Side by side, on full alert, aware of every sound, every scent, every flash of movement, Maleah and Derek walked up to the front door. Maleah rang the doorbell. Derek scanned the area from the rocky shoreline and sloping sandy beach to the wooded area behind the house.
They waited. No response. Maleah rang the bell again.
Derek heard movement inside the house.
“Somebody’s in there,” Maleah said.
Derek nodded.
And then the front door opened. A pair of inquiring blue-gray eyes looked each of them over quickly and then asked, “May I help you?” His voice had the raspy quality associated with a lifetime smoker.
“We’re looking for Albert Durham,” Maleah said.
“You’ve found him. I’m Albert Durham.”
He vaguely resembled the debonair gray-haired gentleman in the publicity photo that had no doubt been airbrushed. Apparently Durham had shaved and gotten a fresh haircut before the photograph had been taken. But then, the man who stood in the doorway was on vacation, which probably accounted for the new growth of beard and the shaggy hair.
“I’m Maleah Perdue and this is Derek Lawrence. We’re employed by the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency,” she explained as she and Derek showed the man their Powell Agency identification. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Jerome Browning,” Maleah said.
“Who?”
“Jerome Browning, the serial killer known as the Carver. The man you interviewed for the biography you’re writing.”
“I have never heard of a Jerome Browning,” Albert Durham said. “And I can assure you that whoever he is, I am not planning to write his biography.”
“Are you saying that you have never visited Jerome Browning at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville, Georgia?” Derek asked.
“I’ve never met this man Browning and I’ve never even heard of Reidsville, Georgia. And I have never visited anyone in prison, not in Georgia or anywhere else.”
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—”
&nbs
p; “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.
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