Shontee opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out, not even a whimper. He stepped over the woman’s body and around Tyrell’s and grabbed Shontee’s arm.
“Unless you want me to kill you right now, do not scream and don’t fight me. Understand?”
She nodded.
The elevator, which had been climbing from the second to the third floor during the shooting, had stopped and the doors stood wide open.
He pulled her out of the elevator and down the hall toward Tony’s apartment. She searched for any sign of cameras connected to the club’s surveillance system, but saw none. Perhaps they were well hidden. If this guy was a robber or a rapist, she might come out of this alive. But if he was the person who had sent her the threatening letters, she would soon be dead.
Dead by midnight.
Oh, God, what time was it?
Wearing a pair of red silk pajamas and matching house slippers, Nicole Powell paced the living room floor while she waited impatiently for her husband to finish his telephone conversation with the Knoxville PD detective in charge of Kristi’s case. Learning about the death of one of their secretaries who worked for the agency at the downtown Knoxville Powell Building had their household in an uproar. She had personally hired Kristi, a young, vibrant UTC graduate who needed full-time employment while she persued her master’s degree in business administration. Everyone who knew the young woman liked her.
“I’ve made a pot of tea, if anyone would like a cup.” Barbara Jean, wearing a green silk caftan that complemented her coloring, wheeled into the living room.
“Thanks. Maybe later,” Nic said.
“Is Griff still on the phone?”
“Yes, he’s talking to Detective Crawford and hopefully finding out exactly what happened to Kristi.”
“Sanders is in the office sending out text messages and e-mails to all the Powell Agency employees.” Barbara Jean rolled over to Nic, reached up, and grasped her hand. “Death is always difficult to accept, but it’s especially hard when the person is so young.”
“You’re thinking about your sister, aren’t you? Her death was senseless, as is any death at the hands of a cold-blooded killer.”
Barbara Jean nodded, squeezed Nic’s hand, and let go. “And yet we have no choice but to accept the senseless acts and do what we can to bring the perpetrators to justice. You accepted that as your role in life when you became an FBI agent. And instead of hiding away from the ugly side of life, I chose to work with the man I love, just as you did, to do everything possible to seek justice for those who cannot obtain it for themselves.”
“Griff will become personally involved in this case,” Nic said. “He thinks of all his employees as part of the Powell Agency family.”
“Why don’t I pour us some tea,” Barbara Jean suggested. “I suspect that it’s going to be a long night for all of us.”
Just as Barbara Jean steered her wheelchair toward the open double doorway, Griffin and Sanders entered the living room together, the two men—a contrast in opposites with Griff big, tall, and blond where Sanders was medium height, stocky, and dark—deep in conversation. The moment Griff saw Nic, he stopped talking to Sanders and focused on her.
“Kristi was murdered at her apartment,” Griff said. “Her throat was slit. Detective Crawford couldn’t be persuaded to give me any other details about the murder.”
“Do they have any suspects?” Nic asked.
“No.”
Nicole knew her husband occasionally used unorthodox methods to obtain the information he wanted, those methods often bordering on the illegal. When she had worked for the Bureau, Griffin Powell and his vigilante agency had been the bane of her existence. Even now, she sometimes had a problem accepting his belief that “the end justifies the means.”
“Barbara Jean has made tea,” Nic said. “Why don’t we all go to the kitchen and begin working on a plan for Powell’s to obtain the information we need to find Kristi’s killer.”
The corners of Griff’s wide mouth curved slightly as he gazed at her. “Sanders and I can handle the details, if you’d prefer not to know how and what—”
“I’m not an FBI agent now,” she reminded him. “I’m your wife and the co-owner of the Powell Agency. I may not always approve of all your methods, but right or wrong, I want to know about whatever it is that you do to expedite matters.”
Griff nodded. “Then let’s go to the kitchen, drink our tea, and get down to business.”
At 11:53 P.M., Theo Smith, who was monitoring the strategically placed cameras from the basement to the third level of the building, placed a call to Calvin James, the head of Rough Diamond’s security team.
“I just picked up a man and woman in the hall on level three outside of Mr. Johnson’s apartment,” Theo said.
“Mr. Johnson just sent Ms. Thomas upstairs with Tyrell.”
“I didn’t see their faces, so the lady could be Ms. Thomas, but the man is not Tyrell. He’s a much smaller man. And he’s white.”
“Can you still see them?” Calvin asked.
“No, sir. They’ve just moved out of camera range.”
“If you see them again, let me know immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Calvin sent one of his guys to inform the boss about the intruders on level three while he took two other armed men and headed for the elevator, not knowing what they would find when they arrived in Mr. Johnson’s private suite. Uncertainty pumped adrenaline through his body as he reached out and hit the Up button outside the elevator. He and his men waited while the elevator came down from the third floor. The doors swung open. Inside lay two bodies: a redhead in a clingy black silk dress, a single bullet hole in her forehead, and a large black man, his body riddled with bullets.
“Shit!” Calvin stared at the unknown woman and then at Tyrell Fuqua, Ms. Thomas’s bodyguard.
“Please, don’t kill me,” Shontee pleaded with the man holding a gun on her. “Please, I’ll do anything. I can pay you a lot of money. My fiancé is a very rich man. Just tell me what you want.”
“I want you to die,” he told her. “You and all the others.”
“Others? You—you’re the person who sent me the letters, aren’t you?”
He smiled.
“Why?” she asked, wanting to keep him talking. “At least tell me why you killed Dean and Hilary and Charlie.”
“They had to be killed for the same reason you must die, Ebony O.”
“I’m not Ebony O. Not any longer. I’m Shontee Thomas. I left that life years ago. I’m not that person now.”
“You can’t erase the past,” he told her. “Not as long as you live. I watched you in Midnight Masquerade this evening. You’re even more beautiful and sexy in person.”
“You’re a fan,” Shontee said, forcing a smile, as she prayed that she could buy herself enough time for someone to realize Tyrell was dead and she was in big trouble.
“Yes, I suppose you could call me a fan.”
His smile turned Shontee’s blood to ice as they stared at each other. His weird expression hinted of madness. As she studied his face, she realized that he was wearing theatrical makeup, that his nose and chin were fake, probably plastic. That could mean his beard and mustache weren’t real.
Why was he wearing a disguise? If he intended to kill her, there would be no witnesses. Ah, but what if there were hidden security cameras that she hadn’t seen? Had he known about them or had he simply not taken any chances?
“Do I know you?” she asked. “Have we ever met before?”
His smile widened. Shontee’s stomach knotted.
“You really want to know the answer to that question?”
“Yes.” She held her breath.
“We’ve met before,” he told her as he fired the pistol.
The bullet hit her in the shoulder. Crying out in pain, she clutched her wound. Blood trickled through her fingers.
Oh God, he had shot her!
He’s going to kill me.
She lunged at him, her instinct for survival choosing fight instead of flight.
He shot her a second time, in the gut. The second shot slowed her as she doubled over in horrific pain.
“Why?” she asked, her voice so weak that she barely recognized it as her own. “Why…why…?”
As she slumped to her knees, her life’s blood draining from the two gunshot wounds, she prayed for help. Where was Tony? Where were the other people on his security force?
Standing directly over her, her attacker grabbed her hair and yanked, forcing her to stare up at him. While she looked into the eyes of her killer, he pressed his gun to her forehead. She grasped the cuff of his slacks with her bloody fingers.
“Don’t,” she pleaded.
“Dead by midnight,” he told her and then pulled the trigger, sending the bullet straight into Shontee’s brain.
Chapter 18
Mike Birkett dropped his kids off at school and headed in to the office. Halfway between Dunmore Middle School, where M.J. was a sixth grader, and the sheriff’s department, Mike’s phone rang. Using the voice-activated command that responded to his calls, he answered immediately.
“Mike, it’s Jack. Are you where you can turn on a TV?”
“No, I’m in my truck on my way into work,” Mike said. “What’s up?”
“Cathy and I have on the morning news. Special Agent Hicks Wainwright is being interviewed outside an Atlanta nightclub, some place called the Rough Diamond. Isn’t he the FBI agent in charge of the Midnight Killer task force?”
“Yes, he is.” The club’s name sounded familiar. And then it hit him. “That club is owned by Shontee Thomas’s fiancé. She was in Midnight Masquerade and has been getting the same kind of letters that Lorie’s received.”
“Yeah, from what Wainwright is saying, I figured as much.”
“Did he get to her? Is she dead?”
“She’s dead,” Jack replied. “Wainwright is giving out basic facts, but no details. Ms. Thomas’s death is being treated as a homicide. And he’s admitted that they have reason to believe she is the fourth victim in a series of murders.”
“One a month,” Mike said.
“What?”
“So far, since the first of the year, he’s killed one person each month.”
“Does this mean you think Lorie is safe for now, at least until May?”
“Yeah sure, if this guy doesn’t alter his MO, but we have no guarantee of that.”
“You should probably be the one to tell Lorie about Shontee Thomas,” Jack said. “Or if you’d rather, I can do it. Cathy and I are heading out to her place in a few minutes.”
Mike had intended waiting until Jack came in to work today to talk to him about taking over Lorie’s case, but he figured, under the circumstances, now was the ideal time.
“Look, I had planned to discuss this with you later…” Mike paused. “As of today, I’m assigning you to Lorie’s case. You’ll be in charge. I…uh…” He considered lying to his old friend, to use any halfway reasonable excuse, but Jack knew him too well. The simple truth would work best. “I need to put some distance between Lorie and me. Things are getting too complicated.”
“I see,” Jack said. “Sure, I’ll take over. No problem.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your not trying to talk me out of my decision.”
“I figure it wasn’t an easy decision to make. Your gut is telling you to personally protect Lorie, but your head is warning you not to get too close to her or you’ll wind up regretting it.”
“Yeah, something like that.” When Jack didn’t comment, Mike said, “You’ll keep me updated on a regular basis. Just because I won’t be personally involved doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to her.”
“I get it,” Jack told him. “The problem is that you do care, you care a lot more than you want to.”
Lorie had turned on the small TV in the kitchen and muted the sound as soon as she’d poured her first cup of coffee thirty minutes ago. She liked catching the early morning weather report while she puttered around in the kitchen, drinking coffee and deciding what to eat for breakfast. Except for Sundays when she often cooked, she usually chose from among three menus: cereal and fruit, yogurt and fruit, or a muffin and juice. She liked routines because she found comfort and stability in daily habits that seldom varied. The craving for excitement and adventure had taken her into a world that had nearly destroyed her. Even though her life now was often boring and dull, at least it was safe and secure. Or it had been until recently.
She lifted the coffeepot from the warmer and poured her third cup into the decorative mug. “Want more coffee?” she asked Shelley.
Her bodyguard shook her head as she munched on cornflakes liberally sprinkled with banana slices and chopped walnuts.
Holding her mug in both hands, Lorie sat down at the kitchen table and glanced at the TV. Gasping when she saw Special Agent Wainwright apparently holding a press conference, she searched for the remote, found it in the middle of the table where she had tossed it earlier, and restored the sound.
The tickertape running across the bottom of the screen read: Fourth Midnight Killer victim murdered at fiancé’s downtown Atlanta nightclub.
Shelley dropped her spoon into the almost empty bowl. Metal against ceramic clanged loudly in the quiet room.
“Was Shontee Thomas one of the actors in the porno movie Midnight Masquerade?” a TV reporter asked the special agent in charge.
Wainwright looked downright uncomfortable, as if trying to decide just how truthful he should be in answering the question. Apparently deciding that the info was easily accessible to anyone with an Internet connection, he replied, “Yes, Ms. Thomas did have a small part in the movie.”
“Then isn’t it obvious that she’s the Midnight Killer’s fourth victim?” another reporter asked while others clamored to be recognized.
“After we receive the medical examiner’s report, I’ll make an official announcement.”
Wainwright was bombarded by a barrage of questions as he ended the brief interview and walked away from the microphone. “Do you believe all the actors from that particular movie are in danger?” “Do you have any suspects at this time?” “What can you tell us about the killer’s MO?” “Is there anything, other than the fact the four victims were former porno actors, that link these murders?” “Is it true that Ms. Thomas had a personal bodyguard and that he was also killed?”
The camera swept over the slew of reporters outside the Rough Diamond nightclub and then panned out to show the crowd of curiosity seekers already congregated, even at this early hour.
Lorie set her coffee mug on the table and laid the remote down alongside the mug. “Shontee had a bodyguard.”
Shelley’s confident gaze collided with Lorie’s nervous stare. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. Just because the killer got past Shontee Thomas’s bodyguard does not mean that he’ll get past me.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to protect me,” Lorie said. “But you’re only human, as was Shontee’s highly trained bodyguard. They just said that the killer murdered her bodyguard, too.”
“You not only have me, but you have the sheriff’s department keeping a close watch and you have yourself, too. You own a gun and know how to use it. But if you’ll feel safer with more protection, I’m sure we can arrange to add a second bodyguard to this detail.”
“A second bodyguard?” For half a minute, Lorie actually considered the suggestion. “No. I feel like a charity case as it is. I can’t ask the Powell Agency to provide two bodyguards when I can’t afford one.”
A lull in their conversation allowed them to hear the morning show anchorman’s next statement. “And now to Joelle Piette, a reporter from our local affiliate in Atlanta. Joelle is speaking to Calvin James, the head of security at the nightclub where Shontee Thomas and her bodyguard, Tyrell Fuqua, were murdered last night.”
The camera zoomed in on a young, attractive black woman wi
th striking green eyes, her expression serious and concerned as she turned to the man at her side. The six-foot-plus black man with linebacker shoulders and neck stood at rigid attention, his dark suit jacket open to reveal a bloodstained white shirt.
“What can you tell us about the murders that took place inside the Rough Diamond last night?” Joelle asked.
“It came down around midnight,” Calvin told her, his gaze riveted to hers and not the camera. “We’ve got surveillance throughout the building. An unknown man was seen with Ms. Thomas shortly before midnight, upstairs in the hallway leading to Mr. Johnson’s private suite.”
“Mr. Johnson is Anthony Trice Johnson, the owner of Rough Diamond and several other nightclubs throughout the South.” Joelle looked into the camera as she spoke. “Shontee Thomas was his fiancée.”
“That’s right,” Calvin said, as if Joelle’s comments had been questions. “As soon as I was informed about the intruder, I took two of my men and headed for the elevator.” He shook his head as if still not quite able to believe what he’d seen. “We found Tyrell and some redheaded woman in the elevator, both of them dead.”
“And what did you do then?” Joelle asked.
“We took the stairs to the third floor.”
“Is that where you found Ms. Thomas’s body?”
Calvin nodded. “She was lying there, all shot up and bloody.”
Four uniformed policemen appeared as if from out of nowhere and two flanked Calvin while one spoke to Joelle and the fourth motioned for the cameraman to end filming.
“You don’t have the right to stop me from talking to the press,” Calvin told the policemen. “Mr. Johnson wants people to know what happened to his fiancée. He wants to send a message to the killer.”
Suddenly, the screen blurred and then went blank before the morning news anchor reappeared and hurriedly said, “We seem to have lost our live feed. But we will continue with this breaking story when we return from our regularly scheduled commercial break.”
Standing in the back of the crowd assembled outside the Rough Diamond, he watched as the police escorted Calvin James away from newswoman, Joelle Piette. No one—not the police, the FBI, the press, or Tony Johnson’s security team—suspected that the person who had killed three people inside the nightclub only hours ago was now watching the media circus at close range.
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