Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  After entering the lobby, he closed his black umbrella and headed straight for the elevators. While he waited for the Up elevator, the Down elevator opened and a man and woman emerged. The couple was so absorbed in their conversation with each other that they barely noticed him. Later on, if asked, they would say they had seen a black-haired man with a neat mustache and Van Dyke, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. And perhaps one of them would remember that he had a large skull tattoo on his left arm.

  He had learned long ago that a disguise should be simple and the effect subtle. Sometimes little more than a cap and a pair of glasses were needed to alter his appearance.

  Scudder’s office was on the third floor, a corner office that faced the street. The outer door was closed.

  He knocked.

  No response.

  He tried the handle and the door opened to an empty outer office. No furniture. No secretary. Scudder hadn’t had time to acquire either.

  “Hello, anybody here?” he called out, wondering if perhaps Scudder had gone home early.

  The door leading into the private office opened. A bleary-eyed, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a slight paunch hanging over his belt stood in the doorway and stared at him.

  “Who are you?” Wyman asked, his speech slightly slurred.

  The idiot was drunk.

  “A potential client, Mr. Scudder,” he said using his best good old boy accent.

  “Well, come right on in, Mr.—” Wyman squinched his eyes and studied his visitor. “Have we met before?”

  “Might have, if you’ve ever been down to Perry. I got a motorcycle repair shop.” He moved toward Wyman, who backed up into his office as his guest approached. “You got a motorcycle, Mr. Scudder?”

  A perplexed look crossed Wyman’s face. “No, I don’t have a motorcycle.”

  He closed the door behind him. Wyman staggered toward his desk.

  “Just how can I be of assistance, Mr.—?”

  “Just call me Harold.” He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out the strong thin strip of nylon cord.

  Wyman lost his balance and fell toward his desk, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing onto the edge of the only piece of furniture in the room other than a leather swivel chair.

  “Yes, sir, Harold. Tell me why you need a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need just any lawyer. I need you.”

  Before Scudder had a chance to turn and face him, he moved in for the kill. Quickly. Adeptly.

  With the expert ease gained from years of experience, he walked up behind an inebriated Wyman Scudder and brought the cord over his head and across his neck before the unsuspecting fool realized what was happening. He struggled, but he was no match for a stronger, more agile, and sober man.

  Halfway between Vidalia and Macon, the bottom fell out, and within minutes, Maleah could barely see the road. The rain came down in thick, heavy sheets, all but obliterating her view through the windshield. With little choice, for safety’s sake, Maleah slowed the SUV to a crawl—twenty-five miles an hour.

  “Maybe we should find a place to stop,” Derek said. “At least until the worst passes.”

  “I’m okay,” she assured him. “If it gets worse, I’ll exit the interstate.”

  When he didn’t respond, Maleah knew what he was thinking. Derek wished he was driving. Being the superior male, he could probably use his x-ray vision to see through the heavy downpour and his innate masculine abilities to maneuver the SUV through floodwaters.

  After several minutes, Derek ended the awkward silence. “Do you know what puzzles me?”

  “What? That I have managed not to wreck us?”

  “Huh?” He laughed. “No. You’re doing a great job. Better than I could do. I hate driving in heavy rain. Makes me nervous.”

  Maleah almost took her eyes off the road to glance at Derek, to see if he was mocking her. But she didn’t. He sounded sincere, so she’d take him at his word.

  “Okay, tell me what puzzles you.”

  “Why would someone hire Wyman Scudder, or any lawyer for that matter, to represent Jerome Browning, a man who confessed to murder and is serving consecutive life sentences?”

  “I have no idea. You tell me.”

  “Let’s say Albert Durham is our copycat killer. He wanted Browning to reveal all his little secrets so that he, Durham, could duplicate Browning’s MO. Maybe simply telling Browning that he wanted to write the story of his life wasn’t enough incentive for Browning to open up and share all.”

  Derek was right. Damn, he was always right! “I see what you’re getting at. Durham promised Browning a new lawyer, maybe made him think Scudder could find grounds to reopen his case, as far fetched as that idea is. And he promised Browning a lady friend.”

  “Cindy Di Blasi. What are the odds that Cindy, or whatever her name is, gets paid by the hour?”

  “A prostitute? Makes sense.”

  “Another thing that puzzles me is, if Durham isn’t the copycat killer, why a writer with Durham’s reputation would get involved with Browning. He’s never chosen a convicted criminal as the subject of one of his biographies. If someone hired him to do it, why would he agree?”

  “Maybe he needs the money.”

  “Possibly. But he’d have to know he was getting himself mixed up with something illegal.”

  “What if he’s being blackmailed,” Maleah said. “Or maybe Durham really is our copycat.”

  “Maybe he is. But if he is, why would he leave us a trail leading straight to him?”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “We have too many unanswered questions.”

  “You’re right. We need answers, so we start with Scudder. We know where to find him. He may be able to tell us something.”

  “I figure Scudder will talk for the right amount of money,” Derek told her. “But I’m not sure how much he actually knows.”

  “Hopefully the agency will dig up more info on Cindy and Durham and once we’ve questioned Scudder and gotten some answers, we’ll be able to move on pretty quickly to Cindy and Durham.”

  “It could take time to track them down, especially if they don’t want to be found.”

  Maleah and Derek continued discussing the case, their conversation gradually dwindling down to an occasional comment by the time Maleah exited the interstate. The rain had slacked up to little more than a drizzle, but the pavement was slick and mucky with roadway residue. Muddy water filled the potholes and gushed across low-lying areas in the highway.

  Following GPS directions, they watched for Mulberry Street, which crisscrossed with Third Street where Wyman Scudder’s new law office was located.

  Maleah noted the congestion ahead, but neither she nor Derek immediately realized that the next street was partially blocked by emergency vehicles, including a fire truck, an ambulance, and several patrol cars. As they drew nearer, she noticed a uniformed officer directing traffic. He stood in front of their destination.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Derek studied the situation while Maleah slowed the Equinox to a crawl. “Shit! It looks like something has happened in Scudder’s building.”

  “Obviously I can’t park here,” she told him.

  “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Let me out at the next corner,” Derek told her. “You find a place to park while I see what’s going on.”

  She hesitated, her competitive instinct interfering with her logical thought process. You and Derek are partners, she reminded herself. You’re playing on the same team. “Yeah, sure.”

  Since traffic was pretty much bumper-to-bumper, it took Maleah a few minutes to maneuver the SUV into a position where she could come to a full stop. Without hesitation, Derek opened the door and jumped out and onto the street. Once the door slammed, Maleah moved forward and began her search for a parking place.

  Five minutes later, out of sorts and perspiring enough to dampen her underwear,
Maleah made it back to the cordoned-off area swarming with law enforcement and emergency personnel. She searched the crowd of curious onlookers for any sign of Derek, but didn’t see him. Just as she stood on tiptoe and strained her neck in the hopes of gaining a better view, Derek came up alongside her.

  “Looking for me?”

  She released a startled gasp, but quickly recovered. “Damn it, I’m going to put a cow bell around your neck.”

  “Sorry.”

  She might have believed him if he hadn’t chuckled softly.

  “Well, what did you find out about all the hullabaloo going on?” she asked.

  “A body was found on the third floor of that building.” Derek pointed to the four-story office building in front of them.

  “Don’t tell me—”

  The news crews in the crowd rushed forward as the ME’s staff came out of the building carrying a body bag laid out on a stretcher. Questions zipped through the air like mosquitoes on a hot, humid summertime night as the reporters questioned officials on the scene. Their questions went unanswered as the officials ignored them.

  “From what I’ve been able to find out, a young woman who had an afternoon interview for a position as a secretary for a lawyer in the building got quite a shock when she showed up for her appointment,” Derek said. “She found her potential employer’s body.”

  “It’s Scudder, isn’t it?”

  “I couldn’t get anybody to verify the victim’s name, but when I asked if the dead man was Wyman Scudder, nobody said it wasn’t. So, yes, I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s Scudder.”

  Chapter 13

  Derek had known that they wouldn’t get any information by going through legal channels there in Macon. At least, not yet. The detectives in charge of the case had remained tight-lipped, as had the emergency personnel involved. He and Maleah had separated and moved through the crowd as discreetly as possible, both showing a casual interest in what was happening. Downtown Macon on a Friday afternoon buzzed with activity and the entire block swarmed with curiosity seekers. The police had sealed off the building and rounded up all the occupants for questioning. The one person Derek would love to talk to—the secretary interviewee—would be detained, questioned, and cautioned not to speak to the press.

  Thirty minutes after they had parted company and circulated through the on-lookers, Derek and Maleah reconnected at the end of the block.

  “Anything?” Maleah asked.

  Derek shook his head. “Not much. I heard the name Wyman Scudder more than once. It seems to be the consensus that the victim was the newest renter in the building, a lawyer named Scudder.”

  “I tried speaking to the policemen in charge of crowd control, but that got me nowhere.”

  “They won’t bring the secretary out the front way,” Derek said. “Which means they’ll take her out a back exit and possibly escort her to the police station or at the very least walk her to wherever she parked her car.”

  “Even if we knew the location of that exit, we have no idea when they’ll bring her out. And it’s not as if they’re going to let us get anywhere near her.”

  “You’re right, but we could get a good look at her and I could snap her photo with my phone.”

  “I don’t think we should go the let’s-play-secret-agent route,” Maleah told him. “But I assume you weren’t serious. I think our best course of action is to call Sanders and let the agency contact the Macon Police Department and see what information they’re willing to share.”

  Derek grinned. “Ah, gee whiz, Mom, you won’t let me have any fun.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. You can call Sanders while I drive.”

  “Why don’t we find a downtown hotel, check in and then go out for dinner while Sanders is working Powell Agency magic to get us the info we need about Scudder’s death?”

  Why not? She knew her easy acquiesce to his suggestion would surprise Derek, but in this instance she agreed with him.

  “I’m okay with going out to dinner and possibly staying overnight.” Zigzagging through the slow-moving traffic, they crossed the street together, Maleah a few steps ahead of Derek. “When you talk to Sanders, be sure to ask him about any updates on Cindy Di Blasi and Albert Durham.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Glad you thought of it.”

  “Bite me.” Maleah snapped out the words.

  Not slowing her pace as they left the bedlam behind them and walked up the block, she cut him a sideways glance. “We need to know for sure that Scudder was murdered, that he didn’t have a heart attack or anything.”

  “Your gut instinct has to be telling you that he was murdered. I’d say what we really need to know is how he was murdered and if the police have any suspects.”

  Maleah led Derek to her SUV. “You think the Copycat Carver killed him?”

  “Don’t you?” Derek asked as he sat down in the passenger seat.

  Maleah slid into the driver’s seat, inserted the key into the ignition and started the SUV. “Probably. Apparently Scudder knew too much and could ID the copycat, so he had become a liability.”

  “Of course being murdered eliminates Scudder as a suspect. So, at least for the time being, that leaves Cindy and Durham as our only leads.”

  “I think there’s a good chance that Durham is our copycat.”

  “I think you could be right,” Derek said.

  As she eased the Equinox into traffic, Maleah cast a quick glance in Derek’s direction. “If we’re right, then he’ll go after Cindy next, won’t he?”

  “More than likely. And if Durham isn’t our guy, then he and Cindy probably know who he is and that puts them both in danger.”

  “What we should be concentrating on is finding Cindy and Durham. If Sanders has any leads on either of them, I say we head out tonight. There’s no point in our staying on here in Macon, is there?”

  “Nothing except a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Call Sanders now,” Maleah said. “There’s no point in checking into a hotel until we know for sure whether we’ll be staying or moving on tonight. I’ll drive around for a few minutes while you call him.”

  Derek put a call through to Sanders’s private number, used only by Powell agents. It was no surprise when Barbara Jean answered.

  “We’re in Macon,” Derek said. “We just left a crime scene on Third Street. We’re relatively certain that Wyman Scudder has been murdered. We need the agency to find out the particulars ASAP.”

  “I’ll let Sanders know immediately and we’ll get back to you with that info once we have it,” Barbara Jean said.

  “Anything on Cindy or Durham? If the copycat killed Scudder—”

  “We believe we located Cindy. Her real name is Cindy Dobbins. She worked as a stripper for a while when she was younger. That’s when she started using the name Di Blasi. She’s been arrested half a dozen times in the past few years. Solicitation. Drug possession. Public intoxication,” Barbara Jean said. “Check your e-mail. I sent you a complete report about half an hour ago, along with several arrest photos. Cindy’s thirty-five. She looks fifty.”

  “Do you have a last known address?”

  “We do, but she’s not there. Hasn’t been there in three weeks. We sent a local Atlanta contact to check it out.”

  “Do we know where Cindy was from originally?”

  “Sure do. She was born and raised in a little wideplace-in-the-road town just over the Georgia state line, outside of Augusta. A placed called Apple Orchard, South Carolina. She’s got a sister who still lives there.”

  “Maybe our little bird went home to roost,” Derek said.

  “The sister lives on Lancaster Road, number fourteen twenty. Her name is Jeri Paulk.”

  “Thanks, Barbara Jean. I’ll fill Maleah in.” He was pretty sure they would be heading straight to Apple Orchard, South Carolina. “By the way, anything else on Durham?”

  “Durham owns three homes, a house in Tennessee, a condo in Aspen, and
an apartment in New York City. But according to our investigation, he rents out all three. From what his agent told us, apparently he travels a great deal. The last time he checked in with her, he was in Virginia doing some Civil War research, but they haven’t been in contact for nearly two weeks. It seems Durham doesn’t own a cell phone.”

  “Doesn’t this guy have any family or close friends?”

  “He’s a widower. No children. We’re digging deeper to see if we can come up with relatives. According to his agent, the guy is a loner. He has dozens of acquaintances, but no bosom buddies.”

  “Got any recent photos of him?”

  “Book jacket photo,” Barbara Jean said. “I can send you a copy of that.”

  “What about his age? His background? Any military service?”

  “Durham is sixty-three. No military background. The guy is an academic. He’s got half a dozen degrees. Actually, he’s Dr. Albert Durham.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the type who’d get involved with a serial killer.”

  “Or become a copycat killer,” Barbara Jean said.

  After his conversation with Barbara Jean, Derek relayed all the information to Maleah. And just as he’d thought, she didn’t hesitate to tell them they were going straight to Apple Orchard this evening. Checking online, Derek quickly found out that the small South Carolina town was a two-hour-and-forty-minute drive from downtown Macon.

  “Let’s at least stop for fast food on the way,” Derek suggested.

  She groaned. “You’d think you could skip a meal every once in a while.”

  “Drive-through will be fine.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Maleah headed the SUV north and continued in that direction on the interstate.

  Poppy Chappelle had no idea she was being watched. Otherwise, he doubted the teenager would have removed her bikini top while she sunbathed in what she believed to be the privacy of her grandmother’s backyard. No doubt, she and her cousins had spent the afternoon frolicking in the pool, but Court and Anne Lee Dandridge had left over an hour ago, only moments after he arrived. Poppy was now enjoying the late afternoon sunshine all alone while she stretched languidly on a padded chaise lounge.