Just the thought of beginning the game again, of spending three weeks stalking Amber Kirby, then capturing and killing her, excited him. A sensation of pure glee tingled through his whole body.
Ballinger, Arkansas, located south of Little Rock, appeared no different from most small towns comprised of less than ten thousand people. Griff drove up Main Street, which apparently had undergone a recent restoration, in search of the B&B Sanders had booked for Nic and him. He figured they would learn what they could about Kendall Moore today and tomorrow, then head for Stillwater, Texas, late in the day.
“Is that it?” Nic asked, pointing to what appeared to be an old, remodeled hotel right in the middle of town.
“Hmm … Yeah, I believe it is. The Ballinger Hotel.” Griff chuckled. “I suppose, for a little town like this, it was something in its heyday, which was probably 1925.” The two-story building possessed a dark red brick façade, clean lines, and Craftsman-era styling.
“There’s a sign with an arrow,” Nic told him. “PARKING IN THE REAR.”
Griff turned right at the sign and eased their rental Ford Taurus between the two structures until he reached an alleyway that led to the parking lot behind the B&B and a lawyer’s office.
“We’ll check in and leave our luggage, then take a walk over to the police station we saw on our way into town.”
When they got out, Griff removed their suitcases from the trunk, intending to carry them both. But Nic didn’t budge. She held out her hand.
“I’ll take it,” she told him.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why not let me carry your bag for you?”
“Because you have your own to carry and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my suitcase.”
“Hmm …” What was she trying to prove? That she didn’t want or need a man’s help? Sometime in her past, some guy had done a real number on Nicole Baxter and Griff would lay odds that it hadn’t been her husband.
She twitched her fingers at him. “My suitcase, please.”
“Sure thing.” He handed the case to her.
Side by side, they walked through the alley, around to the sidewalk on Main Street, and up to the hotel’s front entrance. Griff held the door open for her. Let her chew him out for being a gentleman. But his mama had taught him good manners and he wasn’t about to let a lady open her own door.
Surprisingly, Nic said nothing. But she did give him a disapproving sidelong glance. The foyer of the old hotel was small but clean and rather appealing with brown marble floors and oak paneling. A plump, silver-haired woman who was running a feather duster over the framed photographs of the town, circa early twentieth century, that hung on the wall, paused in her chore when she realized she was no longer alone.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Griffin Powell and this is Ms. Baxter,” Griff said. “We booked rooms for tonight.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Check-in isn’t until two, but since y’all are our only guests, it won’t be a problem.” She glanced from Griff to Nic. “I’m Cleo Willoughby. I’m the owner.”
“Now, tell me, dear, do you want rooms with a connecting door or not?”
“Not,” Nic said lightning fast.
Cleo’s brows rose with a hint of speculation and curiosity.
“Ms. Baxter and I are business associates,” Griff said.
“Indeed. And what kind of business are you in, Mr. Powell?”
“I’m a private detective,” he told her, without hesitation. In a town this size, news would travel fast, so there was no point in trying to keep his identity secret.
Cleo smiled broadly. “How very interesting. Can you tell me what brings you to Ballinger?”
“We’re hoping to speak with the police chief about a recent murder,” Griff said.
“Is that right? And is Benny expecting y’all?”
“Benny?” Nic asked.
“Yes, Benny’s the police chief. He’s my nephew. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call and tell him you folks want to talk to him about a murder. I assume it’s Kendall Moore’s murder, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Griff replied. So the police chief was her nephew? Ah, the interwoven relationships of small-town families.
“Well, you two come along and get signed in and I’ll show you upstairs.” Cleo motioned for them to follow her into the room on the left, apparently her office. “While you’re settling in, I’ll call Benny. It’s nearly eleven, so he’ll probably be heading over to Mot’s for Sunday dinner as soon as he leaves church.” She lifted her head from where she’d been fiddling with the credit card machine and looked right at Nic. “I went to nine o’clock services this morning. Don’t want y’all thinking that I’m not a good Christian woman.”
“The thought wouldn’t have entered our minds, Ms. Willoughby,” Griff said.
“Call me Cleo. Everybody does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nic and Griff said simultaneously.
“If you’d wanted connecting rooms, I could have given you the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers rooms, but the Jean Harlow room is bigger and has a view of Main Street. And the Cary Grant room is very nice, too.” She patted Griff on the arm. “The last gentleman who stayed in it said he couldn’t remember when he’d slept better.”
“That’s good to know.” Griff wished Cleo would hurry things along, but he suspected there was no point in trying to rush her.
She ran Griff’s credit card, handed him the slip to sign, and swapped him his card for the bill.
“Do you get many visitors?” Nic asked.
“Not many, but enough to keep the doors open. The gentleman I mentioned who last stayed in the Cary Grant room spent only one night. Said he was just passing through. I wonder if those boys finding Kendall Moore’s body in the park had anything to do with him leaving so fast.”
“When did this man arrive and when did he leave?” Griff asked, an odd notion hitting him at the mention of the man being here so recently.
“He came in on Friday evening, rather late, and paid in cash.” Cleo said. “And he left Saturday morning, right after we heard about them finding that poor gal strung up by her heels and her head scalped. Have you ever heard of such a gruesome thing?”
Nic and Griff exchanged glances and in that moment, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was: the recent occupant of the Cary Grant room might well have been Kendall Moore’s murderer.
Chapter 4
A six foot, auburn-haired, good old boy with an easygoing manner and an infectious laugh, Benny Willoughby seemed like a nice guy. Nic guessed that he was in his early fifties, and the gold band on the third finger of his left hand indicated he was married. When they arrived at Mot’s, which was apparently the town’s most popular restaurant, at least for the Sunday lunch crowd, he greeted them cordially and suggested they order the chicken and dressing.
Nic wondered where Benny’s wife was.
After they placed their order and sat down at the table with the police chief, at least six different men stopped by to speak to Willoughby. Finally, just as the waitress brought their drink order, he turned and glanced from Griff to Nic.
“Aunt Cleo tells me you folks are private detectives interested in Kendall Moore’s murder.”
“That’s right,” Griff replied, giving Nic a don’t-contradict-me glance.
“Did the Moore family hire y’all or—?”
“No,” Griff said. “We’re not working for anyone on this case.”
“Then I don’t understand.” Benny frowned.
Griff leaned in closer to the chief and lowered his voice. “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources—not yet—but we have reason to believe that Ms. Moore was murdered by a serial killer and if that’s true, her murder could be connected to a case we worked on in the past.”
Benny’s eyes widened in surprise. “If what you say is true, then I sure do need to know the source of your information, Mr. Powell.”
; “I’ll make you a deal, Chief Willoughby.” Griff glanced from right to left, then focused his full attention on Benny. “If you’re willing to give us what information you can about Ms. Moore—nothing that would get you in any trouble, of course—I’d be willing to tell you who our source is.”
“Humph.” Benny looked down, his gaze not quite centered on anything in particular as he shook his head while he considered the proposition. “How about you divulge your source and then I’ll see what I can do about answering any questions you’ve got.”
Griff looked at Nic, as if wanting her agreement. She smiled and nodded, knowing damn well he couldn’t care less what she thought.
“Fair enough.” Griff grasped the back of Benny’s chair and moved in, right up against his shoulder, then whispered, “Kendall Moore’s killer called us and told us. There was another murder identical to Ms. Moore’s out in Stillwater, Texas, about a month ago.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Benny shook his head again. “If that don’t beat all. A serial killer, huh? Somebody that didn’t even know Kendall. That girl was Ballinger’s pride and joy, you know. She went to the Olympics nearly ten years ago and won a silver medal. She was on the track team in high school, just a few years ahead of my oldest, Benny Jr. Came from a good family. She’d been living in California until about six months ago.” Benny grunted several times. “I sure couldn’t figure out who’d want to do such a terrible thing to Kendall. It was a real puzzle to me and everybody else.”
“How long was Kendall missing before her body was found?” Griff asked.
“Her folks contacted me when she didn’t come home from an aerobics class one night over three weeks ago,” Benny said.
“Could you tell us if she was sexually assaulted?” Nic asked, knowing he’d be more likely to respond to that type of question if a woman asked it.
“We haven’t gotten back the autopsy report yet, but our coroner said it didn’t look like it to him. Of course, you know she was shot in the head and had been scalped. And our coroner, Larry Kimball, said he was pretty sure she hadn’t been dead more than ten or twelve hours. Three teenagers, the Oliver brothers and Mike Letson, found her body hanging from a tree in the park. By the time we got to the scene, there was already a crowd there and in no time, reporters were swarming like maggots. Information that shouldn’t have been released to the press got out before we could do anything about it.”
“Those things happen,” Griff said.
“If you’re right about the serial killer, then I sure am relieved. I hated to think anybody around these parts was capable of doing something like that.”
“Is there anything in particular you can share with us?” Nic asked. “Anything at all, even something you might consider insignificant.”
Grunting, Benny shook his head. “Can’t think of anything. Of course, y’all know that she wasn’t killed in the park. She was killed somewhere else. We’re waiting for the state boys to get back to us. If I let ‘em know we think it could be the work of a serial killer, that might get us an autopsy report a little faster.” His gaze connected with Griff’s. “You were involved in the Beauty Queen Killer cases, weren’t you? I saw your name and picture in the paper on and off for years.” He glanced at Nic. “And you look familiar, too.” He snapped his fingers. “Damn it all, you’re the FBI agent who headed up the task force, aren’t you?”
Nic nodded, but before she could respond, Griff took over. “This isn’t an official FBI case. Not yet. Special Agent Baxter is here in an unofficial capacity. We’re putting together a few pieces of a puzzle, that’s all. If enough pieces fit together and we can prove there’s a killer who is crossing state lines, then the bureau will step in.”
“As you know, any case with an interstate aspect to it comes under the FBI’s jurisdiction,” Nic added.
“Well, I tell you what—when I get more information, probably within the next few days, I’ll share it with you and whatever you find out about that murder in Texas, you share with me.” Benny picked up his fork and dove into his chicken and dressing. After a couple of bites, he continued the conversation. “You’re welcome to go out to the park and take a look at where we found her. And you can talk to the first officer on the scene, but I’d rather you not talk to the boys who found the body. They were pretty shook up about it and their folks don’t want them having to retell it again and again.”
“Mr. Powell and I appreciate your cooperation,” Nic said.
“We sure do,” Griff said. “Nic and I will take you up on your offer. We’ll stay overnight and then head for Stillwater in the morning.”
Apparently, Benny had talked all the business he intended to for the day. He concentrated fully on his meal. Griff ate heartily, seeming to enjoy the down-home country cooking. Nic ate two-thirds of the delicious food on her plate, then stopped. She had learned long ago that if she ate all she wanted, she gained weight easily. At five ten she could carry some extra weight, but God knew she wasn’t model thin. She worked out regularly and watched her diet in order to keep her body fit.
Thirty minutes later, after she’d drunk another glass of iced tea while Griff and Benny had finished off huge slices of German Chocolate Cake, they headed for Ballinger Park. Located in the center of four downtown streets and comprising an entire block, the park boasted a central fountain, a gazebo, brick walkways, towering trees, neatly manicured flowerbeds, and a variety of wrought iron and stone benches.
“You folks take your time,” Benny said as he led them directly to the corded-off crime scene. “The Crime Scene Investigation folks are finished, so you can’t bother nothing. If you need anything, you’ve got my number, so just give me a call. I’m fixing to head to Pine Bluff. I’ve been seeing a lady over there for the past six months and if things keep going along the way I hope, we’ll probably get married before Christmas.”
“Congratulations,” Nic said, even more curious about the wedding band he wore.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been a widower nearly three years and my kids are all grown and gone. A man gets mighty lonely.” He looked at Griff. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Powell? Don’t put it off too long. A man your age ought to be thinking about settling down with a good woman and having a couple of kids.”
Nic almost laughed out loud. If only Griff could see the expression on his face. But she managed not to laugh or make a snide comment until after Benny disappeared up the brick walkway. Then she laughed.
Griff gave her a hard stare.
“Sorry,” she told him. “But the way you looked, you’d have thought Chief Willoughby had suggested you should get yourself castrated.”
“Marriage isn’t for everyone, is it, Nic? You tried it once, didn’t you?”
That certainly achieved the desired effect. Wiped the smile right off her face. She wondered just how much Griff knew about her marriage. The fact that he obviously knew she was a widow was more than she’d like for him to know. What had he done—investigated her past? Probably. Okay, so he’d found out she had been married and that her husband was dead. That didn’t necessarily mean he knew how Gregory had died.
“No, marriage isn’t for everyone,” she replied.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped over the yellow crime scene tape and walked around the massive oak tree. He stopped and studied the low-hanging branch from which Kendall Moore had been hung.
“A guy would need a ladder and some sturdy rope,” Griffin said. “And he’d have to be fairly strong to lift a dead body.”
Following Griff, she stepped over the yellow tape. “He probably laid her on the ground, tied her feet, then climbed up and tied the robe around the limb and hoisted her up.”
“This guy is smart,” Griff said. “And careful. During the five years of the BQK murders, he didn’t leave any clues that would lead us to him. Hell, nobody even realized there were two killers.”
“Not until the end. Not until one partner killed the other.”
Griff jerked around and s
tared at her. “He didn’t have to kill him that day. My sharpshooter’s bullet would have taken him out. He killed Maygarden because it was part of their game. That tells us that he plays by the rules, even if they are his own rules. He’s organized, methodical, and—”
“Evil,” Nic said. “He’s capable of just about anything.”
“He abducted Kendall and kept her somewhere for three weeks, then brought her here to the park. Where did he take her? Why keep her alive for three weeks before killing her?”
“We need to find out if she was tortured.”
“Do you think that’s why he kept her alive, to torture her?”
“Probably.”
“The BQ Killer’s MO didn’t involve prolonged torture. He moved in for the kill pretty damn quick and got it over with, then left the body there. This is a completely different scenario.”
“A new game,” Nic said.
“A solo game, one without a competitor.”
“No scorecard this time. No one to compete with—” Nic gasped. “That’s the reason he called us.”
“To tell us this game is different, that there are new rules, a completely different—”
“Yes, all that, but more. He wants us to play the game with him. Isn’t that what he said? He even gave us the first two clues. He’s daring us to play the game, to see if we can outsmart him, maybe even catch him.”
“We’re his competitors.” Griff snorted. “That son of a bitch!”
“We don’t have to play his game.”
“Yeah, we do. And he knows it.”
“Why us? How could he know that you and I were the only two people who believed he existed, that believed Cary Maygarden had a partner?”
“It was either a lucky guess or a logical conclusion. Whichever it was doesn’t matter, does it? We were the two investigators who followed the BQK cases for years. We were the two people who knew all there was to know about the murders and the murderer. And he had to know the ballistics reports would show that Maygarden was hit with two different bullets that day and that somebody would get suspicious.”
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