“We’ve agreed that for some reason, it’s important to the copycat for you to be personally involved in this case. That’s why he chose Browning to emulate.”
“Because Browning killed Noah Laborde, my former boyfriend.” Maleah looked at Derek, concern in her hazel brown eyes. “But the question is why me? If Nic or Griff is the real target, then . . .” She paused for a full minute. “Could it really be that simple? Is he making me jump through hoops simply because he can and he wants Nic to know he can control her best friend? And what better way to hurt Nic than through me, right?”
“It’s definitely what Griff thinks and it does make a crazy kind of sense. If tormenting Nic and Griff is his objective, then he’s punishing them for some reason. He’s going to strike again and again, possibly getting closer and closer to his ultimate target with each kill, eventually discarding the Carver’s MO.”
“If that’s the case, then what are the odds that he’ll try to kill me before he moves on to Nic and Griff?”
Chapter 19
“It’s not as if we didn’t already know that both of us or either of us could be targeted as one of the killer’s next victims,” Derek said. “My guess is that he’ll gradually deviate more and more from the original Carver’s MO, so having brown eyes eventually won’t protect us.”
“Your putting my thoughts into words makes it seem more real.” Maleah eased back into the comfort of the sofa.
He squeezed her shoulder. “I try not to think about it. Besides, my guess is that your being jerked around by Browning is what the copycat killer wants, not your death. At least not yet.”
“Maybe.” She looked into Derek’s black eyes. Her stomach tightened. “What about you? What’s your role in all this craziness?”
“I’m the profiler. He knows my background. I’d lay odds on it. And it’s just possible that he wants me to profile him.”
“Why would he—?”
“He’s giving me clues to who he is and it’s up to me to decide which clues are true and which are false.”
Absently, Derek massaged her shoulder, his touch seeming instinctive, as if he was barely aware of what he was doing. She knew she should pull away, tell him to stop. But she didn’t. She leaned back against the sofa cushion and closed her eyes.
From the moment she had met Derek, she had been aware of the tension between them. And spending so much time with him these past few months had increased that live wire, just-below-the-surface unease she felt when he was anywhere near her. But on the other hand, as they had become better acquainted, her initial opinion of him had altered, at least somewhat. She had a greater respect for him, for his intelligence and his wit. She’d even gotten use to the way he kidded her.
“We’re dealing with two, maybe three, separate people,” Derek told her. “The copycat is playing Browning, using him, and it’s possible that Browning isn’t aware that he’s been used. I’m not sure how much Browning knows, if anything.”
“That’s my job, isn’t it, to find out what Browning knows.” She opened her eyes and glanced at Derek.
“Yeah, that’s your job and we both know he’s not going to make it easy for you.”
The gentle, continuous touch of his hand on her shoulder changed from soothing to arousing. She didn’t know if that was his intention or just her reaction, but either way, she had to put a stop to it. Without making a big deal of it, she slowly pulled away from him.
“You said there were three separate people involved. There are Browning and the Copycat Carver. Who is the third person?”
“I said possible third person.”
“Okay, if you want to split hairs, who is the possible third person?”
“Two scenarios,” Derek explained. “First, the Copycat Carver is the man behind everything. He’s working alone targeting Powell agents and members of their families, probably as a direct act of revenge against Griff and / or Nicole.”
Maleah nodded. “And scenario number two is?”
“Someone else is the brains of the operation and he or she is the one controlling the copycat and Browning while keeping his or her hands clean.”
“That’s Griff’s theory—the Malcolm York imposter is the Svengali puppeteer pulling all the strings.”
“And Griff could be right. If he is . . .”
Maleah waited for Derek to finish his thought, but when he didn’t, she asked, “If Griff is right, then even if we track down the copycat and stop him, this won’t be over, will it?”
“We know Browning is a psychopath and my guess is that the copycat is, too. Working up a profile on the copycat is possible, but the third person—if there is a third person—is an unknown. He could be a she. He could be anywhere in the world, making it almost impossible for us to find him, especially if he has unlimited resources.”
“How likely is that scenario?” Maleah asked, hoping Derek would dismiss it as an unlikely theory.
“I’d say between the two scenarios, it’s fifty/fifty.”
“Damn,” Maleah mumbled. “So how do we find out exactly who and what we’re dealing with?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
“We have to find the copycat.”
“That’s our job. Yours and mine, working as a team, with the power of the Powell Agency behind us,” Derek said. “And it’s Luke Sentell’s job to find out if the Malcolm York imposter is a real person or if rumors about him are just that, rumors, and nothing more.”
Maleah yawned. “Sorry.”
“You’re tired. Maybe you should go back to your room and get a good night’s sleep.”
“No, I’m okay. I thought you were going to use me as a sounding board, bounce your thoughts off me.”
He grinned. Her stomach did a wicked flip-flop. As if realizing the effect he had on her, he chuckled.
Damn it! Damn him!
“If you say one thing . . .” she warned him.
“Oh, honey . . . er . . . sorry. Scratch that endearment. Not honey. Let me rephrase.”
“Just skip it, will you. Stop smiling at me. Get serious.”
“A little levity isn’t a bad thing, not when it’s easy to get sucked into the kind of darkness these evil bastards inhabit.”
She stared at him. “Is that how you see them, the Carver and the copycat, as evil?”
“In a sense, yes, they are evil. Not the they’repossessed-by-the-devil kind of evil, but evil in an all too human way. Psychopaths and sociopaths have mental disorders. Some can be treated through therapy and medication, if diagnosed. Some become killers. It is believed that these people lack a conscience and feel no remorse or guilt.”
“Do you agree with psychiatrists who believe that sociopaths are a result of environment and psychopaths are a result of heredity?”
“There’s too much controversy in the mental health field regarding the differences between sociopaths and psychopaths for me to take sides on that issue,” Derek said. “Most clinicians use the ‘antisocial personality disorder’ diagnosis these days to describe both.”
“And yet you refer to Browning and the copycat as psychopaths.”
“Browning’s doctors put that label on him, not me. But I do agree. As for the copycat, I’m going on gut instinct. This guy has to be highly organized. He thinks ahead, plans ahead, doesn’t do anything erratic or unplanned.”
“Even if someone else is telling him what to do, as would be the case in scenario number two?”
“If there is a third person who is in charge, he would hardly choose a loose cannon to do his dirty work, would he?”
“You’re right. He would choose someone capable of taking orders, and someone who wouldn’t draw attention to himself by acting in an irrational manner.”
“It’s not uncommon for many killers to show signs of both the psychopath’s and the sociopath’s characteristics, but each usually leans more in one direction than the other.”
“You believe that our guy leans more toward the psychopath’s charac
teristics, right?”
“Right. So my profile starts there. The Copycat Carver is organized, possibly obsessively organized. He will be difficult to catch because he does nothing on the spur of the moment. He plans each step of his kills and makes sure he leaves behind no clues.”
“And he certainly has no problem using other people, without remorse or guilt, to achieve his goals.”
“Our killer is probably above average in intelligence, just as Browning is. The victims are strangers to him, just as Browning’s Carver victims were strangers. Browning deviated from the psychopath’s norm by leaving the bodies in plain view.”
“And the copycat has done exactly the same thing.”
“He is a copycat.”
Maleah nodded. “I know. It’s just . . . Damn it, there’s something off about this whole thing. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there, if only I could figure out what it is.”
“I agree. That’s why the more I think about everything, the more I’m beginning to wonder about the copycat’s role in these murders.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s obviously intelligent, organized, mobile, skilled, has no ties to his victims, and no problem using murder to tie up loose ends. To date, he has mimicked Jerome Browning’s murder MO five times. He strangled Wyman Scudder with the skill of a trained solider and he shot Cindy Di Blasi with the expertise of a professional.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Maleah realized that the truth had been staring them in the face all along. “The copycat is a professional.”
“Yes, I think he is. He’s not a typical serial killer, actually not even a true copycat killer. He is, most likely, a hired killer.”
“A hit man.”
“Yes, an assassin, bought and paid for by our third person.”
“Then Griff’s been right all along, hasn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?” she asked.
“Even if our guy is a professional assassin, that doesn’t mean someone calling himself Malcolm York is his boss. Anyone with a grudge against Griff—or Nic for that matter—could have hired him.”
Maleah yawned again. “Sorry, I guess I am getting a little sleepy.”
“Let’s call it a night.”
“No, not yet. I should be good for a while longer. I can’t stop thinking about your profile of the copycat or the fact that we agree he could be a professional killer.” Maleah kicked off her shoes, brought her bent left leg up on the sofa and crossed her right leg over the left. Relaxing her shoulders between the sofa back and the padded armrest, she faced Derek. “So, tell me how you go about profiling a professional killer?”
“One size doesn’t fit all,” Derek said. “Although I believe it’s the consensus of law enforcement and psychiatrists that for the most part, all professional assassins have at least one thing in common—the thrill of killing.”
Maleah shivered. The thought that anyone could derive pleasure from murdering another human being was an alien concept for her. “Are all professional killers psychopaths?”
“No, not in the strictest sense. For some of these killers it’s a matter of showing their control because having that kind of power—power over life and death—gives them an unparalleled rush, an excitement they can get no other way.”
“My God, that is so sick, but you say all of them aren’t mentally ill, that they aren’t crazy.”
“Each of us has within us the ability to kill,” Derek said. “Given the right circumstances, you or I could and would kill. The difference is that most of us would not derive pleasure from the act. It would be in self-defense or to protect someone else. Or as soldiers do every day, we would be willing to kill or die for our country, for a cause we believe in.”
“But a soldier killing in wartime is different.”
“Yes, it is. And yet . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just . . .”
“Something you want to share?” She stared at him.
He shook his head. “No, not really.”
When she continued staring at him, he glanced away, breaking direct eye contact. “When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I bummed around the world on my own, putting as much distance between myself and my family as I possibly could. Not long after I turned twenty, I found myself flat broke. I was damned and determined not to touch my trust fund, so I did something really stupid.”
“I can’t imagine your doing anything stupid. Not you.” Without giving her actions a thought, she reached up on the sofa back and laid her hand over his.
He tensed the moment she touched him. She eased her hand away.
“I joined a group of guys I met up with when I was in Europe, some real badasses, and I thought I was as mean and tough as they were so I sort of bluffed my way into their circle. They were mercenaries of a sort, most of them former soldiers. They weren’t all that particular about who joined them. As long as I kept my mouth shut and did what I was told, we got along fine. I spent nearly ten months with them.” He looked into her eyes. “You’ve never killed anyone, have you, Maleah?”
“No, I haven’t. But I have been in several situations where I’ve had to return fire. And a few years ago, I was shot and spent some time in the hospital.”
“I remember. I was working strictly freelance at the time. I consulted on that case. Rick Carson was the Powell agent in charge.”
“That’s right.”
They sat there in silence for a few moments before Derek said, “I have killed. I’ve killed more than just one person.”
“When you were working with those mercenaries?”
“Yeah. The first time I killed a man, I was scared to death. We’d been hired by a family to rescue a kidnap victim. I thought of myself as one of the good guys and the man I killed as one of the bad guys. The second time I killed a man, I wasn’t quite as scared and eventually, it got easier. And finally it became too easy. I began hating myself. That’s when I got out, changed my life around and came home to the U.S.”
Maleah looked at Derek Lawrence with a greater insight into the person he really was, not the man she thought he was. Why he had chosen to share with her what was obviously painful memories about his youthful walk on the wild side, she didn’t know. But she was glad he had. Seeing him now, all sleek and sophisticated with his expensive haircuts, his designer clothes, his air of casual elegance, she never would have thought—not in a million years—that he had ever been a soldier of fortune when he was very young and apparently very stupid.
She would never again be able to look at him and see only an arrogant playboy.
“I really don’t know you at all, do I?” She couldn’t take her eyes off him because she felt that she was seeing him for the first time.
“Sure you do, hon—” He broke off mid-word. “You know me. Sometimes I feel as if you can see straight through me.” He grinned, the motion forced and self-mocking. “Now, you know me a little better. I’ve given you more weapons in your arsenal of reasons to dislike me.”
“Is that what you think, that I look for reasons to dislike you?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Tell me one thing you like about me,” he challenged.
“I’m not playing this game with you.” She sat up straight and halfway rose to her feet.
He grabbed her upper arms and forced her back down on the sofa. “Just tell me one thing you like about me and I’ll let you go.” He kept a tight hold on her.
She didn’t fight him, didn’t even squirm. “I like your silver Corvette.”
His lips twitched. “That’s something I own. Try again.”
His tenacious hold loosened ever so slightly.
“I like . . .” Her mind went blank. He was staring at her with such intensity, as if her answer meant a great deal to him. But that wasn’t possible, was it? Derek didn’t really give a damn what she or anyone else thought of him.
&nbs
p; “You like what?” he asked. “My good looks? My winning personality? My magnificent body? My keen intellect?”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard.
“Yes, what? Be specific.”
“Yes, I like your looks, your body, your intellect and your personality, too, except for the macho he-man part that fights me for control and tries to put me in my place.”
What is the point of lying? He already knows how I feel about him.
“And what do you believe I think your place is?” He slid his left hand down her arm and slipped it around her waist, then moved his right hand up to circle the back of her neck.
Keeping her eyes focused on him to show him that he didn’t intimidate her, she replied, “You think I should be a helpless, needy female who can’t survive without a big strong man like you to lean on, to support me, and to make my decisions for me.”
When Derek laughed, she felt as if he had thrown ice water over her head.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“You are, Blondie. You have no idea how wrong you are. Would I like to see you all soft and feminine, yeah, sure I would. But you could never be helpless and needy. That’s not who you are, thank goodness. You’re tough, outspoken, and independent. And those are things I like about you.”
She stared at him with wide-eyed disbelief.
“And FYI—I like your pretty face, your gorgeous body, and your sharp mind.” With his hand at the back of her neck, he drew her closer and closer.
He’s going to kiss me. God help us both! What do I do?
You resist, you idiot, that’s what you do.
But she didn’t resist. “What about my personality?” she asked, her voice husky with emotion.
“I like your personality, except . . .” He brought his mouth close to hers.
“Except?” she asked, her lips parting in anticipation.
“I forget,” he told her.
And then he kissed her. A tender marauding that claimed her mouth.
Mercy Lord.
She kissed him back. Kissed him with equal hunger and need and passion. Not until that very moment did she realize exactly how much she had wanted Derek to kiss her.
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