Dead By Morning

Chapter 29

Maleah awoke disoriented and confused. She was lying in bed, fully clothed, and cuddled against Derek Lawrence. The last thing she remembered was weeping in his arms. Apparently, she had cried herself to sleep. When she looked directly at him, he looked back at her and smiled. Her mind told her to disengage her body from his, to lift her head from where it lay nestled on his shoulder and to move her arm from around his waist. But she didn’t change her position by more than a fraction as she leaned back her head and tilted her chin so that they wouldn’t be practically nose-to-nose.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked.

“Not long. A little over an hour.”

“Have you been awake the entire time?”

He nodded.

“Why didn’t you—?”

“I enjoyed watching you sleep,” he told her. “And you were exhausted. You needed some rest.”

She eyed him speculatively. “You enjoyed watching me sleep?”

His grin widened. “Yeah. Did you know you make funny little noises in your sleep? You fell asleep in my arms, the two of us sitting up, so I just eased us down onto the bed and when I did that, you whimpered and cuddled up against me.”

She lifted her head from his arm and scooted away from him, putting a couple of feet between them. “I need to tell you about my interview with Browning.”

“Your final interview,” he told her.

“Yes, my final interview.” She sat up and leaned back against the headboard, determined to return her relationship with Derek to business only. “Browning and the copycat killer made a bargain. We already figured out that the copycat agreed to provide Jerome with a new lawyer, a female visitor, and a new victim, one he couldn’t actually kill, only emotionally torment.”

“And you were that victim.” Derek grumbled unintelligibly, no doubt a few choice curse words. “I’d like to have five minutes alone with Browning.”

Maleah laid her hand on Derek’s shoulder. His gaze connected instantly with hers.

“I’ll condense things for you,” Maleah said. “It seems Browning and the copycat formed a rather unique relationship, one killer to another, during their phone calls, letters, and visits. The copycat never told Jerome his real name, but when Jerome asked if he was a professional, he didn’t deny it.”

“Which was as good as an admission, right?” Derek sat up beside her.

“Right.”

She noticed that several buttons in the center of Derek’s shirt were open, leaving the material gapping. Had she done that—unbuttoned his shirt in her sleep?

Concentrate on what you need to say and not on Derek.

Keeping strictly to the facts and not elaborating, Maleah told him about her conversation with Browning and the information he had given her.

“Browning said that the copycat is an international contractor, his word—contractor. And his current employer is a billionaire who owns a private island retreat, where he enjoys the perks of his business.”

“And his business is human trafficking.” Derek frowned. “The description sounds familiar, doesn’t it, too familiar.”

“Are you saying Browning was lying?”

“No, I’m saying that maybe the copycat was lying to Browning, knowing he would pass along false information.”

“If you’re right about that, then Browning actually gave me nothing. I paid for more useless information.”

“I didn’t say that. For all we know, everything Browning told you is the truth.”

“But you said—”

“I said maybe the copycat was lying to Browning. Maybe he wasn’t. But any way you look at it, you came away with one very important piece of information.”

“Okay, maybe I’m slightly addled from my miniemotional meltdown and mid-day nap, but you’re going to have to enlighten me. My brain isn’t—”

“The copycat, whoever he is, knows something about Malcolm York, either the original York or the pseudo York rumored to be in Europe somewhere at present.”

“You’re right,” Maleah said, suddenly feeling more like her old self by the minute. “And this info adds more weight to Griff’s theory that the copycat murders are connected to his past and to both Malcolm Yorks.”

“I think we can safely assume that Griff’s theory is correct. I have little doubt now that the copycat is, as we suspected, a hired assassin.”

“An assassin hired by the fake York, right?” Maleah got up, brushed off her wrinkled slacks and searched for her shoes. “We should contact Griff right away and let him know.” She found her shoes halfway under the bed, dragged them out, and slipped into them.

“First of all, yes, logically, we can assume that the man who calls himself Malcolm York hired the copycat, but we need more proof before we can be certain.” Derek buttoned his shirt and got out of bed. “Secondly, there’s no need to call Griff because we’ll see him this evening. I got a call from Sanders while you were in with Browning this morning. It was bad news.”

“And you’re just now telling me about it?”

“I thought it could wait,” Derek said. “All things considered.”

“You mean considering the fact that I came away from the interview with Browning an emotional wreck.”

“You just needed a little time to recover, honey. You should be proud of yourself. You held your own against a psychopathic monster.”

“If you say so.” He’s right, damn it. You might have come away with a few battle scars, but for all intents and purposes you won the game. And you survived. “What’s the bad news from Sanders?”

“The copycat struck again.”

Oh God, no. “Who?”

“Saxon Chappelle’s sixteen-year-old niece.”

Maleah sucked in an agonized breath. How could anyone kill a young girl who was little more than a child?

“Poppy Chappelle was spending the summer with Saxon’s mother. The grandmother found her this morning.”

“They didn’t let Saxon go to Savannah on his own, did they?”

“Saxon may not even know yet,” Derek told her. “He left early this morning to escort Meredith Sinclair to London. But once he hands her over to Luke, he’ll return to the U.S. tonight. Griff sent Holt Keinan to Savannah.”

“Griff wants us at Griffin’s Rest by tonight because he’s circling the wagons, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Then let’s get the show on the road. I need to go back to my room and grab my suitcase and then we can check out.”

“Take your time, Blondie. I’ll check us out. You can meet me in the lobby. But first, wash your face, put on some lipstick, and comb your hair. You look like you just got out of bed.”

The Berkeley Knightsbridge, a five-star luxury hotel, was located on Wilton Place, in the heart of residential Belgravia. From this location, they were only moments from the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge and not far from Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and Belgrave Square. During the years Meredith had spent in London with Yvette and her fellow misfits, they had lived in comfort, but not in splendor. She suspected that Griffin Powell had arranged for the two-bedroom suite at this luxurious hotel just for her. He understood the type of sacrifice she was making in order to help him find and stop a killer and no doubt wanted to compensate her for the mental and emotional pain and anguish. Meredith was doing this out of a sense of loyalty to Yvette, but also because she, too, did not want to see another innocent person die.

“We can order room service for dinner,” Luke Sentell told her as he escorted her into the spacious living room, which was both elegantly sophisticated and yet beautifully understated.

The moment she walked into the room, the image of a woman appeared in her mind. Blond and attractive. Possibly the interior designer. Someone who liked a clean, lean and yet classic look.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” Meredith replied.

“I’ve given you the master suite,” Luke told her as he walked across the living room and opened the bedroom door. “I’ll put your suitcase in here and if you’d like to rest for a while—”

“I’d like to call home and speak to Yvette. I’m concerned about Saxon Chappelle.” Meredith glowered at Luke, whose stoic stare slightly unnerved her. “You could have been a little less blunt when you told him his niece was the Copycat Carver’s latest victim.”

As if ignoring her comment, Luke disappeared into the bedroom for a couple of minutes. Once again, as she had done in the past, she tried to sense something in Luke Sentell other than his steely determination to protect himself from her probing. On the outer edges of his consciousness, she picked up on rigid control and single-mindedness, both aspects of his apathetic personality.

Deciding not to make an issue of his rudeness, she surveyed her surroundings. The cool taupes and grays and beiges used with the dark, gleaming wood in the room soothed Meredith. She preferred the gentleness of neutral colors, the peacefulness of muted tones.

“I assume you can unpack for yourself,” Luke said as he emerged from her bedroom.

“Yes, certainly.”

“I told Chappelle the facts. If I had put my arm around him and shed a few tears, do you honestly think it would have helped him any?”

“No, but you were so cold and matter-of-fact.”

Luke grunted. “Make your call to Yvette while I order our dinner.”

“I don’t want anything,” she told him.

“Well, I do.” His scrutinizing gaze raked over her with cold precision. “You need to eat something to build up your strength before you start earning your keep.”

“I’ll be sure to eat a substantial breakfast.”

“You’ll eat a substantial dinner, too, because I intend for us to begin work tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight.”

“But—”

“I realize that you’re probably tired from your long flight and more than a little pissed about getting stuck with me as your babysitter, but the sooner we locate Anthony Linden, the sooner we will be able to stop him from killing anyone else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. I just didn’t realize you had anything available here at the hotel for me to use to connect with Linden.”

“I do.”

“Then let me freshen up and unpack while you order dinner. And as soon as I call Yvette, I’ll be ready.”

She didn’t bother asking him what he had in his possession that had at some time belonged to Anthony Linden. She would know soon enough. Even something as insignificant as a cigarette lighter or an unlaundered handkerchief could be used as a catalyst to connect her with the person or persons who had used the specific object. The fewer people who had handled the object, the more precise her revelations.

“Do you have any preferences about dinner?” he asked. “Protein of some type, right?”

“Yes, protein,” she told him. “For strength and stamina.”

“And if I remember correctly, no wine, no liquor of any kind. Just water.”

“That’s correct.”

Meredith found herself unable to break eye contact with Luke, his steel-gray eyes holding her attention like metal to a magnet. A whirlwind of energy spun around them, cocooning them together inside a kinetic force neither could control.

Trust me. I’ll take care of you.

Luke hadn’t spoken, but Meredith had heard his thoughts.

But that was the problem. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. “If I go in too deep, you’re the only one who can save me.”

“Yes, I know.” He turned, walked away and entered the foyer that led to the entrance to the second bedroom that was attached to and yet separate from the rest of the suite.

Prompted by the incentive of a bonus, he had wasted no time in making arrangements to pick up the special guest for his current employer. Locating her had not been a problem, but removing the obstacles in his path would require quick, decisive action. Complicated by the presence of a private security agent who made rounds outside the home every two hours, as precise as clockwork, and disarming the home’s security system had taken a while longer than he had anticipated. He was pretty sure the guard wasn’t a Powell agent. He wore a uniform of some kind and Powell agents didn’t wear uniforms. His guess was that the family had hired him for protection in case the Copycat Carver targeted one of them.

Unlike the Chappelle home in Savannah, there was no outside basement entrance, leaving him with only the windows and doors on the first and second levels of the house as a means of entry and exit. With a guard on duty, probably stationed downstairs, his best bet was to find a way to enter through an upstairs widow. And since time was of the essence if he wanted that big bonus, he needed to check out the house’s interior quickly and pinpoint her bedroom. But with only three occupants, other than the bodyguard, it should be a relatively simple matter. All he’d have to do was look into the bedrooms to find her. At this time of night, she would be alone. And her room would no doubt be distinctly decorated.

With a few twists, he locked the carbon steel talons of the compact grappling hook into position and sent the hook sailing up and atop the sloping roof at the back of the house. Testing the connection and finding it secure, he began his ascent up the lightweight nylon rope. Once on top of the roof, he made his way carefully over to the nearby single window, one he assumed would take him into a bathroom. He removed the glass cutter from his pocket, along with a suction device, and removed a section of the windowpane without breaking it. He reached through the opening, unlocked the window and raised it high enough to allow him enough space to slip inside the house.

As he had assumed beforehand, he now found himself inside a small bathroom, well lit with a decorative hot pink glitter nightlight. How lucky for him that he had, no doubt, entered through her bathroom window. Not having to search the entire upstairs to find her simplified his job enormously. The bathroom door stood wide open. With practiced stealth movements, he entered the bedroom silently, not making a sound. Another nightlight identical to the one in the bathroom cast a pink glow across the carpeted floor and moonlight streaming through the sheer striped curtains illuminated the wicker bed in which she slept.

He reached into his pocket, removed a small vial and a linen handkerchief and then opened the vial and soaked the linen with its contents as he crept closer and closer to the bed. She lay there in all her beautiful blond innocence, never knowing the part she would play in a madman’s diabolical scheme. But this specific madman paid extremely well. And it wasn’t his place to judge the people who employed him to do their dirty work.

He leaned down, placed the ether-soaked handkerchief over her nose and mouth and positioned his other hand in the center of her chest to hold her in place if she woke. Her eyes flew open. She stared up at him for a few moments and then closed her eyes as the anesthetic took affect. He reached inside the inner pocket of his snug-fitting jacket, removed an envelope and laid it beside her pillow. Without hesitation, he flung back the covers, lifted her up and into his arms and retraced his steps through the bathroom. He eased her through the window, placing her solidly on the roof before he climbed out and joined her. The moonlight struck the tiny pink sequins outlining the ruffles on the hem of her gown.

After checking below on the ground, he hoisted her up and positioned her beneath his arm, clamping her securely between the inner curve of his elbow and his ribcage. Mindful that one wrong move could result in him dropping her to the ground, he grasped the nylon rope and descended with careful precision. Once on the ground, he lifted her up and across his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and then ran up the alley toward the car he had parked there less than twenty minutes ago.

A private jet would be waiting for them in Nashville. In two and a half hours, he and his employer’s special guest would board the jet and be ready for take off to London by daybreak.