Chapter 22
Maleah had barely managed to force down
a piece of toast and drink a cup of coffee that morning. Her
stomach was tied in knots. She had put up a brave front, but
suspected that Derek knew just how nervous she was. As she waited
for the guard to bring in Jerome Browning, she tried to collect her
scattered thoughts. Her mind reeled with information overload.
Focus, damn it, focus. Remember what Derek told
you—don’t over-think anything, just go with your gut
instincts.
The moment she heard the door open, she
squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and stood tall and
straight. The guard escorted a handcuffed and shackled Browning
into the room. As on the previous visits, Browning was neatly
groomed, clean-shaven, hair trimmed. His dark complexion appeared
even darker against his prison uniform of white shirt and
pants.
When he saw her, he smiled. “Hello,
Maleah. How nice to see you this morning. May I say how lovely you
look.”
“Thank you.” She approached the chair
facing the one in which the guard placed Browning. Using the
advantage of height, she stood and looked down at him. “I told you
that I would come back to see you this week.”
“So you did.” As he looked up at her,
his smile widened. “I appreciate a lady who keeps her
word.”
Enough chit-chat. She wouldn’t waste
another second on pleasantries.
“My partner and I met Albert Durham on
Saturday.”
She watched Browning’s face for a
reaction and saw nothing to indicate he was surprised or concerned.
His smile didn’t waver. He didn’t even blink.
What had Derek said about someone not
blinking? Did it mean he was lying? But lying about what? His calm
reaction to her statement?
Don’t
over-analyze.
Assume
nothing.
“And how was he? Well, I hope,”
Browning said.
“Quite well. And confused about why we
had tracked him down to ask about his relationship with
you.”
“Was he? Odd. I never found Albert to
be confused about anything.”
Browning kept his gaze focused on
Maleah’s face.
Unwavering eye contact. That meant
Browning’s thoughts about what she had said were positive. Either
that or it meant he didn’t trust her enough to take his eyes off
her.
Damn it! All this reading body language
shit was driving her nuts and defeating the purpose of gauging
Browning’s reactions and reading between the lines of what he said
or didn’t say.
Remember, gut instinct,
first and foremost.
“I’m afraid the Albert Durham you know
isn’t the real Albert Durham, the writer who has published more
than a dozen biographies,” Maleah told him. “Whoever the man was
who visited you under the pretense of writing your life story was a
phony.”
Browning lifted his cuffed hands,
tented them together and rubbed the tips of his index fingers
across his chin. “Was he, indeed? How utterly
fascinating.”
Rubbing the chin meant disbelief.
Right? Didn’t Browning believe her? Who knew? Hell, maybe his chin
itched.
“Did you know he was a phony?” she
asked.
“How could I have known?”
“He could have told you who he really
was and what he wanted from you.”
“He wanted to write my biography
because he found me to be a fascinating subject.”
“Is that really what he told
you?”
Browning eyed the empty chair across
from him. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, and make yourself
comfortable. I’m tired of straining my neck to look up at you. And
our sitting face to face is so much more intimate, don’t you
think.”
She remained standing. She wasn’t
giving him what he wanted without getting something in return. “Did
Durham really tell you he was going to write your bio? And if he
did, did you believe him?”
“He did. And I did.”
She sat down then, keeping her back
straight as she crossed her arms.
Browning studied her pose and then
widened his eyes. He was observing her body language as closely as
she was his. Got you! she wanted to scream.
She had deliberately crossed her arms, an indication that she had
put up a barrier between them, to see how he would react. Now she
knew that he would play her, not only verbally, but with his
gestures.
“Tell me about your conversations with
Durham,” Maleah said. “What did the two of you talk about during
his visits?”
“We talked about my favorite
subject—me.” He chuckled.
“About your favorite color, your
favorite food, your favorite music—”
“About my favorite way to
kill.”
“He wanted to know the details, didn’t
he, because he wanted to copy the Carver’s MO?”
“That’s your theory.”
Changing her tactics just a bit, Maleah
asked, “Are you pleased with your protégé? That is how you see him,
isn’t it? You taught him everything you know. You instructed him on
how to kill.”
Browning laughed.
Her gut instincts told her that the
laugh was genuine, that for some reason, her comments had amused
him.
“Do you want me to guess why you find
what I said so entertaining?”
“I find you entertaining, Maleah. Oh so
sure of yourself. So confident and self-contained. A lady who
doesn’t allow anyone to control her.” His gaze raked over her in a
sexual way, pausing first on her lips and then on her breasts. “But
that wasn’t always the case was it? Not when you were a little girl
. . . when you were a teenager.”
What the hell did he know about her
personal life? Was he simply guessing? Or did he actually know
something?
“I’m not here to discuss me,” she said.
“I’m here to discuss you and your association with Albert
Durham.”
Browning shrugged. “But, sweet Maleah,
I find you as fascinating as you find me. So, if you give me what I
want, I’ll give you what you want. You tell me what I want to know
and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“What do you want to know,
Jerome?”
“Oh so many things about you, my
dear.”
“My favorite color is pink. My favorite
food is anything chocolate. My favorite song is—”
He burst out laughing; and all the
while his gaze never left her face. “And your favorite way to fuck
is? Do you like to be on top? Or do you secretly prefer for the man
to dominate you? What was Noah Laborde’s favorite position? I’ll
bet he enjoyed your riding him like a bucking bronco, didn’t
he?”
Damn you, you son of a
bitch. Damn you to hell. That’s exactly where monsters like you
belong, in the hot, burning tortures of everlasting
hellfire.
“Is that what interests you, Jerome,
other people’s sex lives?” she asked in a calm voice. She was still
in complete control. “You have no sex life of your own so you get
your kicks living vicariously through hearing about how other
people fuck.”
His jaw tightened. His gaze narrowed.
His nostrils flared.
Oh yes, she had pissed him off. That
taunting verbal arrow had hit its mark.
After several tense moments, he visibly
relaxed. He had suffered nothing more than a flesh wound. He was
ready for battle again.
“Noah was a handsome young man. The two
of you must have made a striking couple.” Browning leaned forward
ever so slightly. “Why didn’t you marry him?”
“I didn’t love him enough to give up my
freedom,” Maleah answered honestly and quickly turned around and
asked for payment in kind. “Did you think of Durham as your
protégé? Is that why you agreed to share the details of your kills
with him?”
“Durham is an admirer, not a protégé.
The way Elvis Presley admired Roy Orbison’s voice, Durham admired
my skills. I think of us more as colleagues than teacher and
student.”
As she absorbed what she instantly knew
was significant information, she did her best not to act so damn
pleased. Did he realize just how much he had told her? “Then you
knew, from the very beginning, that Durham wasn’t a
writer?”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes, I think you did.”
“You’re free to interpret what I say
any way you please.”
“You knew all along, from his first
visit, that the man really wasn’t Albert Durham and that he wasn’t
interviewing you for a biography,” Maleah said. “You lied to
me.”
“If you say so.”
He looked at her, his gaze moving from
one eye to the other and then traveling slowly up to her forehead,
his gesture indicating that he was taking an authoritative
position. She understood that at that precise moment, he felt he
was in charge and she was subservient to him.
“Did you also know that the phony
Durham was not a novice at killing?”
“What makes you think Durham wasn’t a
novice?”
“Are you saying he was?”
“Perhaps.” He nodded his head. “Perhaps
not.” He shook his head.
He was having fun at her expense. He
knew she had initially been trying to read his body language and
now he was mocking her.
“Tit for tat, Maleah. You give, I give.
Don’t forget the rules.”
“Noah was my first lover,” she said,
giving him the answer to his much-too-personal question about her
sexual relationship with Noah. “He was a gentle, considerate lover
and not much more experienced than I was. We were young and in
love. We were good together.”
“Young and in love. How sweet. But you
weren’t in love enough to marry him, isn’t that what you
said?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“How did you find out about his death?”
Browning rubbed his hands together, anticipation evident in the
gesture.
“His sister called me.”
“Were you shocked?”
“Yes.”
“Sad?”
“Yes.”
“But not devastated. Not broken
hearted.”
“I was shocked and sad and angry. But
no, I wasn’t devastated by Noah’s death. I hadn’t seen him or
spoken to him in well over a year. We had both moved on. I still
cared about him and wanted him to have a good life. It did break my
heart to think he would never marry and have children and reach his
full potential in his profession.”
“I took all that away from him.”
Browning steepled his fingers.
She understood that he wanted her to
admit that he had possessed the power of life and death over
Noah.
“Yes, you took it all away from
him.”
“Do you hate me, Maleah? Do you wish
you could rip out my heart? Or perhaps you wish you could slit my
throat the way I slit Noah’s throat.” He lunged toward her so
quickly that she barely had time to react and draw away from him
before the brawny black guard grabbed his shoulders and forced him
back into the chair.
He sat there, his breathing
accelerated, his pulse throbbing in his neck, his cheeks flushed.
And then his lips lifted upward forming a self-satisfied
smile.
Maleah struggled to control the
unexpected fear that surged through her, telling herself that the
only reason she was afraid was because she hadn’t anticipated
Browning’s actions.
“I hate what you did to Noah and to
your other victims,” Maleah finally managed to say. “I hate that
there are people like you in the world. I think you should have
been executed for your crimes and should be rotting in hell right
now.”
Browning sighed as if her answer had
given him some sort of deeply gratifying satisfaction. How sick was
that!
“After his first visit, I suspected
Durham was not who he said he was,” Browning told her. “On his
second visit, when I confronted him, he did not try to lie to me.
He told me he respected me too much. And that’s when we made our
bargain.”
“What was the bargain?”
Browning shook his head and made a
clicking noise with his tongue. “I gave you what you paid for. No
freebies.”
“Of course not. What was I thinking?”
She rose to her feet.
Browning looked up at her. “You aren’t
leaving so soon, are you?”
“Game playing wears me tee-totally
out.” She planted her hands on her hips. If he wanted to continue
their game, she was ready, but she was damn tired of being jerked
around. “If you want me to stay—”
“Sit back down, Maleah.” Browning’s
voice was harsh, almost angry.
She ignored him.
“Please, sit back down,” he
said.
“Give me a reason.”
“Durham—or whoever the hell he
is—wanted details about my life as the Carver. In exchange, he
offered to hire me a new lawyer and provide me with a female
friend.”
Maleah sat. “You have no idea who he
really is?”
Using his clenched fists, Browning drew
an X across his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to
die.”
He was lying, damn him. He was lying
through his pearly white teeth.
“There had to be a reason you suspected
he was not a novice at killing. Was it something he said? Did
he—?”
“You want an awful lot for no more than
you’re willing to give me.”
“I do want a great deal, but I’m
willing to pay for it. I just don’t want you jerking me around,
giving me tidbits when I’ve paid for the entire meal.”
“You really have no idea how expensive
certain items are, do you, my lovely Maleah?”
“I have a good idea. You want me to
open up a vein and bleed all over the place.”
“Yes, that, too,” he admitted. “I want
your blood . . . your sweat . . . and your tears. Your tears most
of all. So, do we have a deal? I can give you the real Albert
Durham, served to you on a silver platter.”
“How do I know you aren’t lying? You
just told me a few minutes ago that you have no idea who he is.
Remember? Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“You won’t know if I’ll be lying to you
when I tell you about him,” he agreed. “But isn’t it tempting to
give me what I want in exchange for the possibility that I can tell
you who is killing people connected to the Powell Agency and maybe
even why he’s doing it? Also, I could tell you why he chose to copy
my kills, but I suspect you already know that.”
“Yes, I already know.”
“Think about my offer. You have
twenty-four hours. If you’re willing to pay the piper, I’ll play
you a beautiful tune.” He glanced up at his guard. “We’re finished
here. I’m ready to leave.”
The guard looked at Maleah. She
nodded.
Browning stood. “See you tomorrow,
sweet Maleah.” He winked at her, then turned and fell into step
alongside the guard.
The man once known as Anthony Linden
finished a series of push-ups, lifted himself from the hotel room
floor, and grabbed a bottle of water from the nearby table. He had
run five miles in the warm Savannah sun this morning before
returning to the hotel to exercise. His body was a well-maintained
machine. With perspiration moistening his face and chest, he looked
at himself in the mirror. For a man of any age, he was in
remarkably good shape. For a man of forty-five, his body was in
excellent condition. He picked up a towel from the edge of the bed
and wiped his face and chest, and then draped the towel around his
neck.
After twisting off the cap, he brought
the bottle to his mouth and downed half the contents before
pausing. He continued sipping from the bottle as he walked into the
bathroom.
He was expecting a guest in less than
an hour, just enough time to shave and shower.
He sat on the commode, removed his
running shoes and damp socks, and then stood and stripped out of
his jogging shorts. After turning on the shower—hot and steamy—he
yanked a towel and washcloth from the rack. He laid the towel on
the closed commode lid and took the washcloth into the shower with
him. He had left his razor and shave cream on a ledge in the shower
when he had cleaned up last night.
He took his time shaving, careful not
to nick himself, and afterward washed his face, rinsed it, and then
lathered his body. As he thought about his expected guest, his
penis hardened. Before a kill, he liked to have sex. If he had any
pre-kill rituals, they would be to eat a good meal and have a good
fuck.
After drying off, he slipped on a dark
blue silk robe and slid his feet into a pair of black house
slippers. His profession as a death technician paid well and
afforded him all of life’s little luxuries, including a high-priced
call girl.
Just as he poured himself a glass of
whiskey, he heard a soft knock on the door. He checked the clock on
the bedside table. Right on time. He appreciated
punctuality.
He opened the door to an attractive
brunette, long legged, slender, her breasts high and firm,
obviously the result of implants.
“Mr. Hambert?”
“Yes, please come in, Ms.
Smith.”
He closed and locked the door behind
her. When she turned around and smiled, he downed half his whiskey
in one gulp, set the glass on the coffee table and then unbelted
his robe.
“Do you want me to undress now?” she
asked.
“No, not yet,” he replied.
She nodded.
He removed his robe and tossed it on
the nearby chair. His hard, erect penis projected
outward.
“Come here,” he
instructed.
She came to him. He took her hand and
brought it to his erection.
“Get down on your knees.”
She did.
He clutched either side of her head.
“Open your mouth.”
“I really don’t need instruction. I’ve
done this before,” she told him.
“I want complete control. I decide how
much you take into your mouth and how far I shove my dick down your
throat. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes, I
understand.”
“After I come, clean me with your
tongue.”
“Yes, of course.”
When she licked him from tip to shaft,
he closed his eyes and savored the feel of her wet tongue on his
penis. First a blow job, just to release the tension. And later,
after lunch, he’d make the little whore really earn her
money.