Pretty Little Killers (The Keepers Book 1)

by Rita Herron

  Maybe she needed therapy.

  She quickly connected the call. “Agent Davenport.”

  “Banning lawyered up and is out on bond. I set up a briefing with the ME, local sheriff, and Cat to discuss both cases, but first I want to talk to the warden at Coastal State Prison. Maybe he can shed some light on how Whiting escaped.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you there.”

  She rushed out the door, grateful to breathe in the fresh salty air. But emotions clogged her throat, and she turned one more time to glance at the facility, Serenity.

  Instead of a cold sterile hospital, the rustic structure had been built to resemble a retreat center with warm blue tones, a wraparound porch complete with rocking chairs, and hiking and biking trails that covered the twenty-five-acre spread. Set against the marsh with the sea oats swaying in the wind and the Spanish moss draping the ground like giant spider webs, it epitomized a tranquil atmosphere for healing and self-discovery.

  Hopefully, here Kenny would uncover the demons that fueled his self-destructive behavior and learn techniques to deal with it and find peace.

  If he didn’t get help, he might end up in a cell like the criminals she locked away.

  Or in the graveyard with her father.

  Hatcher met Korine at the entrance to the Coastal State Prison. The medium-security facility housed over eighteen hundred beds, provided mental-health services, and also offered a program for reentering the workforce.

  Whiting had been targeted because he was a pedophile and was being transferred to Hays when he escaped.

  Damn bastard had learned what it felt like to have a man twice your size force himself on you.

  Korine looked exhausted, but she squared her shoulders as she approached him. “Banning didn’t confess?” she asked.

  He shook his head and opened the door to the facility. “His lawyer made it clear she’ll paint him and his son as victims of the justice system. We’ll probably have to cut a deal with him and let him go.”

  Korine shrugged as they approached security. “If his son was innocent, I can understand the man’s bitterness. But taking the law into his own hands isn’t right.”

  Hatcher balled his hands into fists. Was she making a statement about what he’d done?

  He didn’t care. He didn’t regret killing his wife’s murderer.

  “We have no proof that he did that,” Hatcher said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to dig for it either.

  Korine folded her arms. “We have to do our jobs.”

  He glared at her. “You don’t need to lecture me. I’ve been in law enforcement a lot longer than you.”

  His comment seemed to strike a nerve. She shot him a cold look, then stepped up to security. They put the topic on hold as they were escorted to the warden’s office.

  Warden Johnson was a big man, tall with an imposing physique. Thick black brows framed a solemn face and a no-nonsense look.

  Hatcher and Korine flashed their credentials and introduced themselves. “You’re here because of Whiting’s escape, aren’t you?” Warden Johnson asked.

  “Yes, as it may pertain to his murder,” Korine filled in.

  The warden gestured for them to sit, and they claimed two chairs facing the man’s massive desk. Framed documents attesting to his military service and professional qualifications hung on the wall behind him, while security cameras in the corners of the room logged everything that happened inside his office. He pressed an intercom button, then made a request to an assistant.

  “I want mental health in here while we talk,” he said. “Whiting’s counselor may have insight that I don’t.”

  Five minutes later, an attractive brunette with funky blue glasses appeared and introduced herself as Reba Boles.

  “Tell us about Whiting,” Hatcher said. “What kind of prisoner was he?”

  The warden clicked some keys on his computer and glanced at the file. “He kept to himself, but word spreads quickly when a pedophile comes in.”

  “Did he brag about what he’d done?” Korine asked.

  Boles crossed her legs, her expression neutral. “Mental health records are confidential—”

  “He’s dead,” Korine cut in. “We have reason to believe that someone assisted in his escape in order to get revenge on him.”

  “I’m not sure I can help.”

  “He made enemies in here?” Korine asked. “Did he discuss them with you?”

  “We talked about his conviction and his urges,” she said, her tone controlled, void of judgment. “He knew the other inmates hated him.”

  “Did he express remorse for what he’d done?” Hatcher asked.

  Boles adjusted her glasses. “Not exactly. He said he would agree to medication to control his urges in exchange for his release.”

  Korine made a small sound in her throat. “You believed him?”

  “I did, but not because he was sorry for his behavior,” Ms. Boles said. “He was terrified of the other inmates. He knew they would destroy him. Transferring to Hays is usually an inmate’s worst fear, but Mr. Whiting thought he’d be safer there because he’d be in a private cell.”

  “Did he have visitors while he was here?” Hatcher asked.

  The warden consulted his computer. “One visit shortly after he was brought in.”

  “His brother Ernest?” Hatcher asked.

  The warden shook his head no. “The brother’s wife. Donna Whiting.”

  Hatcher narrowed his eyes. “And the nature of that visit?”

  “I think she needed to make sure he was locked up,” the warden answered.

  “Can you add anything, Ms. Boles?” Korine asked.

  The therapist consulted her notepad. “According to him, his sister-in-law threatened to kill him if he was released and came near her daughter again.”

  Hatcher shifted. “Who could blame her?”

  Boles pursed her lips and refrained from comment.

  “Did she have any further communication with him?” Korine asked. “Letters? Phone calls?”

  The warden shook his head no. “We log in all mail and communication. They had none.”

  “Did he mention any other threats?” Hatcher asked the counselor.

  “Just the typical gang activity. Usually inmates make alliances. No one wanted to be Whiting’s ally.”

  Korine leaned forward, hands on her knees. “Do you think his sister-in-law hated him enough to arrange his escape so she could kill him?”

  The counselor and warden exchanged looks. “I can’t say,” Ms. Boles replied. “I never talked to the woman myself. But you have to understand that it’s not uncommon for families and friends of victims to make threats in the heat of the moment. Emotions are running high. In situations like this, parents deal with guilt, anger, fear, shame, and the feeling that they’ve failed their child. Carrying out those threats is a different story.”

  “You’re right,” Korine said. “Helping to break Whiting out of jail would require planning. Whoever did it would need help. She would need to know timing of the transfer and the route of the prison van.”

  “We take every precaution necessary,” the warden said. “Transfers are kept quiet until shortly before they occur. The inmates aren’t even told. When it’s time, the guards go in and give them only minutes to pack their belongings and prepare to leave.” He rubbed his forehead. “Besides, why would a woman go to the trouble of breaking him out when he was locked up and would probably die in prison anyway?”

  “We’ll check her alibi,” Hatcher said. “Warden, anything else you can tell us about Whiting?”

  The warden folded his hands on the desk. “He killed Banning to prove he was tough. He thought the inmates would leave him alone after that, but it didn’t work.”

  “That’s the reason he was being transferred?” Korine asked.

  The warden nodded. “Hays is more secure.”

  “What happened during the transfer?” Hatcher asked.

  The warden leaned back in his chair and sh
rugged. “According to the driver, who gave a statement seconds before he died, a dark truck rammed into the front of the prison van. He tried to right the van, but it spun and rolled. Chaos, then. The windows shattered, his legs were trapped, and the prisoners inside took advantage. One grabbed his keys while the second stabbed him in the chest. Whiting unlocked their cuffs, then he disappeared with the truck.”

  Korine turned to the warden. “What about the guards or another employee? Would one of them have helped him escape?”

  The warden stiffened. “There have been times when we’ve caught staff members sneaking contraband to inmates, and four years ago, a female nurse fell in love with an inmate and aided in his escape, but we’ve tightened our security and staff since. And like I said, no one wanted to help Whiting.”

  “If the guard knew whoever was going to break out Whiting planned to kill him, he might have taken a bribe to leak information about the transfer,” Hatcher suggested.

  Once again the warden and counselor exchanged looks. “I don’t think so,” the warden said. “But I’ll look into it and talk to the other staff members.”

  Korine thanked them, and Hatcher followed her into the hallway. A guard escorted them to security.

  As soon as they stepped outside, Hatcher texted Cat and asked her to check Donna Whiting’s alibi.

  “Cat’s on it,” he said a minute later when they reached the parking lot.

  “Good. There’s still the issue of the justice symbol,” Korine said. “Unless someone from the bureau or ME’s office leaked that information, this Whiting woman couldn’t have known.”

  “That’s been bothering me, too,” Hatcher commented.

  “I want to talk to Tinsley Jensen again.”

  Hatcher narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Just a hunch,” Korine said. “Last night I read through some posts on her blog.” Korine reached inside her pocket for her keys. “Some of the comments are disturbing.”

  “I imagine so,” Hatcher said.

  “I’m worried there’s more going on than just venting,” Korine said.

  He touched her arm, but she stiffened and drew away from him.

  “What are you saying?” he asked, irritated that he’d forgotten his own rules by touching her again.

  Worry creased her face. “A couple of comments sounded like confessions of murder.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Liz Roberts forced herself to give Latoya Clinton a smile of encouragement as she gently closed the hospital room door and stepped into the hall.

  Anger and sadness engulfed Liz. She’d worked as a victim’s advocate for domestic violence for four years. Some thought you grew accustomed, even hardened, to the women’s and children’s stories.

  So not true.

  She struggled to not carry the victims’ problems home with her at night, to keep them from tainting her own relationships and trust, but that took work. She wanted desperately to believe in the good of others.

  But it was difficult when animals like Germaine Stokes took a hammer to his girlfriend’s face like Stokes had done this morning.

  The poor woman hadn’t seen it coming. She’d broken off their relationship the week before.

  When Latoya had gotten home from work last night, he’d been hiding in her bedroom closet. He’d beaten her so badly the bones in her face were crushed, her eyes were swollen shut, her lips bloody and cracked, her jaw wired. She’d lost partial vision in one eye and would never be able to have children after the damage the man had inflicted by repeated kicks to her abdomen, and she would need months of therapy to be able to speak again.

  Those were only the physical injuries. The emotional scars would be even more difficult to overcome. On top of that would be a financial burden—medical bills, counseling, attorneys, and lost wages . . .

  Money Latoya didn’t have. Money she’d never see from Germaine if he accepted a plea and served time.

  And if he didn’t, there would be the long, drawn-out trial, the ruthless interrogation by the defense attorney, the fear that he’d come after her again.

  Convincing Latoya to testify against Germaine Stokes wasn’t difficult at the moment.

  Unfortunately, with time, victims often changed their minds.

  And if Germaine managed to get near enough to threaten her . . .

  Liz couldn’t let her mind go there yet. She’d covered the bases.

  Just as she’d done with the teenage girls who’d reported their driver’s ed teacher, Louie Hortman, for sexual harassment. They’d almost gone to trial; then something happened to change the girls’ minds . . .

  Hortman had gone free. Sure, he’d lost his job, but he was already working at a private driving school and most likely back to his demented ways. Someone needed to stop him, but . . . her hands were tied.

  Her phone buzzed with a text just as she stepped outside the hospital. She scanned the area, looked for stalkers and strays, anyone who didn’t belong.

  Satisfied for the moment, she checked the text.

  Laura sending a 9-1-1 call to the Keepers.

  Gripping her key with the attached mace in one hand, she kept alert as she sprinted to her car. When she climbed in, she instantly locked the doors and searched the parking lot.

  Paranoia about safety came with the job.

  Her phone exploded with return texts from the others. Everyone was anxious.

  A list was also circulating—people who needed punishing.

  The police and federal agents were asking questions.

  Questions none of them wanted to answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hatcher’s keys dug into the palm of his hand as he gripped them. “You think you read a confession of murder?”

  “I’m not sure,” Korine said. “The posts are anonymous. No names mentioned, and no specifics. But a couple of entries really disturbed me. I thought Tinsley might have some insight.”

  He didn’t want to have to face Tinsley again, but if she had answers, he had to. “You want to drop your car at the precinct?”

  “The women’s march is taking place now,” Korine said. “Traffic will be a nightmare. Let’s leave my car here and come back afterward and pick it up.”

  She was right. They needed to stay clear of the downtown for a couple of hours, especially the area near the courthouse.

  Korine climbed in the passenger seat of his SUV, and he started the engine. “How did it go with your brother?” he asked.

  She stared out the window as he drove. “He’s mad. Sullen. I just hope he stays this time.”

  “He’s been in rehab before?”

  She nodded. “Under duress. He left, twice. I told him this is it. If he doesn’t stick it out, I’m done.”

  He didn’t blame her. But cutting off a family member would be difficult. Not that he knew. He’d lost his family when he was young. A tractor trailer had run into them head-on.

  The temptation to reach out and comfort Korine hit him, but he fought it off.

  Her family wasn’t his problem.

  He had his own ghosts to deal with.

  Rain fell as he parked at Tinsley’s cottage. Dark clouds hovered just above the horizon, the dull gray bleeding into the tides as the waves crashed angrily against the shore. Sea oats swayed in the gusty breeze, the wind howling as if warning that something bad was about to happen.

  The beach was deserted—rain pinging onto the sand and creating wading pools along the seashell-lined shore where birds soared and dipped down, scrounging for food.

  Korine climbed out as soon as Hatcher parked, tugging her jacket hood up to ward off the rain. He didn’t bother with a jacket. He ran for the porch and the cover of the awning. Korine joined him, shaking the rain off as he knocked.

  A light burned through the kitchen window, another in the den. Seconds later, Tinsley peeked through the peephole in the door, her eyes flaring with worry when she spotted them.

  “Please open up, Tinsley,” Korine said. “We have
to talk.”

  A tense second passed, then the sound of the locks turning, and Tinsley opened the door.

  “Did you find the person who killed Judge Wadsworth?” Tinsley asked.

  “Not yet.” Hatcher clenched his jaw at her pale face. This woman needed sunshine and fresh air, not to be locked away like a terrified animal.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Korine said. “We think you may have connected with the killer.”

  Tinsley gasped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She gestured toward the door as if to ask them to leave, but Korine took a step closer to her. “It’s possible that the killer may have commented on your blog.”

  Tinsley clenched the door edge with a white-knuckled grip. “Are you accusing me of something? Because if you are, maybe I need a lawyer.”

  Korine raised a brow in question. “Do you need a lawyer, Tinsley?”

  The uneasiness in Tinsley’s reaction made Korine take a deep breath. The last thing she wanted to do was to put this poor young woman through any more pain.

  But if she knew who’d killed the judge and was keeping silent, she could be considered an accomplice.

  Hatcher gave Korine a dark look. “Take it easy, Agent Davenport.”

  She glared at him. He was sympathetic where Tinsley was concerned, but she couldn’t allow his personal involvement to keep her from doing her job. Bellows had assigned her to Hatcher to make sure he still had game, and she intended to follow orders.

  “Do you want a lawyer?” she asked Tinsley again, although this time she softened her tone.

  Tinsley clasped her hands together, her wary gaze darting between the two of them. “I haven’t done anything wrong. For goodness sake, I haven’t left this house since I moved in.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Korine said. “But there was another murder case that we caught, a pedophile named Pallo Whiting.”

  Tinsley’s face blanched.

  “Do you know him?” Hatcher asked.

  Tinsley swallowed hard. “Not personally, but I heard the news story about him. It was horrible what he did to those children.”