Dead By Midnight (8 page)

“Oh, Mike, it’ll be so much fun,” she had said. “We can both get jobs. You can go to school at night until you get your degree and I can sign with an agent and get small parts in TV at first. And later on, when you’re a big-time LA detective and I’m a movie star, we’ll be the envy of every other couple in Hollywood. Just think how romantic that is—the detective and the actress.”

Those had been her dreams, not his. She had wanted a glamorous life surrounded by the rich and famous. All he’d ever wanted was to finish college, work for local law enforcement, get married, and raise a family. He was a simple man with simple wants and needs. Lorie had been—and probably still was—a complicated woman with the kind of wants and needs he could never fulfill.

It had been his choice to stay in Dunmore and not follow her to LA. At first, she had called him every day, then every week and then every month. He would never forget the last time she’d called and the things they had said to each other.

“Honey, forget all that fame and fortune bullshit and come home where you belong.”

“Oh, Mike, why can’t you understand? I just got a speaking part on a
Law and Order
episode. I want you to be happy for me. I want you to fly out here and—”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“Yeah, okay. I won’t. I don’t belong out there and neither do you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not going to live and die in Dunmore, Alabama, and waste the talent the Good Lord gave me. I’ve got a good singing voice and I’m taking acting lessons and my teacher says I’m a natural. And I’m told I have the kind of looks that will help me go far in the business.”

“You do what you have to do,” he’d said. “And I’ll do what I have to do.”

“What you have to do doesn’t include me anymore, does it? You’ve stopped loving me…if you ever really did.”

“How can you say that? I love you so damn much it hurts,” he had told her. “And I miss you something awful. It’s you who doesn’t love me. If you did, you’d come home and we’d get married the way we planned. In a few years, we could save up enough for a house and our first baby.”

“I don’t want a baby! Not now. Not for years and years.”

In the end, Mike had been forced to accept the fact that Lorie would never come back to him, that he had lost her forever.

It had taken him years to get over her, to move on with his life, and he could thank Molly for that. She had been his salvation. All the dreams he’d once had that included Lorie, all the plans the two of them had made together, he had fulfilled with another woman, with Molly. Thinking about his children, he knew that was the way things were meant to be.

He wasn’t the kind of man who wasted his time looking back and wondering what if? or wished for things that he couldn’t have.

Yeah, sure, he could have Lorie, could have had her when she first came back to Dunmore, could have had her before and after Molly died. He could probably still have her. But the Lorie he had known and loved no longer existed. His Lorie was as dead to him as Molly was. The Lorie who had come to him a sixteen-year-old virgin, the girl who had been his and only his. The teenager who had planned her future around him and the family they would one day have.

The Lorie Hammonds who had returned to Dunmore nine years ago was a bruised and battered, used and discarded whore. God only knew how many men she’d had sex with, not just in that sleazy porno movie she’d made, but during the years she had been trying to get her big break. Just about every man in Dunmore had seen her in that film. He had seen the movie once, and the sight of her and what she’d been doing had made him sick.

Why she had ever thought when she returned to Dunmore, her reputation in tatters and her life worthless, that he would forgive her, that they could be friends again, he’d never know.

Mike had been so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed Jack and Cathy’s driveway and had to slam on his brakes and back up a few yards. Lorie parked her SUV, got out, and opened the back hatch. He pulled his truck up behind her vehicle, killed the motor, and got out.

He rushed over to her, grabbed her suitcase, and said, “Here, let me get that for you.”

She released the suitcase without protest and started walking toward the porch. He kept in step alongside her. When they reached the front door, she rang the doorbell and they waited together.

“I appreciate the escort, Sheriff,” she said in a soft, sexy voice that caressed every nerve in his body.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Hammonds. Just doing my job.”

When the door opened, Derek Lawrence stood in the doorway. “Hello, Lorie.” He reached out, grasped her hand, and pulled her over the threshold. He glanced around her and spotted Mike. “Hello, Sheriff. Nice of you to see Lorie here all safe and sound.” He held out his hand. “Here, let me take her suitcase.”

Reluctantly, Mike handed over the suitcase. “Where’s Maleah?”

“On the phone at the moment,” he said. “Seems the newlyweds called to check on Seth and on the old homestead.”

“She isn’t going to tell them about me, is she? I don’t want them worrying while they’re on their honeymoon,” Lorie said.

Derek put his arm around Lorie’s shoulders and ushered her inside the foyer. “I’m sure she won’t say a word. And there’s no reason for anyone to worry about your safety. You have two Powell Agency employees acting as your bodyguards. And may I say what a pleasure this job is for me.”

Mike cleared his throat. Derek glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, are you staying for dinner? Perdue didn’t say. I set the table for three, but I can add another—”

“No thanks.” Mike had the sudden urge to punch Derek Lawrence. “I’ve got other plans.” When Lorie looked at him, he said, “If you need me, I’m just a phone call away.”

“I’m sure she won’t need you,” Derek told him.

With that said, Mike nodded, turned and tromped off the porch. Cursing under his breath, he got in his truck, backed out of the driveway, and couldn’t get away fast enough from the image of Derek Lawrence’s arm draped around Lorie’s shoulders.

After locking the door and securing it so that no one with a key could enter, he took the laptop from his suitcase and carried it with him to the desk in his motel room. He retrieved the DVD from the pouch on the laptop case, flipped open the plastic case, and carefully removed the disk. With steady fingers, he inserted the disk into the side slot on the computer and waited for the movie to load. He reached over to the far side of the desk, upended a glass, and quickly added ice from the ice bucket that he had filled earlier. As the film credits played, he poured a cola into the glass. He didn’t need to read the credits. He knew them by heart.

Midnight Masquerade
. Written by Casey Lloyd and Laura Lou Roberts. Directed by Grant Leroy. Produced by Travis Dillard.

He kicked back in the chair and turned sideways to prop his feet up on the edge of the bed.

Dewey Flowers and Woody Wilson were the stars, the main players in this piece of filth.

Dewey and Woody would never make another sinful movie such as this. They had been punished for their wickedness, for polluting the minds and hearts of everyone who saw this movie; punished for their parts in destroying the lives of the innocent who were adversely affected by the pornography industry, this sickeningly vulgar movie in particular. There was an ironic form of justice in the fact that he was the one who was righting the wrongs they had committed. He supposed that he had known for years that it was his fate to someday seek retribution.

And not only for himself alone.

His gaze settled on the screen. Watching the depraved acts that had been captured on film no longer nauseated him the way it once had. Over the years, he had become immune to the disgusting obscenity, the bestial perversions.

Well-endowed men and big-breasted women frolicked about at a costume ball, but their only costumes were beautiful masks covering their faces. They kissed and licked and sucked one another, their bodies entwining in an orgy of carnal acts. Two men, one wearing a devil mask and the other an intricate court jester/joker mask, laid a voluptuous black woman on the floor and while one penetrated her, the other one toyed with her silicone-enhanced tits.

The two men were Charlie Hung, a strikingly handsome man of Asian descent, and a big, rugged blond—Sonny Shag. The dark-skinned beauty, whose red sequined mask had fallen off and lay on the floor beside her, was Ebony O.

In the background the two stars danced, their bodies rubbing seductively against each other. Woody placed his hands on Dewey’s waist and lifted her high into the air, then let her slide down the front of his body until she was on her knees, his erect penis directly in front of her face.

In the background three young women—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—held hands and danced in a circle, the long, colorful ribbons on their masks floating around their shoulders and caressing their naked breasts.

Puff Raven, the tall, elegant brunette.

Cherry Sweets, the exotically beautiful redhead.

And Candy Ruff, the sex-kitten blonde.

Their stage names were ridiculous, of course, but the suggestive pseudonyms were simply part of the fantasy. Other movies produced by the one and only Travis Dillard had starred some of these same actors, and in each film the credits had read like a who’s who of stupid suggestive names.

He had lost count of how many times he had watched
Midnight Masquerade
. Hundreds of times. Maybe thousands of times.

He knew the dialogue—what little there was—by heart. And he could mimic every grunt, groan, moan, and scream of delight.

He saw the women’s faces—and God help him, their naked bodies, too—in his dreams. One particular face in particular. The woman he loved. The woman he hated. The woman who had ruined his life. The woman who had made him the man he was today.

As much as Lorie appreciated being guarded by Maleah and Derek, she resented the fact that some lunatic’s actions had run her out of her own home. Whoever this guy was, she hoped the police caught him before he killed again.

For the life of her, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d ever known who might want to kill her.

She placed her suitcase at the foot of the ebonized Federal-style double bed that dominated this guest room on the second floor of Jack and Cathy’s home. Crisp, black-edged, white Schweitzer linens lent a modern elegance to a room filled with antiques. The Bijou linens were handmade in Italy from pure Egyptian cotton. Lorie and Cathy used this type of luxury linens when decorating the homes of clients who didn’t mind paying a little more for the very best. On occasion, she had personally splurged on less expensive items, things like Chanel perfume and a thirty-fifth birthday present for herself—a little white Brahman shoulder bag she had eyed at Belk department store for weeks. These were the only types of luxuries she could afford on her income. And oddly enough, the girl who had once thought fame and fortune would make her happy was perfectly content being an antique shop owner in a small town and living on a modest budget.

“Hey, there,” Maleah said as she walked up to the open door and stopped. “Sorry I had to send Derek to meet you and show you to your room. I was on the phone with Powell headquarters.” Maleah’s gaze surveyed the exquisitely decorated bedroom. “I hope this room is okay. You can take a look at the other two guest bedrooms and use either of them, if you prefer.”

“This room is fine. As a matter of fact, this is the bedroom that I helped Cathy design and decorate.”

“Is it really?” Maleah laughed. “I suppose I should confess that I told Derek to show you upstairs to one of the rooms. I didn’t specify which one. He chose this room for you.”

“Mr. Lawrence is a former FBI profiler, isn’t he? That probably means he has a certain sixth sense when it comes to people.”

Maleah snorted. “Don’t tell him that. His ego is oversized as it is. The last thing he needs is flattery from a pretty woman.”

Lorie saw Derek Lawrence approaching about the same time Maleah apparently heard him. Groaning, Maleah made a snarling face, letting Lorie know how she felt about Derek.

“Perdue, did you say something about a certain part of me being oversized?” Derek winked at Lorie.

Smiling, Lorie winked back at him just as Maleah turned around and said, “I was referring to your ego.” When he opened his mouth, no doubt with a stinging retort on the tip of his tongue, Maleah warned him, “Do not say another word. I’m in no mood for it. Do you hear me?”

Clicking his heels together in military fashion, he saluted her. “Yes, sir. Uh, I mean ma’am.”

Turning back to Lorie after effectively silencing Derek, at least temporarily, Maleah said, “I had requested a list of everyone associated with the movie you made,
Midnight Masquerade
, the actors, writers, director, producer, et cetera. The office e-mailed me the list of the credits and I just got off the phone with my boss’s former associate, FBI Special Agent Josh Freidman. I wanted to fill him in on what we think we’re dealing with to see if he thinks the situation warrants FBI involvement. It’s quite possible that you’re not the only other person associated with that movie who has received threatening letters.”

“If I know Freidman and his superiors, they aren’t going to jump in with both feet until they’re sure there’s a serial killer on the loose.” Derek slipped around Maleah’s left side and entered the bedroom so that he stood between Lorie and her.

Maleah shot him a disapproving glare, but other than that, pretty much ignored him. “I thought that after dinner this evening, we might go over the list and see if you recall anything that sends up a red flag. A disgruntled coworker. Any affairs gone wrong. Disputes, arguments, fights. Someone who for any reason might still hold a grudge.”

“All right,” Lorie said. “I can’t think of anything right offhand, but once we start talking more about the film, I might remember something. To be honest, I’ve spent the past ten years doing my level best to forget I ever did something so monumentally stupid.”

“We all make mistakes,” Derek said. “Especially when we’re very young and eager to make our mark on the world.”

Lorie heaved a deep, regretful sigh. “Some mark on the world, huh? Parading around buck naked and having sex on film.”

Silence. No one said another word for at least a full minute.

“Sandwiches for supper in about fifteen minutes,” Maleah said. “Why don’t you settle in and come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

“All right.” Lorie plastered a phony half smile on her face. “If you’d like, I can help you with dinner, and not just tonight. I’m actually a fairly decent cook.”

“Thank goodness.” Derek chuckled. “I was afraid that during my stay here, I’d wind up eating cereal and sandwiches seven days a week.”

“Oh, cry me a river.” Maleah rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong with your doing the cooking or your picking up take-out? It’s bad enough that I have to put up with your staying here. I certainly don’t intend to go out of my way to pamper your spoiled ass.”

“I’ll have you know that my ass is not spoiled.”

Maleah grabbed his arm by the shirtsleeve and dragged him out of Lorie’s room. As they walked down the hall toward the staircase, Lorie could hear them continuing their verbal sparring match. She couldn’t help wondering what the problem was between those two.

Putting everything else from her mind, including her curiosity about Maleah and Derek, as well as her past misdemeanors and her present predicament, Lorie opened her suitcase. She had brought only two changes of clothes and underwear and the bare necessities, including a condensed version of her usual toiletry items. When she needed more clothes, she’d simply go home and pick them up. The best-case scenario would be the police catching the killer before he struck again; then she’d be able to go home before Cathy and Jack returned from their honeymoon. The worst-case scenario—the killer would come after her before he was apprehended.

Thank God she had gone to Maleah with the second letter instead of tossing it in the trash as she had the first one. And thank God Maleah had taken her seriously and had believed her immediately.

Mike believes you now.

She placed her underwear in an empty top drawer of the mahogany highboy, positioned as if it were a three-sided piece, in the corner near the adjoining bathroom.

Mike had been civil to her this evening. Actually, he’d been more than civil. He had been almost kind to her. She had seen a fleeting glimpse of the old Mike, the man who had once loved her.

She removed two outfits encased in clear plastic garment bags from her suitcase and hung them in the Habersham armoire. Her fingertips caressed the armoire’s distressed wood, a part of the item’s fine craftsmanship, and lingered over the delicate artwork that decorated the surface.

Mike was simply doing his job. She shouldn’t read more into him apologizing to her for not believing her life was in danger than what it was—a simple apology. Nothing more. Nothing less.

She couldn’t allow herself to continue hoping for the impossible. She doubted that Mike would ever be willing to be friends again, let alone lovers.

The full-face joker mask—constructed of papier-mâché, glue, floated whitening and acrylic colors—lay on the motel room bed staring up at him, mocking him, reminding him of her degradation. Charlie Hung had worn this mask in every scene in which he had ravaged the female actors. It was only fitting that it would be his death mask.

He carefully slipped the mask into the black plastic bag and then turned his attention to the Beretta, an Italian import, 9mm with a ten-shot magazine. When he had purchased the pistol, he had made sure it could never be traced back to him. For the right price, a guy could buy just about anything and remain anonymous.

Money talked.

Hell, money screamed.

He placed the gun in the bottom of the small tote, then wrapped the mask in tissue paper and laid it over the pistol before zipping up the 14" x 16" black vinyl bag. After checking the time on the digital bedside clock—6:08
P.M
.—he carried the tote to the closet and set it on the floor.

He went back to the bed, pulled two pillows from beneath the comforter, and stacked one on top of the other. Then he lay down, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Step by step, he went over his plan. Parking the rental car a couple of blocks away and walking to Charles Wong’s home. Ringing the doorbell. Introducing himself. The disguise he’d be wearing would prevent anyone who might see him entering or leaving the Wong house from giving the police an accurate ID. Tonight, he would wear a black wig and mustache, a gold earring and a wash-off neck tattoo, along with fake leather pants and jacket. A costume that could be easily disposed of in the motel’s Dumpster.

In less than six hours, he would kill Charlie Hung and leave Mrs. Charles Wong a grieving widow.

Payback could be deadly!

Lorie carried her glass of wine from the kitchen into the adjoining family room, which boasted a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and two sets of French doors that led outside onto the old-fashioned screened porch. She loved everything that Cathy had done when she decorated this house, although she would have preferred dark wood in the kitchen. Cathy preferred white cabinets and appliances, and had accented the clean, bright white with touches of a dark-stained wood in the flooring, the island top, and an overlay on the massive range hood. Both the kitchen and family room combined elements of the old with the new, retaining the integrity of the Victorian with the convenience of the modern.

While Lorie chose one of the two gold chenille armchairs separated by a walnut Sheraton table, Derek sat across from her on the moss green, camelback sofa. He smiled at her before taking another sip of his wine. During dinner, she had found herself liking Derek Lawrence more and more and was puzzled as to why Maleah seemed to dislike him so intensely. He had been charming and funny, and had put her at ease. Although she didn’t really know him, she sensed that he was the type of man who didn’t judge others harshly or by standards few people could live up to. Not the way Mike did.