Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  Roberts sipped her coffee. “If you mean some of the cases upset me, of course they do. I’m passionate about advocating for victims. But I’m a professional, and just like your job, it’s my job to be objective and not allow personal feelings to interfere with my work.”

  Hatcher exchanged a look with Korine, then claimed the chair across from the young woman. “Where were you midday today?”

  She traced a finger around the rim of the disposable cup, then looked directly at him. “In my office.” She leaned forward. “You can’t possibly think that I killed Louie Hortman.”

  Korine tapped her nails on the table. “You must have hated that he got off without being tried, that he was free to hurt other young girls.”

  Roberts released a wary sigh. “Of course I was angry, but his case was minor compared to some I’ve worked. Women who’ve been beaten, tortured. Last month a victim’s ex-boyfriend came to her office, tossed lighter fluid on her, then threw a match down. She suffered third-degree burns over most of her body and is still in the burn ward.” Pain underscored her tone. “I’ve seen children who were molested, ones whose parent burned them with cigarettes, one whose father locked her in a closet for days on end without food. Another teenager I treated was tied to a post out in the backyard like an animal.” She met his gaze head-on. “Do I detest those people? Yes. Would I like to see them suffer? Absolutely.” She took another sip of the coffee. “Would I ruin my reputation and life to get back at them? No. I believe in letting you guys handle that part of the job while I counsel the victims through recovery.”

  Admirable.

  Hatcher placed a photograph of the judge, then Pallo Whiting on the table. “You’re aware that these two men were also murdered this week?”

  Emotions flashed in her eyes as she glanced at the pictures of the judge lying dead on the dock and Whiting covered in blood.

  “I saw the news,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “Where were you the night the judge was murdered?” Hatcher asked.

  She picked at a hangnail. “Having dinner with friends.”

  Hatcher narrowed his eyes. “I assume they can corroborate that?”

  She nodded. “So can the waiter at the restaurant. We were celebrating a birthday, so we had cake and champagne.”

  Easy enough to check.

  He tapped a finger on the picture of Pallo Whiting. “How about when Whiting was killed?”

  A restless sigh escaped her. “At the gym. I work out most days after I finish with the job.” She gave him a pointed look. “That’s how I relieve my stress.”

  She took the pencil and pad and scribbled names and numbers before he could ask.

  Korine placed her iPad on the table. “Do you follow Tinsley Jensen’s blog?”

  Roberts’s eyes widened slightly. “Sometimes. I saw the story about her in the news and was glad she found a way to deal with her feelings. I also suggest my clients journal as a form of therapy.”

  Korine angled the tablet toward the counselor and pointed to the screen. “You’ve posted on the blog yourself.”

  Hatcher shifted. Not a question but a statement.

  Roberts hesitated. “First of all, let me say I take my victims’ rights seriously and would do anything to protect them. That means honoring their privacy and the confidentiality agreement I have with them. I would never write anything about a patient or client or the cases I’m working in a public forum. And I certainly wouldn’t disclose information about one of them.”

  A tense second paused. “Secondly, I respect those who do post. Writing about one’s feelings doesn’t mean that the person acts upon them. The purpose of journaling is to purge the dark emotions trauma evokes in a healthy way so the victim doesn’t implode and do something horrific like take her own life. Or take justice into his or her own hands.”

  “What about this private chat room, the Keepers?” Korine said.

  Roberts adjusted her jacket, buttoning it as she squared her shoulders. “As I said, cataloguing one’s inner emotions doesn’t mean that the person who posted it has committed a crime.” She clenched the coffee cup in one hand, then stood. “Now, am I free to go?”

  Hatcher stared at Roberts with mixed feelings. She was a caring woman who devoted her life to helping others. She was also smart, strong, capable, and savvy.

  His gut told him she wasn’t a killer. But he’d been fooled before . . .

  “We aren’t holding you at this time,” Hatcher said. “But if you know or learn anything about these murders, you need to tell us, or we will charge you with accessory.”

  She squared her shoulders. “You know that I can’t discuss information about any of my clients. I took an oath—”

  “We’re aware of that,” Hatcher said. “But you also know that if you perceive that one of your clients poses a danger to himself or to others, you are required by law to divulge that to the police.”

  She gave a quick nod and averted her eyes. Just enough of a reaction to make Hatcher wonder whether she was hiding something. Or covering for someone else.

  Maybe not a client or patient but a friend . . .

  He needed a warrant for her home and office files. But he didn’t have enough to justify it yet.

  Maybe one of the other women would shed some light on the situation. If they had conspired to exact their own brand of justice, sooner or later one of them would slip up and talk—or make a mistake.

  “Naturally, I was upset about Pallo Whiting’s escape.” Laura Austin ran her fingers through her wavy brown hair. “Every parent of every child he touched was terrified. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

  Korine chewed the inside of her cheek. For time’s sake, she and Hatcher had decided to split the interviews. Hatcher was questioning Rachel Willis.

  Worse, on paper and in the eyes of the public and their coworkers, the four they’d brought in not only were model citizens but also gave selflessly to help others and looked like modern-day heroes.

  The press would have a field day with the police if they filed charges without proper proof.

  “I really don’t understand why you brought me in,” Austin said.

  Korine swallowed hard. “You are friends with Liz Roberts, aren’t you?”

  “We swam together in college.”

  “And Rachel Willis and Beverly Grant?”

  Austin frowned. “We were all on the swim team together. But you must know that or you wouldn’t be asking.”

  Korine nodded, then angled her iPad to display Tinsley’s blog. “All of you frequent this page, Heart & Soul.”

  Austin shrugged. “It’s interesting, a place to vent.”

  “True,” Korine said, unable to argue. “But in light of the three murders that have occurred in the past few days, some of the posts sound like murder confessions.”

  Austin shrugged. “People fantasize about getting revenge or justice for loved ones. That doesn’t mean they act upon it.”

  “No, but considering the fact that there have been three murders in the past week, these posts do seem suspicious.”

  Austin stood. “Listen, Agent Davenport, if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work. I have an appointment in half an hour, then I need to prepare a statement for family court.”

  Korine clenched her jaw. She had nothing to hold this woman or any of the others on. They were good-hearted. Caring. Helped others.

  If they were conspiring to exact justice, they were smart enough not to include details online.

  In fact, if they had killed the judge, Whiting, and Hortman, deep in her heart, she was tempted to applaud them instead of lock them up.

  But . . . if they found evidence proving the women were guilty, she’d have to do just that, whether she liked it or not.

  This interview was going just as it had with Liz Roberts. Not enough evidence to nail any one of the women.

  Hatcher studied Rachel Willis. As a parole officer, Willis had seen some of the worst.

  “Your fat
her died after finally being released from prison, didn’t he?”

  Willis slid her rectangular glasses on top of her head. “He certainly did. And before you ask, yes, I blamed the system and the lawyer who should have done a better job defending him. But most of all, I blame the man who framed him.”

  “And that man was?”

  “His business partner,” Willis said.

  “Where is he now?”

  Willis folded her arms. “He died of heart failure while he was awaiting trial.”

  “So you became a parole officer even though your family was wronged by the system.”

  Willis nodded. “I thought I could help others in my father’s shoes acclimate and rebuild their lives.” A bitter chuckle escaped her. “Boy, was I naive.”

  Hatcher bit back a comment. With her family history and job, she might have reached the breaking point.

  “Why are we all here, Agent McGee?”

  Hatcher folded his arms. “There have been three murders this week. We think they’re connected.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Do you suspect one of my parolees?”

  “Not at this point.” He hesitated. “We discovered a chat room called the Keepers. Are you part of this group?”

  Her brown eyes flashed with some emotion he didn’t quite understand, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she stood. “I’d like to call a lawyer.”

  She tapped her heel on the floor, and Hatcher rocked his chair back. “Listen, Miss Willis. We’re prepared to offer a deal to the first person who gives us information regarding the case. Think about that.”

  She locked gazes with him for a moment. “If I had information regarding the murders, I would tell you. But I don’t.”

  She strode from the room, shoulders rigid.

  She was a cool cookie, but beneath that cool facade lived rage.

  She had just learned to cover it up over the years.

  Had that rage driven her to kill?

  Korine was quickly growing frustrated. Beverly Grant had deftly avoided her questions and been just as vague as Liz Roberts.

  A knock sounded at the door; then Hatcher poked his head inside.

  “Agent Davenport, we have to stop. Kendall James is here.”

  The lawyer who’d come to Banning’s defense.

  “Apparently one of the ladies phoned her,” Hatcher said. “She’s representing all four of them.”

  Korine glanced at Beverly Grant. “Is Ms. James your lawyer?”

  Grant nodded. “Yes, although I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Hatcher stepped inside. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your friend. Whoever talks first gets a deal.”

  The young woman looked back and forth between them. “What kind of deal?”

  “There are three counts of murder. We’ll take the death penalty off the table,” he said bluntly. “Parole is also a possibility.”

  Another knock, and the door cracked open again. Kendall James appeared, her briefcase in one hand, an air of authority about her. “We’re finished here.”

  She motioned to Beverly Grant, and the young woman hurried to the door. Hatcher and Korine followed them and watched the lawyer usher the four women down the hall.

  “What now?” Korine asked.

  Hatcher’s phone buzzed. Bellows. He answered. “Yes? . . . Dammit.”

  Korine wrinkled her brow. “What?”

  Hatcher strode into the deputy’s office and flipped on the TV. Korine’s eyes widened as a headline scrolled across the screen and Marilyn Ellis appeared. Shots of the murder scene of Hortman, then Whiting, then the judge appeared.

  Ellis smiled into the camera. “The FBI have been investigating a connection between these three murders and now believe a vigilante killer is loose in the Savannah area.”

  Hatcher cursed. “She wasn’t supposed to air that.”

  “This vigilante killer paints a justice symbol on each of his victim’s foreheads.” Ellis continued. “If you have any information regarding these murders or the vigilante killer, please phone the FBI.”

  Korine twisted her hands together. They had asked Marilyn Ellis to hold the story. In a murder investigation, it was important to keep information from the public in case they needed to use it to coerce a suspect into talking. Or to weed out false confessions.

  The reporter had just ruined that strategy.

  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.

  That would never happen.

  He stepped into the shower and lifted his head. For a moment, he simply seemed to enjoy the stream of water trailing down his face and chest.

  He soaped his hands and began to scrub himself vigorously.

  Then his hand slipped lower and curled around his sex.

  Revulsion washed over her as he began to stroke his cock. His erection grew more bold as he stroked from his balls to the tip.

  Finally he threw his head back and leaned against the shower wall, his body jerking as he came.

  Bile rose to her throat as his semen sprayed the shower walls. Yet her body felt hot. Needy.

  She hated that feeling.

  Anger seized her, and she lowered her binoculars, then slipped back to her car. Inside, she glanced down at the photos of Tinsley Jensen, the ones taken shortly after she’d been rescued. She’d been bloody. Bruised. Traumatized.

  Because of a man who called himself the Skull.

  Her plan made her smile.

  Ten minutes later, she entered the room she’d arranged for him and tacked the pictures of Tinsley all over the wall. She set up her camera. Positioned the chair where he would sit.

  Soon all the world would watch as she exposed him as the Skull.

  Then he would die.

  And the Keepers could continue their work.

  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 some discrepancies in the alibis or narrow down a suspect from the chat room or blog
comments.”

  Korine nodded, ate another bite, then started to take a sip of her wine when her phone buzzed. She checked the number.

  The rehab center.

  Dread tightened her neck muscles as she connected the call. “Ms. Davenport?”

  “This is she.”

  “It’s E. L. Foote from Serenity. I’m calling about your brother.”

  She rubbed her temple. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, but Kenny somehow snuck out this afternoon. He became agitated during a group therapy session. One of our nurses escorted him to his room to rest. But he didn’t show up for dinner, so we searched the facility and his room and realized he was gone.”

  Korine laid her fork down, her appetite vanishing. “What upset him?” Not that he needed anything specific.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge the details of the session,” Foote said.

  Korine bit her lower lip. But knowing what upset him might give her insight into the reason he was agitated enough to leave.

  Then again, he was an addict. He couldn’t handle even the slightest bit of stress and self-medicated with alcohol or drugs when things got tough.

  “Thanks for calling,” Korine said. “If you hear from him, or if he returns, please let me know.”

  “We will. And Ms. Davenport, we want to help him. The counselor thought she was making progress. Let us know if you convince him to check himself back in.”

  Korine thanked her, ended the call, then dialed her mother’s home number. Hatcher was watching her.

  The worry in his eyes twisted her insides. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing her problems. She was the one who took care of people—her mother, her brother. Herself.

  Esme finally answered on the third ring.

  “The counselor from Serenity just phoned. Kenny got upset and left. Is he there?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  Korine’s pulse pounded. “How’s Mom?”

  A slight hesitation. “She’s having a fair day. She spent some time sitting in the garden.”

  A wave of nostalgia washed over Korine. Once upon a time, her mother had belonged to the garden club and had grown spectacular roses. Every year she’d thrown a cocktail party to show them off and invited half of Savannah.