“Yes. And he could be right. But it’s also possible that the killer wants us to believe that. He may want us to think that Griff is the ultimate target, when actually it may be me.”
“Have you ever considered the possibility that neither of you are?”
“No, not really,” Nic said. “The killer has murdered agents and members of their families, which means he’s targeting the agency. Griff and I own the agency. It stands to reason that this killer wants to harm the agency, wants to hurt Griff and me.”
“Then why involve me?” Maleah asked. “Both you and Griff have been personally involved with serial killer cases in the past. Why not copy one of them? Why go back into my past and choose someone who had killed my college boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a conclusive answer for you because I simply don’t know. It could be what we said earlier, that he’s getting to me through you, my best friend.”
“Maybe. If you’re the one he wants to hurt. But if his real target is Griff, then maybe I’m simply phase one in his plan.”
“Which would make me phase two, right?”
Maleah shook her head and waved her hand in the air. “It’s all conjecture at this point. I’m probably talking nonsense. I shouldn’t come up with conspiracy theories when I’m tired and sleepy and can’t shake a bad headache.”
“Look, I’m going to leave you alone so you can finish eating, grab a shower, and then go to bed.” Nic rose to her feet. “We’ll both have clearer heads in the morning and be able to get a fresh perspective on things.”
Maleah stood and walked Nic to the door. They exchanged hugs and pecks on their cheeks. Once Nic walked down the hall, Maleah closed the door, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Noah. Sorry that you were so brutally murdered. Sorry that I didn’t ask for details about your death when your sister called me. Sorry that I didn’t love you enough to marry you.”
Griff poured Macallan single malt Scotch whisky into two glasses, handed one to Derek and lifted the other to his lips. After taking a sip, he motioned for Derek to take the left of two leather chairs flanking the seven-foot-high rock fireplace in his private study. As Griff sat in the opposite chair, Derek studied the man briefly, noting the weariness in his expression. The four recent Powell Agency–related deaths had begun to take a toll on the seemingly invincible billionaire.
“I had Sanders put a call in to the Georgia governor,” Griff said. “I saw no point in wasting my time going through the normal channels to acquire visitation privileges for you and Maleah at the Georgia State Prison.”
Derek nodded. Why indeed? There would be no point in Griff calling the prison’s warden when he was on a first name basis with the governor.
Born into a wealthy, old Southern family, Derek had taken for granted all the things most people struggle for on a daily basis. His mother hobnobbed with other society matrons, his sister married a suitable young man from a proper family, and Derek’s grandparents had left him a trust fund worth more millions than he’d ever spend in one lifetime. Griffin Powell had been born dirt poor, but was now one of the wealthiest men in the world. No one knew how the former UT football hero had earned his billions during the ten years after he had mysteriously disappeared.
“I’d rather not send Maleah to do the initial interview even if she is one of our best agents. But under the circumstances, I feel she’s the only choice. The killer didn’t choose to copy the Carver’s murders without a reason.”
“You’re assuming Maleah is the reason, right?”
“In a roundabout way,” Griff said. “He wanted a connection between the killer he copied and one of our agents. It could be a coincidence that Maleah is that agent. Or it is possible that Maleah’s friendship with my wife is the reason. What hurts Maleah hurts Nic and what hurts Nic hurts me.”
“That’s the way love and friendship works.”
Griff took a hefty swallow of the aged whisky. Holding the drink in one hand, he absently stroked the side of the glass with his other hand, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the smooth surface.
“Do you think Browning personally knows our killer?” Derek asked. His gut instincts told him that the Powell Agency killer and Browning were at the very least acquainted. Possibly friends. Or more likely, student and teacher.
“Probably. What do you think?”
“Probably.”
“Browning could well be the key to unlocking our killer’s identity.”
Derek took his first sip of the premium Scotch whisky. He wasn’t a drinking man himself, but he did enjoy an occasional sip of the good stuff. Not that he was a teetotaler by any means. But seeing what alcohol addiction had done to his father and older brother made Derek conscientious about his drinking habits. After the smooth liquor made its way down his throat and warmed his belly, he glanced at Griff, who was staring into the cold fireplace.
“We both know that Browning isn’t going to willingly offer us any information,” Derek said.
“No, he’ll sense from the get-go that he has the upper hand. And he’ll use it to his advantage. He’ll want something in return for anything he gives us.”
“For anything he gives Maleah.”
Griff nodded. “She’s strong and smart and I’d trust her with even the most difficult assignment. But this is different. From what I’ve read about Jerome Browning, he’s going to play hardball and I don’t know if Maleah is a tough enough opponent.”
“She’s not going into this alone,” Derek reminded his boss.
“That’s true.” Griff stared at Derek, as if he was judging his worth as a warrior. “She’s going to need you. She won’t like it and may even resist your advice and assistance. You know what a stubborn little mule she can be.”
Derek chuckled. “That’s an understatement. She is without a doubt the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known.”
“Nic is worried about her. She understands why Maleah is the one who should interview Browning, but they’re close, almost like sisters, and know each other’s weaknesses. Nic’s concerned that Browning may use any weakness he senses in Maleah against her.”
“If Browning picks up on any weakness in her, I have no doubt that he’ll use it. But I’ll be there to advise her.” Derek took a second sip of whisky and then set the glass down on the floor beside his chair. “Before we leave for Georgia, I’ll go over all the files we have on Browning and do an in-depth study on the guy. After we meet him, I’ll work up my own profile and compare it to the old FBI profile the agency put together.”
Griff nodded. “I want the copycat killer found and stopped before anyone else dies.” He downed another gulp of the Macallan, huffed out a deep breath, and took another swig.
It was Derek’s opinion that recently Griff had been drinking too much. The man had a high tolerance for alcohol, was able to drink enough to knock another man on his ass, and usually knew his limit. But for the past couple of months, Derek had noticed a distinct change in his boss, and not only in his drinking habits.
“You do know that these murders are not your fault,” Derek said.
Griff’s grumbling growl came from his chest, a combination of anger and pain. “He is sending me a message. No matter what anyone thinks, I know that I’m the ultimate target. He wants me to suffer, to know that he’s killing these people because they are in some way associated with me.”
“I know that’s what you believe, but there is no way you can be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Look, Griff, I’ve never asked for specific details about your past, about those missing ten years,” Derek said. “I figured everything that happened to you and how you earned your billions was nobody’s business. Certainly not mine. What I know, you’ve told me yourself, and I appreciate your trusting me with the information. But if there’s something specific that I need to know, something that could help me—”
“Go with Maleah to see Browning. Size up the guy. Get all the info you can out of him and the
n we’ll talk.” Griff finished off his glass of whisky.
Derek didn’t need to say more. He understood that Griff had dismissed him. He stood, said good night and closed the door behind him when he left.
As if he were standing guard, Sanders waited across the hall from Griff’s study, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. With a stocky, fireplug build, every muscle toned, a sharp mind always in observation mode, the man appeared to be battle ready at all times.
“He’s drinking too much.” Derek paused long enough to make direct eye contact with his boss’s right-hand man.
Sanders nodded.
“He thinks the murders are his fault.”
“Griffin carries the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Sanders said.
“Someone who knows him far better than I do needs to convince him that he’s not to blame, no matter what the killer’s motives might be.”
“Griffin is a man who accepts responsibility.”
Derek stared at Sanders, not quite understanding his comment. Did he believe that Griff was in some way responsible for the actions of a psychopath?
“No one person can right all the wrongs in the world, no matter how rich and powerful they might be,” Derek said.
“One person can try.”
“My God, what grievous sin did he commit that he feels compelled to atone for by wearing a hair shirt the rest of his life?”
“I advise you not to profile Griffin Powell with that analytical mind of yours, Mr. Lawrence.”
Derek nodded. He now knew that he had hit too close to home to suit Sanders. Griff lived with his past sins haunting him and they were no doubt the driving force behind his need to rid the world of evil. He had founded the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency as a means to bring to justice those whom regular law enforcement had difficulty apprehending and punishing. His clients paid according to their ability to do so and many cases were worked pro bono.
Without replying to Sanders, Derek walked away, his thoughts centered on Griffin Powell’s mysterious past. Why was Griff so certain that the copycat killer was sending him a message?
Errol watched Cyrene while she slept. He had never thought it possible to love a woman the way he loved her. He couldn’t look at her enough, couldn’t touch her enough, couldn’t make love to her enough. After his disastrous first marriage and the death of his little girl, he had thought he was destined to be miserable the rest of his life.
And then he had met Cyrene. In a coffee shop of all places. He’d stopped by to meet his sister for breakfast on his way to work and had accidentally bumped into the most gorgeous woman in the world while waiting in line. The moment she smiled at him, the whole world lit up, bright and warm and joyous. Yeah, sure, he hadn’t missed the fact that she had a great body. And yeah, right after her thousand-watt smile, her big boobs had been the first thing he’d noticed. But her body was icing on the cake. The woman inside was as beautiful as the sexy wrapping.
They had dated for six months before they slept together. She was a cautious lady, determined that no man would ever take advantage of her. By the time they made love for the first time, he was already in love. And so was she.
When he asked her to marry him a few weeks later, she had only one request—that he change jobs.
“I want a husband who doesn’t put his life in danger every day the way you do being an Atlanta police officer. I don’t want to have to worry if the father of my children may not come home one night because he got killed on the job.”
Errol reached down from where he lay beside her, his body propped up on his folded arm, and tenderly caressed her cheek. As much as he had loved being a police officer, he loved Cyrene more. Then and now.
He’d been lucky to find another job that he truly liked, one that actually paid better and afforded him and his new bride a more affluent lifestyle. He’d been with the Powell Agency for four months, having hired on a few weeks after his engagement. They had just bought a new house in Farragut a month before their wedding. And his new boss—Griffin Powell—had given them an all-expenses-paid two-week honeymoon at the Grand Resort in the Bahamas.
He laid his head on his pillow, stretched out his naked body beneath the cool, slightly wrinkled sheet, and closed his eyes.
Life was good. At long last.
Errol knew he was one damn lucky SOB.
Wearing tan cargo shorts and a hideous floral shirt, he sat at the end of the bar nursing some elaborate rum concoction, doing his best to look like a typical tourist. Most of the visitors at the resort were couples, many newlyweds or second honeymooners. In order to fit in, he had made a point of flirting with several single ladies who were obviously there man-hunting. He had already decided that tomorrow night he’d take one of those ladies to his room and ease some of the pre-kill tension he always experienced. A night of rough sex would do wonders for him.
He was in no rush. The most important thing was timing. Errol and Cyrene Patterson were on their honeymoon and spent a great deal of time in their room. The couple had been inseparable since their arrival at the resort last week. He didn’t want to kill both of them, but if necessary, he would. But only one was his target, only one was destined to become the Copycat Carver’s fifth victim.
Just as he took another sip of the syrupy sweet rum drink, his mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He lifted the phone from the pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
No information. Unknown number and name.
He tapped the answer key and put the phone to his ear. “I’m enjoying my vacation in the Bahamas. I’ve met some lovely ladies. Unfortunately some of the prettiest women are married and here on their honeymoon. There’s one woman . . .”
“I don’t need to know the details tonight. I prefer to allow my imagination to paint a mental picture of all the gruesome details.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Did you send Ms. Perdue her gift?”
“She should have received it today.”
“You sent it in care of her employer?”
“I did.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before he arranges for her to visit the Georgia State Prison.”
Chapter 5
Maleah wasn’t surprised that Griff had managed to arrange for visitation privileges for Derek and her at the prison in Reidsville so quickly. He had placed a call to the governor over the weekend and by noon Monday, she and Derek were packing their bags. Barbara Jean, who handled a lot of the mundane details for the agency, booked them two rooms at the Hampton Inn in Vidalia, a twenty-minute drive from Reidsville. They had checked into the hotel before six and then had driven over to the county seat of Tattnall County where the state prison was located. Before they had left Griffin’s Rest yesterday, Sanders, who had confiscated their laptops earlier that morning, had informed them that all pertinent files on Jerome Browning had been loaded into a file folder. One file contained info on the penitentiary, the oldest state prison in Georgia. Constructed of marble in 1937 and opened in that same year, it remained the largest contributor to the city’s economy.
Numerous buildings containing four two-tiered cell blocks with single cells, the newer buildings spanning from the original structure, housed the convicts. The cell blocks were divided by population into two categories: general population units and one special management unit. As a convicted serial killer serving multi-life sentences, Jerome Browning was housed in a maximum security area.
Maleah hadn’t slept worth a damn. She would never admit it to Derek, but she was more than just a little nervous about meeting Browning. In all honesty, she was borderline terrified—terrified by the thought of how she might react when she actually came face-to-face with Noah’s killer. While she had tossed and turned for hours, longing for sleep that wouldn’t come, her mind had wandered back more than a dozen years, to the day she had met Noah Laborde, sophomore class president. It hadn’t been love at first sight. She didn’t believe in such a thing, not then and ce
rtainly not now. But it had been interest at first sight. They had dated for nearly a year before she had finally agreed to have sex with him.
Remembering the past in such vivid detail, recalling moments with Noah that she had thought long forgotten didn’t help Maleah’s already frayed nerves that morning. After grabbing a quick shower and brushing her hair up into a loose bun, she dressed in her professional garb—navy slacks, white shirt, lightweight tan jacket, and a pair of sensible low-heel navy shoes. After applying a minimum of makeup, she put on her wristwatch and small gold hoop earrings. She took all of half a minute to inspect herself in the mirror before slipping her small leather bag over her shoulder and leaving the room.
She didn’t bother stopping to knock on Derek’s door as she headed for the elevator. During the entire time they had worked together on the Midnight Killer case, she couldn’t recall a single morning that he hadn’t gotten up early, always before she did. The Hampton Inn provided a full breakfast, which meant they wouldn’t have to search for a place to eat this morning. Just as she had figured, he was waiting for her in the dining area adjacent to the lobby. Sitting alone at a table for two, a cup of coffee in front of him, a folded newspaper in one hand, and a soft-grip mechanical pencil in the other, he glanced up from the crossword puzzle and motioned for her to join him. As she approached, he laid down the paper and pencil and rose to greet her with a smile.
“Morning, sunshine.”
God, she hated that he could be so chipper at sixthirty in the morning. And she hated even more that she had noticed how damn good he looked. Derek was nothing more to her than her partner on this case, just as he had been on the Midnight Killer case. Their personal relationship went no farther than that. They certainly weren’t friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. On good days, they worked well together. On bad days, they tolerated each other.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“Nope.” He glanced at the half empty cup on the table. “However, this is my second cup of coffee.”
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