Dead By Morning

Chapter 10

The Assistant Superintendent, the Chief Inspector, and Inspector Yates Thompson, who was in charge of the Patterson murder case, met with Derek, Maleah, and Brendan Richter. Derek seriously doubted that even the inspector would have agreed to this meeting if not for Griffin Powell’s considerable influence. How Griff went about getting what he wanted, Derek never asked, but he had a pretty good idea that his boss used whatever means necessary to achieve his desired goal.

After personally assuring them that everything humanly possible would be done to find the person who had killed Errol, the Assistant Superintendent shook their hands again, as did the Chief Inspector. Pretty much as he had thought, these two men had been commanded to put in an appearance, an order no doubt issued by the Commissioner of Police himself. But it was unlikely that they were expected to do more than that—show up, talk the talk, make assurances and appease the Powell agents.

“Inspector Thompson will answer any questions you have,” the Chief Inspector said. “He will cooperate with you in any way possible and will keep you updated on the investigation.”

Once his superiors departed, the tall, rawboned, ebony-skinned Thompson invited them to sit, which they did. But he remained standing.

“My orders are to cooperate with you,” Thompson said. “And naturally, I will follow the Chief Inspector’s orders, although I am unaccustomed to civilians involving themselves in police business.”

“We understand,” Richter said. “But Errol Patterson’s murder is no ordinary murder case.”

“So I have been told.” Thompson glanced from Richter to Derek and then his gaze settled on Maleah. “You were Mr. Patterson’s friends, yes?”

“Errol Patterson worked as an agent for the Powell Security and Investigation Agency, just as we do,” Maleah replied.

Thompson nodded. “I understand other Powell agents have also been murdered in the past few months.”

“Before Mr. Patterson was killed, yes, there were four others connected to our agency. We suspect all four deaths were the work of a serial killer,” Derek said.

“One victim was an agent, one a secretary, one the brother of an agent, and the fourth the father of an agent,” Richter told the inspector.

Thompson nodded again. “And these four people were murdered in a similar manner and you suspect the same killer in all three?”

“That’s right,” Richter replied, a note of aggravation in his voice.

Thompson tapped a file folder lying on his desk. “Mr. Patterson died almost instantly. His jugular was punctured, his trachea severed and his carotid arteries slashed.” He paused, as if waiting for one of them to say something. When they didn’t, he continued. “His wife found his body in the bathroom next to the tub which was filled to overflowing.”

Derek and Maleah looked at each other, but said nothing.

“Were the others killed in a similar fashion?” Thompson asked.

“They were,” Richter said. “Was there anything else, anything unusual about the body?”

Thompson’s lips curved downward in a contemplative frown. “I assume you are referring to the triangular pieces of flesh cut from the victim’s upper arms and thighs.”

Yes, that was exactly what Richter had been referring to, that final piece of information that irrefutably linked Patterson’s murder to the other four.

“Yes,” Derek and Richter answered simultaneously.

“An autopsy will be performed,” the inspector said. “And a toxicology screening has been ordered. Mr. Patterson was a large man in his prime, a security agent trained to protect himself and others, so how was it possible for someone to overpower him? And why did his wife sleep soundly while her husband was being murdered?”

“They were both drugged.” Richter stated the obvious.

“We suspect so, yes.”

Derek’s opinion of Inspector Thompson as an investigator rose by several degrees.

“In the other four murders, the killer left behind no evidence that could help identify him or enable the police to track him,” Derek said. “Is that true in this case?”

Thompson grunted. “Unfortunately, yes.” He looked directly at Derek. “That is the sign of a true professional, is it not, Mr. Lawrence.”

Thompson had done his homework, no doubt running a check on the three of them, which meant he knew that Derek was a former FBI profiler.

“Professional in the sense that he was no amateur,” Derek said. “He is a skilled killer, which tells us that he’s killed before, perhaps numerous times.”

The thought that the copycat could be a gun-for-hire had crossed his mind, but that possibility was only one of several scenarios that he had considered. Until he had more evidence to back up any one theory, he had no intention of suggesting to Griff that the man they were hunting could be a professional assassin.

As if understanding Derek’s assessment of the situation, Thompson simply nodded before inquiring, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”

“I think Ms. Perdue and I have what we need,” Derek said.

“And you, Mr. Richter?”

“I would like to speak to the first responders on the scene,” Richter said. “As well as any witnesses your people interviewed. I’ll need copies of all the reports, photographs, and preliminary findings.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Perdue will be leaving Nassau tomorrow, but I will be staying on for several weeks, as the Powell Agency representative.”

Inspector Thompson barely managed to hide his negative reaction. He quickly turned his frown into a forced smile as he shook hands with each of them.

“I wish you both a safe flight tomorrow.” And then his dark gaze settled on Richter, each man sizing up the other. “I have the greatest respect for you, as a former ICPO agent, Mr. Richter. I suspect I may be able to learn a great deal from you.”

Yes, Inspector Thompson had done his homework. Derek didn’t doubt that the man probably knew what he, Richter, and Maleah had each eaten for breakfast that morning.

Nic knew her husband well enough to understand that he was not concerned about his own life, but was greatly concerned about her welfare as well as the lives of everyone associated with the Powell Agency. He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. His primitive protective instincts made him a dangerous opponent when those he cared about were in danger, but those same instincts were his personal Achilles’ heel, his only weakness. Griffin Powell’s ability to love equaled if not surpassed the passion with which he hated. She admired his ability to stay calm under pressure, a trait she tried to emulate. But beneath that cool, controlled exterior, a violent rage smoldered just below the surface.

And it was that rage inside Griff that worried her.

They had calmly discussed the untraceable phone call he had received at the Nassau resort. She had struggled to match his restrained composure when faced with a threat against both of them.

If I don’t decide to kill her first, your wife will make a lovely widow.

“He’s taunting me,” Griff had said. “He wants me to know that all roads lead to Rome, that every murder is leading him closer to me.”

“Maybe he just wants you to think that. Maybe he’s trying to steer us in the wrong direction.”

“Maybe, but unlikely.”

Nic still wasn’t totally convinced that Griff was the ultimate target, that the copycat killings were connected to his past, to a dead man named York. Admittedly, that possibility frightened her far more than any other. Was that why she clung so doggedly to other theories?

At his request, she joined Griff in the agency’s home office, an area inside their house that had been designed to allow Griff to oversee his vast empire without ever leaving Griffin’s Rest. The Powell Building, located in downtown Knoxville, housed the inner workings of the agency, as well as the staff for the numerous Powell philanthropic endeavors. Each year, the Powell Empire required more and more employees, which meant that at the present time, approximately two hundred people and their families were at risk. Of course, those directly employed by the Powell Agency comprised only the tip of the iceberg. Indirectly, Griffin Powell employed countless thousands.

When she entered the state-of-the-art office suite, Nic paused in the doorway, allowing her gaze to travel around the room and pause on each occupant. Her initial thought—“round up the usual suspects”—would have made her smile if not for the seriousness of the situation.

Dr. Yvette Meng, the epitome of exotic elegance, stood away from the others, alone and infallibly serene. If her goal had been to be as inconspicuous as possible, she had failed. There was no way the dark-eyed beauty, whose very presence in any room commanded attention, could be overlooked.

Sanders stood behind Griff, who sat at the head of the conference table. She respected her husband’s guard dog, which was the way she thought of the quiet, reserved man with the perpetual hint of sadness in his dark eyes.

Barbara Jean, her friend and confidant, glanced up from where she sat in her wheelchair at the far end of the table. She offered Nic an encouraging smile. One of the many things Nic loved about Barbara Jean was her optimistic outlook on life, which considering the tragedies she had endured was in and of itself a miracle.

Powell agents filled five of the ten chairs at the table, leaving the end chair—her chair—unoccupied. As she entered the office, she quickly noted which agents had been called in for duty at Griffin’s Rest. Shaughnessy Hood, who had been with the agency since its infancy, a bear of a man at six-six and three hundred pounds; Luke Sentell, a former Black Ops commando, the most mysterious and most deadly member of the team; Saxon Chappelle, a Harvard graduate, who like Derek Lawrence possessed a borderline genius IQ. And then there were the two female agents: Feisty, petite Angie Sterling Moss, five months pregnant and presently on restricted duty. And Michelle Allen, an expert in martial arts, recruited after the death of her fiancé with whom she had owned a franchise of martial art studios throughout the state of Tennessee.

As Nic approached the conference table, Griff looked at her. The moment she took her seat, Griff broke eye contact with her and surveyed the others in the room.

“Starting today, from now until the Copycat Carver is apprehended, security at Griffin’s Rest will be tripled and access both in and out of the estate will be limited. Those living here should be safer than any of the Powell employees living and working on the outside. Unfortunately, we have no way to predict who the copycat has chosen as his next victim.”

An unnatural silence fell over the room.

“Luke will be leaving tomorrow for an assignment in London,” Griff said.

Nic tensed. Griff had deliberately not discussed Luke’s new assignment with her. She knew he had been trying to protect her, trying to postpone the inevitability that his actions would upset her, and trying to avoid yet another argument. But what she couldn’t get through his stubborn head was how that type of protective maneuver only made matters worse in the end.

“Angie, you may choose whether you want to stay here at Griffin’s Rest or if you prefer to take a temporary leave of absence. Talk it over with your husband and let him know that he’s welcome to stay here with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Angie replied. “Thank you.”

“I’m bringing in Cully Redmond,” Griff said. “He will join you three—Michelle, Shaughnessy, and Saxon—who will rotate between the house here and Dr. Meng’s retreat. You will be on duty twelve hours and off twelve, but you will not leave the estate.”

Griff had made his decisions without including her in the process. Oh, she could call him on it and he would tell her that they had discussed the situation. They had, to some degree, but talking about something and making definite decisions on how to handle the problem were not the same thing.

She knew he was doing what had to be done, and she agreed with his decisions, even the one to send Luke Sentell to London. She also knew that he would move heaven and earth to protect those he loved. And in her heart of hearts, she knew that he loved her more than anyone or anything and that he would die to protect her.

Poppy Chappelle loved her grandmother, loved the big old house in Ardsley Park, Savannah’s first suburb, a mere ten-minute drive from downtown, and loved her summers here with her father’s family. She had been barely two years old when her parents divorced, so she couldn’t actually remember a time when the three of them had been together. Her memories of her dad were sketchy, but she had a picture in her mind of a big, sandy-haired man who had laughed a lot and had called her “my little sugarplum.” He and his latest lady friend had died when his single-engine Cessna had crashed on their flight back from Vegas five years ago.

“Miss Poppy,” Heloise, her grandmother’s housekeeper and companion for the past forty years called to her just as she reached the front door. “Your grandmother wanted me to remind you that she is expecting guests for dinner. You need to be home no later than five-thirty.”

“I’ve already promised her that I won’t be late. She knows that I’m going sailing with Court and Anne Lee this afternoon.”

Heloise snorted. “Mr. Court and Miss Anne Lee are totally irresponsible. Your grandmother is sorely disappointed in those two.”

“It’s hardly their fault if they’re spoiled brats,” Poppy said. “Grandmother should blame their parents for their behavior, but she won’t criticize Aunt Mary Lee the way she does my mother because she’s her daughter.”

“I have no intention of getting into a conversation with you about the dynamics of the Chappelle family. It’s not my place to agree or disagree with you. I shouldn’t have said anything about your cousins. I simply meant to remind you not to be late this evening.”

Poppy rushed over to Heloise and hugged her. The dour-faced old maid who seldom smiled cleared her throat and patted Poppy’s back.

“You’re a good one, Miss Poppy. You and your uncle Saxon. You two are the best of the lot, if you ask me.” She shoved Poppy away and gave her a push toward the front door. “You behave yourself with those hooligan cousins of yours and don’t let them get you into any trouble.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

A car horn announced her cousins’ arrival. Poppy opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She paused, glanced over her shoulder and waved at Heloise, then bounded down the brick steps and hopped into Court Dandridge’s black BMW M6 convertible.

Maleah and Derek ordered dinner in her suite, the same luxury suite that Nic and Griff had occupied before their departure from Nassau that morning. Nic had insisted she use the suite since it was paid for through the end of the week. The butler, included with the suite, cleared away the table, stacked the dishes on a serving cart and wheeled it away.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the prim and proper butler asked.

“Uh . . . no, thank you.”

“Very well.”

As soon as he pushed the cart out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, Maleah laughed.

“What’s funny?” Derek asked.

“I’m glad I’m not rich. I don’t think I’d ever get used to hot and cold running servants.”

Derek stared at her, an odd expression in his black eyes. “You have to be the only woman I know who wouldn’t love having servants to do her bidding.”

“You need to get to know a better class of women.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

She eyed their twin laptops, provided by the agency, lying side by side where they had placed them on the coffee table when the butler had set the table for their dinner. “We should check to see if Sanders has any new info for us before we go over the list Warden Holland gave you.”

“You check your e-mail and I’ll pull up the file containing the list of Browning’s visitors, telephone calls, and correspondence.”

Maleah picked up her computer and took it with her over to the sofa. She kicked off her low-heel sandals, wriggled her toes, and settled at the end of the sofa. After flipping open her laptop, with an attached USB-Connect device, she logged on to her Powell Agency e-mail account.

“Nothing from Sanders,” Maleah said.

After removing his sports coat, neatly folding it and laying it across the back of one of the chairs at the dining table, he got his laptop and joined Maleah on the sofa. They sat at opposite ends, leaving a wide space between them. Derek pulled up the file that Warden Holland had sent him about an hour ago. This was his first chance to take a look at the lists.

“Want me to read it to you or would you rather we take a look at this together?” he asked.

She shrugged. She wanted to read the info herself, but that meant close contact with Derek, something she usually avoided.

Grow up, will you, Maleah, she told herself. He may have a Don Juan reputation, but it’s not as if he’s going to try anything with you. The guy is no more interested in you—in that way—than you are him. You’re not his type. And God knows he’s not your type.

Who was she kidding? Derek Lawrence was every woman’s type.

She scooted across the sofa until she sat beside him, only inches separating their bodies. He grinned. She faked a pleasant smile. He lifted his laptop and rested it between them, one edge on her left knee and the other edge on his right knee.

Look at the damn computer and stop thinking about Derek’s knee pressed against yours.

“The first list has the names of all of Browning’s visitors for the past year,” Derek said.

They looked over the list, which turned out to be extremely brief.

“There are only three names,” Maleah said.

“Albert Durham, Cindy Di Blasi, and Wyman Scudder,” Derek read. “Scudder is listed as his lawyer. He visited him twice.”

“The other two are listed as friends.”

“Did the warden send Sanders a copy of this?”

“I don’t know, but I forwarded it to him before lunch, just in case.”

“Then it’s too soon for us to expect Sanders to have found out anything about these people.”

Derek grunted. “Let’s move on to telephone calls.”

“Same three names,” Maleah said. “His lawyer and his two friends. One call to the lawyer, one call to Durham and one call every week to Ms. Di Blasi.”

“Curious. I’m surprised Browning hasn’t asked for conjugal visits.”

“Don’t make me sick. What woman in her right mind would willingly have sex with a psycho like Browning?”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Derek told her.

Maleah groaned. “Don’t remind me about how many screwed-up women there are in this world, women who willingly demean themselves. They make me ashamed of my own sex.”

“Women don’t hold a monopoly on stupidity. The world is full of pussy-whipped men being led around by the nose by heartless bitches who get their kicks out of emasculating the idiots.”

Maleah snapped her head up and stared at Derek. Their gazes joined instantly, fusing together like two pieces of hot metal. Good God Almighty! She and Derek were two sides of the same coin. Why had she never realized that fact until two seconds ago?

“Uh . . . did we just say the same thing, sort of?” she asked, still partially puzzled by the revelation.

“Sort of,” he agreed. “You have no respect for weak, spineless women who let men use them. I have no respect for weak, spineless men who let women walk all over them.”

If you know what’s good for you, you’ll break eye contact with him. Do it now before something happens between the two of you that you will regret.

“We should look at the third list,” she said, her voice softened by emotion.

“Right.” He looked straight at the computer as he brought the next list up on the screen.

“Hmm . . . two names,” Maleah said. “Albert Durham and Cindy Di Blasi. He received two letters from Durham and sent two replies to the man.”

“Cindy has written to him every week for the past four months and he has replied to every letter.” Derek went back to the first list. “Check out the dates. Durham visited for the first time five months ago, and then four months ago, Di Blasi visited for the first time. Why did they both start visiting Browning all of a sudden?”

“What about the phone calls?” Maleah asked.

They scanned the list of Browning’s telephone calls again, checking the dates. “He called Durham two days after Durham’s first visit.”

“And he called Di Blasi two days after her first visit.” Maleah pointed to the date. “Do you think there’s a connection between Durham and Di Blasi?”

“There could be,” Derek said. “It depends on exactly who Cindy Di Blasi is and what her relationship with Browning is and how long they’ve known each other. She could be just one of those women who is fascinated by hardened criminals.”

“And if she’s not some wacko who’s fallen in love with Browning?”

“We don’t need to get ahead of ourselves and put the cart before the horse. Until Sanders does a background check and we know who these people are, we’re wasting our time trying to figure how they’re connected to Browning.”

“Call Sanders and ask him to do a rush job on those background checks,” Maleah told him. “And I’m going to get in touch with Warden Holland.”

“Dare I ask why you’re calling the warden?”

“He told me that he needed twenty-four hours’ notice for me to see Browning again. I plan to talk to Browning again tomorrow afternoon.”

When Derek didn’t respond, she said, “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

“We’re not in agreement,” he told her. “But I choose my battles wisely.”

Ignoring his remark, she said, “The copycat killer is going to strike again. We all know it’s only a matter of time. If there’s one chance in a million that Browning knows something about the copycat, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get him to tell me what he knows.”

“And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Their glazes clashed, but neither said anything, each knowing the other would not give an inch in a confrontation.