Shutting out the world this way would give him time to settle down, to regain his composure. A few minutes ago, he’d come mighty close to telling a reporter where he could stick his damn microphone.
Sitting behind his desk, Jacob closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed a few minutes of peace and quiet. Someone knocked on the closed door.
“Shit!” Jacob wanted to shout, “Go away and leave me the hell alone.”
Opening his eyes and focusing on the closed door, he called, “Yeah, who—”
“It’s Dallas. I’m with Special Agents Cox and Hudson.”
Jacob blew out an aggravated breath. “Come on in.”
He stood just as the door opened. The two FBI men came in first. One young, slender and blond, the other middle-aged, stocky and balding. Dallas entered last and closed the door.
“Jacob, this is Steve Cox,” Dallas introduced the older man first. They shook hands. “And this is Josh Hudson.” The young, pretty-boy agent nodded brusquely.
“Have a seat,” Jacob said. “If anybody wants coffee—”
“We’re fine,” Hudson said. “No coffee.”
Yeah, sure, no coffee. Jacob had made the offer simply to show good manners. From time to time he did remember his manners, the ones Granny had done her best to instill in him. But apparently this fancy-pants agent wasn’t into good manners or even civility.
“I know this is your case, Sheriff,” Agent Cox said as he sat in one of the two chairs in front of Jacob’s desk. “And we don’t want to step on any toes, but since it’s obvious we’re dealing with a serial killer—”
“Which y’all wouldn’t have known if Jacob and I hadn’t put together the puzzle pieces,” Dallas reminded them.
“Agreed,” Cox said. “And our goal is to work with local law enforcement in every county where this killer has struck, but since his two most recent victims were Cherokee County women, we’re going to start here.”
“We expect your complete cooperation.” Still standing, Hudson glanced from Dallas to Jacob. “Y’all need to understand that we’re in charge now. We make the decisions. We call the shots.” When neither Jacob nor Dallas replied, Hudson continued, going one step too far, “I’d think you would be grateful for our help, considering how ill equipped you are to solve a case like this and how badly you’ve handled things up to now.”
Jacob growled, his basic instincts telling him to rip out Hudson’s throat. When he took a step out from behind his desk and toward Hudson, Dallas intervened, blocking Jacob’s path.
Dallas grinned at Hudson “Look, you cocky little son of a bitch—”
“Apologize,” Agent Cox told his young associate.
“What?” Hudson’s eyes widened in indignation.
Jacob smiled as he gained control over his desire to do bodily harm to the young agent. He nudged Dallas aside, but didn’t move any closer to Hudson. Instead, he stabbed the guy with his deadly glare. Hudson’s face turned red.
“You heard the man,” Jacob said. “You owe us an apology, and I’m waiting to hear it.”
Hudson took a really good look at Jacob then and apparently realized he was in deep shit. All the way up to his eyeballs. Hudson swallowed hard, choking on his own smart-ass attitude.
“I—I apologize,” he said reluctantly.
“There, that’s settled,” Cox said. “Now, let’s get down to work.” He looked at Hudson. “Sit down, boy, and try to keep your foot out of your mouth.”
Hudson sat. Dallas perched on the edge of Jacob’s desk, while Jacob returned to his swivel chair behind the desk.
“We know Shelly Bonner’s murder fits the MO of our serial killer,” Jacob said. “And we just might have gotten a break in this one. It seems he killed her at her house and left behind some evidence. A few hairs in her bed that aren’t hers or her husband’s and some semen on the commode seat. It’s not much, but it’s more than we’ve had before now.”
“This Bonner woman was known for picking up guys in bars,” Cox said. “According to people who knew her, she often had a different guy in her bed every night her husband was out of town.”
“Which means the hairs and the semen might not belong to our perp,” Hudson said.
“But they could,” Dallas told him. “Besides the DNA evidence, we’ve got a couple of eyewitnesses who saw Shelly at Barney’s the night she was murdered. They said she left the bar alone, but that she’d been cozying up to some guy who looked out of place in the roadhouse. An upper-class kind of guy. He left about five minutes before Shelly did.”
“They could have easily met up outside in the parking lot and gone from there to her house,” Cox said.
“What about the guy’s car?” Hudson asked.
“Nobody at the bar saw the car,” Jacob replied. “But one of Shelly’s neighbors, who claims she’s an insomniac, said she saw a dark sedan pulling out of Shelly’s driveway around midnight the night she was murdered.”
“Did they see the guy driving the car?” Cox asked. “Could they tell if Shelly Bonner was with this guy when he left?”
“No to both questions,” Dallas said.
“What are the odds this guy is a local?” Cox looked to Jacob. “The other twenty-odd murders during the past twenty-five years have been spread out over northeast Tennessee and southwest North Carolina. These two recent murders are the first in Cherokee County. I find that rather odd since he’s killed more than once in every surrounding county.”
“He killed once every couple of years in the beginning, at what we assume was the beginning. Then every eighteen months and eventually every year. But recently it’s been every six to eight months and now the last three murders have all occurred in a two-week time span.”
“He’s accelerating his kills,” Cox said. “And he’s taking risks he hasn’t taken before. He’s killing in his home territory, if our guess is right. And if he left hairs in Shelley Bonner’s bed and semen on her commode seat, then he’s getting careless.”
“Maybe he thinks he’s safe,” Dallas said. “If he’s some well-to-do man with an unquestionable reputation, then he could have convinced himself that he’d be impervious, that there’s no way we can discover his identity.”
“He’s been getting away with murder for twenty-five years,” Cox reminded them. “I’d say he has good reason to be self-confident.”
“If he’s been killing for twenty-five years, then he’s not young,” Hudson said. “I thought the typical serial killer was between the ages of—”
“We’re not dealing with a typical killer,” Jacob said.
“This man was probably young, maybe as young as eighteen or nineteen, when he made his first kill,” Dallas said. “Or he could have been older, late twenties or early thirties. The only thing we know—or at least suspect—is that something traumatic happened to him with some redhead, who was probably his first victim.”
“Then our guy could be anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five.” Hudson looked to Cox. “What’s the chance of our getting a profile worked up on this killer?”
Dallas chuckled. Hudson glared at him.
“You find that amusing, Chief Sloan?” Hudson asked.
“Linc Hughes, one of the Bureau’s top profilers, has already—”
Hudson jumped to his feet. “How the hell did you—”
“Sit down and shut up,” Jacob said calmly, a threat in every word. He turned to Cox. “You’d better rein in pretty boy here or send him back to Knoxville.”
Cox gave Hudson a warning glare. “Why don’t you go out to the vending machines down the hall and get yourself a Coke?”
Red-faced and fuming, but smart enough to keep his mouth shut, Hudson nodded, then turned around and walked out of Jacob’s office.
“Sorry about that,” Cox said. “Hudson is a cocky little prick, but he graduated top in his class. He’s book smart and common sense stupid. He thinks he knows everything.”
“And he doesn’t know a damn thing.” Dallas eyed the c
losed door. “If you can, send him back to Knoxville. If you don’t, sooner or later he’s going to piss off Sheriff Butler and if those two tangle, Hudson’s going to wish he’d never been born.”
Cox eyed Jacob, who smiled at the FBI agent. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He hadn’t meant to kill her in her own bed, but once he’d realized she was Dinah, he’d gone mad and been unable to control himself. He’d lain beside her for several hours, waiting until she was asleep before he went up the block to his car and drove it into her driveway. He’d put the knock-out drops in the glove compartment, along with the black braided ribbon. Always be prepared was his motto. After removing the bottle and ribbon from the glove compartment of the rental car and putting them in his coat pocket, he’d reentered her house.
It had taken several minutes for him to find the bottle of cheap whiskey she’d told him about earlier. He’d poured the liquor into two glasses, doctoring her drink before returning to the bedroom. She’d been a bit grumpy when he woke her, but after he kissed her and flattered her with a few well-chosen compliments, she’d taken the glass of whiskey from him and they’d sat in the middle of her bed drinking and talking. It hadn’t taken long for her to pass out, and as soon as she did he’d gotten so excited that he nearly came before he entered her. But he took the time to wrap the black braided ribbon around her neck, as he always did. And he’d touched her, stroked her, his power and pleasure growing stronger with each passing moment.
Two hard lunges and he’d lost it, spewing into the condom. Why was it that with Dinah he couldn’t make it last? But what did it matter? Sex was only the preliminary to his real satisfaction, to the total fulfillment he found only when he killed Dinah.
Even now, days later, he could still feel his fingers tightening the ribbon around her neck, cutting off her air, killing her once again. Just the memory of it aroused him, made him hungry to reenact their little game. Now that he’d realized she could come back to him without any long delays, he was eager to rush out and find her again.
Jazzy Talbot. Dinah had intended to use Jazzy’s body, but when Jazzy had been viciously attacked, Dinah had left her and sought another body.
How dare some fool try to copy his actions. How dare they try to make the police think Jazzy’s attack had been the work of the man the FBI was now referring to as the Redhead Killer. Jazzy was supposed to have been his. Dinah had chosen her. She had simply been waiting on him. He should have been the who killed Jazzy, not some copycat murderer who’d botched the job.
Who the hell had dared to mimic him? If he ever found out, he’d make them pay. Didn’t they know he had a unique relationship with Dinah, that only he was allowed to kill her? It was their special game. Just his and hers. In death Dinah belonged to him in a way she never had in life.
She would come back to him again. And soon. Perhaps Jazzy would awaken from her coma so that Dinah could use her body. Or maybe she’d choose Jazzy’s twin, although if she did, it would be the first time she’d chosen a woman who wasn’t a slut like her. But since other things were changing—she was returning quickly now and tempting him to be reckless—why not the type of woman she chose to possess, why not a decent woman, one whose purity might bring him more pleasure than he’d ever known?
Veda stood outside the closed door of Farlan’s study and listened, fearing what she would hear. Her husband hadn’t been himself since the night Jazzy Talbot had been attacked.
At first she hadn’t understood why he’d been so overwrought when Brian brought him home early the following morning. Farlan had babbled to Brian and her, what he’d said not making much sense. And then after Brian had gone to bed, Farlan had turned to her and said something that had chilled her to the bone.
“She took the twins and left town,” Farlan had said. “That’s what she told Dodd she was going to do. I sent her the money to take care of her and the babies. Max took the cash—ten thousand dollars—to her apartment in Sevierville and gave her the checkbook for the account I set up for her with the understanding I’d deposit ten thousand every month.”
“Yes, I—I remember your telling me what you intended to do.”
“She took the ten thousand and then drew from the account for a few years, but suddenly she stopped withdrawing the money each month as she’d been doing.”
“Perhaps she found someone else to support her and the children,” Veda had said, knowing it was a lie. Knowing Dinah had never seen a dime of that money.
“Or maybe she never got the money—any of it. Or if she did…” He’d let his words trail off into silence. “I saw Reve Sorrell tonight. You’ve seen her. The day you had her here for lunch. You know who she looks like, don’t you?”
“No, Farlan, don’t think that. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you because she has the same color hair.”
He’d grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Reve Sorrell looks enough like Dinah to be her daughter. I think she is her daughter. And if she is, that means Reve Sorrel and Jazzy Talbot are Dinah’s twin babies.”
“No, you’re wrong. Those babies are—”
“They’re what?”
“They’re hundreds of miles away from here, grown up and married and living happy lives, just as Dinah is.” If only that was true. If only…
Farlan had quieted down then and gone to bed, but he’d been restless and moody ever since that night. She thought she’d managed to control his irrational thoughts, but tonight when he’d called for Max and Dodd to come to the house, she’d known what he was going to do. And there hadn’t been anything she could do to stop him.
But what bothered her most was the fact that Farlan had included Brian in this meeting. Brian had nothing to do with those old men’s sins. He’d been a boy of twelve when Dinah had wreaked havoc in their lives, nearly destroying two marriages and putting six people through pure hell. Her son had been an innocent boy.
Without any warning, the door to Farlan’s study opened and he glared down at her. “Come on in. No sense your standing out there listening through the keyhole.”
“Whatever you intend to do tonight, please, don’t do it,” Veda said.
He grabbed her arm and dragged her into his study. “Have a seat, my dear.”
She sat in the nearest chair as quickly as she could. The look in Farlan’s eyes frightened her. She glanced around the room. Dodd stood by the fireplace, his face as pale as a ghost. Max sat on the sofa nervously twiddling his thumbs. Brian, sitting behind his father’s desk, looked right at her and lifted his brows in an inquisitive manner, as if asking, “What’s going on?”
“Brian, everyone else here knows what I’m going to tell you, and everyone played a part in this ungodly story.” Farlan paced across the room, then turned and stared down at the floor for several seconds before facing his son.
No one said a word. Veda could actually hear her own heart beating over the tick-tock of the antique mantel clock.
“Thirty-two years ago, I went to Knoxville with Dodd for a boys’ night out,” Farlan said. “For quite some time, Dodd had been making frequent trips to visit a certain young woman.”
“God, Farlan, why bring this up now?” Dodd asked.
“Dodd’s right,” Veda said. “The past is the past. What earthly good will it do any of us for you to bare your soul to Brian? Didn’t we all do what we did back then to protect him from the truth?”
Farlan nailed her with a furious glance. “Is protecting our son the reason you tried to commit suicide, the reason you threatened to try again if I didn’t do exactly as you said?”
Veda clenched her teeth.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Max said. “Is this about…about Dinah?”
Veda gasped. She hated the sound of the woman’s name.
“Only indirectly,” Farlan said. “It’s about Dinah’s twin daughters.”
“Who the hell is Dinah?” Brian asked.
“She was a Knoxville prostitute that I first met when she was bare
ly eighteen,” Dodd said. “Dinah was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Your Aunt Beth Ann and I were having marital problems. No real excuse, I know, but…That’s neither here nor there. I fell under Dinah’s spell, thought I was in love with her.”
“And this woman had twins?” Brian asked. “Were they your children, Uncle Dodd?”
No matter how hard she tried, Reve couldn’t make herself feel entirely comfortable at Jazzy’s Joint. There hadn’t been any real trouble since she’d taken over control of the establishment, due in part to the bouncer she’d hired. A real tough-looking guy named Brownie, someone her assistant Paul Welby had found for her on very short notice and assured her came highly recommended.
Tonight she was as antsy as the proverbial whore in church—more due to the conversation she’d had with Griffin Powell a few days ago than her discomfort at being out front here at Jazzy’s Joint. She’d hoped Griffin would call with news about Dinah Collins. Deep inside her was the insane hope that the woman was still alive and had had nothing to do with trying to kill her babies, that she’d be thrilled they were alive and would want to meet them.
And just what were the odds of that happening? Slim to none. Griffin was probably right. Dinah Collins was dead.
“Want a Coke?” Lacy Fallon asked when Reve walked up to the bar.
“A Coke’s fine,” she said. “In a bottle, please.”
Lacy retrieved the drink from the mini-fridge under the bar, snapped off the lid with a bottle opener and handed Reve the icy Coke.
“Are you all right?” Lacy asked.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“No reason really. It’s just you seem to be a million miles away tonight. Worrying about Jazzy?”
Reve nodded. “She’s got to come out of that coma soon.”
As Good As Dead (Griffin Powell Book 4) Page 28