Dead By Morning

Chapter 22

Maleah had barely managed to force down a piece of toast and drink a cup of coffee that morning. Her stomach was tied in knots. She had put up a brave front, but suspected that Derek knew just how nervous she was. As she waited for the guard to bring in Jerome Browning, she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Her mind reeled with information overload. Focus, damn it, focus. Remember what Derek told you—don’t over-think anything, just go with your gut instincts.

The moment she heard the door open, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and stood tall and straight. The guard escorted a handcuffed and shackled Browning into the room. As on the previous visits, Browning was neatly groomed, clean-shaven, hair trimmed. His dark complexion appeared even darker against his prison uniform of white shirt and pants.

When he saw her, he smiled. “Hello, Maleah. How nice to see you this morning. May I say how lovely you look.”

“Thank you.” She approached the chair facing the one in which the guard placed Browning. Using the advantage of height, she stood and looked down at him. “I told you that I would come back to see you this week.”

“So you did.” As he looked up at her, his smile widened. “I appreciate a lady who keeps her word.”

Enough chit-chat. She wouldn’t waste another second on pleasantries.

“My partner and I met Albert Durham on Saturday.”

She watched Browning’s face for a reaction and saw nothing to indicate he was surprised or concerned. His smile didn’t waver. He didn’t even blink.

What had Derek said about someone not blinking? Did it mean he was lying? But lying about what? His calm reaction to her statement?

Don’t over-analyze.

Assume nothing.

“And how was he? Well, I hope,” Browning said.

“Quite well. And confused about why we had tracked him down to ask about his relationship with you.”

“Was he? Odd. I never found Albert to be confused about anything.”

Browning kept his gaze focused on Maleah’s face.

Unwavering eye contact. That meant Browning’s thoughts about what she had said were positive. Either that or it meant he didn’t trust her enough to take his eyes off her.

Damn it! All this reading body language shit was driving her nuts and defeating the purpose of gauging Browning’s reactions and reading between the lines of what he said or didn’t say.

Remember, gut instinct, first and foremost.

“I’m afraid the Albert Durham you know isn’t the real Albert Durham, the writer who has published more than a dozen biographies,” Maleah told him. “Whoever the man was who visited you under the pretense of writing your life story was a phony.”

Browning lifted his cuffed hands, tented them together and rubbed the tips of his index fingers across his chin. “Was he, indeed? How utterly fascinating.”

Rubbing the chin meant disbelief. Right? Didn’t Browning believe her? Who knew? Hell, maybe his chin itched.

“Did you know he was a phony?” she asked.

“How could I have known?”

“He could have told you who he really was and what he wanted from you.”

“He wanted to write my biography because he found me to be a fascinating subject.”

“Is that really what he told you?”

Browning eyed the empty chair across from him. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, and make yourself comfortable. I’m tired of straining my neck to look up at you. And our sitting face to face is so much more intimate, don’t you think.”

She remained standing. She wasn’t giving him what he wanted without getting something in return. “Did Durham really tell you he was going to write your bio? And if he did, did you believe him?”

“He did. And I did.”

She sat down then, keeping her back straight as she crossed her arms.

Browning studied her pose and then widened his eyes. He was observing her body language as closely as she was his. Got you! she wanted to scream. She had deliberately crossed her arms, an indication that she had put up a barrier between them, to see how he would react. Now she knew that he would play her, not only verbally, but with his gestures.

“Tell me about your conversations with Durham,” Maleah said. “What did the two of you talk about during his visits?”

“We talked about my favorite subject—me.” He chuckled.

“About your favorite color, your favorite food, your favorite music—”

“About my favorite way to kill.”

“He wanted to know the details, didn’t he, because he wanted to copy the Carver’s MO?”

“That’s your theory.”

Changing her tactics just a bit, Maleah asked, “Are you pleased with your protégé? That is how you see him, isn’t it? You taught him everything you know. You instructed him on how to kill.”

Browning laughed.

Her gut instincts told her that the laugh was genuine, that for some reason, her comments had amused him.

“Do you want me to guess why you find what I said so entertaining?”

“I find you entertaining, Maleah. Oh so sure of yourself. So confident and self-contained. A lady who doesn’t allow anyone to control her.” His gaze raked over her in a sexual way, pausing first on her lips and then on her breasts. “But that wasn’t always the case was it? Not when you were a little girl . . . when you were a teenager.”

What the hell did he know about her personal life? Was he simply guessing? Or did he actually know something?

“I’m not here to discuss me,” she said. “I’m here to discuss you and your association with Albert Durham.”

Browning shrugged. “But, sweet Maleah, I find you as fascinating as you find me. So, if you give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want. You tell me what I want to know and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“What do you want to know, Jerome?”

“Oh so many things about you, my dear.”

“My favorite color is pink. My favorite food is anything chocolate. My favorite song is—”

He burst out laughing; and all the while his gaze never left her face. “And your favorite way to fuck is? Do you like to be on top? Or do you secretly prefer for the man to dominate you? What was Noah Laborde’s favorite position? I’ll bet he enjoyed your riding him like a bucking bronco, didn’t he?”

Damn you, you son of a bitch. Damn you to hell. That’s exactly where monsters like you belong, in the hot, burning tortures of everlasting hellfire.

“Is that what interests you, Jerome, other people’s sex lives?” she asked in a calm voice. She was still in complete control. “You have no sex life of your own so you get your kicks living vicariously through hearing about how other people fuck.”

His jaw tightened. His gaze narrowed. His nostrils flared.

Oh yes, she had pissed him off. That taunting verbal arrow had hit its mark.

After several tense moments, he visibly relaxed. He had suffered nothing more than a flesh wound. He was ready for battle again.

“Noah was a handsome young man. The two of you must have made a striking couple.” Browning leaned forward ever so slightly. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

“I didn’t love him enough to give up my freedom,” Maleah answered honestly and quickly turned around and asked for payment in kind. “Did you think of Durham as your protégé? Is that why you agreed to share the details of your kills with him?”

“Durham is an admirer, not a protégé. The way Elvis Presley admired Roy Orbison’s voice, Durham admired my skills. I think of us more as colleagues than teacher and student.”

As she absorbed what she instantly knew was significant information, she did her best not to act so damn pleased. Did he realize just how much he had told her? “Then you knew, from the very beginning, that Durham wasn’t a writer?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes, I think you did.”

“You’re free to interpret what I say any way you please.”

“You knew all along, from his first visit, that the man really wasn’t Albert Durham and that he wasn’t interviewing you for a biography,” Maleah said. “You lied to me.”

“If you say so.”

He looked at her, his gaze moving from one eye to the other and then traveling slowly up to her forehead, his gesture indicating that he was taking an authoritative position. She understood that at that precise moment, he felt he was in charge and she was subservient to him.

“Did you also know that the phony Durham was not a novice at killing?”

“What makes you think Durham wasn’t a novice?”

“Are you saying he was?”

“Perhaps.” He nodded his head. “Perhaps not.” He shook his head.

He was having fun at her expense. He knew she had initially been trying to read his body language and now he was mocking her.

“Tit for tat, Maleah. You give, I give. Don’t forget the rules.”

“Noah was my first lover,” she said, giving him the answer to his much-too-personal question about her sexual relationship with Noah. “He was a gentle, considerate lover and not much more experienced than I was. We were young and in love. We were good together.”

“Young and in love. How sweet. But you weren’t in love enough to marry him, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“How did you find out about his death?” Browning rubbed his hands together, anticipation evident in the gesture.

“His sister called me.”

“Were you shocked?”

“Yes.”

“Sad?”

“Yes.”

“But not devastated. Not broken hearted.”

“I was shocked and sad and angry. But no, I wasn’t devastated by Noah’s death. I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in well over a year. We had both moved on. I still cared about him and wanted him to have a good life. It did break my heart to think he would never marry and have children and reach his full potential in his profession.”

“I took all that away from him.” Browning steepled his fingers.

She understood that he wanted her to admit that he had possessed the power of life and death over Noah.

“Yes, you took it all away from him.”

“Do you hate me, Maleah? Do you wish you could rip out my heart? Or perhaps you wish you could slit my throat the way I slit Noah’s throat.” He lunged toward her so quickly that she barely had time to react and draw away from him before the brawny black guard grabbed his shoulders and forced him back into the chair.

He sat there, his breathing accelerated, his pulse throbbing in his neck, his cheeks flushed. And then his lips lifted upward forming a self-satisfied smile.

Maleah struggled to control the unexpected fear that surged through her, telling herself that the only reason she was afraid was because she hadn’t anticipated Browning’s actions.

“I hate what you did to Noah and to your other victims,” Maleah finally managed to say. “I hate that there are people like you in the world. I think you should have been executed for your crimes and should be rotting in hell right now.”

Browning sighed as if her answer had given him some sort of deeply gratifying satisfaction. How sick was that!

“After his first visit, I suspected Durham was not who he said he was,” Browning told her. “On his second visit, when I confronted him, he did not try to lie to me. He told me he respected me too much. And that’s when we made our bargain.”

“What was the bargain?”

Browning shook his head and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I gave you what you paid for. No freebies.”

“Of course not. What was I thinking?” She rose to her feet.

Browning looked up at her. “You aren’t leaving so soon, are you?”

“Game playing wears me tee-totally out.” She planted her hands on her hips. If he wanted to continue their game, she was ready, but she was damn tired of being jerked around. “If you want me to stay—”

“Sit back down, Maleah.” Browning’s voice was harsh, almost angry.

She ignored him.

“Please, sit back down,” he said.

“Give me a reason.”

“Durham—or whoever the hell he is—wanted details about my life as the Carver. In exchange, he offered to hire me a new lawyer and provide me with a female friend.”

Maleah sat. “You have no idea who he really is?”

Using his clenched fists, Browning drew an X across his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He was lying, damn him. He was lying through his pearly white teeth.

“There had to be a reason you suspected he was not a novice at killing. Was it something he said? Did he—?”

“You want an awful lot for no more than you’re willing to give me.”

“I do want a great deal, but I’m willing to pay for it. I just don’t want you jerking me around, giving me tidbits when I’ve paid for the entire meal.”

“You really have no idea how expensive certain items are, do you, my lovely Maleah?”

“I have a good idea. You want me to open up a vein and bleed all over the place.”

“Yes, that, too,” he admitted. “I want your blood . . . your sweat . . . and your tears. Your tears most of all. So, do we have a deal? I can give you the real Albert Durham, served to you on a silver platter.”

“How do I know you aren’t lying? You just told me a few minutes ago that you have no idea who he is. Remember? Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You won’t know if I’ll be lying to you when I tell you about him,” he agreed. “But isn’t it tempting to give me what I want in exchange for the possibility that I can tell you who is killing people connected to the Powell Agency and maybe even why he’s doing it? Also, I could tell you why he chose to copy my kills, but I suspect you already know that.”

“Yes, I already know.”

“Think about my offer. You have twenty-four hours. If you’re willing to pay the piper, I’ll play you a beautiful tune.” He glanced up at his guard. “We’re finished here. I’m ready to leave.”

The guard looked at Maleah. She nodded.

Browning stood. “See you tomorrow, sweet Maleah.” He winked at her, then turned and fell into step alongside the guard.

The man once known as Anthony Linden finished a series of push-ups, lifted himself from the hotel room floor, and grabbed a bottle of water from the nearby table. He had run five miles in the warm Savannah sun this morning before returning to the hotel to exercise. His body was a well-maintained machine. With perspiration moistening his face and chest, he looked at himself in the mirror. For a man of any age, he was in remarkably good shape. For a man of forty-five, his body was in excellent condition. He picked up a towel from the edge of the bed and wiped his face and chest, and then draped the towel around his neck.

After twisting off the cap, he brought the bottle to his mouth and downed half the contents before pausing. He continued sipping from the bottle as he walked into the bathroom.

He was expecting a guest in less than an hour, just enough time to shave and shower.

He sat on the commode, removed his running shoes and damp socks, and then stood and stripped out of his jogging shorts. After turning on the shower—hot and steamy—he yanked a towel and washcloth from the rack. He laid the towel on the closed commode lid and took the washcloth into the shower with him. He had left his razor and shave cream on a ledge in the shower when he had cleaned up last night.

He took his time shaving, careful not to nick himself, and afterward washed his face, rinsed it, and then lathered his body. As he thought about his expected guest, his penis hardened. Before a kill, he liked to have sex. If he had any pre-kill rituals, they would be to eat a good meal and have a good fuck.

After drying off, he slipped on a dark blue silk robe and slid his feet into a pair of black house slippers. His profession as a death technician paid well and afforded him all of life’s little luxuries, including a high-priced call girl.

Just as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, he heard a soft knock on the door. He checked the clock on the bedside table. Right on time. He appreciated punctuality.

He opened the door to an attractive brunette, long legged, slender, her breasts high and firm, obviously the result of implants.

“Mr. Hambert?”

“Yes, please come in, Ms. Smith.”

He closed and locked the door behind her. When she turned around and smiled, he downed half his whiskey in one gulp, set the glass on the coffee table and then unbelted his robe.

“Do you want me to undress now?” she asked.

“No, not yet,” he replied.

She nodded.

He removed his robe and tossed it on the nearby chair. His hard, erect penis projected outward.

“Come here,” he instructed.

She came to him. He took her hand and brought it to his erection.

“Get down on your knees.”

She did.

He clutched either side of her head. “Open your mouth.”

“I really don’t need instruction. I’ve done this before,” she told him.

“I want complete control. I decide how much you take into your mouth and how far I shove my dick down your throat. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

“After I come, clean me with your tongue.”

“Yes, of course.”

When she licked him from tip to shaft, he closed his eyes and savored the feel of her wet tongue on his penis. First a blow job, just to release the tension. And later, after lunch, he’d make the little whore really earn her money.