Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  “Take a deep breath,” Derek advised. “We have a lot of explaining to do. They don’t know we’re the good guys.”

  “I know. I know,” Maleah said, aggravation in her voice. “These local guys just ruined any chance we had to catch the killer.”

  “No, they didn’t. They’re just the reason we ended our pursuit sooner rather than later.” Once she cooled off a bit and could see reason, she would realize he was right.

  In the meantime, they had to deal with local law enforcement and hope these guys would let them explain the situation before hauling them off to jail.

  “Get out of the vehicle,” a deputy called to them. “Slow and easy. And put your hands on your head.”

  Derek saw two deputies, pistols drawn and aimed, standing on either side of the Equinox, and one deputy directly in front, which mean the fourth was no doubt stationed at the rear.

  “On the count of three, open your door and get out nice and slow,” Derek told her. “And for once, would you please let me do the talking?”

  Twenty minutes after he lost his pursuers, he drove into downtown Augusta. Once he realized they were no longer following him, he had slowed the Charger from a hundred to eighty and gradually down to the allowed limit. In retrospect, he knew he should have refrained from showing off by deliberately thumbing his nose at the Powell agents. But on occasion, he could not resist the urge to show lesser mortals that they were dealing with a smarter, superior, and more deadly opponent. There was no way they could ever best him.

  He needed to ditch the rental car as soon as possible, but not before he was within walking distance of transportation. By now, it was likely that the Powell agents had given the Edgefield County sheriff’s boys the license plate number and make, model and color of the vehicle. Using the GPS system, he’d gotten directions to the Greyhound bus station, which, as luck would have it, was now only five minutes away. When he reached the twelve hundred block, he pulled off the street and into the parking area for the Greene Street Presbyterian Church. After getting out, he popped open the trunk and removed a carrying case and a large suitcase. Then, working quickly, he disassembled the sniper rifle, carefully arranged the parts inside the carrying case, and placed the case inside the suitcase beneath his clothes and toiletries.

  Before closing the suitcase, he removed his thin leather gloves and tossed them inside; then he closed and locked the bag. Whistling softly, the old familiar tune from his childhood, he clutched the suitcase handle and headed toward the bus station. Glancing at his lighted digital watch, he smiled. He had plenty of time to get there before the ticket counter closed at 11:59 P.M. He would go to Atlanta, take a day off to revise his plans, and then return to Savannah for the Copycat Carver’s next kill.

  By the time they were allowed to leave the Edgefield County sheriff’s office, Maleah knew more about the sheriff and his department than she’d ever wanted to know. And she had gained a new appreciation for just how far Griffin Powell’s sphere of influence reached, apparently all the way to Edgefield County, South Carolina. Otherwise, she and Derek would probably be behind bars.

  Sheriff Gene Lockhart had taken charge of the murder case, the first murder in his county since he’d been elected. All three of the county’s criminal investigators had been called in and two had been dispatched to the scene of the crime at the Paulk residence, along with the Chief Investigator and the forensic investigator. The third criminal investigator, Lieutenant Nelson Saucier, a middle-aged black man, with a wide smile and an intimidating stare, had been assigned to interrogate Maleah and Derek.

  She had to give the man credit—he had assumed they were innocent of any wrong doing and had actually listened to what they had to say. And as soon as Derek had given him the license plate number and info about the Dodge Charger, he had issued an all points bulletin.

  As difficult as it had been for her to keep her mouth shut, Maleah had done as Derek requested and allowed him to do most of the talking. There was no point in the two of them giving the lieutenant the same information. They were Powell agents working a case involving a suspected serial killer, a copycat murderer who was targeting their agency. Their investigation had led them to Apple Orchard in their search for a woman named Cindy Dobbins.

  After patiently listening to Derek explain why they were on the scene when Ms. Dobbins was shot and why they were chasing the person they believed to be the shooter, Lt. Saucier interrogated them further, asking them question after question in rapid-fire succession. He expected answers from both of them and that’s what he got, similar answers to each question, but not word for word identical responses.

  The inspector had excused himself a couple of times, leaving them alone, but they had sat quietly and waited without indulging in conversation. The second time he had come back into the room, he’d handed each their driver’s license and Powell Agency ID.

  “Well, at least we know you’re both who you say you are, but until I get the okay from Sheriff Lockhart, I’m afraid I’m going to have to hold y’all.”

  And so they had waited for what seemed like an eternity—well past dawn—before the sheriff, looking as if he, too, had been up all night—arrived at headquarters. He came in, introduced himself to Maleah and Derek and told them that they were free to go.

  Maleah opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t get out the first word before Derek grabbed her arm and said, “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” the sheriff replied. “Thank the attorney general. I’ve never gotten a direct order from the man, never even spoke to him before tonight.”

  “We’ll be sure to let him know how grateful we are,” Maleah said as Derek all but dragged her out of the sheriff’s office and straight to where her SUV was parked.

  “Give me your keys,” Derek told her. “I’ll drive.”

  She hesitated momentarily, then pulled her keys out of her jacket and tossed them to him. Before getting in on the passenger side, she stretched, tossed back her head, and stared up at the early morning sky. She ached all over, from head to toes. She was also sleepy and hungry and ill as a hornet. Despite the surprising competence of the sheriff’s department, Maleah felt that too much time had been wasted on grilling her and Derek when that time could have been utilized in a better way. But then again, how could she fault local law enforcement, with their limited resources, for not catching their killer when the entire Powell Agency, with unlimited resources, had been unable to apprehend the Copycat Carver?

  “Jump in,” Derek said. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge while the getting is good.”

  Offering him a weak smile and a weary nod, she opened the SUV passenger door and hopped up and into the seat. While she adjusted her seatbelt, Derek started the vehicle, hurriedly checked his mobile phone and within two minutes, they were headed south. Struggling to keep her eyes open, Maleah began concentrating on the road signs and soon realized they were not headed back to Augusta.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Aiken,” Derek replied.

  “What’s in Aiken?”

  “A decent hotel that’s not too far away.”

  “Is that what you were doing with your phone, checking for a hotel?”

  “Aiken’s closer than Augusta and I don’t know about you, but the sooner I get something to eat and a few hours of sleep, the better.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me.”

  “Will wonders never cease.” He chuckled.

  Although the trip from Apple Orchard to Aiken had been relatively short, Maleah had fallen asleep. She woke suddenly when Derek pulled the SUV under the entrance portico at the Holiday Inn Express in downtown Aiken.

  “Get out and book us a couple of rooms,” he told her. “I’ll park, grab our bags, and meet you inside.”

  She shook her head to dislodge the cobwebs and without saying a word, got out and walked into the hotel. Before she reached the registration counter, the smell of the complimentary breakfast coming from the nearby dining
area reminded her of how long it had been since she’d last eaten. First things first, she reminded herself, and went straight to the check-in desk. She explained to the clerk that she didn’t mind paying full price for the two rooms for two nights—last night and tonight—although it was doubtful they’d still be here tonight. By the time Derek joined her, she had charged the rooms to her credit card and pocketed two room keys.

  “They’re still serving breakfast,” she told him.

  “Then what are we waiting for? I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”

  She led, he followed. After finding an empty table, he pulled over a third chair, dumped their bags into the chair and made a beeline to the coffeemaker.

  As complimentary hotel breakfasts went, the food at the Aiken Holiday Inn Express wasn’t half bad. Of course, Maleah was so hungry that anything edible would have tasted like a feast.

  As they sat at one of the tables for two, each on their second cup of coffee, Derek reached over and flicked something off the side of Maleah’s mouth. Momentarily surprised, she stared at him.

  “Biscuit crumbs,” he told her.

  “Oh.”

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Have you finished eating? Are you ready to go to our rooms and get a few hours of sleep?”

  “Yes, I’ve finished eating. I’m stuffed.” She had eaten far more than she should have, more than she normally did. As a general rule, she watched her diet and avoided big breakfasts, but this morning, she had indulged. Actually, she had overindulged. “And yes, I’m more than ready to go to bed.”

  Realizing that her comment could be misconstrued, she looked at Derek. He smiled and winked at her. Damn him. She felt a warm flush creep up her neck and color her cheeks. Crap. She wasn’t the type who blushed, never had been, didn’t want to be. But for some stupid reason, Derek had the ability to say or do things that caused her to feel slightly embarrassed.

  “Your bed or mine?” His smile widened.

  “Me in my bed and you in yours.”

  “Ah, shucks, Blondie, you’re no fun.”

  “Shut up, will you? I’m too tired for your particular brand of humor.”

  He laid his hand over his heart. “You wound me, my darling.”

  Maleah groaned. “Damn it, Derek, grow up, will you?”

  She scooted back her chair, gathered up her plate, cup and other items, and left him sitting there. After clearing the rest of the table and leaving a generous tip, he caught up with her at the garbage bin.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know you were just trying to lighten the mood a little. I shouldn’t let you irritate me.”

  “I shouldn’t kid around so much.”

  Maleah offered him a halfhearted smile as he picked up their bags and headed toward the elevator. She punched the Up button for the second floor and when the door immediately opened, she entered.

  As the elevator ascended, she felt Derek staring at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Ever ask yourself why we seem to irritate each other so much?”

  The doors opened. They got off the elevator.

  “Because we’re oil and water,” she said. “If I say it’s black, you say it’s white. We’re very different. And when you try to run roughshod over me, it irritates me.”

  “And do you think that I do that a lot, run roughshod over you?”

  “Maybe.” She paused outside her room, turned to him, gave him his key, and held out her hand for her bag. “This is my room. You’re next door.”

  “I’ll take your bag in for you.”

  She was too tired to argue, so when Derek took the key card from her, she didn’t protest. He inserted the card into the lock and the instant the green light appeared, he turned the knob and opened the door for her. After entering, she flipped on the light. Derek followed her into the room and placed her bag on the floor.

  “Sometimes you do run roughshod over me,” Maleah said, finally admitting the truth. “I know you don’t mean to and that you’re usually unaware that you’re doing it, but . . . Look, let’s just drop it, okay?”

  Derek set his bag on the floor beside hers. Instinctively, she stood her ground and watched him as he moved toward her. He came right up to her, looked down at her and grasped her chin. She struggled for half a second when he tried to lift her chin so that she had to face him, but quickly looked him right in the eye. If he thought he could intimidate her, he’d better think again.

  He examined her face as if she were a bug under a microscope, studying each feature, searching for something behind her confrontational expression. The way he looked at her unnerved her.

  “Well?” she said.

  He reached out and caressed her cheek, his touch gentle and soothing. “Get some rest, Blondie. We can do battle another day.”

  She hesitated. Fraught with uncertainty, she waited. A moment passed, followed by another and then another, each one becoming tenser than the previous. Neither of them moved or spoke or even blinked.

  He slipped his hand beneath her hair at the nape of her neck. Her breath caught in her throat. And then Derek broke eye contact and released her. She swayed, slightly unsteady on her feet, dazed by what had just happened.

  But exactly what had happened ?

  She waited for Derek to say something, but he didn’t. He gave her a quick nod, and as if he was slightly dazed himself, he turned and left the room. She didn’t actually breathe again until she heard the door close; then she slumped down on the edge of the bed and sucked in huge gasps of air.

  Luke Sentell sat at a sidewalk table in front of Le Bristrot du Peintre on avenue Ledru Rollin. The bistro, located in the heart of the 11th arrondissement between Bastille and Nation squares, was a ten-minute walk from the heart of downtown Paris. Dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton polo shirt, he nursed a glass of Bordeaux, Cote de Bourg, as did his companion, an elderly French gentleman who called himself Henri Fortier. Luke neither knew nor cared what the man’s real name was. They were not friends, not even friendly acquaintances or business associates.

  Luke’s French, although not flawless, was more than adequate, but Henri’s command of English was excellent. Wishing to appear as nothing more than customers wanting a good meal, they each ordered. Luke chose the rib steak in cream sauce.

  “When you return to America, you will please tell my old friend, Inspector Richter, that I send him my best,” Henri said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Henri sipped his wine, all the while studying Luke, his gaze lazily inspecting his dinner companion. “Have you ever visited St. Jakob? It’s a charming little village in the state of Carinthia, Austria.”

  “No, I’ve never been there. Do you recommend I visit sometime in the near future?”

  “Yes, I highly recommend that while you’re traveling in Europe, you add St. Jakob to your itinerary.”

  Luke nodded. “Could you suggest a hotel and perhaps a tour guide while I’m there?”

  “Indeed. You must stay at the Inn Steinhof.”

  When the waiter brought their orders, Henri smiled at the young man, thanked him, and looked at his meal, eggplant lasagna with parmesan cheese.

  As soon as they were alone again, Henri tasted a bite of the delicious concoction, sighed with satisfaction and then returned his attention to Luke.

  “You must ask for Jurgen Hirsch. He will know where you need to go, what you will need to see.”

  Luke repeated the name quietly.

  He would make reservations for the first flight from Paris to Carinthia tomorrow.

  “And just where can I find Jurgen Hirsch?”

  “When you arrive at the Inn Steinhof, leave a message for another guest, a gentleman named Aldo Finster. Simply state in your message that you are a friend of Henri Fortier and are looking for a reliable tour guide.”

  Luke nodded.

  Henri smiled. “I think I shall order
the orange tart for dessert.”

  Following his informant’s lead, Luke, too, ordered dessert, but he ate only a few bites before saying goodnight. He had plans to make, a flight to book, and a report to send to Powell headquarters.

  Chapter 16

  The ringing telephone woke Derek from a sound sleep. He rolled over, kicked back the sheet, and noted the time on the digital bedside clock as he reached for his phone. 2:15 P.M. He had slept longer than he’d intended. Instantly recognizing the caller ID, he swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up as he answered.

  “Derek Lawrence,” he said, holding the phone with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.

  “We think we have found Albert Durham.” Sanders’s voice seldom denoted emotion of any kind, always calm and even, regardless of the circumstances.

  “Alive?” Derek said the first thing that popped into his mind.

  “Yes, we assume he is alive,” Sanders replied. “Of course, if you find him dead, then we will know he is not the Copycat Carver.”

  “Right. So, where is he?”

  “He owns a home in Cleveland, Tennessee, but apparently he does not live there. There are renters residing there at present. He has an apartment in New York City, but it has been subleased for the next six months. And he has a condo in Aspen that he rents when he is not in residence.”

  “You’ve told me everywhere he’s not,” Derek said. “Do you know where he is right now?”

  “Yes, of course. Otherwise, I would not have called you.”

  “So where can we find the guy?”

  “He has rented a house on St. Simons Island, off the coast of Brunswick, Georgia.”

  “I’m familiar with St. Simons Island.” Derek had spent many summers of his childhood vacationing there at the beach house owned by his family for several generations. The house had been built by his great-grandmother’s uncle.

  “I assume you and Maleah are no longer in Apple Orchard,” Sanders said.