Dead By Midnight (20 page)

“It’s a local number.” She hit the On button. “Hammonds residence.” She frowned. “Do not call again or I’ll report you to the authorities.” She laid the phone back on the counter and faced the others. “It’s started again. I’ll have to disconnect all the land lines so we don’t have to deal with the phone ringing all day long. If the security system didn’t require a landline phone, I’d leave them disconnected.”

“Let them ring,” Lorie said. “I won’t be here. I’m getting ready and going to work.”

“I don’t recommend your doing that,” Jack told her.

“Are you my keeper now?” she asked. “Did Mike turn me over to you?”

“He placed me in charge of your case.”

“Fine. I knew he planned to…” Lorie paused to take a deep, calming breath and quickly rethought her decision to rush off to work. “How long do you think we’ll have to keep Treasures closed?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said honestly. “A few days, maybe longer. It depends on whether or not there are more articles about you in the newspaper.”

“And if there are?”

“Then the best course of action is to keep Treasures closed indefinitely.”

Maleah and Derek had been brought back to Knoxville via the Powell jet at the crack of dawn that morning and had arrived at Griffin’s Rest in time for breakfast. Although Griff and Nic were dealing with the murder of Powell secretary Kristi Arians, they had set up a meeting for all the top agents involved in the Midnight Killer case. The agency had been hired by the next of kin of two of the victims and they expected a call from Anthony Johnson or his representative before the end of the day. And they were representing, pro bono, Charlie Wong’s family. The facts that Lorie Hammonds was Maleah’s sister-in-law’s best friend and Griff counted Jared Wilson among his close acquaintances changed the dynamics of the case for the agency. This case was personal.

The Powell Agency’s main headquarters was housed in downtown Knoxville, in a renovated building Griff had purchased a number of years ago. The structure had been renamed the Powell Building in honor of its billionaire owner. A small group of administrative assistants, including the office manager, ran the day-to-day operations of the agency and reported directly to Griff and/or Nic. Fifty people, counting the in-the-field agents, were employed by Powell’s. The computer experts worked in various capacities, but mainly doing research. The bookkeepers handled the finances, including taxes, accounts payable and receivable, and payroll. Griff kept former FBI profiler Derek Lawrence on retainer, as he did Camden Hendrix’s law firm and a local psychologist.

Then there was Dr. Yvette Meng and her students. Maleah had no concrete proof, but she suspected that Griff was on the verge of utilizing Dr. Meng’s special talents and those of her small conclave housed at Griffin’s Rest to help with certain seemingly unsolvable cases. Personally, Maleah wasn’t into all that woo-woo stuff, but she tried to keep an open mind. She knew one thing for sure—Dr. Meng was extraordinarily perceptive. Whether Griff’s old friend and her pupils were actually psychic, she couldn’t say. Maybe they were.

Griff worked from Griffin’s Rest most of the time and had rarely visited the Knoxville headquarters in the past year. The real heart of the agency was located in a huge, state-of-the-art home office inside Griff and Nic’s home. The space was divided into three areas, one of which was a meeting room equipped with two plasma televisions, DVD and CD players, and a wall lined with books and magazines. Plush leather chairs circled a large rectangular table.

Maleah and Nic had taken a few minutes, just the two of them, to catch up after breakfast. By the time they arrived at the office, Griff was seated at the head of the table and the other agents were milling around the room. Derek sat at the end of the table near Griff and the two were deep in conversation.

“Don’t worry, they aren’t discussing the Midnight Killer case,” Nic told Maleah. “Griff wanted to speak to Derek about Kristi’s murder. We’re waiting for a report concerning the details that the Knoxville PD are keeping top secret.”

Maleah nodded. She never questioned Griff’s methods of obtaining whatever information he wanted. Only on rare occasions did the agency come up against that rare human being—the man or woman who couldn’t be bought for the right price. She wondered, if push came to shove, exactly what her price would be, because she knew only too well that
the price
wasn’t always monetary.

Nic spoke to each agent present and then took her seat at the opposite end of the table from her husband. Maleah surveyed the group. Nic and Griff and Derek were already seated. Holt Keinan, who had been assigned to investigate Hilary Finch Chambless’s murder in Memphis, sat down beside Derek. Ben Corbett and Michelle Allen spoke to Maleah as they headed for the table, coffee cups in hand.

After everyone was in place, casually seated around the table and still quietly chatting, Sanders entered and took a seat in the corner of the room, away from the others. Griff’s right-hand man seldom participated in the meetings, but he often observed. Maleah didn’t know why and had never asked.

Shaughnessy Hood, this month’s head of security at Griffin’s Rest, closed the door and then stood guard. His actions weren’t actually necessary, but she understood the need for protocol. This was a private meeting where the agents would be discussing matters of grave importance and sharing confidential information.

Griffin Powell ended his conversation with Derek and turned in his chair to face the others. His gaze traveled around the table, silently acknowledging each Powell agent present. The room quieted. Everyone focused on Griff.

“Kristi Arians’s autopsy will be performed tomorrow,” Griff told them. “The funeral is tentatively scheduled for Thursday at noon. A by-invitation-only memorial service will follow that evening, here at Griffin’s Rest.”

“May I ask if Powell’s will be doing an independent investigation?” Michelle Allen asked.

“Yes, we will,” Griff replied. “Mitch Trahern will be heading that investigation.” Griff waited for more questions and when no one else spoke, he continued. “Now, to the business at hand. The Midnight Killer case.” He reached to his right and removed the top folder from a stack of thin binders piled in a neat bundle on the table. “Pass these around and once everyone has a copy, take a few minutes to look over the information.”

“These folders contain reports from the six agents working in the field on this case,” Nic explained. “Shelley Gilbert is not here because she is on bodyguard duty for a potential victim, Lorie Hammonds. But she filed her report this morning. Derek has put together a rough preliminary profile of the killer, and Maleah has condensed the interviews they’ve had with possible suspects.”

Derek explained, “Once I’ve gone over your reports, I will reassess the profile if there is any information that I believe changes my opinion.”

“The report I submitted includes information about our interviews with four men we thought could possibly be involved in the murders,” Maleah told them. “We have three other names on our list and hope to finish up with those interviews this week.”

The agents passed around the binders of info and each took the allotted time to skim the reports.

“As you see, there is another report included, one put together by Powell’s research team using certain information y’all submitted along with computer and legwork research,” Griff said.

Maleah hurried through the report from Holt Keinan on the Hilary Chambless murder and Michelle and Ben’s report on Dean Wilson’s murder, but she took time to thoroughly go over Derek’s profile. Even though they were partnered on this case, he hadn’t discussed his profile with her and despite being curious, she had not asked him about it.

Maleah paused to consider the implications of what she had just read. She agreed completely with Derek’s professional assessment of their UNSUB.

Hurriedly, she raced through the remainder of his report, which listed each of the four men they had recently interviewed.

“Keep these files, go over them, use them in any way that will help you in your investigation,” Griff said, bringing everyone’s attention away from the reading material and directly onto him. “We’ve learned a great deal already, but we’re not even close to solving this case. Although there are four victims and more potential victims, this is one case, not several.”

“I read where it’s been determined that our UNSUB is probably taking a souvenir each time,” Holt Keinan said.

“Yes,” Nic replied. “The clothing the victim was wearing when he or she was killed disappeared. We believe the killer took the clothing, probably chose one article and discarded the rest. But no bloody clothing has been found either at the scene or in nearby garbage bins or Dumpsters.”

“And he didn’t use the same murder weapon for each killing,” Ben Corbett commented.

“That’s right,” Griff said. “Ballistics reports confirm that each victim was shot with a different gun.”

“And he’s doing this for what reason?” Michelle Allen asked. “He can’t think that by using different guns, the authorities won’t link the four murders, not when he’s gone out of his way to kill in the same manner, uses the mask as a calling card, and warns the victims in advance with identical letters.”

“At this point, there’s no way to know for sure why he’s done this,” Griff told the agents. “It could be as simple as him preferring not to pack a gun that goes through the airport’s baggage security scanner. For a man with money, picking up a different gun in each city wouldn’t be a major problem.”

“We believe that our killer is using fake ID to purchase his plane ticket and to register at the hotels where he’s staying. And more than likely, he’s disguising himself in some way so that he can’t be easily identified by anyone on the flights or in the hotels and restaurants. This makes it difficult to figure out if one of our suspects traveled on or near the dates of the murders. And for the same reason, we can’t rule out any particular suspect.”

“A check of airline passengers and hotel registrations the day of and the day before each murder might give us a single name,” Holt suggested.

“We’ve thought of that, but so far, we’ve come up with nothing. No single name, which leads us to believe that he is possibly using several fake identities.”

“Our guy is not only smart, but he’s financially secure,” Derek said. “And he’s on a mission to rid the world of evil in the form of ten former porno stars.”

Jeff Misner rammed into his wife, his upper thighs slapping against her still-firm ass as he took her from the rear. She huffed and panted and groaned, the sounds indicating sexual pleasure, but he never knew for sure if Jean was enjoying herself or not. He suspected that at least half the time, she faked her orgasms. During her career as Puff Raven, she had gotten plenty of practice. And to tell the truth, he didn’t really care if she came or not.

“That’s it, baby, give it to me hard and fast,” Jean cried out as she moved in perfect rhythm to his thrusts.

He grabbed her hips tightly, probably bruising her darkly tanned skin, and hammered repeatedly until he climaxed. She screeched and shook and told him she loved him. He collapsed on top of her, shoving her facedown onto the bed. After his breathing returned to normal and the aftershocks of his delicious climax subsided, he rolled off her and then stood. She flipped over and looked up at him.

“I need to work on the new video for my Web site this afternoon,” Jean told him. “You aren’t going to need me, are you?”

“I’m fine for now.” He winked at her. Jean was thirty-six, but she had taken good care of herself—boob and butt lifts, a tummy tuck, Botox, and a daily workout. “Have you got someone coming in to help with the video?”

“I’m flying solo on this one. Just me, a few toys, and my fingers.” She laughed.

“I may drop by and watch.”

“Sure thing. You know I love a live audience.”

He held out his hand. She grabbed hold and he yanked her up and onto her feet. Her shoulder-length black hair—still natural and without a single silver strand—shimmered as she shook her head and stretched. Her body was toned, deeply tanned, and willowy slender. Since retiring from the regular porno film business, Jean had been making a healthy income via the Internet. The Puff Raven site was one of the most popular in the world. Once a month, she added a new video that customers could download and enjoy, for a very reasonable price.

Jeff figured that one of these days very soon the Internet sites would make regular porno movies completely obsolete.

After a quick kiss, he and Jean went their separate ways, she to her bathroom and he to his. He shaved, showered, and dressed casually in a cotton shirt and linen slacks. Just as he slipped into his leather sandals, his cell phone rang.

Where did I put the damn thing? In my dressing room? On the nightstand?

Then he remembered he had left it in his jacket pocket and hung the jacket across the back of the sofa in the sitting area of their bedroom. By the time he retrieved the phone, it had stopped ringing. Just as he started to check for a message, the phone rang again. He glanced at the caller ID.

Travis Dillard.

What the hell did that old son of a bitch want? After their last collaboration, he’d told Travis in no uncertain terms that they were kaput, finished, over and done. Travis needed to retire. He had lost touch with the new porno industry and still wanted to do things the old-fashioned way. Not Jeff. He was all about new and improved.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Jeff asked when he answered on the fourth ring.

“Have you seen the news today?” Travis asked.

“Can’t say that I have. I’m a busy man. Making deals, screwing my wife, enjoying my success.”

“Think you’ve got it made, don’t you? Well, Shontee thought she was living the good life, too, down in Atlanta with that rich boyfriend of hers, but her little pie-in-the-sky piece of heaven just bit the dust.”

A sudden chill settled over Jeff. “What happened?”

“He got her,” Travis said. “The Midnight Killer whacked Shontee last night.”

“I thought she had a bodyguard.”

“The killer filled him full of lead and then moved on to Shontee.”

Jeff swallowed. Ever since the Powell Agency had contacted him and Jean, they had been careful not to leave the house without the private security that Jeff had hired. Around-the-clock protection didn’t come cheap, but keeping Jean alive was worth any price.

“I thought you’d want to be forewarned,” Travis said. “Tighten up your security and watch your back night and day. You never know when this guy is going to come for Jean.”

“Is that a threat, old man?”

Travis laughed. “Don’t talk nonsense. Why would I want to hurt Jean? She was one of my favorite fucks. I always loved the way she screamed when I made her come.”

Jeff clenched his jaw. He would not rise to the bait. “I’ll take care of Jean. And if I find out that you’re behind these murders, that you’ve threatened my wife, I’ll personally see to it that you rot in hell.”

Jeff hung up, not giving Travis a chance for an acidic comeback.

After pocketing his phone, he left the bedroom and went downstairs. He had a sudden need to see Jean, to make sure she was all right. As he passed the living room, he nodded and threw up his hand when he saw one of their two security guards immersed in a game of solitaire. The second agent was posted outside and the two men rotated shifts indoors and out every four hours during the day. And every twelve hours, two fresh, alert agents took their places.

He entered the dark, soundproof room where Jean filmed her Internet videos. Reclining on a plush red velvet chaise longue, his naked wife touched herself intimately, one hand caressing her right breast, stroking the nipple, and the other hand between her spread thighs, rubbing her clitoris.

He watched her masturbate until she climaxed, her body jerking convulsively as she moaned softly and seductively.

“Did you enjoy that as much as I did?” she asked breathlessly.

Jeff chuckled. “Almost as much.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t need me for a while.”

“Travis Dillard called.”

She rose from the chaise, slipped on a knee-length satin robe, and turned off the video camera set up on a tripod. “What did he want?”

“Shontee’s dead.”

Jean closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh my!”

Jeff rushed over to her and took her in his arms. Rubbing her back comfortingly, he told her, “Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I know you will.”

As if he could hear her thoughts, his mind revised her words from “I know you will” to “I know you’ll try.”

As the lead investigator, Special Agent Wainwright called Mike and invited him to come to the field office in Birmingham and sit in on a general meeting of the Midnight Killer task force. Mike wasn’t an official member of the force, so the invitation had been a courtesy. After Wainwright had come to Dunmore and interviewed Lorie, Mike had checked out the FBI agent and had found pretty much what he’d expected. Wainwright, at thirty-nine, was a seasoned investigator. He had the dedication, tenacity, and experience to direct every aspect of the investigation. Within days of being assigned the leadership role, Wainwright had established a computerized information management system to track tips and leads in the case. Under usual circumstances, Mike would have assigned one of his deputies as a liaison to work with the Bureau, but this was not just any case. Lorie’s life had been threatened, and unless the killer was found and stopped, she would remain in danger.

A representative from each of the two states—Tennessee and Arizona—where the Midnight Killer had struck the first three times had been included on the task force, which at present numbered only five. A small group of experienced homicide detectives could be far more effective than a larger group of inexperienced lawmen. Wainwright had chosen one fellow federal agent and one Alabama state agent to complete the force.

Upon arrival at the field office, Mike was shown to Wainwright’s office and introduced to the task force members by FBI Special Agent Luther Armstrong, who served as the force’s co-investigator. Mike shook hands with the state reps, one a homicide detective from the Knoxville PD and the other a seasoned cop from Blythe, Arizona. When ABI Special Agent Karla Ross came over to him and held out her hand, Mike recognized her immediately.

“Good to see you again, Special Agent Ross,” Mike said.

“Good to see you, Sheriff,” she replied. “I don’t think either of us thought we’d ever be working together on another serial killer task force.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Mike said. “But just like the last time, I’m not an official member of the force. And you’re the lead control officer on this one, right?”

Mike had become acquainted with Karla and her fellow ABI agent, Wayne Morgan, during the Fire and Brimstone murders that had ravaged Dunmore and several surrounding towns in northern Alabama for more than eighteen months. The lady was a hard-nosed, by-the-book type, a woman proving herself in a profession still dominated by men. She wore her hair cropped carefree short, didn’t bother with makeup or nail polish, and walked with a swagger that said don’t-mess-with-me.

Wainwright called the meeting to order and got down to business. The information he shared could be condensed down to one sentence: They did not have a suspect in the four murders. Basic facts were: The killer had used a different gun for each kill; he was probably using fake ID and different disguises; he killed each victim in the same manner, shooting each multiple times; he stripped the victim, placed an elaborate mask on him or her, and took the victim’s clothes. Adding to that was the info that each victim had costarred in the same porno movie and each had received death threats prior to his or her murder.

“We got a break with this last murder,” Wainwright told them as he motioned for Karla to turn off the overhead lights. “The surveillance cameras at the Rough Diamond Club in Atlanta caught our guy on tape.”

“Are you saying we know what the Midnight Killer looks like?” Lieutenant Jon Yacup from Arizona asked.

“Yes and no,” Wainwright replied. “We’re ninety-nine percent sure the man is wearing a disguise, probably a fake nose and chin as well as theatrical makeup. But we can pretty much guess his weight and height from the video. And it’s obvious that he’s Caucasian.”

Wainwright picked up the TV/video/DVD combo remote, hit a couple of buttons, and began playing the black-and-white surveillance tape. Mike watched closely as their killer appeared on screen, a medium-sized guy, with a prominent nose and a sharp chin. The dark-eyed, dark-haired man could be anywhere between twenty and fifty years old. The hair could have been dyed or was a wig, the mustache no doubt fake, and contacts could easily change very light eyes to very dark in a matter of seconds. And on black-and-white film, it was impossible to distinguish dark blue from dark brown.

After they watched the tape, Special Agent Armstrong said, “We admit that it’s not a lot, but it’s more than we had before, and piece by piece, we’re gathering evidence. All we need are a few more lucky breaks and—”

“Let’s hope no one else has to die before we get those lucky breaks,” Sergeant Carter Fulton from the Knoxville PD said.

Everyone in the room agreed with Fulton.

A couple of hours later, Mike went out for lunch with Wainwright while Special Agent Ross drove Yacup and Fulton to the airport. After devouring barbequed ribs and finishing the meal with bourbon pecan pie, Wainwright wiped his hands on the disposable wet-wipe provided with his rack of ribs and then turned his attention to Mike.

“How’s Ms. Hammonds doing?”

“She’s okay, all things considered,” Mike said.

“I spoke to Nicole Powell this morning. I guess you know she used to be a federal agent and still has friends at the Bureau.” When Mike nodded, Wainwright continued. “Unofficially, we’re utilizing the Powell Agency’s investigation. Officially, we have no connection to the agency. Understand?”

“If you’re saying that the Powell Agency is sharing their info with the task force, but y’all are not sharing with them, then yes, I understand.”

“I’d never publicly admit this, but Powell’s has a better record of catching the bad guys than we do. And at least part of the reason for that is their ability to occasionally sidestep the law. We know Griffin Powell uses his wealth and power however he sees fit. But we can’t prove he’s ever done anything illegal.”

“I’ll take your word for that,” Mike said. “I don’t know Mr. Powell. I met him briefly a few weeks ago when he and his wife attended my deputy Jackson Perdue’s wedding.”

“I’ve met him only a couple of times myself. Nic—Mrs. Powell—is handling the communication between Powell’s and our task force. And if it’ll make you feel any better about Ms. Hammonds’s safety, Mrs. Powell mentioned that Shelley Gilbert is one of their best bodyguards.”

“I’m sure she is. But I figure that Tony Johnson believed the man he had guarding Shontee Thomas was one of his best.”

“You’re right. We’re dealing with an intelligent, motivated killer who is enjoying outsmarting his victims, their protectors, and the law,” Wainwright said. “With each murder, a new batch of letters have gone out. Ms. Hammonds and the others will probably receive another death threat via U.S. mail sometime in the next few days. As soon as she receives the letter, I want you to notify us. Her letter is our best chance of immediately getting our hands on a copy.”

“I’ll inform Deputy Perdue to contact you if and when Lorie receives another letter.”

Wainwright cocked his brows as he stared at Mike. “Deputy Perdue will contact me?”

“I’ve put him in charge of Lorie Hammonds’s case.”

“Hmm…”

“Considering our past history, I thought it best to remove myself from any personal involvement in Lorie’s case,” Mike said, not sure who he was trying to convince that he had valid reasons for putting Jack in charge.

“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Wainwright told him.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I wanted to set the record straight so there won’t be any misunderstandings later on.”

“Okay. Sure. Just inform Deputy Perdue to notify me when Ms. Hammonds receives another letter.”

Mike nodded. When Lorie received another letter warning her that she was on the Midnight Killer’s death list, she’d need somebody to lean on, somebody to console her, somebody to protect her. But damn it, that somebody couldn’t be Mike Birkett, county sheriff, M.J. and Hannah’s dad, and Abby Sherman’s boyfriend. Lorie had Shelley Gilbert and Jack Perdue to protect her. She had Cathy to console her. She also had other friends like Reverend Patsy Floyd that she could lean on. She didn’t need him.