The more time he spent with Maleah Perdue, the more fascinated he became with her. Despite her bristly attitude toward him, he found himself liking her. He liked that she was smart and spunky and worked diligently at keeping her emotions under control. He figured it really bothered her that he got under her skin.
Was there something about him that reminded her of the man in her past?
What other reason could there be for her to dislike him so intensely? It wasn’t that he expected everybody to love him. Hell, even his own mother didn’t love him. But for the most part, people in general liked him. After all, he was a nice guy, wasn’t he?
“Look for number ten,” Perdue told Derek as she turned off the main road and drove into the Poplar Creek Trailer Park.
A couple of minutes later, Derek pointed to a small, rusty trailer anchored beneath a couple of towering poplar trees. “There it is.”
“Lovely place.” She turned up her nose.
“Now, now, don’t be judgmental.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Perdue pulled their rental car up beside an older model Harley-Davidson motorcycle. She got out and marched up the rickety wooden steps in front of the single door. Derek waited a few feet behind her while she knocked several times.
No response.
“He should be home,” she said. “Our report stated that he was laid off from his last job a month ago and is drawing unemployment.”
Perdue knocked again.
The door eased open and a dark-haired man in jeans and a wifebeater undershirt that exposed his hairy chest and arms looked at her and smiled. “Well, hello there.”
“Duane Hines?” she asked.
“Sure am, sweet thing. And just who are you?” His grin widened, revealing uneven, discolored teeth.
Derek wondered in what universe did this skinny, yellow-toothed degenerate think that a woman such as Maleah Perdue would actually give him the time of day.
“I’m Ms. Perdue, with the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency,” she told him. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about your obsession with the movie Midnight Masquerade.”
He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language, then burst into laughter. “You’re kidding, right?” His bloodshot, watery brown eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze over Perdue’s body, pausing at her breasts.
“She’s not kidding.” Derek stepped forward, coming up beside her.
Hines’s smile vanished when he saw Derek. “You a private dick, too?” He inclined his head toward Perdue. “You with her?”
“Yeah, I’m with Ms. Perdue. And we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” Hines said. “Maybe I just want to talk to her.” He grinned lasciviously at Perdue.
“I’m sure that can be arranged, a private talk between the two of you,” Derek said. “But you should know that the lady carries a ten-shot Ruger P93. And I’ve seen her at target practice. She’s good. Damn good. Besides that, I’ve heard that she can disarm an opponent twice her size without breaking a sweat.”
Perdue glanced over her shoulder at Derek and barely restrained the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.
“You’re not cops, just PIs.” Hines frowned. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t have to talk to us,” Perdue said. “But one call and I can have the Carey PD out here in ten minutes flat. If you’d rather talk to them—”
“Who hired you?” Hines looked from Perdue to Derek. “One of them bitches from that movie? Writing fan letters isn’t against no law. I haven’t done nothing illegal.”
“Would you prefer to have this conversation out here for all your neighbors to see and speculate about, or would you rather invite us in?” Derek asked.
Hines glanced around and saw that several of the trailer park’s occupants were milling around outside their trailers and doing their best not to be conspicuous about their curiosity.
“Come on in.” Hines stepped back inside his trailer and left the door open.
The interior, though shabby and cluttered, looked and smelled fairly clean, which surprised Derek. Hines swiped a stack of magazines off the sofa and copies of Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler scattered over the floor.
“Take a load off.” Hines pointed to the seen-better-days plaid sofa.
Derek waited for Perdue to sit and then he sat beside her, leaving a couple of feet between them, making sure he didn’t invade her personal space.
“Before I answer your questions, I want you to answer mine—who hired you?”
“Our agency represents the families of two of the Midnight Masquerade actors,” Perdue said. “You probably know the actors as Dewey Flowers and Woody Wilson.”
“Dewey Flowers,” Hines sighed. “Now there is one sweet piece of…” He caught himself before finishing the vulgar expression and looked right at Maleah. “I’ve had more than one wet dream starring Miss Flowers, believe you me.” His puzzled expression scrunched his face. “Did her family hire you to track me down and warn me to stop writing her? ’Cause that’s all I’ve done—just write her some letters telling her how much I like her.”
“When was the last time you wrote to Ms. Flowers?” Derek asked.
“Hmm…” Hines rubbed his thumb over the beard stubble darkening his chin. “Sometime last year. Never heard back from that one.”
“You didn’t happen to send any letters to her home address this year, did you? Letters telling her that she was going to die?” Perdue focused directly on Hines.
“Hell, no! Is that what’s going on here? Somebody’s written Miss Flowers and threatened her? It wasn’t me. Swear to God, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t harm a hair on that pretty little head of hers. Besides, where would I get her home address?”
Derek’s gut told him Duane Hines was probably telling the truth. No doubt he was a sexual deviant and an altogether reprehensible human being, but those undesirable qualities did not make him a murderer.
Derek and Perdue exchanged brief looks that he interpreted to mean they were in agreement about Hines. And ten minutes later, they left the trailer park and headed back to the airport where they would eat supper and catch a night flight to Laredo.
Once on the road a few miles from the trailer park, Derek broke the silence between them. “My educated guess is that whoever our killer is, he has the means to buy airline tickets from wherever he lives to Knoxville, Memphis, and Arizona.”
“Yeah, I agree. And Hines looks like he doesn’t have two nickels to rub together.”
“Our killer isn’t necessarily wealthy, but not only does he have to have enough money for airline tickets and enough to afford the fancy masks he left on each victim, but possibly fake ID, disguises, and hotel rooms. And he has to be able to take time away from his job.”
“Travis Dillard could afford to pay for airline tickets to just about anywhere and it’s possible he still owned the masks used in the movie.”
“You aren’t allowing your prejudice against Dillard to form your opinion of him, are you?” Derek asked.
“Maybe,” Perdue admitted. “But I say we cross Hines off our suspects list or at the very least move him to the bottom. And for now at least, we put Dillard at the top of that list.”
“I agree,” Derek said. “For now. But I figure Dillard’s physical condition would make it difficult for him to carry out the murders.”
“Difficult, but not impossible. Besides, he has enough money to hire a professional.”
“We agree again.” Derek grinned. “Amazing, isn’t it, how much we’re beginning to think alike. We may wind up being best buddies after this case ends.”
Keeping her eyes glued to the road ahead, she replied, “No way in hell.”
Lorie lifted her gaze from the article in Tea Time, a magazine for tea party enthusiasts, and glanced across the room to where Shelley Gilbert sat immersed in a paperback novel. She had taken off her jacket before dinner, but she still
wore her shoulder holster.
Lorie folded a page in the magazine—an advertisement for a teapot vendor—and laid the magazine aside. At the beginning of the year, Lorie and Cathy had decided to branch out at Treasures and include tea party items and perhaps even in the future rent the empty store next door to their antique shop, renovate it, and use it as a tearoom.
She missed Cathy and would be glad when she returned from her honeymoon. Four more days. But she dreaded having to tell her best friend what was happening in her life. In less than two weeks, her whole world had been turned upside down. Because her life had been threatened, she now had a 24/7 bodyguard.
As if sensing Lorie was looking at her, Shelley glanced her way and smiled. Lorie returned her smile and said, “I’m thinking about fixing myself a root beer float before bedtime. Want one?”
“Make that a Seven-Up float for me, if you have Seven-Up. I’m not a big root beer fan.”
“One Seven-Up float and one root beer float it is.”
Shelley got up, laid her book in the chair, and followed Lorie into the kitchen. Lorie entered first, stopped dead still and gasped. She hadn’t yet turned on the overhead light and the only illumination came from the dim hallway sconces and the three-quarter moon shining through the kitchen window.
“What is it?” Shelley asked quietly as she paused behind Lorie.
“I could’ve sworn I saw someone outside peeking in the kitchen window.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. It could have been my imagination. I’ve been pretty jumpy lately, but—”
“You stay here,” Shelley told her. “I’m going out the back door and I want you to lock it behind me.”
“Be careful,” Lorie said.
Shelley pulled the 9mm from her shoulder holster, eased open the door, and walked onto the back porch. Doing as she’d been instructed, Lorie locked the door. But she pulled up the Roman shade covering the glass top half of the door and peered out into the darkness. Shelley left the porch and entered the yard. Lorie held her breath.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Shelley called loud and clear.
Oh God! What if Shelley had caught the killer? She checked her watch. Nine fifty-eight. Nowhere close to midnight. But maybe he’d been casing her house, checking out her comings and goings, and ascertaining the danger in trying to get past her bodyguard.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Shelley reappeared, a man about five-ten walking slowly in front of her, his hands held high above his head in an I-surrender-don’t-shoot gesture.
“Call nine-one-one,” Shelley shouted. “I’ve caught our intruder.”
After she sent a patrol car to Lorie’s house, the dispatcher had called Mike. He had contacted his mother, asked her to come over and spend the night to look after Hannah and M.J., and then he had broken the speed limit from his house to Lorie’s. When he arrived, Deputy Buddy Pounders opened the door for him.
“What have we got here?” Mike asked.
“Ms. Gilbert caught the guy red-handed,” Buddy said. “He was snooping around outside the house.”
“Was he armed?”
“No, sir, not unless you consider a camera a weapon.”
“A camera?”
“I’m a reporter,” a voice called out loudly.
“The guy’s a reporter for the Huntsville Times. He showed me his credentials. He’s legit.”
Mike stomped into the living room, where he found Shelley Gilbert standing over a cowering young man sitting on the sofa, a look of sheer terror on the guy’s face. Then Mike scanned the room and found Lorie standing in the arched double doorway that led into the dining room.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Just a little shaken up.”
Mike turned around and glared at the reporter. “What’s your name?”
“Ryan Bonner, sir.”
“What the hell did you think you were doing sneaking around outside Ms. Hammonds’s home? Do you realize that at the very least, she can charge you with trespassing?”
“Yes, sir. I—I was just trying to snap a few pictures of Ms. Hammonds without her knowing it. And I thought maybe I might overhear the ladies’ conversation. I really need an exclusive in order for the paper to hire me as a full-time reporter.”
“What sort of an exclusive did you think you’d find here?” Mike asked, hoping his gut instincts were wrong about why this guy wanted a story on Lorie.
“Hey, it’s no secret that something’s going on, that Ms. Hammonds has a bodyguard. And don’t ask me how I know. I don’t have to reveal my sources.”
“You’re right, you don’t. But you do have the right to call a lawyer.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“That depends.”
“I won’t be bullied into not writing my story,” Ryan said. “I’ve done my research about Ms. Hammonds, you know, or should I call her Cherry Sweets? That was some sweet centerfold she posed for, but nothing to compare to that movie she made.”
Mike saw red. Literally. The rage inside him boiled over and it took every ounce of his self-control not to punch Ryan Bonner in the mouth.
Chapter 13
“Buddy!” Mike bellowed the deputy’s name.
“Yes, sir?”
“Escort Mr. Bonner down to headquarters.”
“You can’t arrest me!” Bonner shouted.
“Take him in for questioning.” Mike grinned. “And by all means, let him call his boss at the Times or his lawyer or anybody else he wants to call. But under no circumstances is Mr. Bonner to be released tonight. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is police harassment,” Bonner whined.
Mike turned his back on Bonner while Deputy Pounders led him to the patrol car. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do to stop the gung-ho reporter from writing an exposé about Lorie’s past. It wasn’t as if her years in LA were a big secret. But after being back in Dunmore for nine years and slowly making a life for herself here, Lorie had earned a second chance, at least with the townspeople. But if Bonner retold Lorie’s old story—from hometown beauty queen and talent contest winner to Playboy centerfold and porno star—tongues would start wagging and the ladies from the WCM would get riled up all over again. Lorie would become the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.
He paused outside the front door, his thoughts a mixed jumble that he needed to straighten out before seeing Lorie again.
Did he really believe she deserved a second chance? Yes, of course she did.
Just not a second chance with him.
Damn it, man, you want her. You know you do. Every time you see her, all you can think about is how it used to be between the two of you. You want to touch her. Hold her. Kiss her. Make love to her.
What he wanted and what was good for him were two different things. Lorie was all wrong for Sheriff Michael Birkett and his two children.
He had to keep things on a professional level; otherwise, he’d wind up in a sticky situation that could damage his career and wreak havoc on his personal life. And he could wind up hurting Lorie more than he’d already hurt her.
Taking a deep breath, Mike reached for the door handle, opened the door, and walked into the house. He found Lorie pacing the floor in the living room and Shelley Gilbert standing guard. Both women turned to face him.
“Buddy is taking Mr. Bonner to headquarters,” Mike said. “If you want to press charges for trespassing or—”
“Does he know about the death threats?” Lorie asked.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think he knows anything specific other than the fact you have a bodyguard.”
“How could he have found out?”
“Any number of ways,” Mike said. “Maybe one of your neighbors snooped around and found out what’s going on or even somebody working for me might have inadvertently let something slip and it got passed on. It’s hard to keep secrets in a small town.”
Lorie s
ucked in a deep breath and released it slowly.
“I can hold Bonner overnight for questioning, but that’s it unless you press charges. And I’m not sure you want to do that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“He knows about your alter ego, Cherry Sweets,” Mike told her.
God, how he hated the pain he saw in her eyes. “Bonner wants to do an exposé on you—then and now—in the hopes it will get him a promotion to full-time status at the Huntsville Times.”
“He can’t do that! He has no right,” Lorie said. “I’ll hire Elliott Floyd and threaten to sue him and the newspaper if they print one word about my past.”
“You can do that and you probably should, but you have to know that if what they print is the truth—”
“Their version of the truth.” Lorie wrapped her arms together around her waist in a hugging gesture and closed her eyes.
Shelley cleared her throat. “If you can stick around for a while, Sheriff, I need to contact the agency about this,” Shelley said. “We’ll want all the info on Ryan Bonner we can get. And we’ll want it now.” She glanced at Lorie, who stood in the middle of her living room, a dazed expression on her face. “I won’t be long, okay?”
Lorie nodded. “Okay.”
When they were alone together, Lorie sad and on the verge of tears, Mike’s male instincts urged him to comfort her.
Talk to her. Reassure her. But don’t touch her.
“Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, this had to happen.” Lorie looked at him. “Not only do I have a serial killer who intends to make me one of his victims, but I have a zealous reporter who plans to exploit my life story in order to get a promotion.” She laughed, the tone despondently mocking. “What’s that old saying about if not for bad luck I’d have no luck at all?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could do more to help you.”
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