Close Enough to Kill

by Beverly Barton

  Charlie Patterson was waiting for them when they arrived at the jail promptly at seven A.M. And he wasn’t alone. Ron Hensley had also come in early, and from the looks of him, he hadn’t gotten any more rest than they had. Bloodshot eyes, a heavy five o’clock shadow and a wrinkled shirt said it all. The guy had probably been up most, if not all, of the night.

  R.B. Granger sat behind Jim’s desk, drinking coffee and talking to Ron and Charlie. Jim glanced at Bernie as they stood side by side, just a few feet over the threshold. When she saw her father, she stopped dead in her tracks. Jim noted her reaction change from what he thought was gladness in seeing her dad, knowing he was here to help, to a sense of disappointment, as if she understood that her father didn’t trust her to handle this case without him.

  “Good morning.” Charlie saluted them with his cup.

  “Are we late?” Bernie asked, her tone tense.

  “We just got here,” R.B. said. “I met up with Charlie outside a few minutes ago. Ron was already here and had put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Jim walked over to R.B. and asked, “How’s Kevin this morning?”

  “He was still asleep when I left,” R.B. replied. “Brenda’s planning on making him blueberry pancakes this morning.”

  “I really appreciate you and your wife looking after him for me.”

  “It’s our pleasure. He’s a great kid. Smart and friendly. Has really good manners, too.”

  Jim grinned like the proud papa he was, even though it was a bittersweet pride. Kevin was his son, flesh of his flesh and all, but Mary Lee had been the one who’d raised him.

  “How long have you been here?” Bernie asked Ron.

  “About fifteen minutes,” he replied. “I came straight here from”—he glanced at R.B. and grimaced—“from where I found Brandon Kelley.”

  “You finally found him?” Bernie focused on her deputy.

  Ron nodded.

  “Where? Was Thomasina—”

  Ron shook his head. “The guy has an alibi. He was with a young lady from yesterday evening until I tracked him down around four-thirty this morning.”

  “And this young lady will swear that he was with her all evening and night?” Jim asked.

  “Yep.” Ron looked down at his feet, as if deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.

  Jim noticed Bernie and R.B. exchange odd glances.

  “Was he with Robyn?” R.B. asked.

  “Yep.” Ron walked over to the coffeemaker and refilled his half-full cup.

  “Damn that girl.” R.B. growled the words. “She’s turning my hair white. And what she’s doing to her mother’s nerves…”

  “Okay, so that rules out Brandon.” Bernie gave her father a stern glare, then followed Ron to the coffeemaker, picked up a clean cup and filled it with hot coffee.

  Jim wondered why, if he was actually interested in Robyn Granger, the knowledge that she’d spent the night with Brandon Kelley didn’t bother him in the least. He’d had exactly one date with Robyn—dinner at the River’s End restaurant—and if she’d offered him sex on that first date, he wouldn’t have turned her down. But she hadn’t offered, although he’d gotten the feeling from the way she’d been all over him that she’d have made the offer on their second date. And until just this minute, he’d believed there would be a second date.

  Now he knew that he had no intention of asking Robyn out, and if she asked him out, he’d turn her down. And it had nothing to do with the fact that she’d spent the night with Dr. Kelley. But it did have everything to do with the fact that the more he learned about Robyn, the more she reminded him of Mary Lee. The truth had just hit him like a sledgehammer right between the eyes. If he got involved with Robyn, she would be a substitute for his ex-wife. And that wouldn’t be fair to Robyn or to him.

  With her coffee mug in hand, Bernie turned around and faced the others. “We knew Dr. Kelley being our assailant was a long shot. So now we’re back to no suspects and no clues.” She looked at Charlie. “Jim’s going to run a check using VICAP this morning. That’s a start anyway. I don’t suppose you have anything from your people yet, do you? Any evidence left in or around Thomasina’s car?”

  “It’s too soon for results,” Charlie replied. “But if this guy was never in her car…”

  “I know, I know,” Bernie said.

  “And that stretch of One-fifty-seven is pretty isolated, not much traffic, so I doubt anybody saw anything,” Ron added. “But we’re going to ask around, just in case. We might get lucky and find someone who saw something.”

  “Are we convinced that this has all the same earmarks as the Stephanie Preston abduction?” R.B. asked. He looked directly at Jim. “Have we got ourselves a serial killer?”

  “Possibly,” Jim replied. “Probably.”

  R.B. cursed under his breath. “How long will he keep her before he kills her?”

  “Stephanie Preston was murdered fourteen days after she disappeared,” Jim said. “And Jacque Reeves over in Fort Payne was missing for sixteen days before she was killed.”

  “Approximately two weeks.” R.B. grunted. “He rapes and tortures them for two weeks, then kills them.” He looked right at Bernie. “We’ve got two weeks, gal, to find this guy and stop him before he kills again.”

  “Yes, sir, I know that.” Bernie’s cheeks flushed.

  Jim had the craziest urge to step in between Bernie and her dad, to tell R.B. that Bernie was the sheriff, a very capable sheriff, and she didn’t need his badgering. But he kept quiet, knowing full well that neither Bernie nor R.B. would appreciate his interference in what was obviously a father/ daughter thing.

  R.B. turned back to Charlie. “So what’s our next step?”

  Charlie glanced at Bernie. “Well, since this isn’t officially an ABI case yet, the next step is up to the sheriff.”

  Jim wanted to slap Charlie on the back, shake his hand and thank him for figuratively reinstating Bernie to her elected position, for finding a way of tactfully putting R.B. in his place.

  R.B. grunted. “Ball’s in your court, gal.”

  Bernie gripped her coffee cup with both hands. “Unless someone comes forward to say they know something, that they saw something, there is no point in searching for Thomasina, is there? We’d have no idea where to look.” Bernie sipped on her coffee, then placed the mug on Jim’s desk. “If we had a profile of this guy, something to give us an idea of what kind of man we’re looking for, of who might be a suspect—”

  “I think I know somebody who could help us with that,” Jim said, remembering the former FBI profiler Griffin Powell had hired on the Quinn Cortez case. He glanced at Charlie. “Unless you can get—”

  “I could put in a request, but with the backlog at the FBI, I have no idea how long it might take.” Charlie grimaced. “If you’ve got an ‘in’ with an independent profiler, then I say go with it.”

  Jim checked with Bernie. “Sheriff, do I have your authorization to make some phone calls and ask for this profiler’s assistance?”

  Bernie hesitated for a split second; then she and her father spoke at once, both saying yes. Jim glowered at R.B.

  “Sorry, honey,” R.B. told his daughter. “I forget sometimes that I’m no longer the sheriff.”

  Bernie forced a smile, then said, “Go ahead, Jim, make your phone calls.” Her gaze traveled around the room, settling momentarily on each man. “Why don’t we vacate Jim’s office so he can make those calls?”

  The other three men nodded, mumbled agreement and cleared out of Jim’s office. Just before exiting, Bernie paused in the doorway. “I’m going to take Dad back to my office with me. I have a press conference to prepare for and he enjoys giving me pointers on how to handle the press.

  “If I line up this profiler, I’ll give you a call. No, scratch that. I’ll come over to your office. As your chief deputy and the lead detective on this case, I should be there when you give the press conference.”

  “Of course.”

  B
ernie closed the door behind herself. Jim stood there and watched her through the half glass as she walked up to her father, laced her arm through his and smiled at him with love and adoration in her eyes.

  Shaking off an odd feeling, Jim sat down behind his desk, removed a small black notepad from his shirt pocket and looked up Griffin Powell’s private number. After memorizing the Knoxville number, he glanced into the outer office and saw that it was empty. Ron Hensley must have walked out with the others. He couldn’t help wondering about Bernie and her father. Didn’t R.B. have any idea that by constantly ‘helping’ his daughter, he was undermining her confidence? Probably not. Although she was a grown woman and the duly elected sheriff of Adams County, R.B. undoubtedly still saw her as his little girl. And what man wouldn’t want to help and protect his child?

  Jim envied R.B. He wished his son loved and admired him half as much as Bernie did her father.

  Jim cleared the stray cobwebs from his mind, lifted the telephone receiver and dialed Griff’s number. His old college buddy was now a very wealthy man who owned a prestigious private security and investigation firm based in Knoxville, Tennessee. They had worked together on a high-profile case in Memphis not long ago, a case involving a serial killer.

  Sanders, Griffin’s personal assistant, answered on the fourth ring. “Powell residence.”

  “Sanders, this is Jim Norton. Is Griffin there?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s here.”

  “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”

  “If you’ll wait, I’ll let him know you’re on the line, Lieutenant Norton.”

  “Captain Norton,” Jim corrected in an offhand manner, not really thinking about what he’d said.

  “Congratulations, sir, on your promotion.”

  Jim chuckled. “Thanks.” No need to explain to Sanders that the so-called promotion had meant a job change, a move from one state to another and a demotion in pay.

  “I’ll see if Mr. Powell can come to the phone,” Sanders said.

  While Jim waited, he eyed the coffeemaker. Just as he rose from his chair, intending to get himself a cup of coffee, Griffin came on the line.

  “Jim?”

  “Yeah, Griff. I…uh…need a favor.”

  “All right.”

  “I left the Memphis PD recently.” He went on to explain about Mary Lee’s remarriage, his subsequent move to Adams Landing and his new job as chief deputy. “We have a possible serial killer on our hands here in Adams County. Two women have been kidnapped and murdered and, as of last night, a third has come up missing. We have very few clues and our only suspect in this latest case has an iron-tight alibi.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You can put me in touch with the profiler you used on the Quinn Cortez case.”

  “Derek Lawrence doesn’t work cheap,” Griffin said.

  “Yeah, I figured as much. I’m not sure the Adams County Sheriff’s Department can afford him, but we need him. Any chance you might intervene and see if he’ll give us a discount?”

  Griffin laughed. “Is that a subtle way of asking me if I’ll pick up the tab?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to—”

  “Derek owes me a favor. I’ll call in his IOU. But if I do, that means you’ll owe me one.”

  “Deal,” Jim said.”

  “Derek will be in touch with you by noon today.”

  “Thanks, Griff.”

  The dial tone hummed in Jim’s ear.

  There had been a time when he and Griffin Powell were best friends and teammates. They’d both had big dreams of turning pro after they graduated from UT. A couple of bad knees had ended any hopes of that pro career for Jim. But nobody knew what had happened to destroy Griffin’s plans. Shortly after graduation, he had disappeared off the face of the earth, then reappeared ten years later, a very rich man. A rich mystery man. Only Griffin could answer the questions of where he’d been and what had happened to him during those missing ten years. Griffin and possibly Sanders, the man who had returned with him from only God knew where.

  Chapter 13

  Jim took his lunch break at eleven-thirty, exactly five minutes after Allen Clark phoned with the news that Mary Lee had come through the surgery just fine. When Jim pulled up in front of the Granger house, he sat inside his old pickup for several minutes, pulling his thoughts together, figuring out exactly what he was going to say to his son.

  Be honest, but optimistic.

  As he emerged from his truck and walked up the sidewalk to the front door, his mind wandered back a dozen years to when Kevin had been a baby. And Mary Lee had been his wife. They’d been happy then, hadn’t they? He and Mary Lee had still been in love. They’d been proud parents planning a future for their son. A future that they’d believed would include the two of them raising Kevin and giving him a brother or a sister at some point down the line.

  Then everything had gone wrong. Little things at first. His obsession with his job. Mary Lee’s boredom and restlessness. The arguments. The accusations. And then his partner had been murdered and for a while, Jim had nearly lost his mind. After that, nothing had ever been the same again. Not with his marriage. Not with his life.

  Just as Jim reached out to ring the Grangers’ doorbell, he heard loud laughter and splashing water, the sounds coming from the back of the house. He vaguely remembered R.B. telling him to make sure Kevin brought along some swim trunks because they had a backyard pool. Jim stepped down off the porch, rounded the side of the house and opened the black wrought-iron gate. He stopped a good fifteen feet away and watched Kevin and R.B. in the pool. They tossed a huge beach ball back and forth, the boy and the man laughing. Brenda Granger, in a pair of yellow capri pants and a short-sleeved white blouse, stood on the patio watching the two, a wide smile on her face. As if sensing Jim’s presence, she turned and waved, then called to him.

  “Hello there. You’re just in time for lunch. We’re having hot dogs, potato chips, and chocolate pie,” Brenda said.

  Kevin tossed the ball out onto the patio, then swam across the pool and pulled himself out and onto his feet. “Hey, Dad. Any word on Mom?”

  Jim nodded. “Allen just phoned.”

  “How is your ex-wife?” Brenda asked in a hushed tone as she approached Jim. “We’ve been trying to keep Kevin occupied so he wouldn’t worry.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Granger. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything y’all have done for Kevin and me.”

  “It’s our pleasure. And please, remember to call me Brenda.”

  Kevin rushed up to Jim and looked him square in the eyes. “How is she? She’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “Allen said she came through surgery just fine. She’s still asleep. He’ll call us tonight and then if she feels up to it, your mother will call you tomorrow.” Jim glanced at Brenda. “I gave him your number. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Yes, of course, it is.” Brenda reached down and picked up a large beach towel from a nearby chaise lounge and handed it to Kevin, then turned to R.B., who had just emerged from the pool. “Come inside and help me get lunch on the table.”

  “Let me dry off first.”

  “Well, hurry up. I’m sure Jim needs a few minutes alone with Kevin,” Brenda said.

  As soon as the Grangers went into the house, Jim put his hand on Kevin’s back. “Let’s go sit on the deck and I’ll tell you what Allen told me.”

  They walked over to the deck that separated the patio area around the pool from the back of the house. As soon as they sat in a couple of cushioned, brown wicker chairs, Jim faced his son.

  “They removed your mother’s left breast. They’re testing the lymph nodes they removed during surgery, and they should know in a few days whether the cancer has spread. Either way, she’s looking at chemotherapy, which means she’ll lose her hair and the treatments will make her tired, sick and very weak.”

  “Mom will hate losing her hair.” Tears pooled in Kevin’s eyes.

 
Jim wanted to pull the boy into his arms and hug him. He wished he could promise his son that everything would be all right, that there was no chance his mom would die. Be optimistic, he reminded himself, but be honest.

  “Your mom’s a tough lady. She’s a fighter. She won’t let this thing beat her.”

  Kevin glanced down at the deck floor. “She’s not going to want me to see her sick.”

  “Probably not.”

  “It’ll be a good while before I get to see her again, won’t it?”

  “I know it’ll be rough on you not seeing her, but we’ve got to think about her right now. What she wants and needs.”

  Kevin lifted his head and blinked. Teardrops clung to his eyelashes. “Allen will take good care of her. He loves her.”

  Jim swallowed hard. He heard his son’s unspoken words: You didn’t take care of her. You don’t love her. All the old guilt resurfaced. He could have stayed with Mary Lee. He could have forgiven her for sleeping with other men. If he’d swallowed his pride. But how did a man erase the image of his wife screwing another man in their bed? Jim had walked in on them in the middle of the act and he’d come very close to killing both of them. Even now, he could still feel a little of that old rage.

  But Kevin didn’t know what his mother had done, would never know if it was up to Jim to tell him. Besides, he was too young to understand then and now. All Kevin knew was that his dad had divorced his mom. And felt that his dad had divorced him, too.

  “She’s not going to die, is she?” Kevin almost choked on his tears.

  Clenching his teeth, praying he would say and do the right thing, Jim reached over and laid his hand on Kevin’s damp knee.

  “I don’t think so,” Jim said.

  Brenda Granger opened the back door and called to them, “Lunch is ready, you two.”

  “Come on, son.” Jim stood. “Let’s go eat.”

  When Kevin got up, Jim placed his arm around his son’s shoulders. Kevin shrank away from Jim, but stayed in step at his side as they headed for the house.

  Jim sat at his desk and studied the information he’d gotten when he ran their killer’s MO through VICAP. There were numerous women who’d been raped, tortured and murdered, many of them killed by having their throats slit. But there were only four murder cases that were practically identical to what they knew about Stephanie Preston’s and Jacque Reeves’s abductions and murders. And there was a fifth murder case that had some similarities. All five women had been killed in the Southeastern part of the United States, all within the past five years. Two in Georgia—Julie Patton and Michelle McMahon; one in Tennessee—Courtney Pettus; one in North Carolina—Sara Hayes; and one in South Carolina—Shannon Elmore. Jim had no idea if these women had anything in common other than the fact they were all victims of brutal rapes and murders, their killer’s MO practically identical to the killer now stalking women in northeastern Alabama. But did that mean all these women had been murdered by the same man?