Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  Why wait until next Monday? Don’t ask. She’ll explain later.

  On the way to the parking area, Derek glanced at the overcast sky and commented about the weather. “Looks like rain.”

  Her gaze followed his. “Hmm . . .”

  “I was thinking we could have a nice lunch at the Steeplechase Grill when we get back to Vidalia,” Derek said. “I checked the place out online after the clerk at the hotel mentioned it was a great place to eat.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Maleah unlocked her SUV. “Have you heard anything from Sanders this morning?”

  Derek opened the passenger side door. “As a matter of fact, he sent us the info we requested about Browning’s recent visitors while you were chit-chatting with the guy.”

  Maleah shot him a screw-you glare before opening the door and sliding in behind the wheel. She waited until he got in before asking, “Do we have addresses? Phone numbers?”

  “We have an address for Wyman Scudder. He isn’t Browning’s original attorney nor is he even with the same law firm or in the same city. Someone hired him six months ago to represent Browning’s interests.”

  “Why would a man who confessed to murder, struck a deal with the DA, and exhausted all of his appeals need a new lawyer? It’s not as if Browning has been screaming ‘I’m innocent’ for the past ten years.”

  “Scudder isn’t exactly the best money can buy. According to Sanders’s report, the guy’s reputation as a lawyer isn’t all that great. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs, has an ex-wife who’s still bleeding him dry after their divorce two years ago, and he was living in his office up until six months ago.”

  “Who retained Scudder for Browning and why? Sanders needs to get the Powell team to dig deeper and get us the answers.”

  “He’s already on it.”

  Maleah started the engine and pulled out of the parking slot. “Is that all you’ve got on Scudder?”

  “For now.”

  “What about Cindy Di Blasi?”

  “Cindy Di Blasi is a mystery woman. Seems the Georgia driver’s license that she used as ID for her visits to Browning is a fake. The street address on the license is for a church in Augusta. The phone number Browning called when he talked to Cindy was for a pre-paid cell phone. No way to track it.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Confusing.”

  “Do you think Cindy Di Blasi is an alias?”

  “Could be,” Derek said. “Using the description of the woman we got from the guards who remember her, the Powell team will compare her description, along with approximate age, to see if there’s a woman by that name anywhere in the state of Georgia.”

  “Browning told me that Cindy is a lady friend and that a mutual friend hooked them up.”

  “And that mutual friend could be Wyman Scudder or—”

  “Or Albert Durham.”

  “Albert Durham is a real person, not an alias. Sanders is checking out the info on the driver’s license ID he used when he visited Browning. The man’s a writer. He writes biographies about historical figures, presidents and generals, world leaders in various areas.”

  “This is becoming more and more curious, isn’t it?” Maleah glanced at Derek. “Do you have a theory?” She refocused on the road immediately.

  “I think we have three possible scenarios,” Derek told her. “The Copycat Carver hired Scudder, Durham, and Cindy and has used them as go-betweens to contact Browning. Or the Copycat Carver is actually one of them—Scudder or Durham or Cindy.”

  “Cindy? I thought everyone was in agreement that the copycat is a man.”

  “Who said Cindy was a woman?”

  Maleah snorted. “I say Cindy is a woman. Either a woman or a very small man. The guards said she was about five-two and maybe weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet.”

  “Yeah, Cindy is probably female. But that still leaves Scudder and Durham.”

  “Agreed. So, what’s your third scenario?”

  “Ah yes, my third scenario.”

  “Stop being so dramatic and just tell me.”

  Derek grinned. “Someone hired Scudder, Durham, and Cindy, as well as a professional killer to copy Browning’s murders.”

  “This is the Griffin Powell theory, isn’t it? Some mystery man over in Europe who is using the name Malcolm York is striking out at Griff by killing Powell agents and members of their families.”

  “It’s one of three theories. At this point, I don’t have a favorite. I don’t know enough to make a judgment call. I don’t even have a gut instinct pick.”

  Maleah remained silent for several miles, but Derek knew she was thinking, mulling things over, and deciding what she wanted to say.

  “Browning was careful not to tell me anything I couldn’t easily find out on my own,” Maleah said. “That Scudder was his lawyer and that Cindy was his lady friend. But he did share something about Durham that seems odd to me.”

  Derek waited, allowing her to progress at her own speed.

  “Just as I was leaving, Browning told me that Albert Durham was writing his biography.”

  “Why would a renowned biographer of historical figures choose to write the bio of a condemned serial killer?”

  “What if he’s not the real Albert Durham?”

  “If he is or isn’t the real Durham, you do realize that Browning probably believes he is,” Derek said. “And Browning would have been inclined to share numerous details about the murders with his biographer.”

  “Which means Durham would have the info he needed to duplicate those murders.”

  “If we can find Albert Durham, we just might find the Copycat Carver.”

  Chapter 12

  Wyman Scudder, you’re a fool.

  How many times had his ex-wife said those exact words?

  She’d been right. Sheila had been right about a lot of things.

  You’re a fool. You’re a drunk. You’re a sorry excuse for a husband. You’ve ruined your life and tried to ruin mine, but I’m getting out while the gettin’ is good.

  Wyman lifted the open bottle of Wild Turkey 101 proof bourbon whiskey and poured his glass threefourths full. The damn stuff had cost him sixty bucks, but he had the money, didn’t he? It was nobody’s business what he paid for his pleasures and a good bottle of bourbon headed his list of carnal delights. He lifted the glass to salute his ex-wife, his ex-associates, and his ex-life. He might have been on his way down six months ago, but not now.

  “Here’s to Wyman Scudder. Long may he live the good life.”

  He downed one long, glorious gulp, shivered, coughed, and then laughed. When he left his office today—a right nice office, if he did say so himself—he’d be going home to a Mill Creek Run apartment. After living in his old office for nearly a year, he had every right to celebrate his good fortune, didn’t he? A new office on Third Street, a first-rate apartment, a good bottle of bourbon, and a new suit. He ran his hand over the quality material of his thousand-dollar pin-striped suit. It might be off the rack, but it was a damn expensive rack.

  Wyman took a sip of the smooth whiskey and then another before placing the glass on a fancy soapstone coaster atop his desk.

  He had a chance now to put his life back together and that’s just what he intended to do. Screw Sheila. Screw his old law firm. Two years ago, both his wife and his firm had thrown him out as if he were yesterday’s trash.

  He’d show ’em just what he was made of.

  You’re a fool.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he hollered into the emptiness of his new office.

  You’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something really nasty.

  If anybody asked him who had hired him to represent Jerome Browning, he’d tell them the truth. He hadn’t done anything illegal. He’d seen Browning only a couple of times, did what he’d been paid to do—consult with his client—and that was all there was to it.

  If someone connects all the dots, what then?

  Then you’re screwed.

  He could be
considered an accomplice, couldn’t he? An accomplice to murder? No, not just one murder. Five murders now.

  But I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know what they were planning. If I had . . .

  It was too late for ifs. He had taken the job, taken the money, and unless somebody put the puzzle pieces together, he’d get away scot-free, just as the others would. They would all get away with murder.

  The Steeplechase Grill and Tavern was located in downtown Vidalia. Atop the signpost outside the restaurant, a wooden cutout of a comic laughing horse’s head welcomed customers, setting the tone for the casual atmosphere inside the trendy establishment. Upon entering, the tantalizing aroma instantly whetted Derek’s appetite.

  “Nice place,” he said as the hostess showed them to their table.

  “Nice enough.” Maleah climbed up and sat on one of the bar stools that graced a row of dark wooden tables.

  They had arrived at 12:30 P.M., prime lunchtime in downtown Vidalia, so the restaurant was packed. He glanced around at the dark paneled walls, lined with metal signs, and then looked up at the whirling ceiling fans and down at the floral/leaf design in the dark carpet.

  Maleah scanned the menu hurriedly, laid it on the table and tapped her fingers absently. Turning her head right and then left, she searched for a waitress. “We should have just picked up fast food and gone straight on to Macon.”

  “Settle down and relax,” Derek told her. “It’ll take us less than two hours to drive to Macon. It’s not as if Wyman Scudder is going anywhere. In the grand scheme of things, taking an hour for a decent meal isn’t going to matter.”

  She heaved a labored sigh. “You’re probably right.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Half an hour with Jerome Browning, playing his sick little cat and mouse game, would have an adverse effect on anyone.”

  She stared at him, her eyes speaking for her, telling him that even though she hadn’t walked away from the second interview with Browning without a few minor wounds, she had won today’s game.

  “You bested him, didn’t you?” Derek grinned.

  “I held my own. And yes, in the end, I won.”

  “He’ll be all the more determined to draw blood next time.”

  She nodded. “I’m well aware of that fact.”

  The waitress appeared, all white teeth, freckled nose, and friendly attitude. “What can I get you folks to drink?”

  “Sweet tea,” Derek replied.

  “Unsweet iced tea, please,” Maleah said.

  “Y’all know what you want or do you need a few minutes?”

  Derek quickly looked over the extensive menu. One item caught his eye.

  “I’d like the Charleston Chicken Salad,” Maleah said.

  “Yes, ma’am. And you, sir?” the waitress asked.

  “A rack of baby back ribs, baked potato, fully loaded, and onion rings.”

  As soon as the waitress walked away to place their order, Maleah made a disapproving tsk-tsk sound with her tongue.

  “You disapprove of my lunch choices?” he asked.

  “It’s your health and your arteries that you’re clogging, not mine.”

  Derek grinned. He had learned months ago when not to argue with Maleah’s reasoning, especially when she was right.

  Despite the crowd, the service was good—fast and accurate. The waitress returned quickly with their drinks and a loaf of delicious brown bread coated with a hint of sea salt.

  After their meals arrived, they ate in relative silence. Apparently Maleah thought that would save time and allow them to get off to Macon all the sooner. Halfway through eating the delectable ribs, Derek’s phone rang. Using the wipes provided with his meal, he cleaned the barbecue sauce from his fingertips, retrieved his phone and noted the caller ID. The Powell Agency’s number at Griffin’s Rest.

  “This is Derek Lawrence.”

  “Hi, Derek. It’s Barbara Jean. Sanders received some updated info on Wyman Scudder he thought y’all should have immediately. I’ll send a complete report via e-mail attachment later, and I’ll text the new address, too, but I thought you needed to know that the address we had is incorrect.”

  “Okay, give me the correct address.”

  She called off the new address on Third Street in downtown Macon. “It seems that Mr. Scudder just signed a lease on a new office and a new apartment a few days ago.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “What?” Maleah asked.

  He waved her off, his actions requesting that she wait.

  “Scudder has been making monthly deposits to his account,” Barbara Jean said. “A thousand a month up until the first of June, when he deposited fifty thousand.”

  Derek whistled softly. “Now, why would anyone think a guy like Scudder was worth that kind of money.”

  “Sanders suggested that you and Maleah might want to ask him.”

  “Tell Sanders that he can count on our doing just that.”

  “We’re still working on tracking down Cindy Di Blasi,” Barbara Jean said. “And after you texted us with the info that Browning told Maleah Durham is writing his bio, which implies this guy really could be the real Albert Durham, we had some luck finding him. Or at least more info about him.”

  “No address or phone number?”

  “It seems Albert Durham is a recluse and guards his privacy. He owns several homes, but keeps on the move a lot, travels abroad, works on extended vacations, that sort of thing. As soon as we come up with any information about where you can find him now, I’ll be in touch. Until then, we’re working under the assumption that the man who visited Browning is the real Durham. The info on the ID he used to enter the prison matches that of the real Durham, at least his physical description and date of birth. And the address is for one of Durham’s homes.”

  “Thanks, BJ.”

  Barbara Jean laughed when he used the nickname he had given her—BJ. She was a good woman. A kind and caring woman. Sanders was a lucky man.

  As soon as he slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket, Maleah snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Damn it, Derek, tell me.”

  “Scudder has a new office, a new apartment, and fifty grand in the bank.”

  Maleah’s mouth dropped open, and then she smiled. “You can tell me the rest on the way to Macon.” She laid her fork on the table, removed her napkin from her lap, tossed it alongside her half-eaten salad, and slipped off the wooden stool and onto her feet.

  Derek eyed the remainder of the delicious ribs, gulped down a swig of iced tea, and knowing better than to suggest they finish their lunch, he motioned to the waitress. When she was within earshot, he said, “We need our check, please.”

  Wyman Scudder had served his purpose and had been paid well for his services. Unfortunately, Scudder was a liability now, a loose end that needed to be tied up.

  Scudder first; then Cindy Di Blasi.

  Albert Durham wasn’t a problem. Even if the Powell Agency could find the reclusive author, there wasn’t a damn thing the man could tell them.

  He had known the Powell Agency would eventually get around to interviewing Browning, which would prompt them to check out his recent visitors. However, they had moved a bit faster than he had anticipated. Too bad Scudder wouldn’t get to enjoy his big payoff.

  The walk from the Travelodge Suites on Broadway Street took only a few minutes and would have been rather pleasant if not for the rain. When he had left his hotel, the sky had been overcast. He had gone to his car to drop off his jacket and had picked up an umbrella. By the time he reached the corner of Walnut and Third, heavy droplets had begun falling. Now that he had reached the building that housed Wyman Scudder’s new law office, a steady drizzle had set in.

  After entering the lobby, he closed his black umbrella and headed straight for the elevators. While he waited for the Up elevator, the Down elevator opened and a man and woman emerged. The couple was so absorbed in their con
versation with each other that they barely noticed him. Later on, if asked, they would say they had seen a black-haired man with a neat mustache and Van Dyke, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. And perhaps one of them would remember that he had a large skull tattoo on his left arm.

  He had learned long ago that a disguise should be simple and the effect subtle. Sometimes little more than a cap and a pair of glasses were needed to alter his appearance.

  Scudder’s office was on the third floor, a corner office that faced the street. The outer door was closed.

  He knocked.

  No response.

  He tried the handle and the door opened to an empty outer office. No furniture. No secretary. Scudder hadn’t had time to acquire either.

  “Hello, anybody here?” he called out, wondering if perhaps Scudder had gone home early.

  The door leading into the private office opened. A bleary-eyed, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a slight paunch hanging over his belt stood in the doorway and stared at him.

  “Who are you?” Wyman asked, his speech slightly slurred.

  The idiot was drunk.

  “A potential client, Mr. Scudder,” he said using his best good old boy accent.

  “Well, come right on in, Mr.—” Wyman squinched his eyes and studied his visitor. “Have we met before?”

  “Might have, if you’ve ever been down to Perry. I got a motorcycle repair shop.” He moved toward Wyman, who backed up into his office as his guest approached. “You got a motorcycle, Mr. Scudder?”

  A perplexed look crossed Wyman’s face. “No, I don’t have a motorcycle.”

  He closed the door behind him. Wyman staggered toward his desk.

  “Just how can I be of assistance, Mr.—?”

  “Just call me Harold.” He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out the strong thin strip of nylon cord.

  Wyman lost his balance and fell toward his desk, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing onto the edge of the only piece of furniture in the room other than a leather swivel chair.