Читать книгу Time of Death - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 9

He exited the small commuter airplane, hoisted his vinyl carryall over his shoulder, and went directly to the car rental kiosk. If anyone remembered seeing him, they would describe him as a gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. They might add that he wore sunglasses and dressed in wrinkled khakis and a plaid shirt. And if the airline passenger list were ever checked, his real name wouldn’t appear, only the name on his phony ID.

He was a smart man. He had covered all his bases.

Within twenty minutes, he was behind the wheel of a low-mileage Ford Taurus and halfway across town. Charles Wong, aka Charlie Hung, lived in a duplex on Rider Avenue. The adjoining apartment had been recently vacated and was For Rent. Charlie now had a wife and a couple of stepkids, and was presently unemployed. It was amazing how much you could find out about a person by simply using the Internet.

He turned off the main street that went straight through Blythe, Arizona, population ten thousand, a quiet little border town southeast of Yuma. From what he could tell, the town was overrun with Mexicans and he figured half of them were illegals.

He slowed down as he drove past Charlie’s apartment, but he didn’t see anybody, not even a stray dog. His first stop would be at the Blythe City Diner, where Charlie’s wife was employed. He had called earlier and found out she was working the evening shift. If he was lucky, she’d be the talkative type. All he needed to know was what night he could kill Charlie, a night when neither she nor her daughters would be at home. If necessary, he could wait for just the right moment, and in the meantime, he’d simply choose the next person on his list and come back for Charlie later.

Tagg Chambless stared at the two envelopes he held in his hand, both neatly sliced open, probably with Hilary’s pearl-handled letter opener. He held them up, showing them to the Powell agent who had accompanied him home to Memphis a few days ago.

“I found these this morning,” Tagg said. “In one of her lingerie drawers. They were hidden beneath the scented lining. I guess when the police searched our bedroom, they somehow overlooked these.”

Holt Keinan glanced from Tagg’s haggard face to the nondescript white envelopes he clutched tightly in his closed fist. “What are they?” He sure as hell hoped they weren’t love letters some other guy had written to the man’s now deceased wife.

“Death threats,” Tagg replied, a catch in his deep voice.

Holt focused on the envelopes. “Mind if I take a look?”

Tagg handed the letters over to Holt, who laid one down on a nearby end table in the den and then slipped the single page from the other envelope, unfolded it, and read aloud. “‘Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?’”

“Why didn’t she show me these letters?” Tagg asked. “Why did she hide them from me?”

Holt inspected the envelopes. Typewritten. No return address. One was postmarked Knoxville, Tennessee, and the postmark on the other was smudged, making it illegible. The messages were identical.

“Any idea who might have sent these to your wife?”

Tagg shook his head. “I’m certain she didn’t know anybody from Knoxville.”

“Where the letters were mailed may or may not be important. But the message is important. You’re right—these are definitely death threats.”

“You think the person who murdered Hilary is the one who sent her these letters?”

“I think it’s a good possibility.”

“Is there any way to find out who—?”

“Probably not,” Holt said. “But I’ll overnight these to our lab.”

“Shouldn’t I show them to the police?”

“Let me handle that. Our lab will get to the letters immediately. With the police, it could take weeks … or longer.”

Tagg sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right. The police have gotten nowhere. I’m pretty sure they think that I’m involved with some unscrupulous business partners and one of them had my wife killed. They’re wrong. I’ve tried to tell them that, but they won’t believe me. I’m putting my trust in the Powell Agency. I expect you to uncover the truth and find out who killed Hilary.”

“The only promise we can make is that we will use every resource available to us to find your wife’s killer and we won’t stop looking until we either find the person responsible or you tell us to stop.”

“Understood.”

Sanders sipped on the cup of hot tea that Barbara Jean had, only moments ago, brought to him there in Griffin’s study. During the past few years, he had come to rely on her as a friend, a lover, and an assistant. She meant more to him than she would ever know. His love for her was deep and sincere. He would willingly lay down his life and die for her. Barbara Jean possessed a sweet, gentle nature and a warm, friendly personality, where on the other hand, he was quiet, stern, and very much an introvert. He preferred his own company to the company of others.

After his wife’s death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffin’s Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sister’s killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had passed, he had grown to love her.

As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinan’s recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question was—why had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?

“I’m overnighting the letters to our lab,” Holt had said. “I doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police.”

Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadn’t been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where he’d taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.

His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm York’s domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of hell.

And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.

Even if his wife and child had not.

A soft rap on the outer door of Griffin’s private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“Come in,” Sanders said.

Barbara Jean eased open the door, but didn’t enter the study. “Mr. Wilson just arrived. He’s waiting in the living room.”

“I am ready to see him.”

“All right.” She looked directly at Sanders. “Promise me that after your meeting with Mr. Wilson, you will come to the kitchen for an afternoon snack.”

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He almost smiled. Sweet Barbara Jean. A mother hen if ever there was one. She was the type of woman who should have had half a dozen children to smother with love and attention. But she would never have a child. Nor would he.

“I promise,” he replied. “Now, send in Mr. Wilson.”

She nodded, then turned and wheeled down the hallway.

Within minutes, a tall, slender man wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy and blue striped tie stood in the open doorway. As Sanders came out from behind the desk, he inspected his visitor from the top of his gray streaked dark hair to his leather shoes. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties and from his demeanor, Sanders would have surmised that he was a confident, successful man. Of course, the background check on Mr. Wilson had given him that information. Jared Wilson was a professor at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. He and Griffin were both alumni of the school and had known each other for years, so when he had contacted the Powell Agency, he had immediately been given an appointment with Sanders.

“I am sorry that Griffin is unavailable,” Sanders said as he held out his hand to his visitor. “He and Nicole are on a second honeymoon. But I can assure you that I and the Powell Agency will assist you in any way possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders.” Jared exchanged a firm handshake with Sanders. “Griffin knows about my brother’s murder. He was kind enough to send flowers and he and Nicole attended the funeral.”

“Is your brother’s murder the reason you’re here?” Sanders indicated with a sweep of his hand for the other man to sit. When Jared took one of the two chairs flanking the fireplace, Sanders took the other one.

“Yes.” Jared rubbed his hands together. “The Sevier County sheriff’s department has no suspects, and although they say the case is still open, I think they’ve marked it off as unsolvable.”

“I see.”

Jared’s gaze met Sanders’s calm, cool stare. “I want to hire the Powell Agency to do a private investigation. I want to know who killed my brother and why.”

“I am sure that Griffin is familiar with the particulars of your brother’s death, but I am not. I wish I did not have to ask you to go over the details for me, but—”

“I’ll do whatever I need to do. Don’t be concerned about upsetting me.”

“All I need today are the basic details,” Sanders told him. “Just enough to give me an idea of where to start. All of the agency’s resources will be utilized and I will put two of our best agents on the case immediately. You will be dealing directly with them, but you may contact me at any time with questions or complaints.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Jared said.

“Ben Corbett and Michelle Allen are two of our best investigators. They will start tomorrow morning.”

“Do I work out the arrangement for payments with you or a secretary or—”

“When Griffin returns, the two of you can discuss that.” Sanders sat ramrod straight and looked squarely at Jared. “How was your brother killed? When and where? And who discovered the body?”

Jared took a deep breath. “He was killed in January at our family’s cabin in the mountains outside of Gatlinburg. He and I were planning to spend a few days together. It was to be a reunion of sorts. We hadn’t been close, not since we were teenagers. We took different paths in life.”

Sanders could hear the regret in the man’s voice and noted the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He would like to give comfort, but he simply did not know how. It was not in his nature. “Then you are the one who discovered his body?”

Jared swallowed hard. “Yes. I found him.” He paused for a few seconds. “He was naked and lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. He had been shot several times. I’m told the fatal bullet hit his heart.” He swallowed again. “It was the damnedest thing.”

“What was?” Sanders asked.

“Whoever killed him had not only stripped him naked, but they had put a mask on his face.”

“A mask? What sort of mask?”

“An elaborate mask, the kind you’d see at Mardi Gras or some fancy masquerade ball.”

“I see.” Was it simply an odd coincidence that both Jared Wilson’s brother and Tagg Chambless’s wife had been shot several times, stripped naked, and adorned with a fancy mask? “Do you know if your brother had received any death threats? Had someone sent him any letters warning him that he was in danger?”

“Not that I know of, but Dean lived in Los Angeles and we hadn’t seen each other in years. He wouldn’t have confided in me, especially not over the phone. Why do you ask?”

Sanders shook his head. “I was curious if perhaps your brother had been threatened in any way before he was killed.”

“I really have no idea. Is there anything else you need from me today, Mr. Sanders?”

Sanders stood. “No, thank you, Mr. Wilson. I think I have all I need for the time being. Our agents will contact you in the morning.”

After he saw Powell’s newest client to the door, Sanders considered the possibilities. Two similar murders did not mean they were connected. But what were the odds that the MO of two separate murderers now being investigated by Powell’s would be identical?

He entered the diner, searched and found Lily Wong serving behind the counter, and quickly took a seat on one of the padded stools. While waiting for her to notice she had a new customer, he pulled the plastic-coated menu from the rack that also held a variety of condiments. She came over, set a glass of water in front of him, and asked if he had decided what he wanted.

“Today’s special sounds good,” he replied and casually glanced at her.

She smiled at him. Lily was a pretty young woman with a mass of rich dark hair neatly confined in a ponytail, large silvery blue eyes, and full, pink lips. He stared at her name tag. “And a cup of coffee, please, Lily.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll place your order and then bring your coffee.”

He nodded and returned her pleasant smile, a smile he believed was genuine.

I’m sorry that I have to kill your husband, Lily. But he must die, just as the others must die. I know you won’t ever understand the reason his death is necessary and I’m sorry for that, too.

She set the filled coffee mug in front of him. “Cream or sugar?”

“Just sugar,” he replied.

She pointed to the small bowl that held individual packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners. A customer at the end of the counter called her name and requested more coffee.

He watched her as she made the rounds up and down the counter, making sure every customer was well taken care of with fresh coffee, tea, cola, and water. And when she brought his plate, she laid down extra napkins beside it.

“You seem to be very adept at your job,” he said.

“Thank you. I try my best.”

Before he could advance their conversation, she glanced down at her apron pocket. “Excuse me. I need to take this call.”

Undoubtedly she kept her phone set on vibrate instead of ring while she was at work.

She moved away from him to the end of the counter where no one was sitting, pulled her phone from her apron pocket, and said, “Hi, honey.”

He pretended to be engrossed in the chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, and the green beans on his plate. While eating, he listened carefully to every word Lily Wong said.

“Oh, Charlie, that’s wonderful. When do you start?” she asked. “Monday?”

Apparently Charles Wong had found a new job.

“We should celebrate this weekend, maybe Saturday night,” Lily said. “We can’t tomorrow night. Remember I’m doing that mother-daughter campout thing with Jenny and Jessica’s Brownie troop.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. He strained to hear what she said. “We’ll be home by ten Saturday morning and I promise that I’ll get a babysitter for the girls so that you and I can have our own private celebration.”

As soon as she returned her phone to her pocket, she walked over to him and asked, “Is everything all right? Do you need more rolls or coffee?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.” He offered her a big, friendly smile.

If Lily and her daughters wouldn’t be at home tomorrow night and Charlie would be, then tomorrow evening at midnight would be the perfect time to kill him.

The minute Maleah hung up the phone after her conversation with Sanders, she brought up Mike Birkett’s number from her list of contacts. When she had agreed to take Lorie Hammonds’s case, she had thought it a good idea to include both the sheriff’s private number as well as the department’s number.

During the four days she had been on the job, she had spent most of that time digging into Lorie’s past and present acquaintances. When she had lived in the LA area, Lorie had encountered a few unsavory characters and had even lived with one, a guy named Dean Wilson, who, under the stage name of Woody Wilson, had starred in a string of low-budget porno movies.

And as fate would have it, just that morning, she had received information via Powell’s investigative research department that Dean Wilson was dead. He had been murdered in January and his killer was still at large. His brother had discovered Dean’s body at the family mountain cabin outside Gatlinburg, a short drive from Knoxville.

She remembered that Lorie had mentioned the first threatening letter she received had been postmarked Knoxville. Before talking to Sanders, Maleah had thought perhaps it was nothing more than an odd coincidence that Lorie’s old lover had been murdered only a couple of months ago.

“These two murders—Dean Wilson and Hilary Finch Chambless—cannot be a mere coincidence,” Sanders had said. “Both were shot several times, both were stripped naked, both were wearing fancy masks. Add to that the fact they were both porno stars and had worked together in numerous films and you pretty much erase the possibility of coincidence.”

“What about threatening letters?” Maleah had asked. “Did Dean Wilson and Hilary Chambless receive letters?”

“Jared Wilson did not know anything about his brother receiving threatening letters. But Hilary Chambless received two letters, the wording identical on both and the same as the ones Lorie Hammonds received.”

“We have to take these threats seriously. Lorie told me that she made one porno movie, just a bit part, but the stars of that movie were Hilary Finch—better known then as Dewey Flowers—and Dean ‘Woody’ Wilson.”

“Notify the local authorities, as well as Ms. Hammonds,” Sanders had instructed her. “And I will call Derek Lawrence. He should arrive in Dunmore tomorrow. You will work together on this case and the two of you will share all information with Holt Keinan and with Ben Corbett and Michelle Allen. Holt is in charge of the Chambless case. Ben and Michelle start work on the Wilson case tomorrow. Since it is obvious the three cases overlap, this will be a joint effort, as of now.”

Maleah groaned silently. The last person on earth she wanted to work with was Derek Lawrence. The man was a cocky, egotistical know-it-all. He’d been an FBI profiler and now worked as a consultant for the Powell Agency. In the course of various cases, their paths had often crossed, but whenever possible, she avoided the man as if he was the bubonic plague.

Maleah tapped Mike Birkett’s private number when it appeared on the iPhone screen and waited for him to answer. Whether the man liked it or not, he was going to have to take Lorie’s death threats seriously. Unless she missed her guess, there was a serial killer out there somewhere.

Lorie took the one-serving freezer packet out of the refrigerator, opened it, and slid it onto a microwavable plate. She had prepared the lasagna two weeks ago and divided it into six servings, eaten one, and frozen the rest for future meals. Today had been a long and tiring day at Treasures. Not only did they sell antiques, their store had a home décor and gift section. With Easter just around the corner, quite a few customers were taking advantage of the pre-Easter sale that would run from today until the Saturday before Easter. With Cathy away on her honeymoon, Lorie was in charge of the shop. Unfortunately, their two part-time clerks had been unavailable today. One, a student at UAH (the University of Alabama in Huntsville), had Thursday classes and the other, a stay-at-home mom, had a sick child she couldn’t leave.

While the lasagna plate rotated inside the microwave, Lorie kicked off her heels—she wore heels almost all the time in order to add a few inches to her petite five-one height—and reached into an upper cupboard for a glass. Just as she picked up the wine bottle from the counter, she heard the doorbell ring. Checking the microwave clock, she noted it was six thirty-nine.

She padded through the house and to the front door in her bare feet. She hated panty hose and seldom if ever wore any. She looked through one of three small panes of glass in her front door and saw Mike Birkett and Maleah Perdue standing on her porch. With jittery fingers, she unlocked the door, opened it, and unlatched the storm door.

“What’s wrong?” Lorie asked. “Why are y’all here?”

“May we come in?” Maleah asked.

Lorie nodded and stepped back to give them room to enter. Once they were inside, she closed and locked the door.

“Come on in.” Lorie indicated the living room to the left of the small foyer.

With all three of them standing, Lorie glanced from Maleah to Mike, who lowered his gaze and refused to look directly at her.

“The news isn’t good,” Maleah told her.

Lorie’s heartbeat went wild. “The letters … the death threats … they aren’t a hoax, are they?”

“I’m afraid not,” Maleah replied. “It seems that, more than likely, whoever sent you those letters has already killed two other people.”