Dead By Midnight (19 page)

The corners of Griff’s wide mouth curved slightly as he gazed at her. “Sanders and I can handle the details, if you’d prefer not to know how and what—”

“I’m not an FBI agent now,” she reminded him. “I’m your wife and the co-owner of the Powell Agency. I may not always approve of all your methods, but right or wrong, I want to know about whatever it is that you do to expedite matters.”

Griff nodded. “Then let’s go to the kitchen, drink our tea, and get down to business.”

At 11:53
P.M
., Theo Smith, who was monitoring the strategically placed cameras from the basement to the third level of the building, placed a call to Calvin James, the head of Rough Diamond’s security team.

“I just picked up a man and woman in the hall on level three outside of Mr. Johnson’s apartment,” Theo said.

“Mr. Johnson just sent Ms. Thomas upstairs with Tyrell.”

“I didn’t see their faces, so the lady could be Ms. Thomas, but the man is not Tyrell. He’s a much smaller man. And he’s white.”

“Can you still see them?” Calvin asked.

“No, sir. They’ve just moved out of camera range.”

“If you see them again, let me know immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Calvin sent one of his guys to inform the boss about the intruders on level three while he took two other armed men and headed for the elevator, not knowing what they would find when they arrived in Mr. Johnson’s private suite. Uncertainty pumped adrenaline through his body as he reached out and hit the Up button outside the elevator. He and his men waited while the elevator came down from the third floor. The doors swung open. Inside lay two bodies: a redhead in a clingy black silk dress, a single bullet hole in her forehead, and a large black man, his body riddled with bullets.

“Shit!” Calvin stared at the unknown woman and then at Tyrell Fuqua, Ms. Thomas’s bodyguard.

“Please, don’t kill me,” Shontee pleaded with the man holding a gun on her. “Please, I’ll do anything. I can pay you a lot of money. My fiancé is a very rich man. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want you to die,” he told her. “You and all the others.”

“Others? You—you’re the person who sent me the letters, aren’t you?”

He smiled.

“Why?” she asked, wanting to keep him talking. “At least tell me why you killed Dean and Hilary and Charlie.”

“They had to be killed for the same reason you must die, Ebony O.”

“I’m not Ebony O. Not any longer. I’m Shontee Thomas. I left that life years ago. I’m not that person now.”

“You can’t erase the past,” he told her. “Not as long as you live. I watched you in
Midnight Masquerade
this evening. You’re even more beautiful and sexy in person.”

“You’re a fan,” Shontee said, forcing a smile, as she prayed that she could buy herself enough time for someone to realize Tyrell was dead and she was in big trouble.

“Yes, I suppose you could call me a fan.”

His smile turned Shontee’s blood to ice as they stared at each other. His weird expression hinted of madness. As she studied his face, she realized that he was wearing theatrical makeup, that his nose and chin were fake, probably plastic. That could mean his beard and mustache weren’t real.

Why was he wearing a disguise? If he intended to kill her, there would be no witnesses. Ah, but what if there were hidden security cameras that she hadn’t seen? Had he known about them or had he simply not taken any chances?

“Do I know you?” she asked. “Have we ever met before?”

His smile widened. Shontee’s stomach knotted.

“You really want to know the answer to that question?”

“Yes.” She held her breath.

“We’ve met before,” he told her as he fired the pistol.

The bullet hit her in the shoulder. Crying out in pain, she clutched her wound. Blood trickled through her fingers.

Oh God, he had shot her!

He’s going to kill me.

She lunged at him, her instinct for survival choosing fight instead of flight.

He shot her a second time, in the gut. The second shot slowed her as she doubled over in horrific pain.

“Why?” she asked, her voice so weak that she barely recognized it as her own. “Why…why…?”

As she slumped to her knees, her life’s blood draining from the two gunshot wounds, she prayed for help. Where was Tony? Where were the other people on his security force?

Standing directly over her, her attacker grabbed her hair and yanked, forcing her to stare up at him. While she looked into the eyes of her killer, he pressed his gun to her forehead. She grasped the cuff of his slacks with her bloody fingers.

“Don’t,” she pleaded.

“Dead by midnight,” he told her and then pulled the trigger, sending the bullet straight into Shontee’s brain.

Mike Birkett dropped his kids off at school and headed in to the office. Halfway between Dunmore Middle School, where M.J. was a sixth grader, and the sheriff’s department, Mike’s phone rang. Using the voice-activated command that responded to his calls, he answered immediately.

“Mike, it’s Jack. Are you where you can turn on a TV?”

“No, I’m in my truck on my way into work,” Mike said. “What’s up?”

“Cathy and I have on the morning news. Special Agent Hicks Wainwright is being interviewed outside an Atlanta nightclub, some place called the Rough Diamond. Isn’t he the FBI agent in charge of the Midnight Killer task force?”

“Yes, he is.” The club’s name sounded familiar. And then it hit him. “That club is owned by Shontee Thomas’s fiancé. She was in
Midnight Masquerade
and has been getting the same kind of letters that Lorie’s received.”

“Yeah, from what Wainwright is saying, I figured as much.”

“Did he get to her? Is she dead?”

“She’s dead,” Jack replied. “Wainwright is giving out basic facts, but no details. Ms. Thomas’s death is being treated as a homicide. And he’s admitted that they have reason to believe she is the fourth victim in a series of murders.”

“One a month,” Mike said.

“What?”

“So far, since the first of the year, he’s killed one person each month.”

“Does this mean you think Lorie is safe for now, at least until May?”

“Yeah sure, if this guy doesn’t alter his MO, but we have no guarantee of that.”

“You should probably be the one to tell Lorie about Shontee Thomas,” Jack said. “Or if you’d rather, I can do it. Cathy and I are heading out to her place in a few minutes.”

Mike had intended waiting until Jack came in to work today to talk to him about taking over Lorie’s case, but he figured, under the circumstances, now was the ideal time.

“Look, I had planned to discuss this with you later…” Mike paused. “As of today, I’m assigning you to Lorie’s case. You’ll be in charge. I…uh…” He considered lying to his old friend, to use any halfway reasonable excuse, but Jack knew him too well. The simple truth would work best. “I need to put some distance between Lorie and me. Things are getting too complicated.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Sure, I’ll take over. No problem.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your not trying to talk me out of my decision.”

“I figure it wasn’t an easy decision to make. Your gut is telling you to personally protect Lorie, but your head is warning you not to get too close to her or you’ll wind up regretting it.”

“Yeah, something like that.” When Jack didn’t comment, Mike said, “You’ll keep me updated on a regular basis. Just because I won’t be personally involved doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to her.”

“I get it,” Jack told him. “The problem is that you do care, you care a lot more than you want to.”

Lorie had turned on the small TV in the kitchen and muted the sound as soon as she’d poured her first cup of coffee thirty minutes ago. She liked catching the early morning weather report while she puttered around in the kitchen, drinking coffee and deciding what to eat for breakfast. Except for Sundays when she often cooked, she usually chose from among three menus: cereal and fruit, yogurt and fruit, or a muffin and juice. She liked routines because she found comfort and stability in daily habits that seldom varied. The craving for excitement and adventure had taken her into a world that had nearly destroyed her. Even though her life now was often boring and dull, at least it was safe and secure. Or it had been until recently.

She lifted the coffeepot from the warmer and poured her third cup into the decorative mug. “Want more coffee?” she asked Shelley.

Her bodyguard shook her head as she munched on cornflakes liberally sprinkled with banana slices and chopped walnuts.

Holding her mug in both hands, Lorie sat down at the kitchen table and glanced at the TV. Gasping when she saw Special Agent Wainwright apparently holding a press conference, she searched for the remote, found it in the middle of the table where she had tossed it earlier, and restored the sound.

The tickertape running across the bottom of the screen read: Fourth Midnight Killer victim murdered at fiancé’s downtown Atlanta nightclub.

Shelley dropped her spoon into the almost empty bowl. Metal against ceramic clanged loudly in the quiet room.

“Was Shontee Thomas one of the actors in the porno movie
Midnight Masquerade
?” a TV reporter asked the special agent in charge.

Wainwright looked downright uncomfortable, as if trying to decide just how truthful he should be in answering the question. Apparently deciding that the info was easily accessible to anyone with an Internet connection, he replied, “Yes, Ms. Thomas did have a small part in the movie.”

“Then isn’t it obvious that she’s the Midnight Killer’s fourth victim?” another reporter asked while others clamored to be recognized.

“After we receive the medical examiner’s report, I’ll make an official announcement.”

Wainwright was bombarded by a barrage of questions as he ended the brief interview and walked away from the microphone. “Do you believe all the actors from that particular movie are in danger?” “Do you have any suspects at this time?” “What can you tell us about the killer’s MO?” “Is there anything, other than the fact the four victims were former porno actors, that link these murders?” “Is it true that Ms. Thomas had a personal bodyguard and that he was also killed?”

The camera swept over the slew of reporters outside the Rough Diamond nightclub and then panned out to show the crowd of curiosity seekers already congregated, even at this early hour.

Lorie set her coffee mug on the table and laid the remote down alongside the mug. “Shontee had a bodyguard.”

Shelley’s confident gaze collided with Lorie’s nervous stare. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. Just because the killer got past Shontee Thomas’s bodyguard does not mean that he’ll get past me.”

“I don’t doubt your ability to protect me,” Lorie said. “But you’re only human, as was Shontee’s highly trained bodyguard. They just said that the killer murdered her bodyguard, too.”

“You not only have me, but you have the sheriff’s department keeping a close watch and you have yourself, too. You own a gun and know how to use it. But if you’ll feel safer with more protection, I’m sure we can arrange to add a second bodyguard to this detail.”

“A second bodyguard?” For half a minute, Lorie actually considered the suggestion. “No. I feel like a charity case as it is. I can’t ask the Powell Agency to provide two bodyguards when I can’t afford one.”

A lull in their conversation allowed them to hear the morning show anchorman’s next statement. “And now to Joelle Piette, a reporter from our local affiliate in Atlanta. Joelle is speaking to Calvin James, the head of security at the nightclub where Shontee Thomas and her bodyguard, Tyrell Fuqua, were murdered last night.”

The camera zoomed in on a young, attractive black woman with striking green eyes, her expression serious and concerned as she turned to the man at her side. The six-foot-plus black man with linebacker shoulders and neck stood at rigid attention, his dark suit jacket open to reveal a bloodstained white shirt.

“What can you tell us about the murders that took place inside the Rough Diamond last night?” Joelle asked.

“It came down around midnight,” Calvin told her, his gaze riveted to hers and not the camera. “We’ve got surveillance throughout the building. An unknown man was seen with Ms. Thomas shortly before midnight, upstairs in the hallway leading to Mr. Johnson’s private suite.”

“Mr. Johnson is Anthony Trice Johnson, the owner of Rough Diamond and several other nightclubs throughout the South.” Joelle looked into the camera as she spoke. “Shontee Thomas was his fiancée.”

“That’s right,” Calvin said, as if Joelle’s comments had been questions. “As soon as I was informed about the intruder, I took two of my men and headed for the elevator.” He shook his head as if still not quite able to believe what he’d seen. “We found Tyrell and some redheaded woman in the elevator, both of them dead.”

“And what did you do then?” Joelle asked.

“We took the stairs to the third floor.”

“Is that where you found Ms. Thomas’s body?”

Calvin nodded. “She was lying there, all shot up and bloody.”

Four uniformed policemen appeared as if from out of nowhere and two flanked Calvin while one spoke to Joelle and the fourth motioned for the cameraman to end filming.

“You don’t have the right to stop me from talking to the press,” Calvin told the policemen. “Mr. Johnson wants people to know what happened to his fiancée. He wants to send a message to the killer.”

Suddenly, the screen blurred and then went blank before the morning news anchor reappeared and hurriedly said, “We seem to have lost our live feed. But we will continue with this breaking story when we return from our regularly scheduled commercial break.”

Standing in the back of the crowd assembled outside the Rough Diamond, he watched as the police escorted Calvin James away from newswoman, Joelle Piette. No one—not the police, the FBI, the press, or Tony Johnson’s security team—suspected that the person who had killed three people inside the nightclub only hours ago was now watching the media circus at close range.

When he had finished with Ebony O around midnight, he had gone back to his hotel. After he had put the fatal shot directly into her head, he had removed her clothes and then taken the mask from the briefcase he had brought with him. He had hidden the case on the third floor until he needed what was inside. Once he’d fitted the mask over her face, he had stuffed her clothes into the briefcase and made his way down the hall to a window that led to the fire escape. He had barely made it down the metal ladder to the alleyway behind the club before he’d heard someone shouting about the open window. He should have taken time to close the window, but he had known that every second counted. Clutching the briefcase, he had run up the alley for two city blocks and then entered his hotel through the back entrance.

After carefully removing the fake mustache, nose, chin, and hairpiece, he had taken off the theatrical makeup and showered. A few hours of restful sleep had been more than enough to revitalize him. On the way back to the Rough Diamond, he’d stopped at a fast-food place for coffee and a biscuit. Initially, he had intended to simply walk by, check out the scene, and circle back to his hotel. His flight home left at 11:55
A.M
. But when he saw that a crowd had gathered, he joined them, acting like nothing more than an interested bystander.

Before he left Atlanta, he would mail the new batch of letters, one each to Puff Raven, Cherry Sweets, Sonny Shag Deguzman, Lacey Butts, and Candy Ruff. Four down, five to go.

When Jack and Cathy showed up at her back door a little before nine, Lorie knew that they had probably seen Special Agent Wainwright’s interview on the morning news.

Shelley unlocked and opened the door for the couple. Cathy rushed to Lorie and hugged her. Neither said anything for a couple of minutes; they just gave and accepted comfort.

“We’ll keep Treasures closed today,” Cathy said as she glanced at her husband. “Jack’s going to stay here with you and Ms. Gilbert for a while this morning.”

“Look, there’s no reason for me not to go to work,” Lorie assured her best friend. “If I stay at home, I’ll go stir crazy. Besides, staying home today won’t change anything. It won’t change the fact that Shontee is dead and that I could be next on the killer’s list.”

“Show her the newspaper,” Cathy told Jack.

Grimacing, Jack handed Lorie her morning newspaper. She eyed it as if it were a wriggling snake. “Is this my paper?”

“Nope, yours is still in the box. This is our copy of today’s
Huntsville Times
,” Jack said. “Page B-1, on the front page of the Region section.”

Cathy stared at the newspaper as Lorie pulled out the Region section and discarded the rest, letting the pages fall haphazardly to the floor. The headline read:
PORNO STAR ON KILLER’S HIT LIST
. The cropped photo accompanying the article had been taken from an eleven-year-old publicity photo. In this particular shot, she’d been wearing a thong and a come-hither expression and nothing more. The picture had been altered to make it acceptable for the north Alabama readership.

“Oh, Lorie, I’m so sorry,” Cathy said.

“Half the town gets the
Huntsville Times.
” Lorie quickly scanned the article, then read one brief paragraph aloud. “Ms. Hammonds, co-owner of Treasures of the Past, a Dunmore antique shop, is the former fiancée of county sheriff Michael Birkett. The sheriff’s department has taken a special interest in protecting Ms. Hammonds, at taxpayers’ expense, even though a private female bodyguard has been provided to protect Ms. Hammonds twenty-four/seven.”

“That damn little weasel.” Lorie glared at the byline. Ryan Bonner. “Mike is going to be furious when he sees this.”

“He’s seen it,” Cathy said. “Jack has spoken to him twice this morning. First to tell him about seeing Special Agent Wainwright’s interview and then to tell him about the article in the
Times.
”

“It’s not fair that Mike will be judged guilty by association.” Lorie crushed the newspaper in her hands.

“It’s not as if most folks didn’t already know that you and Mike were once engaged,” Cathy told her.

“But that was old news, dead and buried in the past,” Lorie said. “Ryan Bonner has made it current news. How is something like this going to affect Hannah and M.J.? Don’t you think some of the other kids at school are going to ask them about it? And you’ve got to know that there will be at least one smart-mouthed kid who’ll ask what they think about their dad having nearly married a
Playboy
centerfold.”

“You let Mike worry about his kids,” Cathy said. “You have enough to worry about as it is without—”

The phone rang. Four sets of eyes stared at the cordless telephone on the kitchen counter. Shelley picked up the phone and checked caller ID.