by Debra Webb
Sage nodded. “It was a man. He came into my parents’ room. I could hear him.”
“Could you see him?” Bobbie held her breath.
Sage shook his head no. “I only know it was a man ’cause I heard him cussing. He said bad words.”
Bobbie asked, “Did his voice sound like your father’s or like mine?”
“You’re a woman,” he said with a frown. “His voice sounded like my dad’s, but it wasn’t my dad. He said stuff like this—shit, damn it!” he repeated in an extra deep voice, and then he winced. “Sorry, but that’s what he said.”
“That’s okay,” Bobbie assured him. “Anything you tell me will be a big help. Are you certain you didn’t see him in your parents’ room?”
The boy nodded. The killer may have been laying out his game plan. Since the Seppuku Killer had murdered victims whom he considered to have shamed themselves, the Parkers’ recent notoriety was likely the motive for their murders. But what about Fern? There was no record of an abduction or a child victim in the Seppuku case. Not that Bobbie had found, anyway. Copycats often deviated somewhat from the original MOs but this one was quite a giant step. The range of vile things the killer may have done to Fern checked off in Bobbie’s head, made her stomach knot. Don’t let that girl be dead.
Sage jumped. Bobbie snapped her attention back to the present and followed his gaze to the door. The agent had returned and he and the MPD uniform were talking to a man in a white coat. She recognized the pediatrician in the lab coat and her heart rose into her throat. Charles Upchurch. Dr. Upchurch had been her little boy’s doctor.
She steeled herself for the encounter. She couldn’t keep avoiding the people who had known her before. “Don’t worry, Sage. Dr. Upchurch is a friend of mine. I know him really well. You don’t have to be afraid. Okay?”
The boy nodded, still looking uncertain.
“Have your aunt call me if you remember anything else. It’s really important that you do, okay?”
Sage nodded again, this time with obvious eagerness.
“Call me if you need anything,” Bobbie said to the aunt.
Since Marla already had Bobbie’s cell number, she moved into the corridor to speak with Dr. Upchurch. The hospital needed to ensure Sage was cared for by females for the duration of his stay and MPD would have to get female officers here to keep him secure. The more comfortable he was, the more likely he would remember something that might help the case.
Upchurch recognized her and smiled. “Bobbie, it’s good to see you.” He thrust out his hand. “How is...?” His voice trailed off and his expression fell as his mind filled in the events of the past year.
“Good to see you, too, Doctor.” She gave his hand a shake, then jerked her head toward the room. “Sage is having some anxiety with male strangers. I assured him he was safe with you, but...just so you know.”
“Got it.” Upchurch nodded. “I’ll see that the rest of his stay is comfortable. We’re running a few more tests just to be sure he’s okay. He vomited a couple of times last night but those incidents may have been related to anxiety.”
“Let me know,” Bobbie urged.
When the doctor remarked that she looked well, Bobbie thanked him and excused herself. She stepped a few feet away from the room and made the call to Lieutenant Owens to bring her up to speed on the Parker boy’s needs and what he’d told her. A female officer would replace the one on duty ASAP. After ensuring the officer on duty understood the new arrangements, Bobbie couldn’t get out of the hospital quickly enough. She took the stairs and headed for the maintenance exit to avoid the reporters loitering in the visitors’ parking lot. Plowing through the crowd and fending off their questions would be pointless. She had nothing she was authorized to share just yet. Fern’s picture was in every paper, on the internet and on the television news. Hotlines had been set up for callers who might have seen or heard anything useful. Marla Lowery had gone on the local news and offered an urgent plea for help as well as a reward for any information about her niece.
As true as it was that the passing hours lessened the likelihood of finding Fern still breathing, Bobbie intended to stay focused on the idea that she was alive out there somewhere and needed to be found.
Her right leg protested the hustle down the flights of stairs. The pain was a consistent reminder that she was lucky to be alive. She opened the door into the morning sun and headed across the asphalt to where she’d parked her car amid the vehicles belonging to hospital employees. The man leaning against her Challenger stopped her in her tracks and very nearly stopped her heart.
Nick Shade. The stranger who’d made such an impact on her at a time when she believed her life was over.
The blue button-down shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up his muscled forearms, the well-worn jeans hugged his body. He wore black work boots as usual. His dark hair was a little shorter, not quite touching his collar now. The way he watched her as she approached startled her all over again, the same way it had the first time they met. There was just something about those dark eyes...as if he could see her thoughts, could sense her feelings.
“Good morning, Detective.”
That voice. His voice had haunted her well before he showed up at her door to tell her to stay out of his way in the hunt for the Storyteller. She hadn’t known at the time, but he had visited her in the hospital while she was in a coma recovering from her first encounter with the Storyteller. She’d been at her worst, refusing to fight for her life. She’d wanted to die. Come back, Detective Gentry. His words had somehow drawn her back to the land of the living.
She smiled, couldn’t help herself. “Morning.” What was he doing here? She hadn’t gotten around to calling him. “You’re about the last person I expected to run into today.”
He straightened away from her car. “We need to talk. Do you have a few minutes?”
Devine was back at CID lining up today’s interviews. She had a few minutes. “Sure.”
“Take a ride with me.”
She nodded. “All right.” He led the way to a midsize black Chevrolet truck. Beyond the illegal tint on the windows, the vehicle was fairly nondescript. “What happened to your car?”
He opened the passenger-side door for her. “I trade frequently.”
She opted not to mention that the routine was in all probability a smart move considering he hunted serial killers using methods that skirted the law more often than not. “Where’re we going?”
He slid behind the wheel. “No place in particular.”
As he pulled away from the hospital’s rear parking she studied his profile. Nick Shade was an attractive man and...as damaged as she was. He, too, had survived a ruthless serial killer—his own father. She doubted either of them would ever have a normal life. At least she had experienced a glimpse of what a real life was supposed to be. She would cherish those memories the rest of her days.
Would Nick ever allow himself to have that?
“You look good.”
His deep voice drew her back to the present. “Thanks.” It had taken her a long while to be able to accept a compliment. “You, too.”
Silence settled between them as he drove. Back in August they’d spent a lot of time exactly like this, driving and hoping they would find a lead that would break the Storyteller case. Nick had been there for her during those shattering days before and after her partner’s death. God she missed Newt.
As if he’d read her mind, Nick asked, “How’s Carlene?”
He did a lot of that, too. Read her mind. “She’s okay. She sold the house and moved to Nashville to be near their oldest daughter who just found out she’s pregnant. Carlene’s really excited about being a grandmother.” Newt would be so happy. Bobbie swallowed at the lump in her throat.
“Tell me about this new case. The Seppuku copycat.
”
So that was why he was here. His father’s warning echoed in her ears. She should tell him...in a minute. She wasn’t sure how he would react when she announced that she had visited Weller. They hadn’t discussed the connection between him and Weller. Instead of dropping that bomb, she gave him the details of the double homicide on her plate. “We have a survivor, the son. And hopefully the sister. She’s still missing.”
“This case is why you went to see him?”
So he knew. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Nick Shade missed nothing. “No—at least not that I was aware. His attorney called and insisted that I come.”
Nick braked for a light. He turned to her. “You know who he is.”
His statement was not a reference to Randolph Weller’s infamous reputation as one of the most prolific serial killers alive today. “I do.”
He stared at her for five endless seconds. “Why did Weller want to see you?”
Bobbie braced herself against the stony look in his eyes. From the moment she discovered his father’s identity she instinctively understood that there would be no love lost between the two, and for good reason. “He wanted me to warn you.”
The light changed and Nick looked away, moving forward with the flow of traffic. “Why didn’t he have his lawyer call me?”
“He said you wouldn’t listen to him.” Bobbie took a deep breath and gave him the rest of the details. “I stared at my phone for hours last night.” When she should have been sleeping, she kept to herself. “I planned to try and contact you today.”
“You have my number,” he said without looking at her. “What stopped you?”
Was he angry or disappointed that she’d done what she thought she had to do? Instead of responding to his question, she said, “He suggested the murders were a message to you. That these organized serial killers—he called them the Consortium—are coming for you. He’s concerned they’ll try using me as a way to get to you.” She stared out the window and said the rest. “That’s why I hesitated before calling. I didn’t want you to come to Montgomery.”
I knew you’d come.
He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. “You couldn’t hope to stop me.”
Bobbie stared out the windshield at nothing at all. “Weller could be manipulating us.” She’d come to a number of conclusions last night and that was one of them. Anything was better than the idea that a group of serial killers working together had decided to take Nick out. “He’s desperate to be a part of your life.”
“You give him too much credit,” Nick argued. “He’s far too cold and controlled to feel desperation.”
“Maybe.” Could a psychopathic serial killer love anyone but himself enough to feel desperation? Bobbie wasn’t sure.
“I’ll look into it.”
“You’ll look into it?” She wanted to shake him. “There are people out there plotting your death and all you can say is that you’ll look into it?” Frustration and no small amount of exhaustion made her voice sharper than she’d intended.
His glare turned fierce. “This has nothing to do with you, Bobbie. It would be best if you stayed out of it.”
She opened her mouth to set him straight when her cell phone interrupted. She snapped it free of her belt. “Gentry.”
“We have a serious lead,” Devine said, his tone eager. He hesitated, then asked, “You okay?”
“What lead?” she demanded, ignoring his question. She glowered at the man next to her. Who the hell did he think he was?
“I just picked up the coroner’s preliminary report,” Devine explained.
Bobbie started to demand why the hell she hadn’t been informed that the report was ready when Devine went on. “The knife used on the vics is consistent with a double-edged blade six to ten inches long. Judging by the striation marks, the blade has a distinct pattern Dr. Carroll is trying to track down.”
Bobbie reached for calm. “I’ll meet you at the office in half an hour.”
“Ah...you might want to come now,” Devine argued. “I have the name and address of one of Parker’s enemies—one he cheated out of a couple million bucks.”
Bobbie was about to remind him there were several of those when he added, “This guy collects rare Japanese swords and daggers. And he’s suddenly planning a trip out of the country, as in he’s booked on a flight out of Birmingham this afternoon.”
Anticipation shoved the frustration and exhaustion aside. “I’ll be right there.”
Six
Greystone Place
9:00 a.m.
Bobbie surveyed the spacious den that was actually a gallery. Three of the four walls were lined with glass cases containing hundreds of knives and swords. Some of the instruments were longer than others, some sported ornate handles and sheaths. Each was labeled with the era and style of weapon.
If Mark Hanover wanted to conceal his proclivity for instruments of death potentially similar to the one used in the Parker murders, his housekeeper hadn’t gotten the memo. She’d answered the door, listened carefully through Bobbie’s introduction and then led them directly to this room to wait. Strange, to say the least.
Speaking of strange, Bobbie had wanted to ask Nick how he’d found out she visited Weller. Someone at the prison was likely keeping him informed. Nick avoided her question about whether he was in Montgomery for a few days or only passing through. She wanted the opportunity to tell him how much she appreciated what he’d done for her. What he did for so many others. When he was here before there hadn’t been time and she hadn’t been in the right place emotionally to adequately convey her appreciation.
“I’ve never seen a collection this extensive, not even in a museum.”
Bobbie turned to her partner. There was a lot she didn’t know about him, particularly when it came to personal tastes. She knew he wasn’t married, wasn’t in a serious relationship and had no desire for kids. His family was from old money and, according to Holt, he was the sole heir to his elderly aunt’s estate. Her husband, the Colonel, had died when Devine was just a kid. He was named after the man. All of which explained his expensive suits and the pricey Porsche Panamera he drove.
Bobbie grunted a noncommittal sound to his remark about the collection. It wasn’t that she had anything against people with money. Her husband’s family had been quite wealthy. Having wealth flaunted like this was something she could live without. She supposed a man of means had a right to whatever hobby he could afford. Her shrink reminded her every other week that she needed a hobby.
That was another thing about her choice to return to the land of the living. In order to keep her job, the chief—her godfather and pseudo uncle—had insisted she agree to counseling for however long the department psychologist deemed necessary. The last few weeks she had decided maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing since, much to her surprise, the doctor offered a decent number of valid points she hadn’t wanted to see before. She was trying harder these days to be honest with herself and to keep an open mind. Her new attitude was paying off. Recently, the shrink had lengthened the time between her appointments to two weeks instead of one.
She was stronger, physically and mentally, which was a good thing. Better to nail the bad guys.
On cue, the towering mahogany pocket doors slid open and Mark Hanover entered the room. The slim-fitting suit was no doubt made from the finest fabrics available, the shoes were certainly hand-tooled leather. He was younger than she’d expected, early to midfifties maybe. His dark hair was peppered with just enough gray to look distinguished. His face, on the other hand, was as smooth as the day he was born. Good genes or Botox? Her money was on the latter.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he announced as he looked from Bobbie to Devine and back. “I’m Mark Hanover.” He thrust his hand toward Bobbie first.
“Detec
tive Bobbie Gentry,” she said as she placed her hand in his. His shake was firm and quick, his palm cool and dry. Bobbie gestured to her partner. “Detective Steven Devine.”
The two men shook hands next. Hanover seemed to hang on to Devine’s hand a beat longer than necessary. Devine flinched and drew away. Bobbie considered what little she knew about Hanover. His marriage to one of the city’s socialites had ended last year. Considering the way he watched Devine, maybe his sexual interests ran to something more than his wife was willing to tolerate.
“Please—” Hanover indicated the pair of leather sofas that faced each other in the center of the room “—make yourselves comfortable. How may I be of service to the MPD this morning?”
The two men waited for Bobbie to be seated first. When they had settled, she began, “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Parker murders.”
Hanover gave a somber nod. “Tragic. Simply tragic. Especially the girl. Who would take a child?” He shuddered visibly. “As unfair as it is the sins of the father can at times carry over to the children.”
Bobbie wondered what sins this man kept hidden. If her father had said it once he’d said it a thousand times: people don’t get that rich and stay that way without a few skeletons in the closet. “We’re hoping Fern is still alive.”
“Of course,” Hanover agreed. “I’m more than happy to help. I support numerous fund-raisers and activities for children. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. Perhaps a larger reward?”
“Thank you. I’ll let the department’s liaison know you’d like to help.” Bobbie explained, “We’re interviewing all who had business dealings gone wrong with Mr. Parker. Your name is on the list.”
Hanover’s eyebrows reared up his forehead in an unflattering expression and then he pursed his lips and shrugged. “Since I lost more than most of his other clients, I suppose it’s reasonable that I would be a suspect. Perhaps your top suspect,” he suggested.
