They were standing in a round entry way that opened into a large living room at the back, hallways at each side, and a curving stairway in the center. She looked up, impressed by the crystal chandelier that hung high over their heads.
“Impressive.”
“Billy has a habit of allowing people to take advantage of him. His interior decorator saw him coming a mile away.”
He led the way down the left hallway and pushed open the doors to a large study. A desk sat near the windows that overlooked the front drive, a laptop open in the center. There were built-in shelves that were filled with dozens of books. A leather couch sat off to one side, a high-backed chair in front of the desk. It looked like a typical man’s study.
She moved around the desk and hit the power button on the computer. The screen lit immediately, a picture of Billy and Durango smiling was his desktop pic. There was no password.
“Billy is an open book, Gracie,” Durango said, coming up behind her, his hand slipping over her hip. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“I told you, I just wanted to eliminate the obvious names on your father’s list.”
Jackson had handed them three lists that morning. One, of the original cast and crew of each movie—the lists they already had. One the assistants, directors, and production staff he worked with most often, people he would have traveled with for almost any purpose. And the last one a list of everyone not directly involved with the movie production, but who had traveled with him on specific dates.
Billy’s name was first on the last list.
“You never did tell me what you and Jackson talked about for four hours last night.”
“And I told you I wasn’t with him that entire time. I spoke to Axel, too.”
“But you were with him a long time.”
Gracie leaned forward to type a few commands into the computer. A dark screen came up, the command screen, allowing her access to things on the computer that weren’t always accessible from the operating system. She could feel Durango watching her, tension in his hand where it still rested on her hip. He’d been tense all morning, but she wasn’t quite sure why. Was it her conversation with Jackson? Was he worried about what the man had told her? Or was there something else going on?
“We talked about you. But you were expecting that, weren’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“He didn’t come on to me if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
But she heard the relief in his voice. And that made her heart stand up and sing.
She continued to type, searching the computer for anything that might be of interest. He continued to stand behind her, his hands on her hips. She pressed back into him, unable to resist the temptation, and he groaned slightly before moving around her to look through his brother’s books.
“Did I ever tell you that Billy couldn’t read when he came to live with us. I taught him, late at night, by making him read comic books to me.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. His education was really lacking. I’m not even sure Bridgette ever sent him to a proper school before they came to Los Angeles.”
“Do you have many memories of Bridgette?”
Durango shrugged. “Sure. She was my stepmother for three years.”
“Did you ever wonder why she left?”
“I know why she left. She couldn’t get along with my father.”
“What about Billy? Did you ever wonder why she didn’t take him with her?”
“Bridgette never gave a shit about Billy. I was thirteen, and I could see that.”
Gracie straightened. There was nothing on the computer, just a few solitaire games and some interesting porn sights Billy had visited. Nothing that would connect him to more than two dozen serial murders. But had she really expected it to be just sitting there out in the open for her to find?
She began leafing through the drawers, looking for a secret compartment or a locked drawer. A safe would be good, too. Killers like to take souvenirs. This one had never advertised any specific type of souvenir, but there must be something. But that wasn’t sitting out in the open, either.
She crossed the room, her eyes moving over the shelves, looking for an irregularity. But there was nothing obvious.
“Billy was better off without Bridgette. She was self-centered and emotional. She never would have given him what he needed in a mother.”
“Was she ever kind to either of you?”
“She was nice to me a lot of the time. But I think it was just to anger my father, you know? Show him that she could be nice to the people she chose, but she didn’t choose him.”
Gracie nodded. “I guess I understand that logic.”
“She was a real piece of work. Thrived off drama. I think it was good for everyone that she left.”
“Even Billy?”
“Especially Billy.”
“But she just abandoned him. No matter how cruel she was, that had to have hurt.”
Durango was quiet for a long moment, pretending to study a book he was holding in his hand. But Gracie got the impression he wasn’t really looking at the book. His eyes were filled with ghosts, just like Jackson’s had been last night. He was lost in the past, remembering something he wasn’t quite ready to share with her.
“She was his mother.”
She pressed a hand to his back again, letting it slide around his waist. He stepped away, slamming the book back into place.
“Billy’s a good man. He had a rough start, but he made something of himself. He paid for all of this with his own earnings, with his own career. He pulled himself up and survived all of that.” He glanced at her as he made his way out into the hallway. “I won’t let you try to convince me he could be capable of the things you’re thinking.”
She didn’t try to argue with him because she knew it would get her nowhere. She wasn’t even sure the thoughts she’d been having since last night weren’t put there by a man trying to throw her off the scent. Jackson had never denied being in the location where each of the murders happened, never denied that the person committing the crimes was likely part of crews traveling with him. He’d never tried to deny anything. Instead, he’d told her stories about a broken family, and the little boy who suffered the most from his mother’s actions and abandonment.
And then the file folder . . .
But could she really deny the evidence inside that folder? It might be circumstantial, but it made so much sense. Motive and opportunity were right there. Just because she couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of a child committing such a heinous crime, didn’t mean it didn’t happen.
She retraced her steps and went back to the entryway, choosing to climb the stairs to the second floor. Like Jackson’s house, the second floor had a huge cutaway that looked down on the bottom floors, but this one looked down on the open living room. She could see Durango down there staring pensively at a framed photograph that had been nestled among a dozen others on the top of a white baby grand piano.
Did Billy play the piano? Somehow, she didn’t think so.
She pushed open doors of several guest bedrooms, peeking into the closets—most of them empty—before moving on to the next. Billy’s bedroom was at the back of this floor, tucked into a corner. It wasn’t a large room, clearly not the intended master bedroom the architect who designed the house had imagined. It wasn’t much bigger than his study downstairs and was furnished more spartan than even the empty guest rooms. But it was clearly his even though it was neat as a pin. His clothing hung in the closet, and the sheets were rumpled, the bed clearly had not been made in quite a while. Didn’t the man have a maid?
She searched drawers, stuck her hand in pockets of hanging jackets and slacks. She searched the bathroom but found nothing more scandalous than a packet of condoms and a tube of hemorrhoid cream. There was nothing in this house that would indicate the things Jackson thought of his adopted son.
She stepped out of the room, her eyes moving defeatedly around the hall. And then she spotted a door she had yet to open. She crossed to it, yanking on the knob. The door didn’t open. She tried again, realizing the door knob was firmly locked.
Why would he lock the door to his attic?
Durango was still in the living room when she bounced back down the stairs. She slipped a hand into his back pocket, pulling out the ring of keys he’d stowed there.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a locked door upstairs. I want to see if one of these keys opens it.”
“Why? Haven’t you seen enough?”
“Why doesn’t he sleep in the master bedroom? Or one of the larger guest bedrooms?”
Durango seemed puzzled. “I don’t know. I thought he did.”
She shook her head as she turned, headed back upstairs. “He sleeps in the tiniest room up there.”
She was halfway up the stairs before he followed. He moved up close to her, stealing the keys from out of her hand.
“Just because he chooses to sleep in a smaller room doesn’t make him a psychopath.”
“I didn’t say he was. I just want to see what he keeps in his attic.”
“Probably his collection of costumes.”
“Costumes?”
“He used to steal costumes from the sets of Jackson’s movies. And then he became an actor, and they’d give him the costumes when the films finished. He has dozens from his television show because they do a new wardrobe almost every season.”
“Why does he collect costumes?”
“Why does anyone collect anything? He likes them.”
Durango paused outside the attic door, rattling the keys in his hand as he searched through them. There must have been a dozen on the ring. He tried three before finally finding the right one.
“I wasn’t sure it would be there.”
But Gracie had known it would be.
Durango pulled the door open and moved out of the way, allowing Gracie to go first. It was dark, a set of wooden stairs leading up into more darkness. She stayed close to the wall, suddenly concerned with what might be waiting for them at the top. But then her fingers grazed a light switch as she reached the attic. She snapped it on, illuminating a large space that was largely empty, only a few boxes and a lot of dust to fill the cavernous space.
“See? There’s nothing up here?”
Gracie nodded, but she didn’t move. Her eyes wandered around the space, wondering why the door had been locked if there was nothing up here. She was about to approach one of the boxes when a flicker of light caught her attention. There was a door at the far end of the room.
She walked over, still moving with caution. She was more acclimated to sitting behind a computer, but she was a trained FBI agent. She only wished she had a gun on her.
Light shone from under the door suggesting an artificial source that had been left on. Perhaps Billy wasn’t really in Chicago? Surely, he hadn’t left the light on for the weeks he’d been off shooting scenes for his television show, had he?
She hesitated, standing to one side of the door. Durango had remained on the other side of the attic, watching her with something like amusement on his face.
“It’s a door, Gracie. Nothing more.”
She knew he was probably right, but she couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart.
Gracie touched the door handle, almost expecting it to be locked like the other had been. But it gave easily under her hand, well-oiled and ready to admit her into the room. At first, it seemed like such a benign room. There was a cot in one corner that was neatly made, almost military style. A large wardrobe stood at the end of the bed, so large it was nearly impossible for the doors to open without hitting the end of the cot. There was no other furniture, but a photo album had been left sitting on top of the single pillow, the cover stained from frequent touching with dirty fingers.
Gracie shuddered to think what those fingers had been dirtied by.
She pulled at the doors to the wardrobe, once again surprised when they opened easily. She didn’t understand what she was looking at initially. Rows of clothing were on the one side of the wardrobe, drawers and shelves covered in makeups and glues, fake beards and eyebrows, even a couple of wigs. Gracie picked up a beard, the weight of it surprisingly light. She ran her fingers over the hairs, thinking they had to be real human hair. Expensive. And then she began digging through the clothing, her heart once again pounding, but for a different reason this time.
“Those are his costumes. I told you, he collects them.”
“And the makeup?”
“He used to want to be a makeup artist. He collected these kits when we were teenagers, and he’d make me sit still so that he could practice on me. But then Jackson caught him making me up like a drag queen, and he put his foot down. He wouldn’t allow it anymore.”
“Did you know he was still doing it?”
“No, but he’s a grown man, Gracie. He can do what he wants when he’s alone in his own home.”
It was a plausible argument. But then her fingers brushed something smooth, satiny. She reached deep into the wardrobe and pulled it out, her heart stuttering for a long moment. She stumbled back, nearly fell onto the cot.
“What?”
She held up the hanger she’d removed from the depths of the wardrobe, holding it where he could see it. Hanging there was a dark running suit, one of those ones with a strip down the sides, lined with soft cotton but made of a satin material that whistled when the wearer jogged. Hanging over the hook of the hanger was a man’s baseball cap, the bill curled for maximum protection from the glare of the sun.
Or to hide someone’s face.
Durango shook his head. “It’s just a jogging suit.”
“It’s the same one.”
“There has to be a million of that style of suit out there, Gracie. There’s no way that—”
“It’s the same hat.”
He stared at it, refusing to agree or object. Cursing under her breath, Gracie tossed it at him. “Why is this stuff here? Why was it behind a locked door?”
“This door wasn’t locked.”
“But the attic door was!”
“It’s just a fucking jogging suit.”
He spun around and stormed out of the room. Gracie started after him, but she stopped to grab the suit. Then, after a second’s hesitation, she picked up the photo album, too. A picture fell from its pages as she headed for the door. She stooped to pick it up, her heart finally coming to a stop as she realized what it was.
Gracie fell to the floor in a heap of limbs. For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath.
He couldn’t deny this.
It was Felicity. Felicity Meeks moments after the life had been choked from her body, the red marks already blossoming around her neck.
Where the fuck could Billy have gotten that if he hadn’t taken it himself?
Chapter 18
Los Angeles, California
Billy Chamberlain’s Home
He knew what she wanted him to believe. She wanted him to think that Billy was capable of killing more than two dozen women. She wanted him to believe that Billy had killed his first victim when he was thirteen. She wanted him to believe that the brother he’d grown up with, the brother he loved more than his own father had set him up for the murders of his fiancée and his partner.
He couldn’t believe it.
Durango knew that Jackson must have filled her full of ridiculous ideas the night before. He saw the file folder, saw the photograph of Bridgette mixed in with pictures of Billy with various women, all of them blond. All of them with blue eyes. All of them with the same coloring, the same look as Bridgette.
But did that really mean anything?
The killer had a type. But, hell, so did Durango. What if Billy had one, too? Did it really matter?
He couldn’t let himself believe that Billy was capable of these things. He couldn’t believe that Billy would set h
im up the way he did, that he would stand beside him during that farce of a trial if he were the killer.
What reason would Billy have to kill Sarah?
But he also couldn’t deny that Bridgette had been cruel to Billy. She’d choked him on more than one occasion. And then she left him, abandoned him to go off and do God knew what. He also couldn’t deny that the first victim died just a week after Bridgette had gone. But that had to be a coincidence, didn’t it?
His house was clean. If they hadn’t come up to the attic . . .
“Durango!”
He spun on his heel, all his denials choking him as Billy himself appeared in the doorway of that little room, Gracie on her knees beside him. He had his hand wrapped around her hair, and a gun pressed to her temple.
“I’ve waited a long time for you to find this, Durango.”
Tears streaked Gracie’s face. Pain flashed in her eyes when Billy tugged on her hair, a smile of excitement on his own face.
“Didn’t expect you to bring this one along. Not really our type, brother.”
“She’s just a friend, Billy.”
“I don’t think so. I think she’s more than that.” He tugged her hair again, making her cry out. “I saw you down in my study, saw the way you touched each other. You like her.”
“She’s been helping me out. That’s all.”
Billy sighed like he was annoyed by that idea. “I left so many clues! You shouldn’t have needed help figuring them out, Durango. You’re losing your touch!”
“Clues?”
“On the bodies. I wanted you to know it was me. I wanted you to join me!”
Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series Page 81