“Browning said that the copycat is an international contractor, his word—contractor. And his current employer is a billionaire who owns a private island retreat, where he enjoys the perks of his business.”
“And his business is human trafficking.” Derek frowned. “The description sounds familiar, doesn’t it, too familiar.”
“Are you saying Browning was lying?”
“No, I’m saying that maybe the copycat was lying to Browning, knowing he would pass along false information.”
“If you’re right about that, then Browning actually gave me nothing. I paid for more useless information.”
“I didn’t say that. For all we know, everything Browning told you is the truth.”
“But you said—”
“I said maybe the copycat was lying to Browning. Maybe he wasn’t. But any way you look at it, you came away with one very important piece of information.”
“Okay, maybe I’m slightly addled from my miniemotional meltdown and mid-day nap, but you’re going to have to enlighten me. My brain isn’t—”
“The copycat, whoever he is, knows something about Malcolm York, either the original York or the pseudo York rumored to be in Europe somewhere at present.”
“You’re right,” Maleah said, suddenly feeling more like her old self by the minute. “And this info adds more weight to Griff’s theory that the copycat murders are connected to his past and to both Malcolm Yorks.”
“I think we can safely assume that Griff’s theory is correct. I have little doubt now that the copycat is, as we suspected, a hired assassin.”
“An assassin hired by the fake York, right?” Maleah got up, brushed off her wrinkled slacks and searched for her shoes. “We should contact Griff right away and let him know.” She found her shoes halfway under the bed, dragged them out, and slipped into them.
“First of all, yes, logically, we can assume that the man who calls himself Malcolm York hired the copycat, but we need more proof before we can be certain.” Derek buttoned his shirt and got out of bed. “Secondly, there’s no need to call Griff because we’ll see him this evening. I got a call from Sanders while you were in with Browning this morning. It was bad news.”
“And you’re just now telling me about it?”
“I thought it could wait,” Derek said. “All things considered.”
“You mean considering the fact that I came away from the interview with Browning an emotional wreck.”
“You just needed a little time to recover, honey. You should be proud of yourself. You held your own against a psychopathic monster.”
“If you say so.” He’s right, damn it. You might have come away with a few battle scars, but for all intents and purposes you won the game. And you survived. “What’s the bad news from Sanders?”
“The copycat struck again.”
Oh God, no. “Who?”
“Saxon Chappelle’s sixteen-year-old niece.”
Maleah sucked in an agonized breath. How could anyone kill a young girl who was little more than a child?
“Poppy Chappelle was spending the summer with Saxon’s mother. The grandmother found her this morning.”
“They didn’t let Saxon go to Savannah on his own, did they?”
“Saxon may not even know yet,” Derek told her. “He left early this morning to escort Meredith Sinclair to London. But once he hands her over to Luke, he’ll return to the U.S. tonight. Griff sent Holt Keinan to Savannah.”
“Griff wants us at Griffin’s Rest by tonight because he’s circling the wagons, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Then let’s get the show on the road. I need to go back to my room and grab my suitcase and then we can check out.”
“Take your time, Blondie. I’ll check us out. You can meet me in the lobby. But first, wash your face, put on some lipstick, and comb your hair. You look like you just got out of bed.”
The Berkeley Knightsbridge, a five-star luxury hotel, was located on Wilton Place, in the heart of residential Belgravia. From this location, they were only moments from the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge and not far from Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and Belgrave Square. During the years Meredith had spent in London with Yvette and her fellow misfits, they had lived in comfort, but not in splendor. She suspected that Griffin Powell had arranged for the two-bedroom suite at this luxurious hotel just for her. He understood the type of sacrifice she was making in order to help him find and stop a killer and no doubt wanted to compensate her for the mental and emotional pain and anguish. Meredith was doing this out of a sense of loyalty to Yvette, but also because she, too, did not want to see another innocent person die.
“We can order room service for dinner,” Luke Sentell told her as he escorted her into the spacious living room, which was both elegantly sophisticated and yet beautifully understated.
The moment she walked into the room, the image of a woman appeared in her mind. Blond and attractive. Possibly the interior designer. Someone who liked a clean, lean and yet classic look.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” Meredith replied.
“I’ve given you the master suite,” Luke told her as he walked across the living room and opened the bedroom door. “I’ll put your suitcase in here and if you’d like to rest for a while—”
“I’d like to call home and speak to Yvette. I’m concerned about Saxon Chappelle.” Meredith glowered at Luke, whose stoic stare slightly unnerved her. “You could have been a little less blunt when you told him his niece was the Copycat Carver’s latest victim.”
As if ignoring her comment, Luke disappeared into the bedroom for a couple of minutes. Once again, as she had done in the past, she tried to sense something in Luke Sentell other than his steely determination to protect himself from her probing. On the outer edges of his consciousness, she picked up on rigid control and single-mindedness, both aspects of his apathetic personality.
Deciding not to make an issue of his rudeness, she surveyed her surroundings. The cool taupes and grays and beiges used with the dark, gleaming wood in the room soothed Meredith. She preferred the gentleness of neutral colors, the peacefulness of muted tones.
“I assume you can unpack for yourself,” Luke said as he emerged from her bedroom.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I told Chappelle the facts. If I had put my arm around him and shed a few tears, do you honestly think it would have helped him any?”
“No, but you were so cold and matter-of-fact.”
Luke grunted. “Make your call to Yvette while I order our dinner.”
“I don’t want anything,” she told him.
“Well, I do.” His scrutinizing gaze raked over her with cold precision. “You need to eat something to build up your strength before you start earning your keep.”
“I’ll be sure to eat a substantial breakfast.”
“You’ll eat a substantial dinner, too, because I intend for us to begin work tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight.”
“But—”
“I realize that you’re probably tired from your long flight and more than a little pissed about getting stuck with me as your babysitter, but the sooner we locate Anthony Linden, the sooner we will be able to stop him from killing anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I just didn’t realize you had anything available here at the hotel for me to use to connect with Linden.”
“I do.”
“Then let me freshen up and unpack while you order dinner. And as soon as I call Yvette, I’ll be ready.”
She didn’t bother asking him what he had in his possession that had at some time belonged to Anthony Linden. She would know soon enough. Even something as insignificant as a cigarette lighter or an unlaundered handkerchief could be used as a catalyst to connect her with the person or persons who had used the specific object. The fewer people who had handled the object, the more precise her revelations.
“Do you have any preferences about dinner?” he asked. “Protein of some type, right?”
“Yes, protein,” she told him. “For strength and stamina.”
“And if I remember correctly, no wine, no liquor of any kind. Just water.”
“That’s correct.”
Meredith found herself unable to break eye contact with Luke, his steel-gray eyes holding her attention like metal to a magnet. A whirlwind of energy spun around them, cocooning them together inside a kinetic force neither could control.
Trust me. I’ll take care of you.
Luke hadn’t spoken, but Meredith had heard his thoughts.
But that was the problem. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. “If I go in too deep, you’re the only one who can save me.”
“Yes, I know.” He turned, walked away and entered the foyer that led to the entrance to the second bedroom that was attached to and yet separate from the rest of the suite.
Prompted by the incentive of a bonus, he had wasted no time in making arrangements to pick up the special guest for his current employer. Locating her had not been a problem, but removing the obstacles in his path would require quick, decisive action. Complicated by the presence of a private security agent who made rounds outside the home every two hours, as precise as clockwork, and disarming the home’s security system had taken a while longer than he had anticipated. He was pretty sure the guard wasn’t a Powell agent. He wore a uniform of some kind and Powell agents didn’t wear uniforms. His guess was that the family had hired him for protection in case the Copycat Carver targeted one of them.
Unlike the Chappelle home in Savannah, there was no outside basement entrance, leaving him with only the windows and doors on the first and second levels of the house as a means of entry and exit. With a guard on duty, probably stationed downstairs, his best bet was to find a way to enter through an upstairs widow. And since time was of the essence if he wanted that big bonus, he needed to check out the house’s interior quickly and pinpoint her bedroom. But with only three occupants, other than the bodyguard, it should be a relatively simple matter. All he’d have to do was look into the bedrooms to find her. At this time of night, she would be alone. And her room would no doubt be distinctly decorated.
With a few twists, he locked the carbon steel talons of the compact grappling hook into position and sent the hook sailing up and atop the sloping roof at the back of the house. Testing the connection and finding it secure, he began his ascent up the lightweight nylon rope. Once on top of the roof, he made his way carefully over to the nearby single window, one he assumed would take him into a bathroom. He removed the glass cutter from his pocket, along with a suction device, and removed a section of the windowpane without breaking it. He reached through the opening, unlocked the window and raised it high enough to allow him enough space to slip inside the house.
As he had assumed beforehand, he now found himself inside a small bathroom, well lit with a decorative hot pink glitter nightlight. How lucky for him that he had, no doubt, entered through her bathroom window. Not having to search the entire upstairs to find her simplified his job enormously. The bathroom door stood wide open. With practiced stealth movements, he entered the bedroom silently, not making a sound. Another nightlight identical to the one in the bathroom cast a pink glow across the carpeted floor and moonlight streaming through the sheer striped curtains illuminated the wicker bed in which she slept.
He reached into his pocket, removed a small vial and a linen handkerchief and then opened the vial and soaked the linen with its contents as he crept closer and closer to the bed. She lay there in all her beautiful blond innocence, never knowing the part she would play in a madman’s diabolical scheme. But this specific madman paid extremely well. And it wasn’t his place to judge the people who employed him to do their dirty work.
He leaned down, placed the ether-soaked handkerchief over her nose and mouth and positioned his other hand in the center of her chest to hold her in place if she woke. Her eyes flew open. She stared up at him for a few moments and then closed her eyes as the anesthetic took affect. He reached inside the inner pocket of his snug-fitting jacket, removed an envelope and laid it beside her pillow. Without hesitation, he flung back the covers, lifted her up and into his arms and retraced his steps through the bathroom. He eased her through the window, placing her solidly on the roof before he climbed out and joined her. The moonlight struck the tiny pink sequins outlining the ruffles on the hem of her gown.
After checking below on the ground, he hoisted her up and positioned her beneath his arm, clamping her securely between the inner curve of his elbow and his ribcage. Mindful that one wrong move could result in him dropping her to the ground, he grasped the nylon rope and descended with careful precision. Once on the ground, he lifted her up and across his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and then ran up the alley toward the car he had parked there less than twenty minutes ago.
A private jet would be waiting for them in Nashville. In two and a half hours, he and his employer’s special guest would board the jet and be ready for take off to London by daybreak.
Chapter 30
Meredith glared at Luke across the breakfast table. Despite having kept her up until the wee hours of the morning, he had knocked on her bedroom door at precisely seven-thirty and informed her that room service had just delivered their breakfast.
“I ordered the full English fry-up,” he had told her. “Eggs, bacon, sausages. Plenty of protein, along with baked beans, mushrooms, and fried bread. I expect you out here and ready to eat in ten minutes.”
Knowing that if she didn’t join him for breakfast within a reasonable time, he would come in and get her, she had grabbed a quick shower, washed her hair, and slipped into a pair of ratty sweat pants and a soft cotton T-shirt. Leaving the towel wrapped around her damp hair, she had arrived at the table less than ten minutes after he had summoned her.
“Eat hearty,” he said. “We have a lot to do. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, you’ll be working on all cylinders this morning.”
He had been referring to the fact that last night when he had placed what Luke had told her had been a set of cuff links owned by Anthony Linden in her hands, she had drawn a blank. It was if no one had ever handled the cuff links, other than Luke. After more than an hour of useless efforts to use the links as a conduit to previous wearers, Luke had told her to go to bed.
Now, as he sipped on his breakfast tea, she watched him until he set down his cup and looked at her. “What?” he asked.
“I’ve eaten all that I can. I’m fueled and ready to perform, hopefully on all cylinders,” she told him. “But if all you have for me to use is those cuff links, then forget it. For some reason, all I picked up when I handled them were some vague faces of various people. One I believe actually made the gold links and another was the jewelry store salesman. And you. I saw you tossing the cuffs back and forth in your hands.”
Luke’s lips twitched as if he were about to smile. He didn’t. “The cuff links never belonged to Anthony Linden. I purchased them new yesterday.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Why would you—? Damn you! You were testing me. Was that your idea or were you instructed to—?”
“Testing you with the cuff links was entirely my own idea.”
“Why?”
“Because although I’ve seen you in action a few times, I find it difficult to believe in what you and Dr. Meng and her other protégés do.”
Without giving any thought to what she was doing, Meredith shoved back her chair, stood, picked up a piece of the soft fried bread on her plate and flung it at Luke. It hit him mid-chest, the grease staining his navy blue polo shirt.
“What the hell,” he grumbled.
“Don’t you ever do something like that to me again.” She planted her hands on her hips.
“Go get dressed,” he told her. “I’ll change my shirt and then I’ll bring you something that actually belonged to Anthony Linden.”
&n
bsp; “Are we going out somewhere today?” she asked.
“Probably not.”
“Then I’m dressed for the day,” she informed him. “I’ll go dry my hair and be right back.”
Luke shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
After slamming her bedroom door, Meredith debated whether or not to change clothes. She had brought along a pair of jeans, dress slacks, and several nice blouses. But fifteen minutes later, with her hair dry and pulled back in a loose ponytail, she stormed back into the living room wearing the same sweat pants and T-shirt.
The table had been cleared, with only a fresh pot of tea now in the middle of a tray that held two clean cups. Luke sat on the sofa in his khaki slacks and a navy and red striped button-down shirt, the short sleeves revealing his muscular arms.
“Sit down here beside me,” he ordered her.
She sat, obeying without question, although reluctantly and with great reservation. He glanced at the round coffee table in front of the sofa. There beside a clear glass vase filled with white lilies lay a rectangularshaped box.
“Open it,” Luke said.
She did. Inside, she found a handgun.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s a SIG Sauer—”
“No, I don’t care what make and model the weapon is,” she told him. “I hate firearms of any kind. If this is another one of your tests—”
“It’s not a test. That pistol is supposed to have belonged to Anthony Linden and has never been owned or used by anyone else.”
When she simply stared at the gun for several minutes, Luke apparently grew aggravated with her. He removed the pistol from the box and held it out to her. “It isn’t loaded.”
“I should hope not.” She opened her palm and held out her hand.
The very instant he placed the gun in her hand and the cold metal touched her skin, she cried out.
“What’s wrong?”
She heard Luke’s question, but despite the fact that he was sitting right beside her, he sounded as if he were in another room. As people’s faces flashed through her mind like images from a television screen, moving at top speed, she sensed that all those people were dead. Three men, two women, and a child. When she closed her eyes, she saw only black emptiness and felt an odd rush of adrenaline soar through her body. And then the rapid fire of a pistol echoed inside her head.
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