For a woman whose idea of jewelry was diamond studs and a wristwatch, being decked out in gold and jewels on a daily basis irritated the hell out of Lindsay. How did anyone function weighed down by so much clutter?
But for now, Lindsay sat, completely uncluttered, wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized cotton sweater, on the sofa in Paige Allgood’s den. Since Paige was notorious for sleeping until noon every day, Lindsay had her mornings free. Her afternoons were spent at the downtown building the real Paige planned to convert into a theater—the old Woodruff Building. Powell agents posed as contractors, designers, and investors, assisting her in bringing her role as Paige Allgood to life. The only question was did they have an audience? An audience of one.
Was the BQ Killer out there, watching and waiting? Or had he not even noticed a high profile, young, attractive, blond, former beauty queen who was ripe for the picking?
Deep in thought, Lindsay jumped when the phone rang. God, she hadn’t realized how jittery she was. Day after day of playacting while they waited and waited and waited was beginning to take a toll on her nerves.
Maleah, sans the black wig and glasses she wore in her disguise as the maid, came into the den, the portable phone in her hand. “Ms. Allgood, there’s a gentleman who’d like to speak to you.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “No name on the caller ID, just a number. But he said his name is Allen Posey. He’s interested in supporting local actors with a sizable donation to the little theater group you’re founding.”
Lindsay nodded. “Call Powell’s and run a check on this guy, then grab the other phone and listen in.”
“Will do.” Maleah handed Lindsay the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Posey, this is Paige Allgood.”
“Ms. Allgood, this is such an honor,” the distinctively Southern voice said. “I’ve been reading all about you recently, and I must say that I’m simply dying to get in on the ground floor of your little endeavor.”
“Are you really? Well, color me delighted. As you know, I don’t really need investors, but I don’t want to be selfish and not share with other like-minded philanthropists.”
“Then you’re not adverse to my making a sizable donation, are you?”
“My goodness, no.”
“I do have one small request.” He chuckled softly. “Well, actually two. First, my daughter, Cynthia, is a very talented girl. I’d like to see her cast in the first play you produce.”
“I … uh … I believe that could be arranged, especially if she’s very talented.”
“And my second request is that I’d like a private tour of the building you’re converting into a theater.”
“Oh, well … uh … certainly. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have my assistant meet you at your convenience—”
“No, no, my dear. You don’t understand. I’d like for you personally to give me a tour.”
A red warning signal popped up in Lindsay’s mind. “Uh … I believe that can be arranged.”
“Splendid. Shall we make it for tomorrow evening. Around six?” he asked, absolute glee in his voice.
A voice that sparked shivers along Lindsay’s nerves.
“Six tomorrow evening at the front entrance. Let me give you the address and directions on how to—”
“No need. I’m familiar with the area.”
“Then you’re from Knoxville?”
“Yes, of course. I thought surely you’d heard of me.” He sighed dramatically. “Would I be presumptuous in asking you to have dinner with me tomorrow evening, after the tour?”
Dinner? Hmm … Either this guy was on the up-and-up or he was giving a great performance. Lindsay wasn’t sure which, but her instincts told her it was the latter. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about Mr. Posey, but there was definitely something “off ” about him.
“Dinner? Well, all right. That sounds nice.”
“Until six tomorrow.”
Lindsay hit the Off button, then tossed the phone down on the sofa. Maleah, who’d been standing by and listening to most of the conversation on the portable extension, lifted her brows in a wasn’t-that-interesting expression.
“What do you think?” Lindsay asked.
“Could be our guy.”
“We know he’s an expert at luring intelligent women into his web. Derek has told us that he probably creates a different scenario for each victim and invents a personality for himself that for some reason appeals to the victim.”
“Makes sense.” Still holding the extension phone in her hand, Maleah sat down on the sofa with Lindsay. “What would appeal more to Paige than a refined gentleman interested in local theater?”
“We have a little over twenty-four hours to set things up. But first we have to find out all we can about Allen Posey. If there really is an Allen Posey.”
As if on cue, Maleah’s cell phone rang. She removed it from her shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Yes. Uh-huh. I see. Okay, I’ll tell her.” She closed her phone and turned to Lindsay. “That was the office. They ran a quick check and found that there is an Allen Posey. He’s a rich old codger. A native of Knoxville. Old family. Old money. And he has two daughters: Cynthia and Tracy.”
Lindsay nibbled on her bottom lip. “Then either our caller is on the up-and-up or he’s assuming the real Allen Posey’s identity and is guessing that Paige Allgood wouldn’t know the difference.”
“I say we contact Mr. Powell right away.”
“I’ll handle contacting Griff.”
“All right.” Maleah got up. “I’m in the mood for a Caesar salad for lunch. How does that sound to you?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
As soon as Maleah exited the den, Lindsay put in a call to Griff—on his private cell number.
Judd hadn’t told Lindsay when they spoke this morning that he was being released from the clinic around noon today. Before he went to Griffin’s Rest tomorrow to surprise her, he wanted to go home to Chattanooga first, get a haircut and a manicure, then look through his closet and find some decent clothes. He had already contacted his housekeeper and told her to get his old rooms prepared and to have his Porsche serviced and ready for him to drive. The first step in reclaiming his life was to return to the life he’d known before Jennifer’s murder and go from there. Yvette had made him see that he’d find some things from the past comforting, just like stepping into a favorite pair of old shoes. And other things from his former life would no longer fit him and would need to be discarded.
“You’ll build a new life for yourself,” Yvette had told him. “It will take time and effort, and it won’t be easy. But the day will come when you’ll be glad that you’re alive.”
He didn’t kid himself. He knew he had some rough times ahead of him, that for every step he took forward, he might wind up taking two backward. But as long as he had Lindsay at his side, he’d make it. God, how he’d missed her. After more than two weeks of intensive rehab, including brutal sessions twice a day with Yvette, Judd was now clean and sober. And prepared to face months of continued grief-counseling.
“Are you ready to leave?”
Judd nodded to Yvette, who stood in the open doorway to his private room. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure you want me to drop you off in Chattanooga?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He picked up his duffel bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, and walked toward Yvette. “When you get to Griffin’s Rest, don’t tell Lindsay that I’ve been released. I want to surprise her tomorrow afternoon.”
“I won’t say a word,” Yvette promised.
Griff sat alone in his den that evening, a glass of bourbon resting on the desk blotter, and the sketches Wade Freeman had drawn of the possible BQ Killer lay side by side below his drink. As he studied the man’s face, he reached over and tapped the Play button on the mini-recorder.
“I’ve never chopped off a head before, but I decided that since time was running out and the
game would soon end, that I should try it. On a human, that is. I’ve practiced numerous times on various animals. Cats and dogs mostly.”
Troubled by the fact that there was something oddly familiar about the faces in the sketches and the voice on the tape, Griff had spent the better part of the past two hours trying to figure out if he actually recognized either, or if his mind was playing tricks on him.
Did he know the BQ Killer? Was this monster someone in his social circle, someone he’d shaken hands with on various occasions? If so, why don’t I know who he is? Why can’t I make the connection?
Griff knew hundreds of people well enough to call them by name. If he were acquainted with the BQ Killer, then both the face in the sketches and the voice on the tape were somehow different than the man Griff knew. Disguised? The face, yes. But why would he have disguised his voice since he wouldn’t have known he was being recorded? Not disguised, just slightly different. Altered by excitement, by the mental and emotional thrill of the moment?
Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he reached out with the other and picked up his glass of bourbon. By this time tomorrow, it was possible that none of this would make any difference. Whoever had called Lindsay claiming to be Allen Posey was an imposter. Griff had telephoned and spoken to the real Allen Posey—at his villa in Italy where he’d been for the past three weeks.
Chapter 33
All Ruddy needed to win was this one last kill. Today. April first. Pudge couldn’t allow that to happen. He had played by the rules for most of the past five years. But recently, he had come to realize that he could not lose this game. He wasn’t ready to pay the ultimate price and forfeit everything to his dear cousin. When he had suggested adding the death-of-the-loser clause to the rules of their game, he had never actually considered the fact that he might lose. After all, as brilliant and devious as Ruddy was, he was the lesser man. Not quite as smart. Not quite as diabolical. And where Ruddy had the ability to actually love, Pudge did not. He respected his cousin, found him a worthy opponent and would miss the game playing in which they had indulged since first meeting in their teens.
But I’ve never loved anyone, never cared deeply for another human being. And that one ability alone makes me far superior.
He had tried every way possible to worm the name of his chosen victim from Ruddy, but his cousin had refused to divulge her identity. Arranging everything would have been so much easier if Ruddy wasn’t so stubborn. Nonetheless, there were ways to achieve every goal. He had been keeping close tabs on Ruddy, knew where he was and what he was doing at all times.
Although he didn’t know the time Ruddy had chosen for his next kill or the victim, he did know where the event would take place. Somewhere inside the old Woodruff Building in downtown Knoxville.
Ruddy had acquired the original blueprints to the building yesterday, and Pudge had followed him there last night when the place had been deserted. No doubt, he’d been mentally setting the scene, preparing for the last kill.
Where inside the building had Ruddy chosen for the sacrificial altar?
Pudge parked his get-away car—a rental—a block away, removed the suitcase in which his rifle was stored, and walked up the alley to the back entrance of the old building. He checked his watch. High noon. All he had to do was be patient and wait. Sooner or later, Ruddy would show up with his former beauty queen in tow, believing that with her death, he would win the game. But what he didn’t know was that he, not she, would be the final victim.
Judd drove to Griffin’s Rest in his antique Porsche, a car he’d loved since his father had given it to him for his eighteenth birthday. Of all the vehicles he’d owned, this one was his favorite. Something about driving this car made him feel like a teenager again, his whole life ahead of him, a blank canvas. He parked the car, hopped out, and ran toward the front door, a sense of anticipation zinging through him. He could hardly wait to see Lindsay, to surprise her, to lift her off her feet, swing her around in his arms, and then kiss her. He didn’t know exactly where their relationship was going, but they’d figure it out along the way. The one thing he did know for certain was that she was a part of his future as surely as Jennifer had been a part of his past.
Judd rang the doorbell. Hurry up. Hurry up.
Sanders opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Walker. How nice to see you.”
Judd breezed past Sanders, straight into the foyer. “Good evening to you, too. Would you please tell Lindsay that she has a guest.”
Sanders cleared his throat. “I take it that she wasn’t expecting you.”
“I wanted to surprise her.”
“I see, sir. Won’t you come in and wait in the living room.”
“Is Griff around? I want to talk to him before Lindsay and I leave.”
“No, sir. Griffin is in Knoxville.”
While Sanders disappeared down the hall, Judd meandered into the living room. He had made late dinner reservations at an exclusive restaurant in Knoxville and booked a suite in a four-star hotel where he intended to spend the night making love to Lindsay. He planned to begin his new life tonight—with the woman he loved.
Judd walked through the living room to the far side, stood by the wall of windows and looked outside. Springtime had finally arrived. Rebirth. The trees were beginning to fill out with green leaves, flowers were blooming, grass was growing.
He wanted to plant a garden at the hunting lodge, as his mimi had done years ago. Fresh herbs, a few vegetables, and even flowers.
For Lindsay.
With Lindsay.
From now on, Lindsay would be a part of everything in his life.
“Judd?” Yvette Meng’s voice called out clearly.
He turned and saw her standing several feet behind him. She had entered the room so quietly that he’d been unaware of her presence until she spoke his name.
“Good evening. Lovely evening, isn’t it,” Judd said.
Sanders walked over and stood by Yvette.
Instantly, Judd knew something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Lindsay isn’t here,” Sanders said. “She’s in Knoxville.”
Tension curled tightly around Judd’s gut. “Is she on an assignment with Griff?”
“In a way,” Sanders replied.
Judd glanced from Sanders to Yvette, then back at Sanders. “I want to know what you’re not telling me and I want to know now.” Judd practically growled the demand.
Sanders hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker…”
Judd stormed across the room, an unknown fear clawing at his insides.
“Stop.” Yvette’s calm yet commanding voice got through to him in a way a harsher tone wouldn’t have.
“For God’s sake, what is it?” Judd looked pleadingly at Yvette.
“Tell him,” she said to Sanders.
“Are you sure?” Sanders asked.
She nodded.
Sanders explained about Lindsay and Maleah’s plan to trap the BQ Killer, giving Judd the condensed version, then continued speaking during Judd’s outbursts, completely ignoring his rage.
“And Griff agreed to this? He enabled her? Damn it, what was he thinking, putting her out there like that, using her as bait?”
“Griffin is protecting her,” Sanders said. “Lindsay is doing this for the same reason she has done everything else for the past four years—for you. She would have done it with or without Griffin’s cooperation.”
“I never asked her …” Judd slammed his fist into the wall, bursting a hole in the Sheetrock. “This is all my fault. If anything happens to her …”
“Griffin is close by, along with six Powell agents. Holt Keinan is a former SWAT sharpshooter. They set everything up a few hours ago. Lindsay will be surrounded by protection.”
“Exactly where is this coming down and when?”
“This evening,” Sanders said. “She’s meeting this man at six o’clock.”
Judd checked his watch: Five-fifteen.
“Where?”
“Tell him,” Yvette said to Sanders. “But only—” she grabbed Judd’s arm “—only if you agree to let me go with you.”
Judd glared at her. “Agreed.”
Ruddy looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. He was years younger and pounds heavier than the real Allen Posey, but with the gray wig and mustache, he could pass for a man in his fifties. If only he could have gotten into the Woodruff Building last night, he could have prepared everything for tonight. But he had memorized the original blueprint and knew the perfect area. In the basement. She could scream her head off and no one would hear her. After removing the small vial from his pants pocket, he studied it for a moment, then replaced it, along with a plain, white cotton handkerchief. A couple of whiffs of this stuff and she’d be out like a light. Easy to lift and carry. If there was one thing he hated, it was a struggling victim. He patted his back, where a sheathed, nine-inch, hunting knife, attached to his belt, lay hidden beneath his lightweight overcoat. The knife was for the kill. The gun in his coat’s outer pocket was simply a precaution. Just in case there was any trouble.
After the kill, he would return here to the motel, remove his disguise, shower, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, he would fly straight to Louisiana, to Pudge’s plantation with evidence of his kill. Photos taken with his tiny digital camera.
And then he would kill his cousin.
Ruddy sighed.
He truly hated the thought of killing Pudge. But rules were rules. He would allow his dear friend, his beloved cousin, to choose the method by which he wished to die. Poison? A single gunshot to the head? Strangulation?
All decked out in her Paige Allgood garb, Lindsay arrived at the old Woodruff Building at precisely two minutes to six. Ms. Allgood had given her consent for the Powell Agency to use her Bentley, which was being driven this evening by Rick Carson, dressed as her chauffeur. When he pulled the car up to the curb, he surveyed the area around the front entrance.
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