Cooper Vengeance

by Paula Graves

  But J.D. was pretty sure Dyson knew about all the murders. When he’d been stalking Alicia, he’d left her a note warning her she’d be victim number twenty-two. Fortunately, thanks to Alicia’s level head and killer swing with a crowbar, Dyson hadn’t been able to keep that promise.

  Apparently it had been Carrie Gray’s tragic misfortune to become the twenty-second victim instead.

  Back at the motel, he decided not to overthink what he would say to Dyson the next day. Instead, he took his mind off the trip to Millbridge with a phone call to his daughter, Cissy, who was staying at his parents’ place while he was down here in Terrebonne. She’d wanted to stay alone at the house; but with Eladio Cordero still gunning for Luke and anyone he loved, he didn’t like the idea of his nineteen-year-old daughter staying alone, even though she was as good a shot as he was these days.

  She answered on the second ring, a little out of breath. “Hi, Daddy. Are you and Mike on your way home?”

  “Miss us?”

  “Well, you, maybe. Not the brat.” But her voice was affectionate, belying her words. “Actually, it’s kind of fun hanging with Grandma and Daddy Mike. I’ve really missed them while I was at college.” Cissy was a student at Mill Valley University in Millbridge, renting a place in the same apartment complex where Alicia Solano had lived when she was in Millbridge—which was rare these days, as Alicia was actively seeking a job closer to Gossamer Ridge in anticipation of earning her doctorate later this summer.

  “You can always transfer to a college closer to home,” J.D. reminded her, hoping she’d agree.

  Of course, his independent-minded girl-child didn’t. “No, I like it in Millbridge. I have friends there. Besides, it’s a three-hour drive—I’ll be home all the time.”

  “Like you were the last two years?”

  “You’re such a dad.”

  J.D. grinned. Although there was a guilty little niggle in the center of his chest more than happy to remind him he hadn’t been much of a good dad after Brenda died: spending more time chasing elusive justice than comforting his children. “I’m going to be out of pocket awhile tomorrow, so I thought I’d check in tonight and let you know.”

  “Alicia got you set up to visit Marlon Dyson?”

  He sighed. “Does she tell you everything?”

  “Better than telling me nothing.” She softened her sharp retort by adding, “You ready for it? You want me to drive down?”

  He didn’t know whether to be touched by the concern in her voice or insulted. He was a grown man—her father—and his daughter shouldn’t feel he needed her to hold his hand. “I’m ready. You stay up there and keep an eye on old Rowdy.”

  His old mixed-hound was getting on up in years now. He’d still been a puppy when Brenda died, but these days, he was starting to slow down. He was really more Mike’s dog than J.D.’s these days, although there’d been nights right after Brenda’s murder when J.D. hadn’t been sure he could get through the long, bleak hours without that pup by his side.

  “Call me if you need me. I can be in Millbridge in three hours. Terrebonne in six.”

  “I’ll call you if I need you,” he promised. “Ciss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  Her voice cracked a little. “Of course I do.”

  “Good. ’Cause I do.”

  “I love you, too. Call me when you get done, okay?”

  “Will do.” He hung up the phone and laid his head back against the pillows of the motel bed, staring at the ceiling above, where waning daylight painted a crisscross of lengthening shadows over the sheetrock.

  He’d spent half the afternoon, it seemed, assuring everyone he knew that he was fine, ready to visit Marlon Dyson and see if he could get information the police had, so far, been unable to obtain.

  But he wasn’t fine. He wasn’t sure he was ready.

  And he was lonely as hell.

  MORNING CAME ENTIRELY too early for Natalie, in no small part because her sleep had consisted of one long nightmare, a relentless replay of the same harrowing image: she was Carrie, and she was trapped in the cluttered kitchen of Annabelle’s, the back door blocked by a junk pile of old appliances stored there for eventual removal, and the front door blocked by a darkened silhouette wielding a sharp, deadly knife.

  She ran and ran and never got anywhere, and still the dark figure came toward her, in calm, unhurried paces. He knew she was trapped. He knew he could do what he wanted to her, and nobody would be close enough to hear her screams.

  Waking for good at 5:30 a.m., she dragged herself from bed and showered, then contemplated what to do with the rest of her day, now that she didn’t have a job to go to. Her mother had told her she should come by the house more often, but by now, the town grapevine would surely have made its way to her parents, and the last thing she wanted to do with her day was spend it listening to her father’s litany of I-told-you-sos.

  Roy Tatum had also told her to stay away from Hamilton Gray, which she didn’t intend to do, but it would be smart to keep her distance for the next couple of days, at least.

  That left J. D. Cooper.

  She’d hung around Annabelle’s long enough to see him taken into custody. She’d been surprised the deputies had gone that far on a simple trespass, but she supposed in a place as small as Terrebonne, a brutal murder could put law enforcement on edge.

  She’d followed the squad car to the police station, parking far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to see Massey walk J. D. Cooper to his truck about an hour after he arrived at the sheriff’s station, sparing her the need to intervene.

  After all, Annabelle’s was her property now. Carrie had left it to her in the will. All that was left was the paperwork. She had a say in who was trespassing and who wasn’t.

  She ended up at Margo’s Diner for breakfast. Margo herself was behind the counter, entirely too energetic for such an early hour. She poured Natalie strong, black coffee without waiting for the order and set the cup on the counter in front of her. “There was a man here yesterday who seemed mighty interested in you.”

  Natalie glanced up from the steaming coffee. “Dark hair, blue eyes, about the size of a grizzly?”

  Margo grinned. “So you’ve met him?”

  She answered with a low growling noise. So, now J. D. Cooper was asking around town about her. “What did he want to know?”

  “Not that much, really.” Margo blushed under a layer of makeup, and Natalie got the feeling she’d done most of the talking. She did love to gossip. “He asked if you were married.”

  Natalie arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “I wouldn’t think much of it. He’s married.”

  “Actually, he’s a widower,” Natalie corrected, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered. Margo would probably latch on to that piece of information and turn it into a big deal. She didn’t give Margo time to ask any more questions. “Did he ask anything about Carrie’s murder?”

  “You know, he did. He wanted to know if I thought Hamilton Gray could have killed her.”

  Interesting. So he was open to her theory of what happened to Carrie. “What did you tell him?”

  Margo blushed again. “I know you think it’s Hamilton, honey, but I just can’t see why he’d do it. It’s not like your sister would get any of his money if they just divorced. And he’s not going to inherit anything from her because of that prenup.”

  Natalie should have guessed Margo knew about the prenuptial agreement. “You know everything that goes on in this town.”

  Margo grinned. “I suppose maybe I do.” Another customer entered the diner and drew Margo’s attention away, leaving Natalie to drink her coffee in silence.

  So, J. D. Cooper wanted to know if she was married. Why hadn’t he just asked her directly?

  J.D. WASN’T SURPRISED to see his brother Gabe waiting in the Millbridge Police Department when he arrived. “I drove down last night and stayed at Alicia’s,” Gabe exp
lained, shaking his brother’s hand. “Dad’s taking my fishing clients this morning.”

  “You didn’t have to come,” J.D. said, although he was glad Gabe was there. The drive from Terrebonne had seemed to fly by, not giving him nearly enough time to prepare himself to see Dyson.

  “I came for my girl, not for you,” Gabe said with a grin. “But while I’m here—”

  J.D. squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Any word from the university about her dissertation?”

  Gabe’s grin widened. “The last revision passed and she has her oral defense in three weeks.” Alicia’s dissertation on the psychology of serial-killer pairs had included her personal notes on Marlon Dyson and Victor Logan. “Her advisor thinks she’ll do a bang-up job on the defense. In a month, I’ll be dating a doctor.”

  “Mom will be so proud,” J.D. murmured.

  A man about Gabe’s age with wavy dark hair and brown eyes emerged from a door down the hall and walked toward them. He smiled at Gabe and extended his hand. “I thought you were back home at the lake.”

  “I thought I’d drive down to see Alicia.” Gabe shook the man’s hand. “Tony, this is my brother J.D. J.D., this is Tony Evans, Alicia’s friend.”

  “I like to think I’m your friend, too, Cooper.” Tony shook J.D.’s hand. “I’ve got Dyson cooling his heels in an interview room down the hall. I figured you wouldn’t want to do this at the jail. I’ll have to stay with you, and there’ll be two guards there, too. Plus, he’s cuffed to the table. You ready for this?”

  J.D. nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  His stomach knotting with tension, he followed Tony to the interview room.

  Chapter Four

  J.D. recognized Marlon Dyson’s boyish face from the photograph that had run in the Millbridge paper the day after his arrest. Tony Evans had emailed Alicia a copy of the article the day it ran, and she’d shared it with J.D. for his case files.

  But the last four weeks hadn’t been kind to Dyson. His cheeks were leaner, and his eyes warier, as he watched J.D. and Tony enter the interview room. He’d been shot by accident while struggling with Alicia. Lost a lot of blood—probably explained his paleness as well.

  “Mr. Dyson, this is J. D. Cooper.” Tony sat in one of the two seats across the table from Dyson. J.D. took the other chair.

  “The widower.” Dyson smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “From Alex?” J.D. asked, disturbed by Dyson’s hungry gaze. Dyson seemed to feed off the tension filling the interview room.

  “Alex?” Dyson replied innocently.

  “The man you worked with. The man who killed those coeds here in Millbridge. And the women in Mississippi and Louisiana.”

  “That was Victor Logan, wasn’t it?” Dyson asked, still smiling. “That’s what I heard. Good thing he died, huh? Saves taxpayers the cost of keeping him in jail the rest of his life.”

  “You rigged a gas explosion to save taxpayer money?”

  Tony had asked the question, but Dyson’s gaze never left J.D.’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Who is Alex?” J.D. pressed.

  “I don’t know.” Dyson’s hard face softened until he looked like an overgrown, scared kid. “How would I? I just made a stupid mistake. I let my feelings for a coworker push me to do stupid, terrible things. That’s all. I swear.”

  “Stupid things like killing a janitor who got in your way?”

  “It was an accident!”

  “You shot him in the head.”

  “The gun just went off,” Marlon moaned, starting to rock back and forth. “I didn’t mean for it to happen! I don’t know much about guns—I should never have had it with me—”

  J.D. stared at him in growing horror as he realized the sociopath was actually on the verge of tears. Tony made a low groaning sound beside him, but the sound barely registered over the buzz of rage filling J.D.’s ears. It could really happen, he realized as Marlon stared back at him, blinking back what looked to all the world like tears of fear.

  Put this guy before a gullible jury, let him turn on the little boy lost act and he might get away with a minimal sentence for killing the janitor and trying to kill Alicia Solano in the bowels of the Mill Valley University’s Behavioral Sciences building.

  J.D. bit back a growl of frustration and pushed away from the table. “This guy’s small potatoes. He probably doesn’t even know Alex’s real name anyway.”

  Dyson’s smug gaze faltered for a second.

  “The guy who killed those women doesn’t make stupid mistakes. Alex wouldn’t trust a half-wit like Marlon here with his name.”

  “You can’t trick me into telling you his real name.” Dyson’s chin came up defiantly.

  “So you do know it?” Tony asked.

  Dyson clamped his mouth shut.

  He didn’t, J.D. realized. Dyson truly didn’t know the killer’s real name, for exactly the reason J.D. had said. A guy who’d gotten away with murder for over a decade wouldn’t chance revealing his true identity to someone who could testify against him later.

  J.D. was back to square one.

  BESIDES A HANDFUL OF bed-and-breakfasts, the only place for travelers to stay in Terrebonne was the Bay View Inn, a twenty-unit motel that, despite its name, was at least a mile from the water. On a clear day, from a second-floor room, it was theoretically possible to see the bay from the motel, Natalie supposed; but from J. D. Cooper’s ground-floor room all she could see was the parking lot.

  It hadn’t been hard to beat the lock on the motel room door, which probably explained why she had found almost nothing of value in J.D.’s room after nearly a half hour of searching. He’d be foolish to leave money or anything of worth in a place like this. Not out in the open, anyway.

  She stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, trying to clear her mind of distractions. Such as the distinctive masculine scent that seemed to permeate every corner of the motel room, a blend of soap, aftershave and—she took another quick sniff—gun oil. So he was carrying a weapon? She hadn’t found one anywhere in the room, so he probably had it on him. And if he’d been carrying a concealed weapon, the deputies who’d picked him up last night would have already checked his CCW permit. He’d clearly passed muster, or he’d still be cooling his heels in jail.

  She forced her gaze around the room one more time. If she were going to hide something in a motel room, something she didn’t want anyone else to find, where would she hide it?

  Her eyes gravitated toward the bed. The bedcovers were neatly in place, the pillows symmetrically positioned. Shipshape, even. What were the odds the giggling teens Bay View Inn employed as housekeeping staff could make a bed so neatly?

  After checking out the window to make sure nobody was heading toward the room, Natalie pulled back the bedcovers. The pillows sat side by side, positioned perfectly across the bed. But there was something odd-looking about the pillow closest to her. She grabbed it and discovered it was heavier than a pillow should be.

  She opened the case and looked inside. Below the fluffy foam-filled pillow lay a thick file folder full of papers.

  She pulled out the folder and opened it. The papers inside were photocopies of police reports, crime-scene photos, witness testimony transcripts, autopsy reports, even newspaper clippings—a treasure trove of information about a series of murders dating back over a decade. The deeper she delved, the more her stomach tightened, nausea rising up her throat in cold waves.

  There was no photo of her sister’s crime scene in this folder, though the top-most sheet of paper was a photocopy of the article about the murder that had run in the Terrebonne Banner the day after. But Natalie didn’t need a photo; she’d been the person who’d found Carrie’s body. She remembered exactly how she had looked—lying on her back, as if she were merely sleeping, with her hands flat to the floor next to her. A series of knife wounds across her abdomen had spilled blood onto the pale yellow blouse she’d worn that day, turning it crimson.
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  Every woman’s body in this file could have been Carrie’s. The position was the same. The women were curvy brunettes like her sister, and, in the handful of photos where the victim’s eyes were open, their eyes were brown like Carrie’s.

  No wonder J. D. Cooper thought Carrie’s death was connected.

  Forgetting all about covering her tracks, Natalie pulled out all of the photos in the file and laid them across the motel bed, beginning to tremble as she saw the sheer number of photos involved. Sixteen women, once alive, now dead at the hands of what clearly was a serial killer.

  Or two killers, if J.D.’s theory was correct.

  The rattle of the doorknob made her jump. Her first instinct was to scramble to return the photos to the folder, but she quickly realized she’d never put things back the way he’d left them. She left the photos where they were and pulled her Glock from the holster at her waist. If it was J.D., she’d explain herself and hope he understood the desperation that drove her. And if it was an intruder, she was armed.

  It wasn’t an intruder. It was J. D. Cooper, carrying a newspaper in one hand and a dark gray gun case in the other.

  He jerked to a stop in the doorway, instantly focused on the Glock in her hand. His eyes widened a notch.

  She put her weapon away. “Sorry.”

  J.D.’s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the haphazardly placed pillows, the turned back bedcover and the photos laid out across the bed. His eyes blazed with anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?”

  “Trying to find out if you’re for real,” she answered, keeping her voice steady, although inside, she was cringing with shame at being caught breaking and entering. What on earth had she been thinking?

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  She licked her lips. “No.”

  “Then get the hell out of my room.”

  She couldn’t get out of the motel room without moving past him, and right now, he was filling the doorway completely, blocking her exit. But she couldn’t just stand where she was, so she started forward, her knees trembling as the full impact of her foolish decision hit her.