Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “Yes, sir.”

  Griff answered on the fifth ring, his gut warning him who the caller was. “Powell here.”

  “Hello, Griff.”

  Apparently sensing the tension in Griff, Nic reached over and tapped his arm, then mouthed, “Is it him?”

  Griff nodded to Nic, then spoke to the caller. “What can I do for you?”

  A soft chuckle. “It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”

  “And just what would that be?”

  “I can give you a new clue.”

  “On one of the five past murders or one of the future murders?”

  “Ah, you and Nic have been busy, haven’t you? I’m impressed that you’ve already discovered information about all five of them.”

  Then there really had been only five. But that was five too many. Five innocent young women who had died at the hands of a monster. “Yeah, we know that there were five.”

  “I’m going to capture Number Six day after tomorrow, so you see, I’m giving you thirty-six hours’ notice.”

  Griff held his breath. Damn this arrogant, crazy son of a bitch.

  “Did you hear me?” the caller asked.

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “That was the first part of your clue. Want the second part?”

  “You’re going to give me the second part whether I want it or not, so why ask me?”

  “Frustrated already?” Another nasty chuckle.

  Griff didn’t respond.

  “Debbie Glover,” the caller said, then hung up.

  Griff lifted his phone away from his ear and clutched it in his hand as he repeated the name over and over in his mind. Who the hell was Debbie Glover? The intended victim? No, that would make it too easy.

  “What did he say?” Nic asked.

  “He’s abducting another victim day after tomorrow, in thirty-six hours, which means sometime early Wednesday.”

  “Was that all he said?”

  Before Griff could answer Nic, her cell phone rang. Their gazes met and locked.

  “He’s calling me this time,” Nic said as she removed her phone from her pocket.

  “He’s enjoying himself,” Griff told her.

  Nic flipped open her phone. “Hello.”

  “My darling Nicole, how lovely to hear your voice.”

  “I can’t say the same. I hate hearing your voice.”

  Laughter.

  “I have two clues for you,” the caller told her. “Two for Griff and two for you.”

  Nic waited.

  “She’s a blonde,” he said. “I have a personal preference for brunettes, but I don’t want to discriminate against blondes and redheads, now do I?”

  Nic swallowed hard.

  “If you don’t say something and let me hear your sweet voice again, I won’t give you the other clue,” he told her.

  “Give me a really good clue—tell me where you are,” Nic said.

  “Ah, that’s my girl. Feisty as ever.”

  Griff was right. This sick bastard was enjoying himself. He loved drawing Griff and her into his game, into the planning and preparation stage. He needed them, needed their participation in order to achieve the optimum pleasure. But unfortunately, they couldn’t simply refuse to play along, not if even one thing he said to them could help them figure out who he was or who his next victim might be.

  “I’m at home,” he told her. “I’ll be leaving in the morning, on my way to stalk my prey before I capture her and … But you don’t want to hear about all that, do you? You want your other clue.”

  Nic held her breath.

  “Rubies and lemon drops.”

  He hung up.

  Nic frowned, totally puzzled by his statement.

  “Well?” Griff asked.

  “He’s crazy.”

  “We already knew that.”

  “Blonde,” Nic said. “He told me that his next victim is blonde.”

  “And he’s going to capture her Wednesday.”

  “What was your other clue?”

  “It didn’t make any sense.”

  “Neither did mine,” Nic said. “But what was it?”

  “A woman’s name—Debbie Glover.”

  “Does the name mean anything to you? Do you know a Debbie Glover?”

  “The name is meaningless. I have no idea who she is,” Griff said.

  “Maybe there’s a connection between her and rubies and lemon drops.”

  “What?”

  “His second clue for me was rubies and lemon drops.”

  “Contact Trotter,” Griff said. “And I’ll get in touch with Sanders. We’ll run a trace on the name and put a few more heads together to work on figuring out the clues. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” She lifted the notepad from her lap and handed it to Griff. “In the meantime, I need to get to Atlanta tonight.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Their gazes met and held for a split second, a silent understanding passing between them. They were still unwilling partners, at least for the time being.

  Griff had dropped Nic off at police headquarters over two hours ago, where she was meeting with the local police and an agent from the Atlanta FBI field office. Griff had driven to the downtown Sheraton and checked in. Before they’d left Lufkin, he had contacted Sanders, who had made arrangements for a one-bedroom suite and a separate single room at the four-star hotel.

  “When you finish up with what you need to do, catch a cab and come on over to the Sheraton, downtown, on Court-land Street,” Griff had told her. “If you’ll call me on the way, I’ll order supper and when you get there we can see if we can make sense of our four clues.”

  Kicking back, with his jacket and tie off, Griff relaxed in the suite’s lounge. He’d ordered coffee when he first arrived and was now on his third cup. He wasn’t concerned about caffeine consumption. He figured he wouldn’t sleep much tonight anyway.

  As he was studying the notepad filled with Nic’s scrawling handwriting, going over the information once again, his cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he answered on the second ring.

  “You have something for me?” Griff asked.

  “Yes and no,” Sanders replied. Damar Sanders was more than Griff’s right-hand man. He was his best friend, his confidante, his father confessor, and sometimes his conscience. Their relationship went back eighteen years and nothing short of death would ever sever their unique bond.

  “Give me the yes first,” Griff said.

  “Very well. I compiled a list of all the Debbie Glovers I could find in the U.S. and then I narrowed them down to those in the South, including Texas, Oklahoma, Kentucky, and Maryland.”

  “And?”

  “And there were far too many to be able to find out even the most basic facts on all of them before Wednesday morning.”

  “Narrow the search to only those between twenty and thirty.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And I am now running a search on those women, but it will take time to discover their professions.”

  “Anyone whose profession implies she would be in really good physical condition is to go on the list,” Griff said. “As soon as we’ve narrowed it down to a reasonable number, we’ll start narrowing them down to the ones who are blondes.”

  “Do you think he has actually given you the next victim’s name?” Sanders asked.

  “I have no idea,” Griff admitted, “but unless we can figure out what else the name Debbie Glover could mean, how it could connect to his next victim, then I’m stumped. At least for now.”

  “I have called in several agents who are not presently on assignments to assist me,” Sanders said. “We are working on the clues, seeing if anyone can come up with any ideas as to what they might mean.”

  “At least everything made some sort of sense—day after tomorrow, Debbie Glover, and blonde—until the last clue. What the hell kind of clue is rubies and lemon drops?”

  “A cr
yptic one, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I hate like hell that he’s having so much fun doing this. He’s stringing us along, keeping us guessing, knowing damn well that we won’t refuse to play his game on the off chance we might be able to outsmart him.”

  “He needs the challenge.”

  “We know what kind of game he’s playing with Nic and me,” Griffin said. “What I need to know is what kind of murder game he’s playing with his victims. We found out that, at least with Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore, he kept them alive for approximately three weeks before he killed them.”

  “Can Special Agent Baxter find out more detailed information about each victim?”

  “I’m sure she can, but whether she’ll share that info with me is iffy.”

  “I’ll make some phone calls,” Sanders said. “If I find out anything, I’ll contact you immediately.”

  No sooner had Griff ended his conversation with Sanders than someone knocked on the outer door. He got up, but before he reached the door, a feminine voice called, “It’s me, Nic.”

  Although he’d told her he would book her a room for tonight, he hadn’t been sure she’d actually show up.

  When he opened the door, he found her standing there, shoulders drooped, makeup faded, eyes bleary, and an expression of pure disgust on her face.

  “I’d better have my own room,” she told him as she shoved past him and walked into the suite.

  “Naturally. I am a gentleman.”

  “That’s debatable.” She eyed the coffeepot on the table. “Tell me that’s not decaf.”

  “Good God, no.”

  She tossed her shoulder bag onto the nearest chair and headed straight for the coffee. After pouring herself a cup, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the sofa.

  “You look beat,” Griff said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Since you didn’t call, I haven’t ordered dinner. What would you like?”

  “Red meat.”

  Griff chuckled. “I’ll make it two steaks. How do you take yours?”

  “Medium-well,” she replied. “And I want a loaded potato.”

  While Nic sipped on the coffee, Griff placed their dinner order, then came over and sat down beside her. She gave him a sidelong glance.

  “I called Doug on the taxi ride over,” she said. “Earlier, I had asked him to find out what he could about the two other murders, the one in Oklahoma and the one in Virginia, and let me know if he unearthed anything.”

  “And?”

  When she didn’t immediately reply, he wondered if she had no intention of sharing what she’d learned with him.

  “So far, not much,” Nic said. “But putting together the info on what I found out about the murder here in Atlanta with the info on the four other murders, there is one more thing that definitely links all five, other than their all being shot in the head and scalped.” She heaved a deep sigh. “From the time each woman was discovered missing until her body was found hanging from a tree was between twenty-two and twenty-three days.”

  When Nic’s hand trembled just enough to shake the cup she held, Griff reached out to take the cup from her, but stopped short of touching her. Realizing his intention, she handed him the almost-empty cup.

  “All five, huh? So, why keep them for three weeks?” Griff set the cup aside, then leaned back into the sofa and faced Nic. “We need to know. Is he torturing them? Keeping them drugged? What? We know he didn’t rape Kendall and Gala, so he probably didn’t rape the others.”

  “Why does he scalp them?” Nic asked. “What does that convey about him, about the game? He shoots them in the head, apparently execution style, then he scalps them after they’re dead.”

  “The scalp is a trophy, as well as a memento.”

  “That means he’s keeping the scalps so he can look at them and relive each kill. Looking at the scalp triggers the memories and he can get high on recalling whatever led up to the final moments before he put a bullet in the woman’s head.”

  “Why would he need only women in superb physical condition?” Griff turned partially around, lifted one leg over the other, positioning his right ankle over his left knee.

  Nic rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. “Does he need them in great shape or does he want them in great shape?”

  “Take your pick. Either or.”

  “They’re all young, physically fit, and some are athletes. Their hair color varies, as does their physical description. Gala Ramirez was of Mexican descent, so she was different in that aspect.” Nic yawned. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

  “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you just relax until dinner arrives, then take a shower and go to bed. We can start fresh in the morning.”

  Nic shook her head and looked right at Griff. “I’m heading back to D.C. in the morning.”

  He had figured as much. “You’ll be in charge of the bureau’s investigation, right?”

  “Probably. Doug knows it’s what I want.”

  “And if he thinks you’re in cahoots with me, he won’t give you the assignment.”

  She lifted her head from the sofa and leaned toward him ever so slightly. “If the killer continues giving each of us clues, we’ll have no choice but to cooperate with each other, but for that reason only. You understand?”

  “Oh, yeah, I understand.”

  “So, while we’re together this evening, let’s not waste our time. Let’s discuss the clues. I assume your team has been searching for women named Debbie Glover, right? And maybe combining brain power to figure out what on earth rubies and lemon drops could mean.”

  “There are countless Debbie Glovers, but Sanders is narrowing the search. Whether or not we can narrow it down enough to do any good before Wednesday morning is doubtful.”

  “I’ve been going over various thoughts about rubies and lemon drops,” Nic said. “One is a precious gem and the other a candy. One is expensive, the other is cheap. You wear one and eat the other.”

  “Our guy knows we’ll drive ourselves crazy trying to figure out the clues and in the meantime, he’s making plans to abduct his sixth victim.”

  Griff’s cell phone rang.

  Both of them froze instantly.

  Griff retrieved his phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s not him.” He answered the call. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “We’ve just come across some rather interesting information,” Sanders said. “Actually Maleah came up with the idea of cross-referencing all the Debbie Glovers on the original list with a list of female athletes from all sports, professional and college, in the past thirty years.”

  “And?”

  “And there was a Debbie Glover who played basketball for Boston College fifteen years ago. And another Debbie Glover who was a golf pro back in the eighties.”

  “Are they the only two who are athletes?”

  “As far as we know.”

  “Both would be too old to be our victim, if our guy stays true to form,” Griff said. “But Debbie Glover’s sport—whichever Debbie Glover it is—could be the clue. The next victim might be a basketball player or a pro golfer.”

  Chapter 7

  Nic and Greg had bought a home in Woodbridge, Virginia, shortly after they married. It had made sense for them to live within easy driving distance of their jobs. She had worked in D.C. and he’d worked in Alexandria. When Greg died, she had taken a month off, then went to her boss and asked for a transfer to another field office. Anywhere in the U.S., just as long as it was away from D.C., away from all the memories, both good and bad. She’d worked in two states during that time and wound up heading a task force on the Beauty Queen Killer case when the Special Agent in Charge, Curtis Jackson, had retired. But when that case, for all intents and purposes, had been solved, she’d decided it was time to go home. Back to the D.C. field office, with a territory that covered not only D.C. but also cities surrounding the capital. Arlington. Alexandria. Quantico.

  Al
though she’d thought about selling the house in Woodbridge, she had, after letting it remain empty for over a year, put her furniture in storage and turned it over to a realtor to lease.

  If she’d thought time and distance would erase the memories, would heal her broken heart, and appease her guilty conscience, she’d been wrong. Moving back into the home she and Greg had purchased, decorated together, and lived in for the three years of their marriage hadn’t been easy. But she liked her house, liked the neighborhood, and felt comfortable here. So what if from time to time, she felt Greg’s presence? If his spirit lingered here, perhaps simply in her memories, then it was a kind, gentle spirit.

  Gregory Baxter had been a kind, gentle man.

  Nic turned over in bed—a king-size bed that she had bought new when she moved back into the Woodbridge house last summer—and glanced at the alarm clock. Five ten. The alarm was set for five thirty. She tossed back the light covers, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. After shutting off the alarm, she stood, stretched, and headed for the closet. When she was at home, she walked every morning in her neighborhood and the one adjoining it. Two miles. And she worked out at the gym three days a week.

  Once dressed and fully awake, she headed out the back door. It was barely daylight and already humid. She could feel the heavy moisture in the air. Early morning was the best time to walk, run, or jog in the summertime. In her twenties, she had jogged, but a knee injury had forced her to take her doctor’s advice and change to brisk walking. Better on the knee joints.

  As she set her pace and headed up the street, her body went on automatic pilot. Her route never varied. Although she might speak to a fellow walker or jogger, she never lingered to talk to anyone and really didn’t know her neighbors beyond her own block.

  For the past thirty-six hours, her thoughts had centered on one thing: somewhere out there a woman was going to be abducted this morning and there was nothing she could do to stop it from happening. It didn’t help that she and Griff had figured out three of the four clues. They knew that a blonde would be kidnapped this morning and in all likelihood she was either a basketball player or a golfer. How many women fit that description? Too many.