Lorie laughed. “You’re kidding yourself if you think it won’t happen again. And next time you may not be able to stop with just a kiss.”
“Don’t do this.” He turned and headed for the front door.
She followed him. “The only way we can make sure it doesn’t happen again is for you to leave.”
He opened the door. “I’m not leaving and that’s final.”
“You stubborn mule!” she hollered at his back as he walked out onto the porch.
Without a backward glance, he stepped off the porch and onto the sidewalk. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he said as he threw up his hand and waved at Buddy Pounders, who had just come around the corner of the house.
Lorie grumbled to herself, then yelled, not caring who heard her. “If you stay, whatever happens will be your fault, not mine!” She went back inside and slammed the door.
Chapter 27
He had three days to make it happen. Three days to study Jean Goins Misner’s daily routine, her comings and goings and the people allowed in and out of her home. Three days to find a way to get inside her house and kill her.
If he was gone longer than a few days, people would ask too many questions about his absence. As with the four other out-of-town trips he had made to inflict punishment and exact revenge, he had fabricated a reasonable excuse this time, a seemingly legitimate reason to be absent from his daily life. Of course, he was never where he was supposed to be. But he was always careful. He covered his tracks. He used fake ID and subtle disguises.
He was too smart to get caught.
Each execution had posed specific problems and, admittedly, he had created a scenario that complicated things, such as committing the murders as close to midnight as possible. But he preferred complicated to simple. He loved a challenge. And finding a way to get past the tight security surrounding Jean Goins, aka Puff Raven, would be a test of his superior intelligence.
As he gazed through the binoculars at Jean’s Hollywood Hills home, he smiled to himself at the thought of killing her. Not only would she be taken by surprise, but so would the FBI task force and the Powell agents who had questioned him. No one expected the fifth murder to take place until May, the fifth month. And that element of surprise would work to his advantage.
He had arrived at eleven this morning, Pacific time. He had parked across from Jean and Jeff Misner’s home for an hour and then moved his rental car down the street and parked it. With a digital camera hanging around his neck and a sightseeing brochure sticking out of his shirt pocket, he could easily pass himself off as a tourist, if anyone questioned him. After all, the homes of numerous old and present-day stars dotted the hills above the Sunset Strip, but only a handful had obtained their vast wealth in such a blatantly sinful way as the Misners had.
No doubt Jean had a full-time bodyguard. Perhaps she’d had one even before he had sent her the first death threat, but most certainly ever since. A bodyguard or even two or more could not stand between him and destiny. His destiny as the avenger, the righter of wrongs; his victim’s destiny to be punished and rendered harmless. And having an obstacle such as a professionally trained bodyguard and overcoming that obstacle simply made success all the sweeter.
In typical tourist fashion, he meandered along leisurely, taking a snapshot every so often. He stopped and stared at the tall, decorative gates that protected the entrance to the Misners’ estate. Jean’s home was a five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath Mediterranean mansion set atop a sloping ridge. By going online and doing a minimum amount of research, he had discovered the community amenities included a heated pool and spa, a gym, a jogging path, and a grassy park for children and dogs. The Misners had come a long way from the time he had been a cameraman and she a supporting actor in Midnight Masquerade. Jeff was now an adult film director and Jean’s porno Web site raked in a ton of money.
He couldn’t remain there much longer without possibly bringing undue attention to himself. He would come back for a while tonight when he was less likely to be noticed. And then early in the morning, he would return in a different vehicle, a truck perhaps, and wear jeans and a tool belt and pretend to be a carpenter or a painter or even a plumber. He needed to know when the bodyguards changed shifts and who came and went from the house. A cook, maids, gardeners, hairstylists, masseuse, etc.
And if by tomorrow afternoon, he had not come up with a plan that would put him in direct contact with Jean near the midnight hour, he would resort to his backup plan. He would simply telephone her, tell her that he was in town and he would very much like to see her.
Maleah and Shelley Gilbert had been colleagues for several years and although they had never worked a case together, they had occasionally crossed paths at the Powell Agency headquarters and at various agency events.
Everyone who knew Shelley liked her.
She had been that kind of person.
The simple, dignified memorial service had lasted a little over an hour and a half. The ceremony had included two eulogies, one given by her sister, Stacy, and the other by Griffin Powell, several prayers led by the minister from the Baptist church Shelley had attended, and three hymns sung by the church choir. And all during the service, Maleah couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Shelley was the second Powell Agency employee who had been murdered in a very short period of time.
From the agency’s inception, agent safety had been a top priority, and to Maleah’s knowledge only two agents had been killed in the line of duty. All the agents were reasonably young, had passed strenuous medical and psychological exams, and had undergone extensive bodyguard training. Even the employees at the Knoxville office complex had received in-depth exams and had been given lessons in basic self-defense skills.
The funerals of two fellow agents in less than a month seemed surreal to Maleah and probably to all the other Powell employees. Griff had ordered the office closed for the afternoon, and to a person, the staff had attended the service, as had every agent who wasn’t in the field and unable to return to Knoxville.
Although Maleah had become accustomed to Derek’s presence and they had sat together at the funeral, she wished that her brother hadn’t invited him to join them for an early dinner after they left the memorial service. Working with the man on a daily basis was bad enough without having to socialize with him. The fact that they appeared to be a third couple, along with the other two—Jack and Cathy and Mike and Lorie—aggravated Maleah. But it amused Derek. Damn him. He seemed to derive much too much pleasure from situations that made her uncomfortable.
Thankfully, they had all kept the dinnertime conversation light, almost as if by mental telepathy, they had agreed not to discuss the Midnight Killer or Shelley’s and Kristi’s murders.
“Y’all are welcome to stay over at my apartment tonight,” Maleah told her brother as they left Chesapeake’s Seafood House around 6:15 P.M. “I have two bedrooms and somebody can sleep on the sofa.”
“Thanks, but we should head on home,” Jack said. “I took off work today and Cathy closed up Treasures so we could make this trip with Mike and Lorie. We all wanted to be here, to show our respect.”
Maleah hugged Jack and then Cathy before turning to Lorie. “I’m sorry that we haven’t solved this case and caught the Midnight Killer. But I promise you that we haven’t given up.”
“Powell’s and the FBI are an unofficial team, and the combined manpower is formidable. It’s only a matter of time before we get him.” When Derek injected his comment into what Maleah considered a private conversation, she glared at him. And as usual, he acted as if he didn’t even notice her nonverbal censure.
“I’m hoping that will happen very soon,” Lorie said as she placed her hand on Derek’s arm.
Lorie rubbed Derek’s arm in what Maleah saw as nothing more than a friendly gesture, but apparently Mike Birkett saw it as more than that. His body visibly tensed and he gave Derek a get-your-hands-off-my-woman glare even though it was Lorie who had touched Derek
. Then, as if sensing Mike’s unspoken jealousy, Derek put his arm around Lorie’s shoulder and leaned down to kiss her cheek.
Was the man crazy? Did he have a death wish? If looks could kill, Derek would be dead from the feral scowl on Mike’s face.
“We should get going,” Mike said, his tone gruff. “As it is, it’ll be close to eleven before we get home.”
“Do you need a ride to your apartment?” Cathy asked Maleah. “I know you came to the service with the Powells.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Derek replied for her. “I can take Maleah home.”
Maleah forced a smile, not wanting to make a scene, today of all days.
After a round of quick good-byes that included promises to keep in touch and share information, Mike whisked Lorie away quickly. And since Jack and Cathy had ridden to Knoxville with the other couple, they followed them to Lorie’s SUV.
Intending to get a taxi home, Maleah started to say good night—and good riddance—to Derek, but before she uttered a word, his cell phone rang. He answered, listened, and replied, “We’ll meet y’all there in about fifteen minutes.”
“I hope that ‘we’ doesn’t include me,” Maleah said. “I want to go home, take a long, relaxing soak in the bathtub, and sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“I’ll drop you by your apartment later, after we make a detour by the Powell Building,” Derek said. “That was Griff. He wants us to join him and Nic and a few others for a Powell Agency powwow.”
Maleah grumbled. “This couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
Reluctantly, Maleah slid into the passenger seat of Derek’s sleek silver Corvette. When he got behind the wheel, she couldn’t help noticing that his long legs and broad shoulders seemed oversized for the small sports car. She found it oddly amusing that the blue-blooded Derek and her good-old-boy brother both had a passion for Corvettes. And it was downright annoying that Jack and Derek had become buddies last year when they’d worked together on the Fire and Brimstone Killer case.
On the short drive from the restaurant to the Powell Building, Derek didn’t try to carry on a mundane conversation with Maleah. Thank goodness. He parked his Vette in the underground garage and they showed their IDs to the guards on duty near the two elevators that rose from the basement level to the top floor of the restored 1928 structure. Griffin Powell’s private office covered the entire eighteenth floor, the penthouse suite, which gave him a spectacular nighttime view of the city lights.
Apparently she and Derek were the last to arrive, because almost everyone else had taken seats around the conference table and had been served drinks by Sanders, who was acting as bartender this evening.
“Come on in.” Griff motioned to them.
Nic smiled at Maleah when she chose the seat next to hers at the far end of the table. Derek declined Sanders’s offer for a drink and chose a seat on the opposite side from Maleah.
Glancing around the table, she took note of the others assembled here this evening. Griff at the head of the oval table and Nic at his side. Sanders stood while Barbara Jean sat in her wheelchair by the bar. Holt Keinan leaned back in one of the thickly padded leather chairs and hoisted a beer bottle to his lips. Michelle Allen and Ben Corbett sat on either side of him.
Dr. Yvette Meng, along with one of her protégés, Meredith Sinclair, stood by the wide expanse of windows overlooking the city below. The two were deep in conversation.
Maleah leaned over and whispered to Nic, “What’s Dr. Meng doing here?”
“Yvette and Meredith were allowed a few minutes alone with both Kristi and Shelley…before Kristi was embalmed and Shelley was cremated.”
Maleah rolled her eyes skeptically and kept her voice low. “And did either of them sense something? Any information that will actually help us figure out who killed Shelley and Kristi and why?”
“As I understand it, empaths usually can’t make a connection with the dead. Only mediums can do that,” Nic said softly, keeping their conversation as private as possible. “And as you know, empathy is Yvette’s talent.”
“And Meredith Sinclair—what’s her talent?”
“Yvette says that Meredith is multitalented.”
Before Maleah could respond, Griffin Powell called the meeting to order. “We have two separate issues to discuss this evening.” He motioned to Barbara Jean, who lifted a portable folder onto her lap, opened it, removed a stack of files, and returned the folder to the floor. “Barbara Jean will hand out updated information on the Midnight Killer case and all the info we have at present on the murders of Kristi Arians and Shelley Gilbert.”
While Barbara Jean distributed the stapled documents, Griffin continued. “Take a look at Derek Lawrence’s most recent profiles and you’ll see that he has somewhat narrowed the list of possible known suspects. His educated guess, as he himself calls it”—Griff glanced at Derek—“is that one of the following could be the Midnight Killer.”
Griff gave everyone a couple of minutes to locate Derek’s report before he said, “As you’ll note, Powell’s research data on the comings and goings of these suspects, along with all personal records that we could access, narrows down the list to Grant Leroy and his son Heath, to both Tyler and Ransom Owens, and to Casey Lloyd.”
“That’s still five suspects,” Michelle Allen said. “And those are only the known suspects.”
“Which is all we have to work with at the present,” Griff told her. “We concentrate on what we’ve got. As of this coming Monday, the last Monday in April, agents will be assigned to each of these suspects to keep track of where they go and what they do. And as added protection, we will offer to assign a Powell agent to each of the three remaining potential victims: Terri Owens, Jean Misner, and Lorie Hammonds.”
“What sort of problems can we expect to run into with Special Agent Wainwright and his task force?” Ben Corbett asked.
Griff looked at his wife. Nic said, “Unofficially, Hicks Wainwright will cooperate by giving us a wide berth as long as we don’t publicly step over the bounds. He’s aware of the fact that Powell’s has the resources to allocate manpower to this investigation that the Bureau doesn’t, such as keeping the five suspects under surveillance. At present, Powell’s is working on numerous cases, but two take top priority—unmasking and stopping the Midnight Killer and”—she glanced around the table, pausing briefly on each employee—“and finding the person who killed Kristi and Shelley.”
“Are we assuming that they were killed by the same person?” Holt Keinan asked. “Do we have evidence to back up that assumption or—?”
“That info is in the report.” Griff tapped his copy of the documents. “The two murders were almost identical in nature. The killer’s MO for their murders was the same. It’s highly unlikely that two different killers would use the same method to murder two Powell agents less than a month apart.”
“What’s the consensus concerning the possibility that Shelley’s and Kristi’s murders are somehow connected to the Midnight Killer murders?” Maleah asked the question that had been troubling her ever since Shelley’s murder, a question that she and Derek had discussed.
“We have no evidence that there is any connection,” Griff replied, then looked at Derek. “What’s your educated guess on that one?”
“I’ll tell you what I told Maleah when she and I discussed the possibility—it’s improbable that the Midnight Killer murders and the murders of the two Powell employees are connected. The MOs are completely different. And just as important, the Midnight Killer would have no reason to kill Kristi Arians, who was in no way connected to that investigation.”
“Does that mean someone is targeting Powell employees for a reason totally unrelated to any ongoing investigations?” Michelle asked.
“Possibly,” Griff said. “We’ve already beefed up security here at the Powell Building and at Griffin’s Rest. And every agent will be contacted and warned to be extra vigilant concerning their own safety. Shelley Gilbert’s death tells us that who
ever killed her was a highly trained individual. No amateur could have overpowered her.”
“Then you think we’re dealing with an assassin?” Ben asked.
“I think it’s possible,” Griff agreed.
Silence fell over the room, each person no doubt considering his or her own fate as a Powell employee. Maleah sensed that there was a lot more to Griff’s suspicions than he was revealing. Only her friendship with Nic gave her an insight into Griffin Powell’s personal life, one that the other employees did not have. If someone was targeting Powell employees, there had to be a reason, and her gut instincts told her that that reason was Griffin Powell himself.
“Any idea why somebody would target your employees?” Holt asked.
“Nothing concrete,” Griff said.
“We’re moving forward with the Midnight Killer investigation.” Nic stepped in with a comment that purposely changed the discussion. “We want each of you to study the updated information and make any additions you feel are necessary. We’ll meet back here in the morning at ten. Thank y’all for coming tonight.”
Nic had effectively ended the meeting and dismissed the agents. Taking their cue from Nic’s abruptness, Holt, Ben, and Michelle made a hasty retreat and headed for the elevator. As Derek and Maleah followed, Griff called to them.
“You two, wait up.”
They stopped, turned, and faced Griff.
“Derek, we need your area of expertise,” Griff said, then looked at Maleah. “Nic has requested that, as her close friend, you be included in this very private conversation. Anything said from this point on is to be kept in the strictest confidence and mentioned to no one outside this room. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Maleah understood that Griff didn’t want her here and had probably objected when Nic had asked that she be included. But he was hardly in a position to deny his wife the loyalty and support of one friend when he had included Sanders and Yvette Meng. And although Barbara Jean and Nic were dear friends, Barbara Jean’s first allegiance was to Sanders, and Sanders’s allegiance was always to Griff.
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