Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

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  Judd woke at dawn, after maybe three hours of sleep. He had fought the desire to take his father’s old Mercedes out of the garage and drive to the nearest liquor store. He had needed a drink last night. Needed one now. His stomach churned. His hands shook. His head ached. His skin crawled.

  He flung back the covers, sat up, and put his feet on the cold, wooden floor. Damn, it’s freezing in here. Since he kept the gas heat turned low at night, the old lodge felt ice-box cold. Outside, the wind moaned, its northeastern force flapping the old shutters and scraping nearby towering tree branches against the roof. March had come in like a lion. Roaring with blustery strength.

  Naked and sporting a morning hard-on, he got out of bed and padded barefoot toward the bathroom down the hall. After taking a leak, he turned on the shower and waited for the water to go from cold to hot before stepping under the warm spray. He lathered and rinsed his hair, then soaped his body, his hand lingering over his erection.

  Flashes of Lindsay zipped through his mind. The way she had looked lying beneath him, flushed, aroused, and ready to give herself to him.

  Damn it, why hadn’t he just taken what she offered and had sex with her? God knows he’d wanted her, wanted her so badly that even now, six months later, thinking about it made him painfully hard.

  Judd circled his penis, closed his eyes, and thought about screwing Lindsay. As he jerked off, he imagined what it would feel like to be buried deep inside her. Within a couple of minutes, he came.

  Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he pressed his forehead against the tiled shower wall. Why was he fantasizing about Lindsay and not Jennifer? In the years since his wife’s death, when he’d jerked off or had sex with a woman, Jenny had been in his heart, in his thoughts. Then six months ago, everything had changed. More and more often, sexual thoughts of Lindsay had replaced his thoughts of Jenny.

  That doesn’t mean you love Lindsay. You want her. You need her. But you don’t love her.

  Judd hurried through his shower, then returned to his bedroom and dressed quickly in old jeans, thermal undershirt, and flannel shirt. Once in the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee and checked the time. Five-thirty. Too early to call Griffin’s Rest. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he walked out onto the back porch and breathed in the fresh, frigid morning air.

  I don’t need a drink to get through the morning. I can live without it.

  So why did he feel as if a freight train were running through his body right now? Why did he want to ram his fist through the wall? Why did he want a drink so badly?

  Cursing himself for allowing alcohol to get such a powerful hold on him, Judd went back inside, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and downed the entire cup, all the while staring at the telephone.

  He’d had the service to both his landline and his cell phone disconnected a couple of months ago. But while he’d been at Griffin’s Rest, Lindsay had had both reconnected.

  He continued staring at the phone.

  Call for help.

  He hated asking anyone for anything. It went against his basic nature. He’d always been self-sufficient, the one in charge, never needing help from anyone.

  But that was who he’d been before Jennifer died.

  After her murder, he had begun to believe that love was a weakness. Why hadn’t he realized sooner that loving Jenny hadn’t been his weakness. It had been his grief that had come damn near close to destroying him. Grief that had manifested itself in uncontrollable rage and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

  He had rejected help from his friends, and had turned Lindsay away time and again. And why? Because he’d been afraid of caring about someone.

  I’m sorry, Lindsay. I’m so very sorry.

  After pouring himself a second cup of coffee, he yanked the phone off the base and dialed Griffin’s Rest. He had a lot of fences to mend—starting with Griff and Lindsay. But first, he needed help.

  Sanders answered on the fourth ring. “Powell residence.”

  “Sorry if I woke you,” Judd said. “Is Griff up yet?”

  “No, Mr. Walker, he is not.”

  “What about Dr. Meng?”

  “She has not come downstairs this morning.”

  “Would you ask her to call me as soon as possible.”

  “Is it an emergency?” Sanders asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yeah, kick my butt.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Judd chuckled. He wanted to ask to speak to Lindsay. He needed to hear her voice. But not yet. Not until he’d gotten his act together. Not until he could ask her to give him one more chance.

  “Just give Dr. Meng my message,” Judd said.

  “Certainly.”

  When Judd started to hang up, Sanders said, “Wait just a moment, Mr. Walker.” Then Judd heard the muffled sound of a conversation, as if Sanders had put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece while he talked to someone else. “Dr. Meng can speak to you now.”

  Before he had a chance to say thank you, he heard Yvette Meng’s voice, “Good morning, Judd. What can I do for you?”

  Tell her the truth. Just say it. “I may need help to stop drinking.”

  “Would you like for me to arrange for you to enter a clinic or—”

  “Isn’t there any other way?”

  “You could come back to Griffin’s Rest and put yourself under my care for the next few weeks.”

  “I’d rather not involve Lindsay in this.”

  “Lindsay isn’t here,” Yvette said. “She is on a temporary leave of absence.”

  “Where did she go?” Before Yvette could reply, he added, “Forget I asked. I know that wherever she is, she went there to get away from me.” When Yvette made no comment, he said, “I’m going to try for a few days to do this on my own. If I can’t make it solo, I’ll come to Griffin’s Rest by the end of the week.”

  Just as Griffin kept former FBI profiler, Derek Lawrence, on retainer, he also kept a talented sketch artist, Wade Freeman, on retainer. Wade was actually a painter and sculptor who lived in Maryville. He had an art studio in the downstairs of an old 1920 craftsman house and lived upstairs. Griffin owned several of Wade’s paintings and bronze statues, some displayed at Griffin’s Rest, others in the Powell Agency offices in downtown Knoxville.

  Wade had arrived at seven this morning and had eaten breakfast with Griff and his other guests. Afterward, Yvette had joined Wade in the sunroom, so they could work together on the sketch of the man Barbara Jean had seen leaving her sister’s apartment only moments after Gale Ann had been attacked.

  Griff and Yvette had agreed not to tell Barbara Jean anything about either Yvette’s unique ability or that Wade Freeman was a sketch artist. For all Barbara Jean knew, Wade was simply an old friend who was visiting for the day.

  During the first few hours after breakfast, Griff made several phone calls, the last one to his personal contact in D. C. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a conscience, that he didn’t know how often he bent the rules, and occasionally broke the law. But sometimes the end did justify the means. At least, that was the way he saw things. Money was power. He’d always known that fact, but after becoming rich himself, he had realized exactly what money could buy.

  It could buy a man’s integrity.

  It could buy information at the highest levels of government.

  Griff used the power discriminately, but when he wanted something, he usually got it.

  A soft rap on the den door ended Griff’s mental efforts to justify to himself the reason he cut corners, bent rules, broke the law.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Yvette entered, a sketchbook in her hand. “Wade has completed three different sketches of the man I described to him. One is exactly as Barbara Jean saw him, a profile of his face. One is Wade’s interpretation of what the man might look like without his hat and sunglasses. The third is a full-face view, again Wade’s interpretation.”<
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  Griff held out his hand. Yvette gave him the sketchbook. He looked at each sketch hurriedly, then studied each one for several minutes.

  “An ordinary guy,” Griff said.

  “The only facial feature that might be considered unique is his rather large nose.”

  Griff shrugged. “Lots of men have big noses.”

  “Now that we have these sketches, what are you going to do with them?”

  “I’ll fax them to Nic Baxter.” Griff smiled, thinking about Nic’s reaction. “Once again proving to her that I believe in sharing. It will be up to her to decide how to best use these sketches.” Griff stared at the first sketch, the profile of the possible BQ Killer. “You know, there’s something familiar about his profile.”

  “Do you think you’ve seen a photograph of him or possibly seen the man himself?” Yvette asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something there.”

  Chartiece Woods hated her job as a maid at the Triple Eight Motel, but it kept her and her three kids off welfare. Her ex-husband sent money once in a blue moon, but she’d never been able to count on him, not even when they’d been married.

  This morning, she had rushed through several rooms, doing the usual amount of cleaning, straightening, bed linens changed, and fresh towels put in place. One room had taken longer because the guest had apparently thrown a party. Beer bottles scattered around the floor and both the sink and bathtub contained dried puke. Teenagers!

  Just as she unlocked the door to Room Ten, she checked her watch. Almost eleven. She needed to make up for the time she’d lost on Room Six, if she wanted to finish early enough to make it to her son’s basketball game this afternoon.

  Leaving her utility cart outside, Chartiece stepped into the room, flipped on the light switch, and gave the room a quick visual inspection.

  Damn, there was someone still asleep in the bed. They must be passed out drunk or be high on dope not to have heard her enter.

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” Chartiece said as she approached the fully clothed woman lying in the bed. “I can come back—”

  Two things happened simultaneously.

  Chartiece saw that the woman’s head was not connected to her body.

  Then Chartiece let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Chapter 24

  Only moments before dinner, Griffin received the call he had been anticipating, the call he had dreaded. He excused himself, left the dining room, and took the call in the privacy of his den. The Beauty Queen Killer had struck again. The woman’s body had been found yesterday shortly before noon in a motel room in Bessemer, Alabama, outside Birmingham.

  WBNN morning talk show hostess, LaShae Goodloe, had been decapitated.

  Anger boiled inside Griff. Only years of mastering the art of meditation, as well as various other mental and physical arts, allowed him to gain control of his rage and channel it properly. But even now, there were times when he had to remind himself that the ultimate goal was justice, not revenge.

  “The husband was questioned for hours,” Griff’s D.C. contact told him. “It seems they were separated and the husband has a notoriously bad temper.”

  “But he didn’t kill his wife?” Griff asked. “You’re sure?”

  “LaShae Goodloe was a former Miss Birmingham, and she was still young and very attractive. Her talent was singing, so he chopped off her head and left a single red rose lying between her breasts. Sounds like our guy to me. Besides, the husband has an alibi. Confirmed.”

  “I suppose Nic is already on her way to Birmingham?”

  “You suppose correctly.”

  With only the basic information, Griffin knew he needed to make some quick decisions that involved Lindsay and Judd. Sanders would handle the mundane necessities— seeing to it that the Powell jet was fueled and ready to take off, making hotel reservations in Birmingham, and arranging for a car. Rick Carson would do a background check on the principal players—the victim, her family, friends, and associates, as well as the detectives in charge of the case.

  Knowledge was power. A different kind of power than great wealth, but equally important. And one could often be used to acquire the other.

  Since Nic Baxter had already hightailed it to Birmingham, Griff saw no point in racing to Alabama tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough. By then, the local police would know more than they did today, and Rick would probably have the name of a useful informant.

  Griff didn’t have to worry about dotting i’s and crossing t’s. That would be done for him by his employees. His one major decision was whether to involve Lindsay in this new BQK case. He could easily contact Judd himself or have Rick or one of the other Powell agents get in touch with him.

  Lindsay needed a break—from the BQK cases and from Judd. The best thing he could do for her was leave her out of the loop this time around.

  “Griffin?” Yvette stood in the den doorway. “Is everything all right?”

  “I hope y’all didn’t wait dinner for me.”

  “The others didn’t,” she replied as she approached him. “I thought perhaps your phone call was not good news.”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t. The BQ Killer has struck again.”

  Sandi Ford locked the doors of her dance studio on Main Street in downtown Parsons, Louisiana, at precisely seven-ten and walked to her SUV parked out front. She had been taking private students three evenings a week, from six until seven, after her regular classes ended. Her twelve-year-old twin girls, Joy and Jeri, both needed braces; her eight-year-old, Shaun, had broken his leg playing soccer, and Earl Ray’s insurance had a $1,500 per person deductible. While Earl Ray’s paycheck had increased very little over the past five years, his insurance premiums had steadily increased and the benefits drastic ally dwindled. She had no choice but to earn some extra money. Despite the fact that she and Earl Ray both worked tirelessly, their debts kept mounting, and it hadn’t helped that the raise her husband had been counting on had fallen through only last week.

  Sandi opened the Tahoe’s driver’s-side door and climbed behind the wheel. They had purchased the used SUV three years ago, before gas prices had gone through the roof, and they simply couldn’t afford to trade it in on another vehicle, not when they had only six months of payments left. Besides, she needed the room in the SUV, not only for hauling around her own three children and their friends, but for transporting the equipment for her dance troupe when they performed in contests.

  The drive from downtown Parsons to their home on First Street took less than five minutes. The old Queen Anne Victorian she and Earl Ray had bought and lovingly restored in the first years of their marriage had been and still was Sandi’s dream house. She just wished they could afford to fill it with the antiques she so loved.

  Someday.

  When the kids were grown and out of college.

  She parked in the driveway behind Earl Ray’s ten-year-old Ford pickup. They had planned to build a two-car garage, but just couldn’t seem to work it into their budget. Their very tight budget.

  Draping her bag over her shoulder, Sandi got out of the Tahoe, locked it, and headed straight for the backdoor. The minute she entered the kitchen, the wonderful aroma of tomato sauce, heavily laden with oregano, filled her nostrils. Earl Ray glanced up from where he was putting a tray of uncooked bread sticks into the oven and smiled at her. The first night they met—on a blind date fourteen years ago—she had fallen in love with his smile. At thirty-seven, Earl Ray’s dark hair was beginning to thin and he had a small beer belly, but he was still good-looking, still sexy. If possible, she loved him more now than she had when they first married.

  He closed the oven door and set the timer, then tossed the oven mitt on the counter. Sandi hung her bag on the coatrack near the backdoor.

  “We’re having spaghetti for supper,” he told her. “Shaun is watching TV in the den and doing his homework. The girls are upstairs cleaning their room.”

  Sandi went ov
er and put her arm around Earl Ray, hugged him, and then kissed his cheek. “It would seem you have everything under control.”

  He swatted her on the behind. She giggled.

  “I’ve got a bottle of that wine you like chilling in the refrigerator,” he said. “Maybe after the kids are down for the night, you and I—”

  She kissed him again. Seriously. Putting a little tongue into it. He cupped her buttocks and pressed her into his erection.

  “Ah, gee, I wish you two wouldn’t do that,” Shaun said as he entered the kitchen. “Stuff like that’s liable to warp a little kid like me.”

  Laughing at their son’s overly dramatic statement, Sandi and Earl Ray broke apart. Sandi walked over to Shaun and ruffled his thick auburn curls.

  “One of these days, you’ll want some girl to kiss you,” Sandi said.

  “Yuck. Not me. Not ever.”

  Glancing at her husband, she asked, “How soon will dinner be ready?”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Earl Ray said. “Why don’t you go sit down and rest until then?” He motioned to Shaun. “Run upstairs and tell your sisters to wash up and get ready for supper.”

  “Ah, do I have to?” Shaun whined.

  “Go!” Earl Ray ordered.

  Frowning, Shaun meandered out of the kitchen. The slow, steady clump, clump, clump of his athletic shoes hitting the steps as he climbed the backstairs echoed through the old house.

  “Thanks, honey,” Sandi said. “I’ve been on my feet all afternoon. I’d love nothing better than to sit down for a few minutes.”

  “I wish you hadn’t had to take on those extra lessons. If my raise had come through—”

  “That wasn’t your fault. You can’t help it if the union voted to accept the company’s offer,” Sandi said. “Besides, I’m enjoying giving these one-on-one lessons. Would you believe that one of my private students, Renae Yates, knew that I was once Miss Teen USA? It seems her mother was a student at Parsons State back when I was there.”

  An odd expression crossed Earl Ray’s face. Fleeting. Momentary. If she hadn’t been looking right at him, she would have missed it.