . . .” He glanced at Maleah.
“And you, Ms. Perdue.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,”
Maleah told him.
Durham studied Derek for a minute and
then said, “Derek Lawrence. Hmm . . . why does your name sound so
familiar?”
Before Derek could respond, Durham
snapped his fingers. “Derek Lawrence, former FBI profiler. You’re a
writer, too. You’ve written half a dozen true crime novels. I’ve
read several of them. They’re intriguing. You’re quite a good
writer, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Thank you.”
“Could I interest you two into staying
and going out to dinner with me this evening?” Durham asked. “There
is this marvelous seafood place—”
“I’m afraid we can’t stay,” Maleah
said. “We appreciate the offer.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I understand.
Duty calls.”
Durham continued talking to Derek about
writing as Durham walked them to the door and followed them outside
to Maleah’s SUV. Then they shook hands and said their
good-byes.
As soon as they were on the main road,
Maleah asked, “Where to now?”
“You’re actually asking for my
opinion?”
“We’re partners, as you keep reminding
me. I’m consulting you about our next move.”
“You didn’t consult me before you
declined Albert’s offer to take us to dinner.”
She shot him a quick, questioning
glance. “I didn’t realize we had time to waste.”
“We’re going to have to eat anyway,”
Derek reminded her. “I suggest we find a place to stay here on the
island tonight and get an early start in the morning.”
When she opened her mouth to protest,
to suggest they travel through the night, he cut her off. “We need
rest, Blondie. We’re both exhausted. We’ve been on the
road—”
“All right, all right.”
“We won’t waste our time. We’ll order
room service and work through dinner, if that will make you
happy.”
She shot him a menacing glare. “You
don’t want to know what would make me happy.”
Derek laughed. “Probably not. But
remind me sometime to tell you what would make me
happy.”
Groaning, Maleah clutched the steering
wheel tightly.
Ignore him. Ignore him.
Ignore him.
Derek wondered who now oversaw their
family’s vacation home there on St. Simons. His mother? His sister?
Or perhaps one of his uncles? He hadn’t been inside the oceanfront
“cottage” since he was a teenager, but if he thought no one was
using it right now, he’d take Maleah there tonight. Stupid thought.
First of all, he didn’t have a key to the place. And he doubted the
same island couple who oversaw the upkeep of the house and grounds
all those years ago were still alive since they had been in their
sixties when he was a kid.
Forget the family place
and just check into a decent hotel.
“I need to stop at a gas station and
fill up,” Maleah said. “We’re down to less than a quarter of a
tank.”
“While you’re doing that, I’ll find us
a place to stay tonight.”
“Fine.”
Five minutes later, Maleah stopped at
one of the Friendly Express stations on the island and Derek called
to book them rooms at the King and Prince, a beach and golf resort.
He wouldn’t mind luxury accommodations for a change and he thought
Maleah could use a little pampering about now.
After swiping her credit card, Maleah
placed the nozzle in the mouth of the gas tank and set the pump on
automatic. She opened the door and asked, “Want something to drink?
I’m getting a Coke.”
“A Coke’s fine. Want me
to—?”
She noticed he was still on the phone.
“I’ll get them. You finish your call.”
By the time she returned with their
colas and placed them in the cup holders inside the SUV, the pump
had shut off, indicating the tank was full. After hanging the pump
nozzle back on the hook, she hopped into the Equinox, removed a
small bottle of hand sanitizer from the console storage bin, and
hurriedly cleaned her hands.
“Was your phone call to Sanders?” she
asked.
“No. I haven’t gotten in touch with him
yet. I was getting us a room for tonight.”
She started the engine. “Where
to?”
He gave her the directions. When they
arrived a short time later, he was surprised by her reaction. Other
than giving the resort a quick once-over as they drove up, she
didn’t react in any way. He had thought for sure she would bitch
about their staying at such a luxurious hotel.
Their side-by-side rooms were
identical, both with king beds, both with oceanfront views and
decorated in a cool, soothing color combo of cream, white, blue,
and gold. After dumping his bag in the closet, he returned to her
room. She came to the door when he knocked, but didn’t invite him
in.
“I thought we could go ahead and order
in, eat in your room or mine, and then get down to work,” he
said.
“I want a nice long soak in the tub,”
she told him. “Would you please order for me? Any seafood dish is
fine. Shrimp, salmon, whatever. And a salad. No dessert. Iced
tea.”
“I’ll place the order before I hop in
the shower,” he said. “Your room or mine?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll have them deliver to my room and
I’ll call you.”
“Fine.”
She closed the door in his
face.
Smiling, he shook his
head.
Maleah,
Maleah.
He had never known a woman who
irritated him the way she did. Or intrigued him as much. Or made
him want to turn her over his knee and spank her. He chuckled as he
unlocked his door. She’d skin him alive for that thought. And he
had to admit to himself that if he ever got his hands on her,
spanking wouldn’t be on his Top Ten list of things he wanted to
do.
No sooner had he entered his room than
his phone rang. He answered as he closed and locked the
door.
“Good evening,” Barbara Jean said. “I
have an update for you.”
“We have an update for you, too,” he
told her. “Ladies first.”
“Thank you.” She went over some mundane
basic facts with him about both recent murders. Derek made mental
notes of anything he felt might be significant in compiling his
profile of the copycat killer. “Sanders wanted you to know that
he’s discussed all the information with Griffin and Nicole. For the
present, Sanders is in complete charge of the copycat case. Griff’s
focus is on locating the source of the rumors about Malcolm York.
He’s in touch around the clock with Luke Sentell.”
“I assume if there was any news on that
front—”
“Yes, of course, we would inform you
and Maleah. But for now, all we know is that Luke is in Austria
following a lead.”
“We’re staying on St. Simons tonight
and heading out in the morning, probably going back to Vidalia for
Maleah’s next scheduled visit with Jerome Browning.”
“What about Albert Durham? Did y’all
find him?”
“Yes, we found him,” Derek said. “The
only problem is that the man we talked to this evening is the real
Albert Durham. The man who visited Browning at the state
penitentiary is a fake. He assumed Durham’s identity and posed as a
biographer to get Browning to share details about his
kills.”
“I’ll let Sanders know.”
“Please do.”
“Derek?”
“Yes?”
“When Maleah sees Browning again . . .”
Barbara Jean paused as if wanting to choose her next words
carefully.
“I’ll take care of her. I
promise.”
“She wouldn’t appreciate the fact that
I asked or that you agreed. Our Miss Maleah sees herself as a tough
cookie. She doesn’t want to need anyone, but I learned long ago
that in one way or another, at some time in our lives, we all need
someone.”
“So far she’s held her own with
Browning,” Derek assured Barbara Jean.
“I have no doubt that she has, but . .
. Well, let’s just say that Nicole and I worry about her as if she
were our little sister. And we’re counting on you to rein her in if
you see these interviews with Browning get out of
control.”
“Do you and Nic honestly think I can
rein in Maleah?”
“We think you are probably the only man
who can.”
Before Derek had time to digest Barbara
Jean’s final comment, she said good-bye.
What the hell had Barbara Jean meant
when she had said we think you’re the only man who
can? It wasn’t as if he had any power over Maleah. He wasn’t
her father, brother or mentor. And he certainly wasn’t her lover.
They were barely friends. Maybe not even friends. Not enemies. Not
exactly adversaries, because they were on
the same side. And they were definitely more than acquaintances.
Damned if he knew how to label their relationship.
Standing in the center of his room,
Derek took a deep breath. Then as he walked across the carpeted
floor, he tossed his phone onto the bed. He picked up the guest
book that contained the menu and hurriedly scanned the items
available for dinner. Noting that room service ended at 10:00
P.M., he lifted the hotel phone, dialed
room service, and ordered.
Moving toward the bathroom, he began
stripping out of his clothes, dropping them haphazardly on the
floor as his went. Naked, his clothes strewn from bedroom to
bathroom, Derek turned on the shower and then grabbed the guest
soap and toiletries. As he lathered his hair and the steamy warm
water pelted his body, he tried to figure out just what kind of
relationship he did have with Maleah.
They were coworkers. They were
partners, albeit reluctant partners.
Yeah, that was it—they were reluctant
partners.
So, why would Nic and Barbara Jean
think he, of all people, would be able to rein in Maleah? If he
said or did anything that even hinted of trying to control a
situation, she overreacted. If ever there was a woman over whom he
had absolutely no control, it was Maleah Perdue.