Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “He probably felt pretty sure that the bureau wouldn’t try to track down a possible second killer when we had no solid proof of his existence and there were no other BQK murders after Cary Maygarden was killed.”

  Griff walked all the way around the tree and Nic followed him. When he stopped abruptly, she almost collided with his big, broad back. She caught herself just in time. Another two inches and she’d have slammed up against him.

  “This is useless. We made a mistake coming to Ballinger first,” Griff said as he turned around to face Nic. “We should have started with the first murder, the one that’s nearly a month old. The sheriff in Stillwater will have more info.”

  “What makes you think the woman in Stillwater was his first victim?”

  Griff narrowed his gaze until his eyes were hooded slits. “Good question. I’m hoping she was, but it’s possible there have been others.”

  “We need to know for sure, don’t we?”

  “Do you suppose you could find out for us?”

  “Are you asking me to use my position as a federal agent to acquire the information?”

  “Would you?”

  Nic knotted her left hand into a fist and squeezed it a couple of times, damning herself for being in this situation. “I knew hooking up with you would come to this, but I didn’t think it would happen so quickly. Just because you cut corners and push the boundaries as far as possible and steamroll right over the law when doing things the legal way doesn’t suit your purposes does not mean that I will, now that we’ve formed this unholy alliance.”

  Griff chuckled. “Unholy alliance, huh? Does that make me the Devil? Probably does. And you’d be—?” When she opened her mouth to protest his taunting, he held up his hand in a STOP signal. “No, don’t tell. I figured it out. I’m the Devil and you’re a fallen angel.”

  “You have no idea how much I’d like to slap that stupid smirk off your face.”

  “But you won’t slap me, will you? That would require your actually touching me and you don’t want to do that, do you?”

  “No. I’m going to resist temptation and avoid possible contamination,” Nic told him. “But I am going to call Doug Trotter first thing in the morning.”

  “I take it that Doug’s the supervisory special agent over your squad in D.C. So, why do you think he’ll bend the rules for us?”

  “Doug’s one of the SACs. And he will not bend any rules for us. If I can persuade Chief Willoughby to play along with us, all he’ll have to do is tell Doug that he suspects the same person who killed Gala Ramirez in Texas also killed Kendall Moore in Arkansas.”

  “You know what will happen if we find out that there were other murders before Kendall and Gala,” Griff said.

  “There is a distinct possibility that once all the law enforcement agencies in the states where the bodies were found are informed, then the FBI will become directly involved and a task force will be formed.”

  “When that happens, you’ll want to cut me out of the action.”

  “You’re smiling.” Nic really hated that smug look on his face. “As much as I do not want you involved, you will be. Not just because you make a habit of sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, but because the man who called you and me isn’t going to allow me to cut you out of the action.”

  “Already figured that out, have you? Yeah, for some reason he wants us to be a team on this one.”

  “Maybe he has a giant ego and outsmarting just one of us isn’t enough of a challenge.”

  “Maybe.”

  “After we finish up here and talk to the first officer on the scene, I want to call Chief Willoughby in the morning and see if he’ll contact Doug.”

  “Make it early, okay? I want us on the plane and heading for Stillwater by nine.”

  Griff sure as hell hoped that Nic didn’t think he had requested this special romantic dinner. Miss Cleo had pulled out all the stops in arranging an evening under the stars for them.

  Griff looked directly at Nic, who sat across from him at the small table decked out with a linen tablecloth. “I hope you know that I didn’t—”

  Nic burst into laughter.

  Griff grinned. “It seems Miss Cleo is a romantic.”

  “Undoubtedly. And delusional as well. How anyone could think that you and I …” Nic laughed again. “We are the last two people on earth who’d ever be a couple.”

  “Yeah, I agree. But neither of us ever thought we’d become crime-solving partners, either.”

  “I don’t like to think of us as partners,” Nic said. “There’s just something unnatural about it.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s an unholy alliance.”

  Nic smiled; and when she did, Griff realized that in all the years he’d known her, he had seldom seen her smile. She was downright pretty when she wasn’t frowning.

  “We aren’t friends,” she reminded him, her smile vanishing. “We don’t even like each other, so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. But I can and will act in a professional manner, if you will. And I’ll try my best to be civil, even cordial, if at all possible.”

  “Tell me why you dislike me so much?” Good God, why had he asked her that?

  “Do you really want to know?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re an arrogant, egotistical, womanizing bastard who thinks because you’re rich, you can do whatever you want, that the rules others have to live by don’t apply to you. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Powell, you’re not all that special. You’re no different than any other man.”

  Griff glared right into her eyes. She shivered.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I am different. And not because of my sizable bank account.” She had no idea just how different he was. Neither she nor the rest of the world would ever know. And he would give all he owned if he could forget.

  “There’s that gigantic Powell ego speaking. Mr. Big-Bad PI with the mystery past and women swooning at his feet. You love it, don’t you? You love being Mr. Macho.”

  Griff lifted the crystal flute and sipped the wine. Not great, but he’d tasted worse. He studied Nic, noting her flushed cheeks and rapid breathing. She was angry, and all that emotion was directed at him. But was he really the one she was upset with, the one who had prompted her anger?

  “Go ahead,” she told him.

  “Pardon? Go ahead and do what?”

  “Tell me why you don’t like me.”

  “If you really want to know.”

  “Turnabout is only fair,” she said.

  “I don’t like women who need to prove they can do anything a man can do and do it better. Men and women are inherently different. I like being a man and I prefer women who enjoy being female.”

  “Fluttery and feminine and helpless and silly,” Nic said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Can’t get along without some big, strong man taking care of her. Good for fucking and having babies and not much else.”

  Griff took another sip of wine, set his glass on the table, and asked, “Who put that enormous, ugly chip on your shoulder, Nicki?”

  Gritting her teeth, Nic groaned; then she shoved back her chair and stood. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  When she turned to leave, Griff pushed back his chair, got up, and went after her. When he caught up with her, he grasped her arm, intending to apologize. But before he could say a word, she whirled around and gave him a killer glare.

  “Let go of me.”

  He looked at his hand holding her arm, then looked directly at her before releasing her.

  “Don’t ever touch me again,” she told him.

  When she turned and walked away, he didn’t try to stop her.

  Chapter 5

  Stillwater wasn’t much more than a wide place in the road. The only street in town was Main Street. A single row of ramshackle old buildings, all but two empty, looked like they were about to fall in. The two occupied structures had been remodeled. One housed a beauty shop and the other, a two-story building, boasted a
big green sign that read FEED AND SEED.

  As they drove through town, Nic kept her gaze focused either to the right or straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the local scenery. Neither she nor Griff had mentioned anything about how their evening had ended yesterday. Actually, when she’d met him in the dining room of the Ballinger B&B for breakfast this morning, he’d acted as if nothing had happened. While Cleo Willoughby had served them a big country breakfast, complete with grits and hash browns, Griff had informed her that the Powell jet was ready to leave, that he’d already spoken to the sheriff of Stillwater, and had taken a call from Ballinger’s chief of police.

  “What did Chief Willoughby have to say?” Nic had asked.

  “He promised that he’d do as you asked and get in touch with Doug Trotter today to request that the bureau compare the murder here in Ballinger with the murder in Stillwater.”

  During the plane ride from Arkansas to Texas, Nic and Griff hadn’t talked much. For a good part of the trip, she had pretended to be asleep. She’d been sure Griff would hassle her about the way she had overreacted to him grasping her arm last night. She had kept waiting for him to say something, to ask her why the hell she’d run from him as if she were afraid of him. But to her surprise—and relief—he hadn’t said a word.

  If he had, how would she have responded? She could have admitted that she overreacted because she’d been tired and edgy. She could have told him that she hated being forced to work with him. That would have been the truth. Just not the complete truth.

  “Look for a sign that reads Old Stillwater Road,” Griff told her as he maneuvered the rented SUV through town.

  “Sure.” Nic looked right and left, but avoided direct eye contact with Griff. “What time is Sheriff Touchstone meeting us?”

  “He said he’d be there by twelve thirty and it’s”—Griff glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—“twelve twenty now.”

  “I was a little surprised that he agreed to meet us at the scene,” Nic said. “Apparently, he intends to be as cooperative as Benny Willoughby was.”

  She felt Griff glance her way, so she kept her gaze riveted to the windshield.

  “Does it surprise you that local law enforcement is willing to cooperate with a private detective?” he asked.

  “If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”

  “My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”

  “Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.

  Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”

  “Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.

  “Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”

  Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?

  “We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”

  “So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”

  Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.

  “Sure,” Nic said. “I’ve got the balls, if you do.”

  Griff chuckled under his breath.

  Nic smiled to herself, an internal don’t-screw-with-me smile; but outwardly her facial expression remained unchanged.

  “There it is—” Nic pointed to the left. “Old Stillwater Road.”

  Griff slowed the SUV, and then turned left onto the twolane country road. After going over two miles, they had seen little except open fields, probably once planted annually in cotton, but now planted in corn. The pavement, filled with potholes and covered with cracked and crumbling asphalt, needed repairs.

  Nic saw two vehicles parked alongside the roadway about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. As they got closer to the truck and the Jeep, she noticed two men standing in the shade of a large maple tree near a narrow bridge. Griff pulled the SUV in behind the other two vehicles and killed the engine.

  “Be nice,” Griff said. “Act like a lady and not a hard-ass FBI agent.”

  Glaring at him, she made a hissing sound.

  Laughing, he opened his door and got out. Before he had a chance to round the hood and open her door, she jumped out and met him at the right front bumper. He nodded in the direction of the big tree.

  “Ladies first,” he said.

  She walked ahead of him, up the side of the road and into the area near the bridge. The two men standing there watched as she and Griff approached. The younger man, wearing a tan Stetson and brown leather boots stepped forward.

  “Mr. Powell?” he asked as he held out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Touchstone.”

  Griff shook hands with Dean Touchstone, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He was hazel-eyed, brown-haired, Texas-lean, and sported a thick, old-cowpoke mustache.

  He turned to Nic, removed his hat, and nodded, “Ma’am.”

  “This is Nicole Baxter,” Griff said. “She’s working with me on this case.”

  Nic had to bite her tongue to keep from correcting him and saying that he was working with her and not the other way around. But she forced a smile and shook hands with the sheriff.

  “This is Vance Coker.” The older man nodded to Griff and gave Nic an appreciative appraisal, the kind men give most women at first glance. “Vance is the one who found Gala Ramirez’s body hanging from that tree right there.”

  Vance was probably sixty, short, wiry, and gray-haired. At least what hair he had left was gray. He had the kind of weathered skin that a person has after years of sun exposure.

  “Vance owns this land,” the sheriff said.

  “Been in my family over a hundred years,” Vance added.

  “He found Gala’s body hanging from that maple tree there by the bridge, the first of August. Me and Ellis, one of my deputies, came out just as soon as Vance called us.” Dean Touchstone turned his head and stared at the tree. “It’s been over ten years since we had a murder in Durant County.”

  “Sure was a troubling sight,” Vance said. “That poor little gal was strung up like a piece of beef, her ankles bound together and her head scalped. You can’t imagine what that looks like if you ain’t never seen it. Real troubling.” Vance shook his head back and forth.

  “Was she naked?” Nic asked. “Was there any evidence she’d been sexually assaulted?”

  “She wasn’t naked,” Vance said. “She was wearing shorts and a blouse, both of ‘em bloody. Real bloody.”

  “She wasn’t sexually assaulted,” Sheriff Touchstone said. “The coroner’s report ruled out rape.”

  “What did the coroner’s report tell you other than she hadn’t been raped?” Griff asked.

  Ignoring Griff’s question, Touchstone looked at Vance. “Thanks for meeting us here. I appreciate it.” He turned to Griff. “You folks have anything else you want to ask Vance before he leaves?”

  Beating Nic to the punch, Griff asked the farmer half a dozen questions. His answers were succinct, but not very informative.

  “If that’ll be al
l, Mary Lou’s holding lunch for me.” Vance looked to the sheriff for permission to leave.

  Touchstone nodded. “Thanks again, Vance.”

  As soon as the farmer got in his truck and drove off, the sheriff faced Griff and Nic. “I’ll give you folks the basic facts of the case, but that’s all. I’m not opening my files to you and I’m not sharing privileged information. Understood?”

  Nic smiled. “Yes, Sheriff, we understand. You can’t divulge privileged information to just anybody, not even private detectives.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Touchstone smiled at her, a flirting twinkle in his eye.

  Griff cleared his throat. “As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, what we need is to confirm that the similarities between Kendall Moore’s murder and Gala Ramirez’s murder are enough to indicate a link between the two and possibly point to a serial killer.”

  “I understand,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t want y’all bandying around the words ‘serial killer’ in Stillwater. Folks are upset enough by the Ramirez girl’s murder without hearing that there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

  “We don’t intend to speak to anyone else in Stillwater,” Griff said. “You’ve already told us that Gala was hung upside down from that tree.” Griff nodded to the grand old maple. “Her feet had been bound and she’d been scalped, but she hadn’t been raped and she wasn’t naked. Could you confirm her cause of death?”

  “She’d been shot in the head.”

  “The scenario you described fits Kendall Moore’s murder,” Nic said. “What we need is for you to contact SAC Doug Trotter at the FBI field office in D.C. and tell him you suspect that the same person who killed Kendall Moore in Ballinger, Arkansas, might have killed Gala Ramirez.”

  Squinting against the noonday sun, Touchstone replaced his Stetson and focused on Nic. “I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll call the police chief in Ballinger and if he backs up everything y’all have told me, I’ll contact the FBI.”