Dead By Morning

Chapter 4

Despite her earlier claims to Derek about being hungry, Maleah skipped dinner that evening. The information that Nic and Griff had shared with her had not only taken her appetite, but it had given her the mother of all headaches. Why me? was the one question that replayed itself over and over again in her mind. Could it really be he had chosen her only because she and Nic were close friends? Or was it possible that she was simply the only Powell agent with a connection to a serial killer? She’d have to remember in the morning to ask Nic.

Lying there staring up at the ceiling, she positioned her index fingers on either side of her head and rubbed her temples in a circular motion. She had been prone to having tension headaches all her life. Usually a couple of aspirin or Aleve gave her relief within an hour or less. But this headache was hanging on.

“Maleah?” Nic asked after rapping on the bedroom door.

“Yes, what is it?”

“May I come in?”

Maleah sighed heavily, lifted herself into a sitting position and replied, “Sure, come on in.” After all, she was a guest in her friend’s home. And Nic was probably worried about her.

No sooner had Maleah’s bare feet hit the floor than Nic entered, a serving tray balanced in one hand. “I brought you something to eat.”

Maleah rushed toward her friend and took the tray from her. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. I don’t think I can eat a bite.”

“It’s Barbara Jean’s mac and cheese, with her Mexican cornbread. If that doesn’t tempt you, nothing will.” Nic closed the door and then followed Maleah into the small sitting area of the bedroom. A couple of sky blue upholstered arm chairs flanked a small, low mahogany table set between the chairs and love seat covered with yellow and blue floral material. Maleah lowered the tray to the table, removed the cloth covering and eyed the plate of food. Her stomach growled.

Maleah and Nic smiled at each other.

“See,” Nic said. “Your stomach knows you’re hungry, even if you think you’re not.”

Realizing it was useless to argue with Nic, especially when she was right, Maleah sat down on the loveseat and picked up a fork from the tray. “I’ve read through the folder Griff gave me, but I’m afraid I didn’t retain much of the info. I have a splitting headache. I’ll read the files again later.”

“Did you take something for your headache?”

Maleah lifted the plate from the tray. “A couple of aspirin. They helped a little.”

“Eat something. It could be a hunger headache.” She scanned Maleah from head to toe. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”

Maleah groaned. “Don’t I wish.”

They both laughed.

“Why don’t you wait until in the morning to re-read the files on the Carver,” Nic said. “It could be days before you can interview him. Griff is still working on pulling some strings to get you and Derek permission to visit him. There is a lot of red tape involved in being granted visitation privileges. If we were a government agency, it would be a lot easier. Under normal circumstances, since we’re an independent firm, it would be highly unlikely one of our agents would be allowed to see Browning. Unless of course, he asked to see one of us.”

Maleah lifted a forkful of macaroni and cheese to her mouth, ate the delicious casserole and dived back into the plate for more. “This is delicious.” She ate several more bites before asking, “I don’t suppose y’all have checked to see if any of the other agents have any connection to a serial killer, have you?”

Nic’s eyes widened as her expression changed from puzzlement to understanding. “No, we haven’t. Narrowing down the copycat killer’s MO to perfectly match a former serial killer took some time, so we only recently came to the conclusion that our Powell Agency killer was mimicking the Carver. But I see what you’re getting at. Did he choose the Carver because he’s the only serial killer with any connection to one of our agents?”

Maleah munched on the Mexican cornbread and washed it down with iced tea. “I realize that with nearly two hundred people now employed by the agency, it could take forever to make any kind of connection. So, how did our killer unearth the connection between Jerome Browning and me when I didn’t even know about it myself?” Maleah tightened her hold on the cool, damp glass. “God, I should have asked more questions about Noah’s murder when his sister Jacque called me. But I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in over a year when it happened.” Quick jabs of pain shot through Maleah’s right temple. She pressed the side of the iced tea glass against the throbbing pain.

“Are you okay?” Nic studied Maleah closely. “Maybe you need something stronger than aspirin.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m just feeling a little guilty remembering how unaffected I was by Noah’s death.” She set the glass on the tray. “He was such a nice guy. Any woman in her right mind would have snapped him up in a New York minute. But not me. I think I broke his heart when I turned down his proposal.”

“Why did you turn him down?”

“I didn’t want to get married.” Maleah slid her left hand beneath her hair at the nape of her neck and massaged her scalp. “I feel as if my entire head is being squeezed in a vise. I know it’s just tension, but . . .”

“You don’t need to tell me tonight. Maybe you should lie down and rest.”

“I want you to know, to understand why I rejected him. At the time, I told myself that I didn’t marry Noah because I didn’t want to get married, that I intended to never marry anybody. But looking back, I realize that was only half of the reason.”

“And the other half was because . . . ?”

“I don’t think I was in love with Noah. I loved him, yes. But something was missing. I wanted to be in love, told myself that I was, needed to be, at least in my own mind, enough to justify the fact that he was my first.”

Nic smiled. “No one ever forgets their first, do they? But we all know that most of the time, the first one is not The One, not for a lot of woman and certainly not for most men. Of course, there are exceptions, especially for our parents’ generation.”

“It breaks my heart to think about the way Noah died. He deserved to live a full life, with a wife and kids and . . .” Maleah exhaled a huffing breath. “Dear God, how am I going to face the man who killed Noah? How am I going to interview him without wanting to strangle him with my bare hands for what he did?”

“You’ll be able to do it because you’re a professional. If Griff or I had any doubts about your ability or your competence, we would never pair you with Derek again and put the two of you in charge of a case that is highly personal for us.”

“Griff really does believe that these murders are somehow connected to his past, doesn’t he?” Maleah looked squarely at Nic.

“Yes. And he could be right. But it’s also possible that the killer wants us to believe that. He may want us to think that Griff is the ultimate target, when actually it may be me.”

“Have you ever considered the possibility that neither of you are?”

“No, not really,” Nic said. “The killer has murdered agents and members of their families, which means he’s targeting the agency. Griff and I own the agency. It stands to reason that this killer wants to harm the agency, wants to hurt Griff and me.”

“Then why involve me?” Maleah asked. “Both you and Griff have been personally involved with serial killer cases in the past. Why not copy one of them? Why go back into my past and choose someone who had killed my college boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a conclusive answer for you because I simply don’t know. It could be what we said earlier, that he’s getting to me through you, my best friend.”

“Maybe. If you’re the one he wants to hurt. But if his real target is Griff, then maybe I’m simply phase one in his plan.”

“Which would make me phase two, right?”

Maleah shook her head and waved her hand in the air. “It’s all conjecture at this point. I’m probably talking nonsense. I shouldn’t come up with conspiracy theories when I’m tired and sleepy and can’t shake a bad headache.”

“Look, I’m going to leave you alone so you can finish eating, grab a shower, and then go to bed.” Nic rose to her feet. “We’ll both have clearer heads in the morning and be able to get a fresh perspective on things.”

Maleah stood and walked Nic to the door. They exchanged hugs and pecks on their cheeks. Once Nic walked down the hall, Maleah closed the door, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Noah. Sorry that you were so brutally murdered. Sorry that I didn’t ask for details about your death when your sister called me. Sorry that I didn’t love you enough to marry you.”

Griff poured Macallan single malt Scotch whisky into two glasses, handed one to Derek and lifted the other to his lips. After taking a sip, he motioned for Derek to take the left of two leather chairs flanking the seven-foot-high rock fireplace in his private study. As Griff sat in the opposite chair, Derek studied the man briefly, noting the weariness in his expression. The four recent Powell Agency–related deaths had begun to take a toll on the seemingly invincible billionaire.

“I had Sanders put a call in to the Georgia governor,” Griff said. “I saw no point in wasting my time going through the normal channels to acquire visitation privileges for you and Maleah at the Georgia State Prison.”

Derek nodded. Why indeed? There would be no point in Griff calling the prison’s warden when he was on a first name basis with the governor.

Born into a wealthy, old Southern family, Derek had taken for granted all the things most people struggle for on a daily basis. His mother hobnobbed with other society matrons, his sister married a suitable young man from a proper family, and Derek’s grandparents had left him a trust fund worth more millions than he’d ever spend in one lifetime. Griffin Powell had been born dirt poor, but was now one of the wealthiest men in the world. No one knew how the former UT football hero had earned his billions during the ten years after he had mysteriously disappeared.

“I’d rather not send Maleah to do the initial interview even if she is one of our best agents. But under the circumstances, I feel she’s the only choice. The killer didn’t choose to copy the Carver’s murders without a reason.”

“You’re assuming Maleah is the reason, right?”

“In a roundabout way,” Griff said. “He wanted a connection between the killer he copied and one of our agents. It could be a coincidence that Maleah is that agent. Or it is possible that Maleah’s friendship with my wife is the reason. What hurts Maleah hurts Nic and what hurts Nic hurts me.”

“That’s the way love and friendship works.”

Griff took a hefty swallow of the aged whisky. Holding the drink in one hand, he absently stroked the side of the glass with his other hand, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the smooth surface.

“Do you think Browning personally knows our killer?” Derek asked. His gut instincts told him that the Powell Agency killer and Browning were at the very least acquainted. Possibly friends. Or more likely, student and teacher.

“Probably. What do you think?”

“Probably.”

“Browning could well be the key to unlocking our killer’s identity.”

Derek took his first sip of the premium Scotch whisky. He wasn’t a drinking man himself, but he did enjoy an occasional sip of the good stuff. Not that he was a teetotaler by any means. But seeing what alcohol addiction had done to his father and older brother made Derek conscientious about his drinking habits. After the smooth liquor made its way down his throat and warmed his belly, he glanced at Griff, who was staring into the cold fireplace.

“We both know that Browning isn’t going to willingly offer us any information,” Derek said.

“No, he’ll sense from the get-go that he has the upper hand. And he’ll use it to his advantage. He’ll want something in return for anything he gives us.”

“For anything he gives Maleah.”

Griff nodded. “She’s strong and smart and I’d trust her with even the most difficult assignment. But this is different. From what I’ve read about Jerome Browning, he’s going to play hardball and I don’t know if Maleah is a tough enough opponent.”

“She’s not going into this alone,” Derek reminded his boss.

“That’s true.” Griff stared at Derek, as if he was judging his worth as a warrior. “She’s going to need you. She won’t like it and may even resist your advice and assistance. You know what a stubborn little mule she can be.”

Derek chuckled. “That’s an understatement. She is without a doubt the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known.”

“Nic is worried about her. She understands why Maleah is the one who should interview Browning, but they’re close, almost like sisters, and know each other’s weaknesses. Nic’s concerned that Browning may use any weakness he senses in Maleah against her.”

“If Browning picks up on any weakness in her, I have no doubt that he’ll use it. But I’ll be there to advise her.” Derek took a second sip of whisky and then set the glass down on the floor beside his chair. “Before we leave for Georgia, I’ll go over all the files we have on Browning and do an in-depth study on the guy. After we meet him, I’ll work up my own profile and compare it to the old FBI profile the agency put together.”

Griff nodded. “I want the copycat killer found and stopped before anyone else dies.” He downed another gulp of the Macallan, huffed out a deep breath, and took another swig.

It was Derek’s opinion that recently Griff had been drinking too much. The man had a high tolerance for alcohol, was able to drink enough to knock another man on his ass, and usually knew his limit. But for the past couple of months, Derek had noticed a distinct change in his boss, and not only in his drinking habits.

“You do know that these murders are not your fault,” Derek said.

Griff’s grumbling growl came from his chest, a combination of anger and pain. “He is sending me a message. No matter what anyone thinks, I know that I’m the ultimate target. He wants me to suffer, to know that he’s killing these people because they are in some way associated with me.”

“I know that’s what you believe, but there is no way you can be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Look, Griff, I’ve never asked for specific details about your past, about those missing ten years,” Derek said. “I figured everything that happened to you and how you earned your billions was nobody’s business. Certainly not mine. What I know, you’ve told me yourself, and I appreciate your trusting me with the information. But if there’s something specific that I need to know, something that could help me—”

“Go with Maleah to see Browning. Size up the guy. Get all the info you can out of him and then we’ll talk.” Griff finished off his glass of whisky.

Derek didn’t need to say more. He understood that Griff had dismissed him. He stood, said good night and closed the door behind him when he left.

As if he were standing guard, Sanders waited across the hall from Griff’s study, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. With a stocky, fireplug build, every muscle toned, a sharp mind always in observation mode, the man appeared to be battle ready at all times.

“He’s drinking too much.” Derek paused long enough to make direct eye contact with his boss’s right-hand man.

Sanders nodded.

“He thinks the murders are his fault.”

“Griffin carries the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Sanders said.

“Someone who knows him far better than I do needs to convince him that he’s not to blame, no matter what the killer’s motives might be.”

“Griffin is a man who accepts responsibility.”

Derek stared at Sanders, not quite understanding his comment. Did he believe that Griff was in some way responsible for the actions of a psychopath?

“No one person can right all the wrongs in the world, no matter how rich and powerful they might be,” Derek said.

“One person can try.”

“My God, what grievous sin did he commit that he feels compelled to atone for by wearing a hair shirt the rest of his life?”

“I advise you not to profile Griffin Powell with that analytical mind of yours, Mr. Lawrence.”

Derek nodded. He now knew that he had hit too close to home to suit Sanders. Griff lived with his past sins haunting him and they were no doubt the driving force behind his need to rid the world of evil. He had founded the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency as a means to bring to justice those whom regular law enforcement had difficulty apprehending and punishing. His clients paid according to their ability to do so and many cases were worked pro bono.

Without replying to Sanders, Derek walked away, his thoughts centered on Griffin Powell’s mysterious past. Why was Griff so certain that the copycat killer was sending him a message?

Errol watched Cyrene while she slept. He had never thought it possible to love a woman the way he loved her. He couldn’t look at her enough, couldn’t touch her enough, couldn’t make love to her enough. After his disastrous first marriage and the death of his little girl, he had thought he was destined to be miserable the rest of his life.

And then he had met Cyrene. In a coffee shop of all places. He’d stopped by to meet his sister for breakfast on his way to work and had accidentally bumped into the most gorgeous woman in the world while waiting in line. The moment she smiled at him, the whole world lit up, bright and warm and joyous. Yeah, sure, he hadn’t missed the fact that she had a great body. And yeah, right after her thousand-watt smile, her big boobs had been the first thing he’d noticed. But her body was icing on the cake. The woman inside was as beautiful as the sexy wrapping.

They had dated for six months before they slept together. She was a cautious lady, determined that no man would ever take advantage of her. By the time they made love for the first time, he was already in love. And so was she.

When he asked her to marry him a few weeks later, she had only one request—that he change jobs.

“I want a husband who doesn’t put his life in danger every day the way you do being an Atlanta police officer. I don’t want to have to worry if the father of my children may not come home one night because he got killed on the job.”

Errol reached down from where he lay beside her, his body propped up on his folded arm, and tenderly caressed her cheek. As much as he had loved being a police officer, he loved Cyrene more. Then and now.

He’d been lucky to find another job that he truly liked, one that actually paid better and afforded him and his new bride a more affluent lifestyle. He’d been with the Powell Agency for four months, having hired on a few weeks after his engagement. They had just bought a new house in Farragut a month before their wedding. And his new boss—Griffin Powell—had given them an all-expenses-paid two-week honeymoon at the Grand Resort in the Bahamas.

He laid his head on his pillow, stretched out his naked body beneath the cool, slightly wrinkled sheet, and closed his eyes.

Life was good. At long last.

Errol knew he was one damn lucky SOB.

Wearing tan cargo shorts and a hideous floral shirt, he sat at the end of the bar nursing some elaborate rum concoction, doing his best to look like a typical tourist. Most of the visitors at the resort were couples, many newlyweds or second honeymooners. In order to fit in, he had made a point of flirting with several single ladies who were obviously there man-hunting. He had already decided that tomorrow night he’d take one of those ladies to his room and ease some of the pre-kill tension he always experienced. A night of rough sex would do wonders for him.

He was in no rush. The most important thing was timing. Errol and Cyrene Patterson were on their honeymoon and spent a great deal of time in their room. The couple had been inseparable since their arrival at the resort last week. He didn’t want to kill both of them, but if necessary, he would. But only one was his target, only one was destined to become the Copycat Carver’s fifth victim.

Just as he took another sip of the syrupy sweet rum drink, his mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He lifted the phone from the pocket and glanced at the caller ID.

No information. Unknown number and name.

He tapped the answer key and put the phone to his ear. “I’m enjoying my vacation in the Bahamas. I’ve met some lovely ladies. Unfortunately some of the prettiest women are married and here on their honeymoon. There’s one woman . . .”

“I don’t need to know the details tonight. I prefer to allow my imagination to paint a mental picture of all the gruesome details.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Did you send Ms. Perdue her gift?”

“She should have received it today.”

“You sent it in care of her employer?”

“I did.”

“Then it’s only a matter of time before he arranges for her to visit the Georgia State Prison.”