Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Laura Austin’s hand trembled as she punched the number of her best friend, Liz. The two of them met on the swim team in college and had been close friends since. Laura traced her finger over the photograph of her baby boy and five-year-old daughter, her heart squeezing. She’d do anything to protect her children. Anything. Although Liz didn’t have children yet, she would one day, and she would be an awesome mother. Just as she was a fierce advocate for the victims she worked with—some were abused women, others children. Domestic violence ran rampant in every city, and Liz had devoted herself to counseling victims as well as helping them maneuver the legal system and reroute their lives. She held their hands through trials, arranged for court orders, and aided in the victims’ recovery on multiple levels. The phone rang three times; then Liz finally answered. “It’s Laura, Liz. The FBI just stopped by, asking about Lynn Green and her foster daughter, Lottie.” “What’s wron

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Hatcher gripped Banning by the collar and shook him. “You don’t get to pass out after that stunt. I know you hated Pallo Whiting for killing your son. Then he escaped and you murdered him.” Although the MO of the crime—cutting the man’s penis off—seemed more personal, a crime of passion, something the parent of one of the child victims would do. Then again, the signature SS could have been a ploy to throw off the police. Although they hadn’t divulged details of the justice symbol, so how would Banning have known about that? Banning’s eyelids flickered open, then closed, and he moaned. “Did you help him escape so you could murder him?” Hatcher barked. The big man moved his head from side to side. “You got it wrong. Didn’t kill him.” “Sure you did,” Hatcher muttered. “Really, I don’t blame you. He killed your son, so you had to pay him back.” “No,” the man mumbled again. “Wish I had, but I didn’t.” Hatcher’s breath hissed between clenched teeth, and he exchanged a questi

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Korine thanked the doctor for sedating her mother, then kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ll take care of Kenny. Don’t worry.” Her mother might not be happy with how she intended to handle the situation, but Kenny needed tough love, not coddling. She wasn’t his parent, but she was the only one left to fill that role. Hatcher had faded into the woodwork, but he’d witnessed enough to understand the gist of their dysfunctional family. And the fact that she had no control over the situation. The CD was still playing “I Feel Pretty” as she descended the steps, as if her mother had put it on auto repeat. Esme looked shaken but was cleaning the kitchen and greeted her with a tentative smile. “Do you want dinner? I made shrimp and grits for your mother, but the doctor said she’ll probably sleep all night.” “I couldn’t eat right now.” Korine’s stomach was churning. “Put it in the fridge for later. Maybe Mom will wake up and feel better tomorrow.” Esme covered the casserole dis

  CHAPTER TWENTY Anxious to get off his wet jeans and rid himself of the river-water smell, Hatcher showered and yanked on sweats and a T-shirt. His stomach growled, and he heated a frozen pizza and reached for a beer, then decided to get a bottle of water instead. Too wired to sleep, though, he went to work. He accessed records of the Davenport murder case and skimmed the file. The sheriff had identified no real suspects or leads. The fact that Dr. Davenport was a child psychologist was interesting, especially in light of the cases Hatcher and Korine had been working lately, but his murder had occurred twenty-five years ago. There was no connection. The sheriff had questioned the families of Davenport’s clients, his secretary, and colleagues, but no one raised suspicions. He’d found no motive for murder and finally speculated that it was a robbery gone awry. The problem with that theory was that even though it was Christmas Eve and mounds of presents were under the tree, and even though

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Morning joggers, commuters, and tourists were already filling the Savannah streets as Hatcher drove toward Korine’s. He flipped on the radio to hear what the media had to say. “Downtown Savannah is expected to be flooded today with women from all walks of life as they take part in the Women’s Protest Movement spreading across the country. Although purported to be a nonviolent march, police will be out in full force.” The reporter continued. “In addition to women’s rights, the groups today are protesting the release of over fifty prisoners statewide. The governor, with the consent of the president, cited overcrowding and poor prison conditions as the reason for the decision. However, many of the inmates were in prison on domestic violence charges, creating fear in the minds of the victims and their families.” Hatcher parked in front of Korine’s just as a flash of dark-red hair caught his eye. That luscious hair was enough to drive a man insane. He struggled to rein in

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The dolls sat like beautiful little princesses on the white scalloped bookcase. Their bright hand-painted faces and eyes were a result of an artist’s touch. Their hair looked human—gold, brown, red, black; it draped their shoulders, some long and silky straight, others curled into ringlets that spiraled along the doll’s back. Rosy cheeks glowed above pink lips that smiled back at her. Tiny delicate ears were adorned with shimmering earrings that matched the doll’s dress. All chosen carefully to create the perfect image a little girl would dream about and treasure forever. Especially when that doll came as a gift. Like the ones Korine’s father had given her. She had a collection. Ones she’d gotten from her loving, doting daddy. The Keeper had wanted a daddy like that. Had wanted to be special like Korine was to her father. But she wasn’t special. She was ugly and empty. So she’d started her own doll collection. A sick weakness, an obsession that she couldn’t control.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Korine’s heart ached as she signed the admission forms for Kenny’s rehab. He shot her venomous looks, then scribbled his name on the consent form with a low curse. “You may not believe it right now, but you’re making the best decision of your life,” E. L. Foote, the addiction counselor, said with a welcoming smile. “Our staff has had great success in helping patients in the recovery process.” Kenny slumped forward and stared at his hands, twisting his fingers around and around, a nervous gesture he’d developed after their father’s murder. Korine remembered fixating on his hands the day the sheriff had questioned them. Except then his fingers hadn’t been shaking from withdrawal. Two years later, Kenny had discovered their dad’s liquor stash. He’d dived in and never looked back. “I’ll give you a few minutes to say goodbye,” the counselor said. “Then I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Davenport.” Kenny shoved the chair back so hard it toppled over. The counselor didn’t s

  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 an

  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.” Sh
e 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 h

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Hatcher shifted uncomfortably as he finished the comment. He understood Korine’s suspicions. But these responses were anonymous, so Tinsley couldn’t know who’d written them. The author of that post hadn’t mentioned names either, not the name of her attacker or his alleged victims. And it didn’t fit specifically with the details of the crimes they were investigating. Tinsley bit down on her bottom lip. “This account could be of a dream or a nightmare. Sometimes victims are plagued by their experiences, and their fears and anger present themselves in dreams.” He could attest to that. For God’s sake, he was seeing his wife’s ghost. “That could be true,” Korine agreed. “There’s nothing specific that indicates anything about the judge or Whiting,” Hatcher added. “There are others.” Korine scrolled through and paused on another entry. Hatcher’s pulse clamored as he read: A MOTHER’S VENGEANCE My baby is seven years old now. Seven but I still call her my baby. I listen to he

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Louie Hortman had to pay. The son of a bitch acted like he was a good man, but she knew different. He was a deacon in his church, never missed one of his son’s basketball games, and regularly donated money to charities. Looks could be deceiving. He was also a smarmy teacher who’d taken advantage of the teenage girls he taught in driver’s education. The girls had been afraid to come forward. They were embarrassed. Ashamed. Thought they’d done something to invite his touch. He needed his vile hands cut off. The Keeper smiled as she removed the duffel bag from the trunk of her car. She’d been watching him for weeks. Knew his routine. Had been waiting for the right time. Today he had an opening in his schedule. She’d arranged for a private lesson. The son of a bitch thought he was meeting teenage Zoe. Zoe wasn’t coming. But she deserved justice for what he’d planned for her. The sick pervert preyed on the fact that peer pressure would prevent the girls from spilling hi

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT A wave of dizziness washed over Korine. The dolls . . . looked exactly like the ones in her collection at her mother’s. Except someone had turned them into night-lights, making them look spooky. The brightly lit eyes pierced the darkness as if they were watching her every move. Hatcher cleared his throat. “Korine?” “My father gave me porcelain dolls for my birthdays and Christmas,” she said in a raw whisper. “I left all but one of them at my mother’s.” With the memories and her childhood. Hatcher examined the doll heads, then returned to the front door and studied the lock. “I don’t see signs of a break-in. Is there another entrance?” Korine pointed toward the hall. “There’s a patio with a garden in back.” “I’ll check it and the windows.” A memory tickled the back of Korine’s mind, launching her back in time. Her father’s smile as he placed a beautifully wrapped box in her lap. Excitement made her giddy as she touched the shiny pink bow. “Happy birthday, my pretty

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Tinsley startled at the sound of the rain pounding the roof and windows. The wind tossed leaves and twigs across the sand, the high tides bringing in shells and seaweed. Her nerves were raw from the visit with Hatcher and that other agent. Korine Davenport. She was tough. It would be nice to have her on your side if you were in trouble. But she could also be a formidable enemy. Though Mr. Jingles’s cage door remained open, he hadn’t ventured any farther than his post, where he remained perched with his head cocked, tiny eyes following her as if expecting her to run screaming like a banshee any minute. She pressed her hand against the glass, the cool, slick pane thick with fog. Thunder clapped, the wind roaring. She searched the gloomy outdoors, praying the Skull hadn’t found her. Although it was just a matter of time. The image of the judge’s body on her dock surfaced in the mist. Agent Davenport’s questions echoed in her head. Shivering with the cold and fear, she

  CHAPTER THIRTY As the evidence team processed Korine’s house, Hatcher had a bad feeling they wouldn’t find anything. With the popularity of crime shows, most perpetrators were smart enough to wear gloves. But, hey, the team could get lucky, especially if this person was an amateur. Korine’s brows were knitted into a deep frown as she stepped onto her back patio. He snapped a few pictures of the doll heads for his own reference, then joined her. “Are you okay?” She nodded. “I checked. Kenny’s still at the center.” Her back was to him, her face lifted toward the dark clouds. The rain was slacking off, the wind shaking droplets from the branches and adding a cold chill to the gloomy atmosphere. She pivoted, her expression tormented. “How bad is that, that I suspected my own brother of this?” He shrugged. “It’s understandable. From what you’ve told me, he’s had problems for a while. It sounds like he’s jealous of you and the fact that you have your life together.” “I have my life together?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Hatcher grimaced. Another murder. “Come in and give us the details,” Hatcher said as he waved the agent inside. “Jogger found the man dead in his car in a vacant lot by the park where he runs. I’ll text you the address.” “Cause of death?” Hatcher asked. “He was shot, and his hands were severed,” the agent said bluntly. “ID?” Hatcher asked. “Louie Hortman. Still had his driver’s license on him.” “Any witnesses?” “No. Officer just got to the scene. When he saw the justice symbol on the man’s forehead, he thought we should know.” Korine was already standing, ready to go. Hatcher tilted his head toward Cat. “Send us everything you can dig up on Hortman.” Hatcher spoke to the group. “Keep us updated on what you find. This unsub is going to kill again unless we stop him. Or her.” Detective Brockett cleared his throat. “I’m with you two.” Hatcher started to argue, but the body count was rising. They could use all the hands they could get. He and Korine and the detective rus

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Louie Hortman had deserved to die. No one would be crying at his funeral. Even his wife had gotten sick of his smarmy ways years ago and left. He’d screamed like a baby when he was shot. He’d begged and pleaded for his life. Promised not to touch another girl ever again. But he’d lied. If he’d lived, he would have gone right back to his piglike ways. Pressuring girls into sex for a passing grade. Exposing himself to shock the innocent young virgins, then promising that he’d teach them the right way to please a man so they’d be popular. His dick would never see another girl again. And no other female would have to look at it or touch it or be mauled by his filthy hands. Those fucking Feds were asking too many questions, though. Getting too close. She was the Keeper—she had to let the others know. She was doing their work. Exacting justice. Those nosy agents had to be stopped before they exposed the truth. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Colla

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Hatcher shoved the microphone away. “Listen to me, I don’t know where you got your information, but no one has said anything about a vigilante killer, and if you announce that, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a criminal investigation and reporting false information.” The reporter lifted her chin. “Those charges will never stick and you know it.” “Maybe not, but I can keep you locked up until we solve this case.” She glanced at Korine as if she thought she would be softer, but Korine gave her a cold look. “Let us do our jobs, and when we make an arrest, you can have the story.” A tense minute stretched between them. “All right,” Marilyn said. “But at least tell me what you have here.” “We can’t release the victim’s name until we contact next of kin,” Hatcher said. “Understood,” Marilyn said. “But you are investigating Judge Wadsworth’s murder and believe it’s related to Pallo Whiting’s death.” She pushed the microphone in front of Hatcher. “What about th

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR An hour later, Hatcher asked the deputy to get coffee for the four women they’d brought in for questioning. He wanted
them to be comfortable and relaxed so they would talk. And he wanted that damn news anchor’s head on a platter. She’d already blasted the story about Hortman’s death. “I took screenshots of the conversations in the Keepers’ chat room,” Korine told him as they stood outside one of the interrogation rooms. “If they are collaborating, it means they’re organized and know enough about crime scenes not to leave evidence behind.” The deputy returned with coffee, and Korine took a cup for herself and one for Liz Roberts inside room one. As they entered, the thirtysomething blonde looked up at them from behind the table, her sparkling blue eyes assessing them as they approached. She was not only a professional but also a drop-dead gorgeous woman who looked so sweet she couldn’t possibly have a violent streak inside her. “Miss Roberts,” Hatcher said. “I’m Spec

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE The River Street Rapist had to be dealt with. Stopped. Punished. He was next on the list. But first she had to take care of another problem. She’d been stalking her target for days. Knew where he parked his car, where he ate. Thai was his favorite. He liked curry. He drank vodka on a hot night at the beachside bar. He preferred his women young and pretty. He slept in the nude. He was damn smart, too. But she was smarter. She was the Keeper, at least she was one of the Keepers’ hands. She watched through binoculars and spied him through open blinds. He never closed them, as if he knew someone was watching. As if he wanted the world to see his naked glory. Muscles bunched in his arms and shoulders. His thighs were solid, his abs washboard flat. He worked out. He had to in order to maintain that body. He knew the girls liked it. Used it to his advantage, to lure them to his bed. He padded naked to the bathroom. His dick was thick, long. He’d wanted to put it inside her

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Another night, and no answers about the murders. They were getting closer, though—Korine could feel it. “I don’t know where Ellis got those details, but there may be a leak somewhere,” Hatcher said as he parked at a pub for dinner. “I have a good mind to throw her in jail and make her tell us.” “She won’t talk,” Korine said as they went inside and claimed a booth. “She’s too determined to make her story.” A waitress appeared, and they quickly ordered. Korine mentally reviewed the theory about the conspiracy as the waitress left to get their food and drinks. Hatcher excused himself to make a call, and she washed up in the ladies room. By the time they made it back to the table, the waitress had returned with their orders. Hatcher dug into a burger while she forked up a bite of shrimp scampi. “We have to consider the fact that we might be wrong about the conspiracy,” Korine said. “But I do believe we’re dealing with a vigilante killer.” “Maybe Cat or Wyatt will find so