A Deeper Grave--A Thriller

by Debra Webb

  He didn’t doubt one of the prison guards answering a detective’s questions about Weller’s visitors. What he did doubt was LeDoux’s purpose for mentioning Nick’s visit. Is that more of your jealousy talking, Shade? Somehow he had to get this possessiveness he felt toward Bobbie under control.

  She lifted her gaze to his once more. “Did Weller begin drawing away from you emotionally after your mother was gone?”

  Nick set his coffee cup aside and crossed his arms over his chest. The idea that he’d just made a classic defensive move wasn’t lost on him. “The real question is, was he ever emotionally engaged with me?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Was he?”

  Nick considered the concept for a moment. As much as he didn’t want to think about those years, he understood she wouldn’t let it go. He remembered sitting on his father’s knee and having him say good-night at bedtime. His mother would help Nick ready for bed, but before tucking him in she always took him to his father for a good-night pat on the back. He remembered smiles and nods of approval. Kind words. Patience. Never hugs or kisses, nothing so intimate.

  “To a degree, I suppose.” It bothered Nick to admit that he and the bastard had ever connected on any level.

  “He may have maintained a certain distance to protect you.”

  Anger stirred at her gullibility where the bastard was concerned. Weller was an expert at cloaking himself in what he wanted others to see. “I have no desire to talk about him.”

  “Is there any way around talking about him?” She tossed her spoon in the sink and her empty cup in the trash. “He’s the one who issued the warning.”

  “Tell me what your team has gathered on the case.” Nick took his mug to the sink and rinsed it out. She could be right. There might be no way to avoid discussing Weller, but he’d had enough for now.

  “We’re interviewing the people who were close to or worked with the victims. An Amber Alert was issued for Fern Parker. A missing vulnerable adult alert was issued for Vanessa Olson. We’ve entered both into the NCIC. We have a hotline set up with a full-blown media blitz ongoing. The feds are doing their part. We’re following up on the murder weapon. Dr. Carroll, the new coroner, noted a distinct pattern made by the blade used to open the abdomens of the victims. One of our evidence techs is working on nailing down the specific pattern. It could turn out to be a waste of time, but it’s all we have at the moment.” She massaged her temple as if an ache had started there. “The two abductions are the big sticking points. Why deviate so dramatically from the MOs he chose to reenact?”

  Nick had spent a good deal of the night pondering that same question. “Whoever is attempting to get my attention wouldn’t deviate from the original MOs unless he has a point to make.”

  “How can you be certain he didn’t just make a mistake? He may have failed to anticipate Fern would be home or that Manning would have company.”

  “Weller would never choose a novice. His minion would be very detailed and precise. There would be nothing haphazard or spontaneous about his work. He would know when and where as well as how to strike.”

  “Maybe he was in a hurry,” Bobbie countered. “He may have a tight deadline.”

  “Weller has waited this long,” Nick argued. “Why rush now? True predators are supremely patient and will wait for the perfect opportunity.”

  “Point taken.” Bobbie shook her head in frustration. “I could go back to Weller and demand answers.”

  “Do you really believe the FBI will allow you to see him again?” One of Nick’s sources inside the FBI assured him that Weller was on lockdown—no one would be getting in anytime soon. Even if a visit were permitted, he did not want Bobbie anywhere near Weller again.

  She set her hands on her hips. “First thing this morning I’ll brief the team on the part I’ve been holding back. Will that be a problem for you?”

  Despite her dedication to the job, she had withheld information for him. To protect him. Deep in his chest he felt an ache he had no right to feel. Just keep digging that hole deeper, Shade. He was already in way over his head.

  “No,” he said. “It won’t be a problem.”

  No matter that he had come to Montgomery because of the murders, he’d wanted to come well before there was a reason. He’d wanted to see her. He wanted...

  She abruptly reached into her back pocket and withdrew her cell. “Gentry.”

  What he wanted was irrelevant. All he had to do was stay close until this was over. Whoever had come for him would be watching Bobbie, anticipating Nick’s appearance.

  He would stay under the radar until he identified the source of the threat. Generally this step would be a fairly simple one...except there was Bobbie. Weller had positioned her squarely between Nick and that threat, handicapping his efforts. Weller was banking on the idea that Bobbie meant a great deal to Nick.

  Regrettably for all involved, Weller was right.

  Thirteen

  Atlanta Federal Prison

  8:00 a.m.

  They had shackled him to the gurney and strapped his arms and legs firmly in place. A plastic mask covered his nose and mouth directing oxygen into his starving lungs. His heart was beating irregularly. He felt weak and too tired to even raise his head. He made a sound, the urgency lost to the plastic mask. His chest felt tight and heavy.

  His symptoms were classic.

  Beneath the foggy mask Randolph Weller smiled as the guards rushed him toward Medical. The prison had its own doctor, a man far more interested in making love connections than offering an accurate diagnosis. Thankfully there was Anita. Dear Anita. The registered nurse had joined the woefully inadequate medical staff last year. She had gone out of her way to take care of Randolph.

  Locks clicked open and the gurney was ushered into the facility. The beige walls, shelves and cabinets had grown shabby with time. The medical equipment was outdated and far from the best. The rooms—cells actually—were filled with patients with long-term illnesses, like cancer. The federal funding for those patients was higher, so those in charge ignored potential compassionate release options in order to keep the cash rolling in. After all, money made the world go round.

  Randolph was grateful for the oxygen mask so that he wasn’t forced to endure the smells of antiseptics and deteriorating flesh. The moans and howls of certain mental health patients echoed like a haunting overture, setting the tone for what was to come. Death was so very close for many of them.

  But not for Randolph.

  Today was a good day for him. He quickened his breathing and moaned softly, playing the part of the doomed protagonist in a fatal opera.

  Far too often those who attempted to dissect him accused him of not having a heart. What a great irony that it was his heart that would change everything.

  Fourteen

  Greystone Place

  9:15 a.m.

  Mark Hanover’s home was a reflection of the man—attractive but ostentatious. The problem was on the inside where those driving past couldn’t see it was cold and empty. Not empty of things, but empty of all that mattered: heart, soul, joy. The emptiness echoed through Bobbie as if someone had shouted into a canyon.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” Devine asked as he paced the floor of Hanover’s study. “We’ve been waiting for what? Fifteen minutes?”

  This time upon their arrival, the housekeeper had shown them to a more intimate space. Hanover’s study was half the size of Bobbie’s entire house. Rich mahogany shelves lined with books about finance and economics covered the walls. A broad desk sat in the middle of the room, flanked by overstuffed wingback chairs. The window beyond the desk looked out over manicured gardens and an infinity pool. Maybe Hanover wanted them to have plenty of time to take in all the details. The man certainly liked showing off.

  Bobbie gestured to
the chair next to her. “You should relax, partner. We’re here because Mr. Hanover called with what he feels is a significant update to the statement he’s already given. Let’s give him a few more minutes.” It wasn’t like they had any other leads. Hanover was the closest thing they had to a suspect. For Fern’s and Vanessa’s sakes, they had to keep prodding any and all possibilities.

  Devine exhaled a big breath of frustration. With visible reluctance he settled into the seat next to her. “He’s probably bored and wants to yank our chain.”

  Bobbie turned to the younger detective. In the month they had worked together she had never seen him so rattled. The mounting tension between him and Hanover during their last meeting had been palpable. So she asked him again, “Are you certain you don’t know this guy?”

  “Why would I know him?”

  That Devine looked away as he answered, that his jaw was as rigid as stone suggested otherwise. If she found out later that he was keeping anything from her, he would regret the decision. Being partners was a solemn arrangement of complete trust with one another’s lives. It was immensely important that they trusted each other completely and had each other’s backs in any situation.

  Like you never lied to your partner.

  She dismissed the idea. The things she had avoided telling Newt had been deeply personal and not relevant to their safety on the job.

  There you go lying to yourself again.

  “Did he give you any idea what this update is?” Devine looked directly at her now. “New evidence? Something he recalled from a meeting with Parker?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  She and Devine had been scheduled to meet at ten to start interviewing more of the folks who were involved with the Parkers and Manning. Holt and Bauer were doing the same with Fern’s and Vanessa’s friends. Unless either of them uncovered something significant, they would compare notes and update the case board on Monday. Bobbie had called Lieutenant Owens on her way here. She’d passed along the rest of the conversation she’d had with Weller. Owens wasn’t happy about Bobbie’s delay in reporting the details and had said as much. She’d assured Bobbie they would revisit the issue again when this was over. By now Holt and the chief would know. Both would be pissed. As soon as the three recovered from the initial irritation at Bobbie they would realize the FBI had left those same details out of their briefing, as well.

  Before the day was out she would hear about it from one or all. Maybe anticipating that was the reason a headache had started deep in her skull.

  Devine tugged at his tie. “I’m thinking this guy has something to hide and he’s overdoing the ‘I’m cooperating’ card.”

  Bobbie rubbed at her forehead with the tips of her fingers and wished the damned ache away. As for her partner’s conclusion, it happened. A perp would feel compelled to pretend to help the police. He was typically driven by guilt or by pleasure. For some, the idea of flirting with the possibility of being caught was like a drug. For others, it was a way to feel important or heroic. Hanover didn’t strike her as the type who needed his ego stroked. His ego appeared to be plenty healthy.

  Bobbie straightened her lapel as she relaxed in the seat once more. For a man in such a hurry to meet with them, Hanover was taking his time. She’d rushed to get dressed before Devine picked her up. Shade had promised he would be around. He’d patently avoided her question about what he planned to do.

  Unless he took off to Atlanta and demanded to see Weller, what could he do?

  You are the only connection to this killer.

  No doubt he intended to watch her just like he had last time. He’d walked D-Boy before daylight and did his coming and going through her back door. She had yet to figure out where he parked his vehicle—a Chevy truck instead of the Ford sedan he’d driven last time. His precautions suggested he wanted to keep a low profile from whoever had drawn him to Montgomery as well as from anyone else. Staying under the FBI’s and the MPD’s radars was no doubt a top priority. Nick Shade did not like answering questions about himself or his intentions.

  His presence was something else she was keeping from her team. You really have this trust thing nailed, Bobbie.

  The towering pocket doors abruptly slid open and Hanover breezed in. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He closed the doors and hurried over to where they now stood. He thrust his hand toward Bobbie first. “Detective, thank you for coming.” He barely grazed Devine’s palm and said nothing to him.

  Oh yeah, these two definitely had some sort of history. Why would Devine lie about it?

  Hanover moved around his desk and sat down. “Have you narrowed down the suspect pool at all?” He turned his hands up. “Your chief is keeping a tight lid on this one. I haven’t seen the usual press releases from the department.”

  “Actually,” Bobbie said, “we have to filter our press releases on this case through the FBI.”

  He surely knew this considering he’d lost millions in the Parker Ponzi scheme. Nigel Parker had been under investigation and all over the news for months. Hanover also no doubt knew that he was at the top of the feds’ persons of interest list. Sometimes a killer grew annoyed that his work wasn’t getting the media attention he’d expected. Bobbie wasn’t convinced Hanover was guilty of anything beyond playing games.

  “Of course.” Hanover leaned back in his chair and said nothing else.

  Next to her, Devine shifted. Her partner had reached the end of his patience. Bobbie said, “Mr. Hanover, you invited us to meet with you for what you called a significant update to your statement.”

  “Oh, yes.” He shook his head as he leaned forward. “Please forgive my inability to stay focused. I’m still reeling from the notion that I may have been able to prevent this tragedy.”

  Now he had their attention. Bobbie’s instincts went on point. Devine stopped his fidgeting.

  “You recall my home was burglarized recently.”

  “We confirmed your statement about the stolen dagger, yes.” Bobbie had intended to call him today anyway. “Do you have photos—for insurance purposes—of each item in your collection?”

  “I do.” He frowned. “Did I not provide the officer who came about the break-in with a photograph of the missing dagger?”

  “It’s not on file.” Bobbie had checked. There had been no recent activity on the case. No new leads. No leads at all, in fact. The detective who’d caught the case had followed up. He’d interviewed Hanover’s neighbors, checked with the local pawnshops and on cyber sites like eBay. Basically that was as far as the investigation had gone. Unless there was a tip, what else could be done?

  “I’ll round up a photo for you and have it sent over to your office right away.”

  “You said you have something new,” Devine snapped.

  Bobbie mentally cringed, not happy with the tone. Devine was an experienced detective, he was well aware you attracted more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  Hanover held Devine’s gaze for a moment. “I’m certain you have work to do and shouldn’t be wasting your time with me.” He turned to Bobbie then. “However, this may be quite significant to your case. Much more significant than hounding my friends.” He shot a look at Devine when he said this.

  Bobbie looked from her partner to Hanover. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Hanover.”

  “Very well.” Hanover turned to the large-screen computer on his credenza and typed a few keys. “This is my security system. My technician was here late yesterday to adjust a glitch and he found a clip I had missed entirely.”

  As Bobbie watched the live feed on Hanover’s backyard sped backward until he reached September 29 and stopped. The break-in had been reported around that time.

  “I believe this is the man who broke into my home and took my dagger.”

  He hit Play and the darkness on the screen turned to light
. The camera angle was from the roofline looking down on the rear yard. The time stamp read September 30, 6:00 a.m. Bobbie felt herself leaning forward as an image stepped into view, his back to the camera. The person would have come out of one of the home’s rear doors, crossed the veranda and stepped onto the grass, moving toward the back of the property. He was visible on the feed for maybe five seconds and then he was out of view.

  “Do you have this area on any other camera?” Devine asked. “It’s hardly useful and certainly not significant if we can’t see the perpetrator’s face.”

  “Unfortunately,” Hanover said, “this is the only camera that was working that morning. Another glitch. Even the best systems have them from time to time.”

  “Play it again,” Bobbie said. As the image came on the screen once more, she watched carefully. Definitely male. His stride was confident. Dark jeans, jacket and sneakers. He wore a skullcap, black in color, pulled down over his ears and concealing his hair. Why couldn’t you look back just once?

  “Where were you on September 29 and 30?” Devine demanded.

  Bobbie turned her attention to Hanover and waited for his answer.

  “I was in New York as I frequently am. On business, of course,” he added. “I’m certain that’s in the report I filed.”

  “No one stays here when you’re gone?” Bobbie asked. Made sense to her that he would want someone taking care of his property.

  “No, no. My staff comes in at eight. With the elaborate security system I have, I never imagined I needed the house guarded day and night.” He shook his head. “I’m stunned he was able to slip past the security system.”

  “Does your system keep a log of the time and codes used to disarm it?”

  Bobbie had to give Devine credit, his tone had evened out and he was asking the right questions.

  “It does,” Hanover said. “Whoever came in that morning used the access code. I can only assume he possessed some sort of code breaking electronic device. My technician tells me such devices exist.”