Dead By Morning

Chapter 11

Derek had misgivings about Maleah seeing Browning again, but had kept his concerns to himself. Although he hadn’t tried to talk her out of coming to the penitentiary today, he had insisted on accompanying her. She tried not to think about how protective Derek was, chalking it up to just a generic masculine trait that all men possessed. It was nothing personal.

She had to admit that in some ways Derek reminded her of her brother Jackson. She suspected that as Jack had once done, Derek would volunteer to be her standin and take any beatings intended for her. And that, too, wasn’t personal. The guy probably saw himself as hero material. After all, it was no secret that Derek Lawrence had a reputation with the ladies. Women tended to take one look at the guy and swoon at his feet.

She could not deny she understood why women swooned. He was incredibly handsome.

Good God, Maleah, is that ever an understatement.

Derek was drop-dead, eat-him-with-a-spoon gorgeous. And he was highly intelligent and rich and charming. And he made her laugh. But on the other hand, he could be an arrogant know-it-all. And his way-with-the-ladies was just a nicer way of saying he was a womanizer.

Maleah didn’t want Derek or anyone else protecting her from the big, bad world. She no longer needed a big brother to run interference for her. She was fully capable of taking care of herself in every way. She was an excellent marksman, adept with both a handgun and a rifle. She had earned a black belt in karate, thanks to Michelle Allen’s excellent tutelage. She earned a six-figure yearly salary as a Powell agent, so she certainly didn’t need to depend on anyone else financially. And after several years of intensive counseling, she was in a reasonably healthy place mentally and emotionally.

Okay, so she still had some control issues.

The creak of an opening door followed by the clinking of chains against the floor brought Maleah from her thoughts and into the present moment.

Standing with her back rigid, her hands gripping and releasing repeatedly, she took several deep breaths and did her best to relax. Browning would instantly sense her nervousness and use it against her. He was the type of animal who would pick up the scent of fear and gladly use it against his opponent, quickly seeing them as easy prey.

Maleah was once again slightly disoriented by the man’s good looks and air of sophistication, even in his simple prison attire. And once again she wondered how many people had been fooled by this man’s physical appearance.

“How delightful to see you again, Maleah,” Browning said as the guard indicated for him to sit. “You’re looking quite lovely. That shade of teal brings out the green in your eyes.”

She ignored his compliment. Odd that the salesclerk who had sold her the blouse had said exactly the same thing about the teal bringing out the green in her hazel brown eyes.

“Your copycat has killed again,” Maleah said. Succinct and to the point.

“Has he? Male or female?”

“Male.”

“Not brown-eyed.”

“No, not brown-eyed. But then none of your victims were brown-eyed, were they?”

“My mother was brown-eyed. I loved my mother. She died when I was six, you know.”

“Yes, I know. You were an only child. Your father married a woman with two daughters and a son. You tried to strangle one of the daughters. You were ten years old. Your father sent you to live with your mother’s uncle.”

His sickening sweet smile never faltered, but she noted the momentary flash of anger in his eyes. “Did you find my life story fascinating?”

“I found it instructive. Tracing your life from birth to the present allowed me to see the slow, steady progression of a psychopath from a boy who tried to kill his stepsister, to a teenager who killed six young women, to an adult serial killer who got his kicks from slitting his victim’s throats and slicing pieces of their flesh from their arms and legs.”

“Souvenirs. Little trophies that I could take out and look at from time to time.”

“In order to relive each kill?”

“Something like that.” He looked up at her. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, or do you think standing over me gives you some type of psychological advantage? I assure you, it doesn’t.”

“Then what difference does it make to you whether I sit or stand?”

He shrugged. “I simply thought you might be more comfortable sitting. And it might be more pleasant for both of us if we’re facing each other, eye to eye.”

Maleah made an instant decision. She walked over and sat down in the chair facing Browning, the protection of two guards securely between her and any physical danger. But she and Browning were now at the same eye level. She squared her shoulders and calmly rested her loosely clasped hands in her lap.

“Now, isn’t that better?” Browning asked.

“I have a question.”

“Let me guess . . . hmm . . . You want to know what I did with my souvenirs. The police never found them, you know.”

“I’m not interested in your souvenirs. It doesn’t really matter where you stored them. Not to the police. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“He’s not keeping them the way I did, is he?”

How the hell did he know that? “No, he isn’t.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew?”

“If I did, would you tell me?”

Browning laughed, the sound as smooth as his silky voice. It was a practiced laugh, nothing about it genuine. “I find it curious that you have no interest in my trophies, considering the fact that I took eight little triangular souvenirs from Noah Laborde’s body. I could tell you about that night, every detail, from the moment I punctured his jugular until I left him on the banks of the Chattahoochee River.”

Noah’s smiling face—young, handsome, sweet—flashed through her mind. “I want the answer to a question.”

“Then ask your question.” He seemed only slightly perturbed that she remained unfazed by his reminder that he had killed Noah.

“Who’s Cindy Di Blasi?”

Browning stared at Maleah as if trying to see inside her head, wondering how much she already knew and what price she was willing to pay for his answer.

“Cindy is a lady friend.”

“How did you meet her?”

“We have friends in common.”

“How long have you known her?”

“For a while.”

“How long is a while?” Maleah asked.

“That’s four questions,” he reminded her.

“And only three answers.”

“A mutual friend on the outside hooked me up with Cindy. A guy gets lonesome for a little female companionship in a place like this.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You could say that Cindy is my girlfriend.” Browning winked at Maleah. “If Cindy finds out about you, she’s going to be jealous.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Browning laughed again, just a hint of sincerity in the sound.

Maleah didn’t buy any of it. Not the part about Cindy being a friend of an old friend. Or that she visited Browning, wrote him letters, and took his phone calls because she was now his girlfriend. Maleah didn’t know who Cindy di Blasi was or what her real relationship was with Browning, but she intended to find out.

“Is Albert Durham a friend, too?” she asked.

Browning smiled. “An acquaintance. And before you ask, Wyman Scudder is my lawyer.” He leaned forward, his piercing gaze unnerving and intimidating.

Maleah didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Good try, you cunning son of a bitch, but no cigar. Not this time. That crazy, I’m-dangerous glare doesn’t scare me.

“Interesting,” Browning said. “Nerves of steel, huh, Maleah? Makes me wonder just what it would take to unnerve you, just how hot the pressure would have to be to melt that steel.”

He knew that she knew what this game was all about, that his ultimate goal was to see her fall apart completely. He would keep chipping away at her armor, searching for the weak spots.

“Sticks and stones, Jerome,” she told him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He studied her for several minutes. She examined him just as thoroughly. Whatever he dished out, she could take, and then dish it right back to him.

“I’m glad that you’re not afraid of me,” he finally said. “Makes things all the more interesting, doesn’t it? I’ll be thinking about you during the time between your visits. Thinking about curling your long blond hair around my finger.” He held up his right index finger. “Thinking about running my hands down your throat. Thinking about what I could do to make you afraid of me . . . very afraid.”

“If you don’t tell me something I consider useful in my investigation about Cindy Di Blasi or Albert Durham or the copycat killer, I won’t be coming back for another visit.”

“Oh, Maleah, you disappoint me. Resorting to idle threats?”

“Not a threat. Just stating a fact. I have no intention of wasting my time pursuing a dead end. And that’s what you’re becoming, Jerome—a dead end.”

He tensed his jaw and narrowed his gaze. One hand curled into a tight fist. She had pushed the right buttons. Mentally patting herself on the back, Maleah rose to her feet.

“Leaving already?” he asked.

“Unless you want to answer my questions.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’ll come to see me again,” he told her.

“Only if I get what I want before I leave today. And I’m on my way out right now, so you’d better hurry.”

Silence.

She turned her back on him and walked toward the door where her escort waited. “I’m ready to go now,” she told the uniformed guard.

The guard opened the door.

“Wait,” Browning called to her.

She paused.

“Albert Durham is writing my biography,” Browning said.

Maleah’s breath caught in her throat. Durham was a writer? If so, then he had come to the prison to interview Jerome, to pick his brain for information. Was it possible that Durham was the copycat killer?

“Thank you, Jerome.”

“You’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow,” she told him. “But soon.”

Derek didn’t immediately question Maleah about the interview. Outwardly, she seemed completely unaffected by today’s encounter with Browning. She shook hands with Warden Holland, thanked him and requested a third interview for next Monday.

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.”