Sometimes, on a clear, bright day when he took long walks in the woods around the family’s hunting lodge, his mind would wander back to those good old days when he and Griff and Cam Hendrix had raised high-class hell. They had often gone after the same woman, sometimes just to see who would be the first to win a date with the lady. Jennifer Mobley had been one of those women. God, she’d been so beautiful. She had known just how gorgeous she was and had used that knowledge to her advantage. He wasn’t sure why she’d accepted a date with Griff first. Judd had never been jealous of either of his buddies—not until Jenny entered their lives. Oddly enough, she had dated Cam second, which only whetted Judd’s appetite for her all the more. He didn’t know if she’d had sex with either of his friends. Didn’t want to know. Had never asked them or Jennifer. But she hadn’t gone to bed with him until their fifth date. By that time, he was half out of his mind, so hungry for her that he would have walked over hot coals to get to her.
“Everybody come on in and take a seat.” Griffin Powell’s instructions brought Judd back to the present moment, to the here and now.
A large rectangular table took center stage in front of a wall lined with shelving that contained two plasma televisions, a DVD player, a CD player, and neatly organized books and magazines. Lindsay and Rick Carson sat across from each other in two of the plush, leather swivel chairs surrounding the table. Griff took a seat at the head of the table. Judd walked toward the empty chair beside Lindsay, but paused, noted the disapproving expression on Griff’s face, and backtracked a few steps. He pulled out the chair at the other end of the table. Griff nodded approval. Judd sat.
Griff lifted a small stack of file folders from where they had been placed on the table, probably by Sanders, who had a knack for not only being one step ahead of everyone else, but seeming to know in advance exactly what Griff would want or need.
“These files contain the most pertinent facts about the Beauty Queen Killer case that the Powell Agency has compiled during the past three and a half, nearly four, years.”
Griff placed all except one of the folders back on the table, then opened the file in his hand, pulled out several crime scene photos and passed them around, one by one. Lindsay shoved the pictures across the table to Judd, who in turn, sent them on to Rick Carson with little more than passing glances. Each showed a different redheaded victim. One with her throat slit, another missing her feet and legs up to her knees, a third with her tongue cut out and a knife embedded in the center of her chest. Each woman had been savagely mutilated and left to bleed to death.
“These women were worth twenty points to our BQ Killer,” Griff said. “Gale Ann Cain, the latest victim, was able to tell us that she had been worth twenty points to him because she had red hair.” Griff glanced around the table, from Lindsay to Judd to Rick. “What does that bit of info tell us?”
“That this guy is using a points system,” Rick said.
“That if redheads are worth twenty points, that means blondes and brunettes are worth certain points, too.” Lindsay shook her head. “This man is playing some kind of sick, perverted game.”
“How does this information help us catch him?” Judd asked.
Griff’s gaze locked with Judd’s. “I don’t know that it will.”
“But it makes sense that the more we find out about him, the better our chances of finding out who he is,” Lindsay said.
Judd harrumphed.
“Do you have something else to say?” Griff looked point-blank at Judd.
“Nothing new,” Judd said. “It’s just that after three and a half years, neither the Powell Agency nor the FBI is any closer to catching this guy than they were when this psycho killed Jennifer.”
“That’s not necessarily true.” Griff glanced at the photos lying on the table, neatly arranged by Rick before he placed them between him and Griff. “Do we know the man’s name? No, we don’t. Do we know where to find him? No, we don’t. But we do know a great deal about him, and Derek Lawrence, the former FBI profiler who works for my agency, has updated his profile of our BQ Killer.”
“For all the good that will do.” Judd blurted out his opinion, then thought better of being so negative. “Sorry.” He looked from Griff to Lindsay, who didn’t even glance his way. “It’s just that you—” he focused sharply on Griff “—have a woman right here at Griffin’s Rest who can probably identify this man.”
“Barbara Jean Hughes may or may not be able to identify the man she saw leaving Gale Ann’s apartment,” Griff said. “First of all, we can’t be a hundred percent sure he’s our guy. And secondly, it’s possible that Barbara Jean will never be able to tell us more than she already has. A medium size, medium height man, wearing a hat, a coat, and sunglasses, maybe with brown hair, was leaving the building where her sister lived just as she arrived.”
“Crap,” Judd said. “Okay, I’m sorry. Again. I’ll behave myself, but you can’t expect me not to question your decisions.”
“Left alone and allowed to feel safe and secure here at Griffin’s Rest, Barbara Jean may well begin to recall more details about this man.” Griff gathered up the photos of the redheaded victims and placed them back in the file folder.
“Just how long do we wait for this woman to remember?” Judd asked.
“As long as it takes.”
“And in the meantime, while you’re coddling her, the BQ Killer is out there choosing his next victim.”
“More than likely,” Griff said.
“Too bad we can’t figure out how he chooses his victims,” Rick Carson said. “I mean other than the fact that they’ve all been former beauty contest winners and are still under the age of forty and have retained their good looks.”
“Before the information Gale Ann gave us, we were looking for a reason he’s chosen only former beauty queens,” Lindsay said. “We had wondered if there was a connection in his past to someone who had been a beauty queen, and, of course, that’s still a possibility. But we now know that he has concocted some sort of game that involves using a points system according to the woman’s hair color.”
“One question comes to mind about his game-playing.” Griff scanned the room, pausing briefly on each of the other occupants, and when no one made a comment, he asked, “Is he the only player in this deadly game?”
Silence.
Nerve-racking silence.
For the first time since they had entered the office, Lindsay looked right at Judd. “My God, do you think—?”
“So far, there’s been no evidence that we’re dealing with more than one person,” Rick reminded them.
“Maybe he’s got a split personality, and he’s playing against his other self,” Judd suggested sarcastically.
“Or he could be playing the odds, pitting his skill and cunning against the FBI,” Rick said. “Some games don’t require two players: Solitaire, Russian roulette, many video games.”
“Good point.” Griff picked up another file folder, opened it, and reviewed the contents. “For now, let’s continue to assume the BQ Killer is acting alone, that he’s playing this ‘Dying Game’ where he racks up points with each murder. So is there a final score goal, a certain number he plans to reach before he stops?”
“I didn’t think serial killers could stop,” Lindsay said. “I thought the compulsion to kill never goes away, that the desire to murder has to be satisfied over and over again.”
“Who’s to say this is the first game he’s played or, if it is, that it will be the last.” Griff waited for a reaction from the others.
“We hadn’t—” Lindsay paused. “Well, at least I hadn’t thought of that possibility. If that’s the case, then he would end this game when he reaches a specific score and simply start a new game.”
“Are we trying to figure out what his perfect score would be?” Judd asked. “If we could narrow it down to say five-hundred points, what would that prove? How would that get us any closer to him?” Judd scooted back his chair, stood, and shoved his hand
s into the pockets of his tattered jeans. “Got any coffee in here? I could use a stiff drink, but I’ll settle for a shot of caffeine.”
Hitching his thumb in the direction, Griff said, “Sanders keeps a fresh pot ready when he knows anyone will be using the office.”
Spotting the stainless steel coffeemaker, Judd left the others, using the excuse of needing caffeine to get away from just one more fruitless discussion. He’d been directly involved in this investigation from the day he hired the Powell Agency to conduct a private inquiry into Jennifer’s murder. For nearly three years, he had lived and breathed the investigation, believing that each new tidbit of information brought them one step closer to finding his wife’s killer. Then midyear last year, he’d given up shortly after another senseless murder. He couldn’t remember her name or the details, only the fact that after she’d been killed, he had shut down, gotten drunk, and stayed drunk for days. Then he had attacked the one person who had never given up on him.
Two months after Jennifer’s murder and Judd being hauled down to the police station for questioning, Judd had hired his old friend Griffin Powell. He had asked Griff to head up a long-term investigation, to use all of Judd’s wealth, and both his and Griff’s power and connections to keep track of what the FBI was doing. And to move heaven and earth to find the man who had killed Jenny.
It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out that Sergeant Lindsay McAllister believed Judd was an innocent man, a bereaved widower who had loved his wife and wanted to see the real killer brought to justice. But it had taken Griff’s intuitive observations to figure out that Lindsay had fallen in love with Judd. Even after she’d quit her job on the Chattanooga PD and gone to work for the Powell Agency, Judd hadn’t suspected the career change had been solely because of him.
He remembered the day, a couple of years ago, when Griff had shared his insight into Lindsay’s motivation for joining Griff’s staff.
“She’s in love with you,” Griff said.
“What?”
“The reason Lindsay wants to work for me is so that she can participate in the Beauty Queen Killer case.”
“Yeah, sure, I figured as much. It was her first case as a detective and when the police and the FBI botched the job of finding Jenny’s killer, Lindsay decided to join us and help solve the crime.”
Griff shook his head. “That’s only the half of it. Why do you think it matters so damn much to her? It’s because she’s done the unthinkable and fallen in love with a man who is still in love with his dead wife.”
“You’re nuts. Lindsay isn’t—”
“She is. And sooner or later, both of you will have to face that fact and deal with it.”
“There’s nothing to deal with,” Judd said. “I like Lindsay. She’s been in my corner all along, and I appreciate it, but as for anything else…Not now. Not ever. All I want is to find Jenny’s killer and make him pay for what he did to her. Nothing and no one else matters.”
“You know that and I know that, but a woman in love sees and believes what she wants to. You might not realize it, but in the past year, you’ve been leaning pretty heavily on Lindsay, counting on her to rescue you when you dive off the deep end. She probably thinks that once Jennifer’s killer is caught and punished, you’ll be able to start fresh, maybe with her.”
“I don’t think Lindsay’s that big a fool,” Judd said. “She knows that my life ended the day Jenny died.”
Griff snorted. “You’re the fool. You didn’t die the day Jennifer did. Your life didn’t end. It just changed. For the worse. I understand all about seeking revenge, believe me. But sooner or later, you have to move on, build a new life and—”
“Don’t preach to me! Don’t tell me what I should think and how I should feel.” He grabbed the lapels of Griffin’s sports coat and glared right into his eyes. “Don’t you get it—except for anger, I’m as good as dead inside.”
“Then I feel sorry for you, my friend. I know only too well that anger, hatred, and a thirst for revenge can sustain you for only so long—and then you have to reach out for life again. If you don’t…”
Judd released his tenacious hold on Griff’s jacket and smoothed the lapels. “Talk to her, will you? Make her understand that she shouldn’t waste herself waiting for me to care about her.”
The tender touch of Lindsay’s hand on his shoulder jerked Judd out of the past and back to the present, away from an old conversation to face the here and now.
She possessed a gentle yet firm grip.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Keeping his back to her, he shrugged off her hand, reached out and removed the glass pot from the warmer. “Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Judd poured the black java into one of several orange and white mugs on the table, then lifted the bright orange UT cup to his lips, and sipped the strong brew.
“If you’d rather not sit in on this initial session, I can fill you in later,” Lindsay told him. “We’ll go over all the old info and the new to see if anything sparks an idea.”
Judd gazed past Lindsay to the rectangular table where Griff and Rick sat, deep in conversation. “What’s the point? I don’t even know why I’m here. I should have stayed at the lodge.”
“Don’t go back there.” Her sincere look implored him. “Stay here. Help us. Help yourself.”
“Stop caring so damn much,” Judd spoke quietly through clenched teeth.
“You stop being such a jackass.”
Judd grinned. “You’re a lot tougher than you used to be. Is that my doing?”
“Feel free to take credit for it.”
He inclined his head toward the conference table. “Why don’t we leave the hashing over old facts and blending them with new ones to those two? I’m going to put on my coat and take a long walk. Want to go with me?”
She studied him intently, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust him.
“Forget I asked,” he told her. “I guess it was a bad idea.”
“No, it’s just that you surprised me. Do you need somebody to talk to or do you just need some silent company?”
“Talking is overrated. And in this situation, it certainly hasn’t solved anything.”
“You go on,” she said. “I need to let Griff know I’m leaving, then I’ll catch up with you after I grab my coat.”
Judd headed for the door, then paused and called to Griff, “See you at supper.”
Griff looked up, stared at him for half a second, and returned to his conversation with Rick. Judd closed the office door behind him, then went through the kitchen to the backstairs. He really didn’t understand why he’d invited Lindsay to take a walk with him. The words were out of his mouth before he realized he really did want her company.
He had gone to his motel room, changed into a nondescript gray jogging suit, gray wool cap, and white athletic shoes, then driven back to Pine Crest Estates. He parked his car several blocks from Sunrise Avenue and jogged up the side of the street, nodding and speaking to those who acknowledged him. He figured that in a housing development as large as this one, most people probably thought he was just a new neighbor that they hadn’t met. Most wouldn’t even remember him. He didn’t slow down as he passed 322, but he noted that Sonya Todd’s boyfriend was back. If that big oaf wound up staying the night, he’d have no choice but to alter his plans. He hated when things didn’t go to suit him. But he was not going to leave Tupelo without earning those fifteen points he so desperately needed.
If not tonight, then tomorrow night.
After dark, he’d come back, take a good look around her house and figure out a plan of action.
Sweaty and slightly winded, he got back in his car, wiped the perspiration off his face with a towel he’d borrowed from the motel and revved the Taurus’s motor. Just as he reached for the gearshift, his cell phone rang out a familiar tune.
Who the hell?
Only one person had this cell phone number.
&nbs
p; He lifted the phone from the cup holder where he’d stashed it.
Why is he calling me?
Don’t answer it.
As the tune to the song Bert Parks made famous years ago when he had emceed the Miss America Pageant kept playing, he stared at the phone in his hand. His mind recited the words, “There she is, Miss America.” When the game had begun nearly five years ago, he had chosen this particular music for his cell phone ring after his first kill. Such an appropriate tune. In a couple of months, when the game ended, he would choose a different ring, perhaps something to celebrate his victory.
Lindsay walked alongside Judd down the gravel road that went through the woods and ended at an old boathouse on the lake. Griff didn’t use that dilapidated boathouse, but hadn’t bothered with tearing it down. He’d also left an old, shabby, weathered barn on the property. Except for the new road that led from the highway to his house and the house itself, little had been altered since he’d purchased the acreage.
The crisp winter breeze shimmied through the treetops, swaying them gently, as it assaulted Lindsay’s pale cheeks and nose. They were probably pink from the cold, a curse for anyone such as she with an extremely fair complexion. Her guess was that the temperature hovered somewhere around forty, but once the sun went down, it would quickly fall into the thirties, probably to freezing before daylight tomorrow.
She’d been an outdoor girl all her life and had spent many happy tomboy hours fishing and camping out with her dad. She could remember several times when it had snowed enough in Chattanooga so that they could build a snowman. And there was enough snow or ice at least every other year, for them to take her dad’s childhood sled out of attic storage and sail down a steep hill near their house.
Happy memories.
Even though she had lost both of her parents before their time, at least she had grown up in a home filled with love and laughter. Someday, she would like to have children of her own and give them the kind of happy and secure childhood she had known.
The Dying Game Page 12
