Freedom of the press could be a double-edged sword, cutting down the guilty and the innocent alike. And in Lorie’s case, the guilty who had already paid for her past sins.
Maleah and Derek had flown out of Laredo late yesterday and arrived in Fayetteville, Arkansas, last night. On their assignment to question all the possible suspects on their short list, they were zigzagging across the United States and had detoured into Mexico yesterday. Today, they would question Casey Lloyd, who had coauthored the script for Midnight Masquerade. The Powell report on the guy read like a soap opera. Boy genius pens first novel at eighteen, hits the New York Times bestseller list, and is hired to coauthor the script when his novel is optioned for the big screen. Lloyd became the toast of New York and LA. By the age of twenty-four, unable to repeat the phenomenal success of his first novel, he was a has-been wonder boy with an expensive cocaine habit. After a series of dismal failures—a novel and several movie scripts—Lloyd gladly accepted Travis Dillard’s offer to work with the semifamous pornography writer Laura Lou Roberts, who had starred in numerous “stag” films in the seventies.
A knock on her hotel room door snapped Maleah from her thoughts.
“Perdue, let me in,” Derek said. “I’ve got coffee and Danish.”
Overcoming the urge to check her appearance in the mirror, Maleah tromped barefooted across the room, unlocked and unlatched the door, and looked from Derek’s smiling face to the sack he held in his hand.
How the hell could he look so fresh and chipper this early in the morning? It was barely eight o’clock. Obviously, he had already showered, shaved, ironed his slacks and shirt, and gone downstairs to pick up their breakfast.
As he entered the room, he glanced at her casually. She cringed, knowing full well what she must look like in her baggy pajamas and with her hair uncombed. So, why should she care how she looked? It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress the man. God forbid.
He set the sack down on the corner desk, opened it and pulled out two Styrofoam cups. “This one is yours.” She accepted the cup from him. “I’ve got bear claws and apple and cherry Danish.”
She snapped open the spout on the coffee cup’s plastic lid, took a sip of the hot brew, and sighed. “I’ll take the cherry Danish.”
After placing his cup on the desk, he pulled a stack of napkins from the sack and laid them on the desk; then he tore open the sack and spread out the selection of goodies.
“Griff called.” Derek pulled out the desk chair and sat.
“When?” Maleah picked up a napkin and the cherry Danish and took the armchair to the left of the desk.
“On my way downstairs to get breakfast for us.”
“And?”
“And the FBI is now officially involved. Special Agent Hicks Wainwright is heading the task force. He made an announcement to the press this morning outside the Birmingham field office.”
“What does this mean for our private investigation? Did Griff change our orders?”
Derek shook his head. “Nope. Griff said to stick to the plan, send in a daily report, and if anything comes up he thinks we should share with the Bureau, he’ll notify them.”
“So we’re still going to talk to Casey Lloyd today?”
“If he shows up for his weekly SAA meeting,” Derek said. “Otherwise, we’ll have to track him down since we haven’t been able to find a home address for him.”
Maleah took a big bite out of her Danish, savored the sweet taste, and then hurriedly washed it down with several sips of the sweet coffee. It really irked her that Derek remembered how she liked her coffee.
“How does a guy go from being a teenage literary genius to a thirty-five-year-old recovering drug and sex addict?” Maleah wondered aloud.
“Bad luck. Poor choices. Fate. Who knows?” Derek picked up a bear claw and immediately chomped into it.
“What did you tell Griff when he called?” she asked.
Derek stared at her questioningly.
“About your professional assessment of the three possible suspects that we’ve interviewed,” she explained.
Derek took a swig from the coffee cup, set it down on the desk, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I told him what I told you—that I think Travis Dillard is capable of cold, calculated murder. And he’s smart enough to pull off killing three people without leaving any evidence to link him to the crimes. Duane Hines is a couple of bricks shy of a load, but I doubt he’s a killer. Besides, he doesn’t have the money for plane fare and elaborate masks.”
“I don’t think Kyle Richey would risk destroying the life he’s built with his new wife,” Maleah said. “Just my opinion, of course. I don’t have your credentials as a profiler.”
“I agree. Besides, Richey’s the type who would kill in the heat of passion. He’s not the cold, calculating type who would plan and execute a series of murders.”
“That means for the time being, Travis Dillard is our chief suspect.”
“The agency is checking on his whereabouts when each of the murders took place. If he has a concrete alibi for just one, he’s not our guy. Unless he hired a hitman.”
“After we talk to Casey Lloyd today, that leaves only one more person on our interview list. Grant Leroy, the director.”
“Actually, Griff added another name to the list.”
Maleah widened her eyes and glared at Derek. “You’d think Griff would inform me of what’s going on. After all, I am the Powell agent. You’re just a consultant.”
Derek chuckled. “I’m sure Griff didn’t think twice about giving me the info. He knows we’re working as a team on this case and we share everything.” He winked at her. “Well, just about everything.”
Maleah groaned.
“Where’s your sense of humor, honey?”
“Do not call me honey!”
“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Perdue.”
Maleah scowled at him. “Who did Griff add to the list?”
“His name is Tyler Owens, but he’s actually not a suspect. His mother is Terri Owens, aka Candy Ruff. When Powell’s tried to contact his mother to warn her about the murders and find out if she had received any letters, he explained that his mother had recently had a stroke and is recovering in a rehab center. He asked for the interview. He has three letters that were sent to his mother. He thinks receiving these letters contributed to her stroke.”
“And we’re going to waste our time interviewing him because?”
“Because he said he thinks he might know who the killer is.”
Shelley Gilbert’s call came into the sheriff’s department at exactly 9:35 A.M. and two patrol cars were sent out immediately to Lorie Hammonds’s home.
When Mike showed up at 10:05, he found the situation worse than he had imagined. He had expected to find reporters from the local newspaper and TV station and possibly a few nosy neighbors. But what he drove smack-dab into was pure bedlam. A horde of at least fifty people had congregated in Lorie’s yard and the road in front of her house. When he got out of his truck, he counted six different TV cameras and a dozen photographers taking snapshots of the house, the crowd, and the uniformed officer guarding the front door. Mike assumed another patrolman was at the back door.
As he made his way through the mixed rabble of reporters and townspeople, Mike spotted more than a dozen faces he instantly recognized. He knew these people. They had voted for him. Two of them went to church with him.
“It’s Sheriff Birkett,” someone yelled and all heads turned to search for him in the crowd.
One cameraman zeroed in on him and the accompanying reporter called out a question. “Sheriff, is it true that you were once engaged to Ms. Hammonds?”
Someone else shouted, “Is she as hot in the sack in real life as she is in Midnight Masquerade?”
Mike clenched his jaw tightly. Do not react. Do not respond. Don’t let anyone goad you into saying or doing anything stupid.
When he didn’t reply to either question and continued walking toward Lorie’s house
, people gradually fell back enough to clear a path for him. A rumbling hush fell over the throng. He stepped up on the porch and spoke to the officer at the front door.
“I’m going in to see Ms. Hammonds,” Mike told the deputy. “I’ll be back out in a few minutes and make a statement. Until then, do your best to keep things under control. But under no circumstances is anyone to get any closer. If anyone tries to get on the porch, pull out your pistol to show them you mean business. That should be enough of a deterrent.”
The deputy said, “Yes, sir.”
Mike rang the doorbell and called, “It’s Mike Birkett.”
The door eased open. The crowd went wild, yelling questions and accusations that quickly blended together into an unintelligible roar.
Mike slipped inside quickly and closed the door behind him. Shelley faced him with a grim expression.
“Where’s Lorie?”
“I’m here.” She walked out of the shadowed corner of the dim hallway.
It broke his heart to see the hurt in her eyes. He couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t gently pull her into his arms and hold her. He didn’t dare.
“This is all Ryan Bonner’s doing,” Mike said. “That little shithead might as well have shouted your name at Wainwright’s press conference.”
“He called,” Shelley said. “Special Agent Wainwright. He got in touch right after the press conference to check on Lorie.”
“Yeah, I spoke to him a few minutes ago and filled him in on the situation,” Mike told them. “He’s on his way to Dunmore right now.”
“The phone has been ringing off the hook,” Lorie said. “Shelley finally disconnected every line in the house.”
“I’m sorry about this.” Mike walked over to Lorie.
She stared up at him, her chin tilted defiantly, her expression one of steely determination. “I am not going to grovel and beg forgiveness for past sins. Not again. I’ve spent nine years paying penance. That’s more than enough. From here on out, I don’t give a damn what anyone in this town thinks of me.” She looked him right in the eye. “And that includes you.”
Sex Addicts Anonymous Arkansas Pioneer Saturday Group met every week at 10:00 A.M. at the Alano Club. Since the sessions were closed meetings, Maleah and Derek arrived at 568 West Sycamore shortly before 11:00. Armed with arrest photos of Casey Lloyd from four years ago when he had been picked up for possession of an illegal substance, Maleah and Derek waited outside the building. At five after, a mixed group of men and women straggled out, a few at a time, some talking and laughing, others scurrying away alone.
“There he is,” Derek said.
“Casey Lloyd,” Maleah called out to him.
A Pillsbury Doughboy–round man with puppy-dog brown eyes and fat, rosy cheeks threw up his hand and waved at Derek and Maleah.
“You missed the meeting,” he said as he approached them. “The New Hope group meets on Wednesday nights or you can come back next Saturday. But I’d be happy to talk to you now, if you need immediate help.”
“We’re here to speak to you, Mr. Lloyd,” Maleah told him. “We’re not interested in your SAA group.”
He glanced from one to the other, eyeing them speculatively. “What’s this about?”
“If you would prefer to talk in private—” Derek said.
“I’m good here.”
“Okay. That’s fine with us,” Maleah said. “I’m Maleah Perdue and this is Derek Lawrence.” She explained they worked for the Powell Agency and told him the bare facts about the recent murders. “By any chance you haven’t received any threatening letters, have you?”
“No, I haven’t, but I don’t actually have an address either. I…uh…don’t have a place of my own. I sleep most nights at one of the local church shelters, and during the week, I pick up whatever odd jobs I can find.”
“When was the last time you left Fayetteville?” Derek asked.
“Christmas,” he replied immediately. “My parents sent me a bus ticket and I went up to Bella Vista for the holidays with my family. And before you ask, yes, they’ve offered for me to come home and live with them, but…I’ve broken their hearts and disappointed them too often to risk it again. I take things one day at a time now, but I can’t promise my parents or my sisters that I’ll stay clean and sober and walk the straight and narrow from here on out.”
Apparently Casey Lloyd, like Duane Hines, didn’t have the financial means that would have enabled him to buy plane tickets and elaborate masquerade masks.
“Is there anyone you can think of from when Midnight Masquerade was filmed who would have a reason to want to see the actors in that movie dead?” Maleah asked.
“I have no idea. I really didn’t get to know the actors all that well. When I coauthored that piece-of-trash script, I was high half the time.”
“Were you sleeping with any of the actresses?”
“Laura Lou kept me on a pretty tight leash,” Casey said. “The lady was my coauthor, my keeper, my lover, and my drug supplier. She’d have cut off my balls if I’d slept with another woman.”
“Was Ms. Roberts a violent person?” Derek asked. “Would she be capable of cold-blooded murder?”
“That bitch?” Casey laughed. “She’d be capable, but she’s a little long in the tooth to do the job herself. She’d hire a hit man if she wanted anybody killed. But I can’t think of any reason she’d want to kill Dean or Hilary or Charlie. Travis Dillard is another matter. She’d love to see that old son of a bitch six feet under.”
“There was bad blood between Mr. Dillard and Ms. Roberts?” Maleah asked.
“They had a business deal—she wrote the scripts for his movies for a little of nothing and she got a percentage of the take. Then Dillard and his lawyers screwed Laura Lou out of God knows how much, but she kept writing for him because nobody else would hire her until a few years ago.”
“If Dillard was the victim, then Ms. Roberts might be our prime suspect,” Derek said. “But he’s very much alive, at least for now.”
“What do you mean at least for now?”
“Travis Dillard has terminal cancer,” Derek explained.
Casey grinned. “Maybe there is a little bit of justice in this old world after all.”
By late afternoon, the crowd outside Lorie’s house had dispersed, leaving behind cigarette butts, drink cans, and a variety of debris littering her yard and the road in front of her house. The flower beds on either side of her walkway had been trampled and the antique white wrought-iron settee in her backyard garden had been moved directly under a window, used by two peeping Tom reporters trying to see inside her house.
Mike had persuaded most of the townsfolk to leave, but it had taken a warning from Special Agent Wainwright to get rid of the press. At least temporarily.
“They’ll be back,” Wainwright had told her. “One at a time or in small groups. Your story is big-time news now that they know you’re one of the Midnight Killer’s potential victims.”
“The Midnight Killer?”
“That’s what the press is calling him, and it seems appropriate.”
“Then y’all are sure it’s a man?”
“Reasonably sure. Most serial killers are male.”
Most but not all, Lorie thought. What if they were wrong? And what if, no matter what the FBI and the Powell Agency did, they couldn’t keep the killer from getting to her?
“Lorie? Lorie…” Mike called her name several times before she snapped out of her thoughts and looked at him.
“Sorry, I was…It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you certain that you want to go to Jack and Cathy’s homecoming party?” Mike asked. “It’s only a small gathering, but—”
“I am not going to allow the media or the good citizens of Dunmore to make me a prisoner in my own home. My best friend is returning from her honeymoon this evening and nothing is going to keep me from being there to welcome her and her husband home.”
“Then you’ll go with me,” Mike told her. “M
s. Gilbert, too, of course.”
“That’s not necessary,” Lorie said. “If you show up with me, people will talk.”
“Let them talk. If you’re escorted by the sheriff, you’ll be safer from the press and from anyone thinking about stalking you when you leave the house.” He grinned. “Remember, I have the authority to arrest people, and for most folks that alone is a deterrent.”
“Aren’t you planning to take your girlfriend to the party?” Lorie asked.
Mike hesitated, and then cleared his throat. “Abby can pick up the kids and meet us there.”
“What’s she like?”
“Abby?”
“Yes, Abby.” Not for the world would she tell Mike that his children had practically come out and told her that they didn’t like Abby Sherman, the woman he had been dating on a fairly regular basis for several months.
“She’s a really nice person. In many ways, she reminds me of Molly.”
Molly, the woman who had taken her place in his heart and in his life. Molly, who had given him two beautiful children. Molly, who, in death, had been elevated to sainthood, at least in Mike’s eyes. If Abby Sherman reminded him of his late wife, then she had to be damn near perfect.
“I look forward to meeting her,” Lorie said.
Mike stared at her, a puzzled look in his dark blue eyes.
“If she makes you happy, I’m glad.”
“What about you, Lorie, are you happy?” he asked, then quickly amended his question. “Were you happy before this mess with the threatening letters and—?”
“I was content,” she told him. “It took me a long time to reach that point.”
“I’d like to see you happy. I hate what happened today. I hate that people can be so cruel and unforgiving. In the past, I was one of those people. I wanted to hurt you the way you had hurt me.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
“Mike?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t ever settle for anything less than the real thing,” she told him. “Don’t convince yourself you should marry Abby Sherman or any other woman because she’d make a good wife and mother or because she reminds you of Molly. When you get married again be sure it’s for the right reason.”
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