Dead By Midnight (16 page)

“Selling much?”

“More than I thought I would. Mostly small stuff, knickknacks and such. Of course, my feeling like a bug under a microscope has been an added bonus. Apparently a lot of the folks I know and some that I don’t are curious to see what a real bodyguard looks like. I think Shelley has been a disappointment to most of them. They were probably expecting some big, broad-shouldered guy wearing sunglasses and an earpiece and brandishing a semiautomatic.”

Mike grinned. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

Returning his smile, she gently placed the wrapped tea set items into a heavy cardboard box and set the box under the counter. “I have a customer who wants this shipped to her daughter in Birmingham as a birthday present.”

Mike nodded. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

“Good news first, please.”

Mike leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “Special Agent Wainwright is contacting his superiors and requesting a task force be formed. Now we’ll have not only the Powell Agency hunting down the killer, but the FBI, too.”

“The more manpower, the better. Right?”

“Right.”

“Do I want to hear the bad news?” she asked.

“This morning, Ryan Bonner’s boss at the
Huntsville Times
sent one of the newspaper’s legal eagles to represent our overeager reporter. We had to release Bonner.”

“Then he’s free to write his exposé.”

“I’m afraid so, if his boss gives him the green light.”

“As if knowing someone plans to kill me isn’t bad enough, now I’m faced with the possibility that my daily life will become a living hell again,” Lorie whispered as she glanced around to make sure no one overheard her.

Mike knew she was as aware as he was that all of her customers were watching the two of them. To a person, everyone in the store pretended to be shopping while they strained to overhear their conversation.

Suddenly Lorie clapped her hands together, the action momentarily startling Mike and gaining everyone’s attention. “Ladies”—glancing around, she spotted four men scattered about in the shop—“and gentlemen, I have an announcement. As most of you know, I’m Lorie Hammonds, one of the owners of Treasures of the Past. I’m sure all of you know our sheriff, Mike Birkett.”

Mike threw up his hand as he looked around the shop at all the inquisitive faces. He had no idea exactly what Lorie was up to, but whatever it was, apparently he was right smack-dab in the middle of it.

“But there’s someone here y’all don’t know,” Lorie told them. “Shelley, wave at the folks, will you?” Taken by surprise, a what-the-hell-are-you-doing? expression on her face, Shelley waved the feather duster. “Shelley is my bodyguard. You’ll be seeing her here at the shop every day. She’ll be with me wherever I go. She carries a big gun and knows how to use it. She’s been hired to protect me. It seems that my wicked past has finally caught up with me and somebody wants to see me dead.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement, everyone talking at once, the din growing louder by the second.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Mike demanded.

“I honestly don’t know,” Lorie admitted. “It just felt right.”

As Shelley made her way through the crowd of at least twenty-five customers, everyone she passed took several steps back, as if they weren’t a hundred percent sure she wouldn’t use her big gun on them.

Mike cleared his throat. “Show’s over for today, folks. If you’re buying something, line up and check out. If you’re not buying anything, please exit through the front door. Ms. Hammonds is closing up shop”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“in ten minutes.”

“Shutting me down, Sheriff?” she asked, a deceptively perky smile curving her lips. “Afraid I’ll cause a riot?”

He ignored her and turned to Shelley as she approached. “I think you should take Lorie home and let her calm down. She’s not thinking straight at the moment. Otherwise she wouldn’t have made a public spectacle of herself.”

“I’m thinking perfectly straight, thank you very much,” she told him. “And if you think that little confession was making a public spectacle of myself, then just stick around until I do show-and-tell.”

“Sheriff Birkett is right,” Shelley said. “I don’t know what set you off, but you are acting irrationally.”

Lorie huffed. “Two against one. It’s not fair.” She giggled.

“Damn,” Mike cursed under his breath. “Escort her out the back way and take her home,” he told Shelley. “I’ll get rid of all these people and close up the shop.”

“Isn’t he forceful and commanding,” Lorie said to Shelley. “My big, strong hero.”

“Get your purse, Lorie,” Shelley said. “We’re doing as the sheriff suggests and going home now.”

Lorie retrieved her purse from beneath the counter, pulled a key chain from inside, and tossed it to Mike. “Lock up for me, honey.” Then she turned around and went through the shop and out the back way, with Shelley at her side.

“Sorry, folks, I’ll have to ask everyone to leave the shop now. Please do so quickly and orderly,” Mike said.

When the customers began leaving, following his instructions, Mike heaved a deep sigh of relief. He hadn’t seen Lorie act this way since they were teenagers and she’d gotten royally ticked off. The young Lorie had been a firecracker, her actions emotional and often illogical. She reacted first and thought things through later. That specific personality flaw had been what had prompted her to go to LA seventeen years ago, believing that fame and fortune awaited her. Not until it was too late had she realized that she’d chosen to walk a tightrope without a safety net under her.

The woman needed a keeper. Always had and always would.

There had been a time when he would have gladly taken that job, taken it for a lifetime. But that was then and this was now.

On Saturday morning, Special Agent Hicks Wainwright held a press conference in Birmingham announcing the formation of a task force that would investigate three recent murders believed to be the work of a serial killer. He kept the facts to a minimum, stating that the two of three murders occurred in Tennessee and the third in Arizona. When asked, he gave the names of the three victims, but did not elaborate on anything about them or their deaths.

Mike Birkett sat in his den, his television tuned in to Birmingham’s ABC 34/40 station, and watched the interview as he drank his fourth cup of coffee. Wainwright had phoned him late last night to tell him about the scheduled interview.

At 7:00
A.M
., Hannah and M.J. were both still in bed. Saturday was the one day of the week during the school year they could sleep late. In his effort to be a good parent, Mike censored what his kids watched on TV, but with him being the sheriff, he had found it impossible to shield them from the local news reports. If they didn’t see it on TV and he didn’t explain what was going on, one of their classmates was bound to fill them in. And more often than not, they were misinformed and he’d have to go into more detail than he liked in order to correct the erroneous facts.

“Is there a specific reason you were chosen to head the task force?” a female reporter asked Wainwright. “You work out of the field office here in Birmingham and none of these murders occurred in Alabama.”

“I can’t be specific concerning the reasons I was chosen,” Wainwright told her. “But I want to reassure the citizens of our state that we believe the general population is in no danger from this killer. We have reason to believe he—or she—has targeted someone in Alabama, as well as several other states. And before anyone asks, no, we will not release the identities of the potential victims to the media.”

“Even if you can’t give us their names, can you tell us anything else about these potential victims?” a bespectacled, white-haired reporter asked.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Then what can you tell us about why the FBI believes the killer is targeting these particular people?” a familiar voice called out from the crowd of TV, newspaper, and magazine reporters.

The camera panned across the media swarm and stopped on the speaker.

“Son of a bitch!” Mike cursed under his breath.

There stood Ryan Bonner, all five feet ten inches of brash and inquisitive trouble. Big trouble.

“In order to protect those involved, I’m afraid that information must remain classified.” Wainwright pointed to another reporter, who had held up his hand and waved frantically.

Before his colleague got out a single word, Ryan Bonner called in a loud, demanding tone, “Isn’t it a fact that the three victims were former adult film stars and that the potential victim in Alabama is also a former porno actor?”

“No comment,” Wainwright said and pointed again to the other eager reporter.

“Any comment on the fact that the one film the three victims and our Alabama connection have in common is titled
Midnight Masquerade
?” Bonner shouted.

“Again, no comment.” Wainwright visibly tensed as the camera zeroed in on two agents who approached Ryan Bonner and escorted him out of the press conference.

Mike cursed again, mumbling the obscenities to himself. Everybody in town knew the title of Lorie’s one and only movie. And now it was simply a matter of time before that damn eager beaver reporter, Bonner, put the information in the newspaper for everyone to read about, think about, snicker about. Lorie would have to relive the shame of her past all over again, just as she had when she had first returned to Dunmore.

Freedom of the press could be a double-edged sword, cutting down the guilty and the innocent alike. And in Lorie’s case, the guilty who had already paid for her past sins.

Maleah and Derek had flown out of Laredo late yesterday and arrived in Fayetteville, Arkansas, last night. On their assignment to question all the possible suspects on their short list, they were zigzagging across the United States and had detoured into Mexico yesterday. Today, they would question Casey Lloyd, who had coauthored the script for
Midnight Masquerade
. The Powell report on the guy read like a soap opera. Boy genius pens first novel at eighteen, hits the
New York Times
bestseller list, and is hired to coauthor the script when his novel is optioned for the big screen. Lloyd became the toast of New York and LA. By the age of twenty-four, unable to repeat the phenomenal success of his first novel, he was a has-been wonder boy with an expensive cocaine habit. After a series of dismal failures—a novel and several movie scripts—Lloyd gladly accepted Travis Dillard’s offer to work with the semifamous pornography writer Laura Lou Roberts, who had starred in numerous “stag” films in the seventies.

A knock on her hotel room door snapped Maleah from her thoughts.

“Perdue, let me in,” Derek said. “I’ve got coffee and Danish.”

Overcoming the urge to check her appearance in the mirror, Maleah tromped barefooted across the room, unlocked and unlatched the door, and looked from Derek’s smiling face to the sack he held in his hand.

How the hell could he look so fresh and chipper this early in the morning? It was barely eight o’clock. Obviously, he had already showered, shaved, ironed his slacks and shirt, and gone downstairs to pick up their breakfast.

As he entered the room, he glanced at her casually. She cringed, knowing full well what she must look like in her baggy pajamas and with her hair uncombed. So, why should she care how she looked? It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress the man. God forbid.

He set the sack down on the corner desk, opened it and pulled out two Styrofoam cups. “This one is yours.” She accepted the cup from him. “I’ve got bear claws and apple and cherry Danish.”

She snapped open the spout on the coffee cup’s plastic lid, took a sip of the hot brew, and sighed. “I’ll take the cherry Danish.”

After placing his cup on the desk, he pulled a stack of napkins from the sack and laid them on the desk; then he tore open the sack and spread out the selection of goodies.

“Griff called.” Derek pulled out the desk chair and sat.

“When?” Maleah picked up a napkin and the cherry Danish and took the armchair to the left of the desk.

“On my way downstairs to get breakfast for us.”

“And?”

“And the FBI is now officially involved. Special Agent Hicks Wainwright is heading the task force. He made an announcement to the press this morning outside the Birmingham field office.”

“What does this mean for our private investigation? Did Griff change our orders?”

Derek shook his head. “Nope. Griff said to stick to the plan, send in a daily report, and if anything comes up he thinks we should share with the Bureau, he’ll notify them.”

“So we’re still going to talk to Casey Lloyd today?”

“If he shows up for his weekly SAA meeting,” Derek said. “Otherwise, we’ll have to track him down since we haven’t been able to find a home address for him.”

Maleah took a big bite out of her Danish, savored the sweet taste, and then hurriedly washed it down with several sips of the sweet coffee. It really irked her that Derek remembered how she liked her coffee.

“How does a guy go from being a teenage literary genius to a thirty-five-year-old recovering drug and sex addict?” Maleah wondered aloud.

“Bad luck. Poor choices. Fate. Who knows?” Derek picked up a bear claw and immediately chomped into it.

“What did you tell Griff when he called?” she asked.

Derek stared at her questioningly.

“About your professional assessment of the three possible suspects that we’ve interviewed,” she explained.

Derek took a swig from the coffee cup, set it down on the desk, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I told him what I told you—that I think Travis Dillard is capable of cold, calculated murder. And he’s smart enough to pull off killing three people without leaving any evidence to link him to the crimes. Duane Hines is a couple of bricks shy of a load, but I doubt he’s a killer. Besides, he doesn’t have the money for plane fare and elaborate masks.”

“I don’t think Kyle Richey would risk destroying the life he’s built with his new wife,” Maleah said. “Just my opinion, of course. I don’t have your credentials as a profiler.”

“I agree. Besides, Richey’s the type who would kill in the heat of passion. He’s not the cold, calculating type who would plan and execute a series of murders.”

“That means for the time being, Travis Dillard is our chief suspect.”

“The agency is checking on his whereabouts when each of the murders took place. If he has a concrete alibi for just one, he’s not our guy. Unless he hired a hitman.”

“After we talk to Casey Lloyd today, that leaves only one more person on our interview list. Grant Leroy, the director.”

“Actually, Griff added another name to the list.”

Maleah widened her eyes and glared at Derek. “You’d think Griff would inform me of what’s going on. After all, I am the Powell agent. You’re just a consultant.”

Derek chuckled. “I’m sure Griff didn’t think twice about giving me the info. He knows we’re working as a team on this case and we share everything.” He winked at her. “Well, just about everything.”

Maleah groaned.

“Where’s your sense of humor, honey?”

“Do not call me honey!”

“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Perdue.”

Maleah scowled at him. “Who did Griff add to the list?”

“His name is Tyler Owens, but he’s actually not a suspect. His mother is Terri Owens, aka Candy Ruff. When Powell’s tried to contact his mother to warn her about the murders and find out if she had received any letters, he explained that his mother had recently had a stroke and is recovering in a rehab center. He asked for the interview. He has three letters that were sent to his mother. He thinks receiving these letters contributed to her stroke.”

“And we’re going to waste our time interviewing him because?”

“Because he said he thinks he might know who the killer is.”

Shelley Gilbert’s call came into the sheriff’s department at exactly 9:35
A.M
. and two patrol cars were sent out immediately to Lorie Hammonds’s home.

When Mike showed up at 10:05, he found the situation worse than he had imagined. He had expected to find reporters from the local newspaper and TV station and possibly a few nosy neighbors. But what he drove smack-dab into was pure bedlam. A horde of at least fifty people had congregated in Lorie’s yard and the road in front of her house. When he got out of his truck, he counted six different TV cameras and a dozen photographers taking snapshots of the house, the crowd, and the uniformed officer guarding the front door. Mike assumed another patrolman was at the back door.

As he made his way through the mixed rabble of reporters and townspeople, Mike spotted more than a dozen faces he instantly recognized. He knew these people. They had voted for him. Two of them went to church with him.

“It’s Sheriff Birkett,” someone yelled and all heads turned to search for him in the crowd.

One cameraman zeroed in on him and the accompanying reporter called out a question. “Sheriff, is it true that you were once engaged to Ms. Hammonds?”

Someone else shouted, “Is she as hot in the sack in real life as she is in
Midnight Masquerade
?”

Mike clenched his jaw tightly.
Do not react. Do not respond. Don’t let anyone goad you into saying or doing anything stupid.

When he didn’t reply to either question and continued walking toward Lorie’s house, people gradually fell back enough to clear a path for him. A rumbling hush fell over the throng. He stepped up on the porch and spoke to the officer at the front door.

“I’m going in to see Ms. Hammonds,” Mike told the deputy. “I’ll be back out in a few minutes and make a statement. Until then, do your best to keep things under control. But under no circumstances is anyone to get any closer. If anyone tries to get on the porch, pull out your pistol to show them you mean business. That should be enough of a deterrent.”

The deputy said, “Yes, sir.”

Mike rang the doorbell and called, “It’s Mike Birkett.”

The door eased open. The crowd went wild, yelling questions and accusations that quickly blended together into an unintelligible roar.

Mike slipped inside quickly and closed the door behind him. Shelley faced him with a grim expression.

“Where’s Lorie?”

“I’m here.” She walked out of the shadowed corner of the dim hallway.

It broke his heart to see the hurt in her eyes. He couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t gently pull her into his arms and hold her. He didn’t dare.

“This is all Ryan Bonner’s doing,” Mike said. “That little shithead might as well have shouted your name at Wainwright’s press conference.”

“He called,” Shelley said. “Special Agent Wainwright. He got in touch right after the press conference to check on Lorie.”

“Yeah, I spoke to him a few minutes ago and filled him in on the situation,” Mike told them. “He’s on his way to Dunmore right now.”

“The phone has been ringing off the hook,” Lorie said. “Shelley finally disconnected every line in the house.”

“I’m sorry about this.” Mike walked over to Lorie.

She stared up at him, her chin tilted defiantly, her expression one of steely determination. “I am not going to grovel and beg forgiveness for past sins. Not again. I’ve spent nine years paying penance. That’s more than enough. From here on out, I don’t give a damn what anyone in this town thinks of me.” She looked him right in the eye. “And that includes you.”

Sex Addicts Anonymous Arkansas Pioneer Saturday Group met every week at 10:00
A.M
. at the Alano Club. Since the sessions were closed meetings, Maleah and Derek arrived at 568 West Sycamore shortly before 11:00. Armed with arrest photos of Casey Lloyd from four years ago when he had been picked up for possession of an illegal substance, Maleah and Derek waited outside the building. At five after, a mixed group of men and women straggled out, a few at a time, some talking and laughing, others scurrying away alone.