Dead By Midnight (22 page)

He took a small plastic box from his pocket, opened the box, and removed a couple of tacks. After he mounted the thong beneath Ebony O’s picture, he stood back and smiled at his handiwork.

Four of the nine were now in God’s hands and five were left, five who were yet to meet their rightful judgment. There was no doubt in his mind that all of them would be condemned to hell, a fitting end to lives not only lived in sin but lived in a way that catered to the most basic, animalistic nature in others. The only way to free himself once and for all from their evil influence was to kill them. He was justified in what he was doing. Killing them was like killing vermin, ridding the world of dangerous creatures who spread disease and destruction.

As he circled the interior of the storage rental, appreciating his collection, he paused in front of her photograph. Young. Beautiful. Sexy. And so very wicked.

“I’m saving you for last,” he said aloud. “Always the best for last.”

Mike’s mother had phoned him, panicked and half out of her mind. His children were missing.

“When Kim hadn’t dropped them at Gloria’s by three-thirty, I called her and she said they had told her I was playing bridge at Irene Shelby’s house. Now, why would they have told her such a thing? They knew where I’d be. Lord help us, Irene doesn’t even play bridge.”

“Did you call Mrs. Shelby and ask if the children were there?”

“Well, of course I did. She hasn’t seen them.”

While he had been reassuring his mother that M.J. and Hannah were okay and he would find them, his secretary had told him he had an urgent call on another line.

“It’s something about your kids.”

He had instantly put his mother on hold and taken the other call.

“Mike, this is Shelley Gilbert. Your children are here with Lorie. She said to tell you that they’re all right, but you should get over here as soon as you can.”

So here he was on Lorie’s front porch, his mood alternating between relief and concern. Relief that his children were accounted for; and concern about why they had lied to Kim Myers and why they were at Lorie’s house.

Before he rang the doorbell, Lorie opened the front door and stepped outside on the porch with him.

“Let’s talk out here,” she said.

“Where are M.J. and Hannah?”

“In the kitchen with Shelley. They’re eating cookies and drinking milk. She’ll keep them occupied while you and I talk.”

“Okay. Talk.”

“M.J. and Hannah told a fib—M.J’s word—to get Kim Myers to drop them off at Mrs. Shelby’s house so that they could walk here and see me. They both got in trouble at school today for defending me against some ugly things their classmates said about me.”

Mike grumbled under his breath.

“I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am that your children have been affected by what’s happening to me now because of my past. I adore Hannah and M.J. and I’d never do anything to hurt them.”

“I realize that.” Mike frowned. “I guess I didn’t know just how fond of you my kids are.”

“It’s my fault. I should have stayed away from them. If I had, they wouldn’t even know who I am. But no, I couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“Do they know about you—that you posed naked, that you made a movie—?”

“M.J. has one of the flyers, the photo of me in the nude. He told me that he hadn’t shown it to Hannah.” Lorie paused, took a deep breath and said, “Some kid told M.J. that you have the hots for me and that’s why you’re thinking with your other head.”

“What!”

“Don’t shout. The children might hear you.”

“This is a damn screwed-up mess. I’ve stayed away from you ever since Molly died in order to protect my kids from shit like this.”

“M.J. said he knew what thinking with your other head meant, but that Hannah didn’t. Oh, Mike, he reminds me so much of you. He’s such a wonderful little boy. He’s been so protective of me. He told me that”—she swallowed—“if anybody else said anything bad about me, he’d sock them in the nose, too.”

Mike groaned. “He hit somebody today?”

“I’m afraid so. Some boy named Payton something-or-other.”

Mike made an odd noise, the sound a moan/laugh combination. “If Molly were here, she’d tell me that our son was acting way too much like me. But she’d say it with a smile. And she’d be right. I was always punching somebody in the mouth when I was a kid. I had a short fuse back then.”

“Back then?”

“I manage to keep my temper under control most of the time. But I swear to God, when it comes to my kids…”

“We need to talk to them, you and I together. They deserve to know the truth or at least enough of the truth to understand why people are accusing you of having the hots for me. And I need to explain to them about the nude photo and—”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right. But we need to keep what we say as G-rated as possible. Kids these days know too much too soon as it is.”

When Lorie opened the door and went inside, Mike followed directly behind her. They found M.J. and Hannah still in the kitchen, both sitting at the table finishing off their glasses of milk. As soon as Mike and Lorie entered the room, Shelley excused herself.

“Daddy!” Hannah set her glass on the table, shoved back her chair, got up, and ran to her father.

Mike swept her off her feet and set her on his hip. She gazed at him with a daughter’s adoration in her dark blue eyes. “Are we in big trouble?”

“It isn’t Hannah’s fault.” M.J. stood up and faced his father. “I’m the one who told Mrs. Myers the fib about Grams being at Mrs. Shelby’s house.”

“We’ll discuss that later,” Mike told him. “But right now, Miss Lorie and I need to talk to you two about the things y’all heard at school today.”

“You mean about your having the hots for Miss Lorie?” Hannah smiled. “I know that means you like her for a girlfriend. And that’s okay, Daddy. We like her, too. We like her a lot more than we do Miss Abby. We really don’t like Miss Abby very much.”

Mike wasn’t surprised to hear that his children didn’t especially like Abby. It wasn’t as if their actions during the months he’d been dating Abby hadn’t spoken for them.

“Miss Lorie used to be my girlfriend, a long time ago,” Mike said. “Before I married your mama.”

“Grams says that Mama would want you to get married again. You need a wife,” Hannah told him. “And M.J. and I need a stepmama who would love us and maybe give us a baby brother or sister.”

Nell Birkett, you’re a loud-mouthed busybody, that’s what you are!
Mike would deal with his mother later.

“And we don’t want Miss Abby. We don’t like her and she sure doesn’t love us,” M.J. said. “We want Miss Lorie.”

“Look, you two, stop playing matchmaker. Miss Lorie and I are not dating,” Mike explained. “We’re old friends. That’s all.”

“Oh, Daddy, you’re telling a fib.” Hannah smiled at him guilelessly. Mike set his daughter on her feet and cleared his throat.

“Miss Lorie and I are old friends and right now Miss Lorie’s in trouble. Someone wants to hurt her, but we don’t know who that person is. As the county sheriff, it’s my duty to make sure Miss Lorie is safe. Do you understand?”

Both of his children stared at him and nodded simultaneously. M.J. said, “Yes, sir, we understand.”

“A long time ago, when Miss Lorie was very young, she posed for some pictures that were printed in a magazine, and in those pictures, she isn’t wearing any clothes.” He waited, giving M.J. and Hannah a chance to comment. When they didn’t, he continued. “She also made one movie, a movie for grown-ups, and she wasn’t wearing any clothes in that movie. Some people believe that what Miss Lorie did was wrong, and even though she’s said she’s sorry and that she wishes she’d never done it, there are people who won’t forgive her.”

“Those people aren’t doing what God wants them to do,” Hannah said. “We learned in Sunday school that God expects us to forgive other people when they do something wrong and then they have to forgive us when we do something wrong.”

“You’re absolutely right, sweetheart.” Out of the mouths of babes. His nine-year-old daughter understood a great deal more about forgiveness than most adults. Certainly more than he did.

M.J. stared at Lorie. “Hannah and I forgive you, Miss Lorie.” He glanced at Mike. “And so do you, don’t you, Daddy?”

When Mike stood there, unable to utter a single word, Hannah tugged on his hand. “Tell her, Daddy, tell her. Tell her that you forgive her and that you really do have the hots for her.”

Lorie laughed. Mike glared at her. And then he smiled.

He looked right at Lorie and said, “Forgiveness is a two-way street. If I forgive you, then you’ll have to forgive me.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Tell her the rest, Daddy,” Hannah insisted.

“My daughter wants me to tell you that I have the hots for you.”

Hannah giggled. “Now everything is going to be wonderful.”

Mike and Lorie looked at each other. He knew that she realized everything was far from wonderful, but for now, for today, they could pretend it was. For Hannah and M.J.

Ransom Owens lived alone in the brick house built by his ancestors, an Italianate style with a low-pitched roof topped with a cupola. At present, he was divorced from his second wife, Brenda Lee. For all intents and purposes his only daily contact with the outside world was his housekeeper, Ramona. And it was she who opened the front door that Tuesday morning. The elderly woman, her short white hair permed into tight curls, wore a large floral apron over her polyester navy blue slacks and red T-shirt. Wearing no makeup or jewelry, and with her wrinkled face, thin lips, and hawk sharp nose, the tall, robust housekeeper could have easily passed for a man. Until she opened her mouth. The voice was Marilyn Monroe whispery, with a childlike tone.

“Please, come in. Mr. Ransom is expecting y’all.” Ramona stepped back and swept her arm out in a welcoming gesture. “He’s in the sunroom out back, having his morning tea break. The poor dear has probably been up since dawn working on his latest book.”

Maleah sensed this old woman was genuinely fond of her employer.

“What sort of book is Mr. Owens writing?” Derek asked.

“Oh, the kind he always writes,” Ramona replied. “A history book. He’s had ten published, all of them about local Virginia history, from before the Revolutionary War to the present.”

When they didn’t comment, she added, “Mr. Ransom always was as smart as a whip. The boy had the soul of a poet. Neither of his wives appreciated him, that’s for sure. But at least Miss Brenda Lee didn’t shame him in front of the world the way Miss Terri did. Now that gal was a real piece of work. But you two probably know all about her, your being investigators.”

“Then you were the family’s housekeeper when Mr. Owens was married to his first wife?” Maleah asked.

“Sure was. I’m the one who had to look after Mr. Tyler when he was a baby. Miss Terri didn’t take to motherhood. Finally Mr. Ransom hired a nanny for the little tyke.”

“What sort of child was Tyler?” Derek inquired.

“Smart, just like his daddy, but every bit as beautiful as his mama. Too bad the good Lord wasted so much beauty on such a selfish, uncaring woman.”

She led them down the hallway, talking nonstop all the way, and then paused and pointed to an arched open doorway. “Straight through there.”

“Thank you,” Derek said.

“Would either of you care for tea?” Ramona asked.

Maleah and Derek replied simultaneously, “No, thank you.”

They found Ransom Owens sitting in an ornate white wicker chair, his eyes closed and a look of serenity on his long, narrow face. His brown hair, thinning on top, was neatly combed and he was cleanly shaved. He wore brown slacks, a beige shirt, and a tan sweater, the garments fitting loosely on his reed-thin body. When he heard them approach, he opened his tepid gray eyes, picked up the notepad in his lap, and laid it on the side table to his right. Maleah’s first thought was that this man certainly didn’t look like her idea of a killer. No, Ransom Owens looked like a well-to-do gentleman of leisure, a man most definitely born in the wrong century.

“Do come in and sit down.” His deep baritone voice seemed at odds with his soft, scholarly appearance.

“We appreciate your agreeing to talk to us,” Derek said as he slipped his hand beneath Maleah’s elbow and guided her toward the wicker settee flanked by two massive, billowing ferns. Her initial reaction was immediate withdrawal, but she managed to stop herself from jerking away.

“I thought it best to clear up a few matters,” Ransom said, watching them closely as they sat side by side on the settee. “I assume my son had nothing good to say about me. I did my best with him, but it was difficult raising a high-strung boy without a mother…a mother who shamed us both. We’d have been better off by far if Terri had died years ago.”

Before either Maleah or Derek had a chance to respond, Ransom continued quickly. “And before you ask, no, I have no intention of murdering my ex-wife or any of the vulgar, uncouth people she associated with in the past. I know Tyler believes I may be this person the police are looking for, the Midnight Killer. I assure you, I am not. This is simply my son’s way of tormenting me.”

“Why would your son want to torment you?” Derek asked.

Ransom focused his weak, watery pale eyes on Derek. “A man does not like to admit such a shameful truth, but…My son hates me. Perhaps with just cause. I never understood him. I tried, but he was too much like Terri. He was willful and disobedient and never appreciated the way of life I offered him.”

“We would like to take you at your word, Mr. Owens,” Maleah said. “But we want you to know that the Powell Agency will be investigating further, so if you could tell us where you were and what you were doing on specific dates—the dates the four victims were killed—we could rule you out as a suspect.”

“I am alone here in my home a great deal of the time,” Ransom told them. “There are days when I see no one. Ramona comes in once or twice a week now, mostly to prepare and freeze meals for me to warm up later. She’s too old to do much cleaning, although she runs the vacuum and stirs up a little dust with the feather duster. I have someone from a housekeeping agency come in every other week. Ramona pretends not to know.”

Derek reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a list of dates. “We would greatly appreciate it if you’d take a look and see if you can account for your whereabouts on each date.”

Ransom held out his hand and grasped the paper with long, bony fingers. He glanced at the dates, closed his eyes as if concentrating, and then handed the list back to Derek. “I’m not certain. I travel occasionally. I give lectures on Virginia history. I also do research. And I have friends who live out of state. I believe I was at home on all those dates. I know I was on the most recent date, when Shontee Thomas was killed in Atlanta.”

“Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?” Maleah asked.

“I’m afraid not. I live alone, eat alone, and sleep alone. And I seldom answer the telephone. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m working.”

“Then you don’t have an alibi?” Derek studied Ransom as if trying to decide whether the man was lying.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t, but naturally, you’ll dig around to see if you can find out if perhaps I was not here as I say I was. I understand. That’s your job.” Ransom glanced from Derek to Maleah. “Might I suggest that you check into my son’s whereabouts on those dates. It’s far more likely that he will turn out to be your killer.”

Maleah and Derek exchanged a questioning glance. She knew he was thinking exactly what she was—that just as Tyler had accused his father, now Ransom was accusing his son. Talk about a dysfunctional family.

“Would you care to explain why you think your son is a murderer?” Derek asked.

“I thought I’d done that,” Ransom said. “I sincerely hope my suspicions are unjustified. They probably are. I simply wanted to point out that between the two of us, Tyler is far more likely to be a killer than I am.”

“Then you’re not accusing your son of murder. You’re simply saying that he’s more likely to be a killer than you are. Is that right?” Maleah wanted Ransom Owens to clarify his comments.

“That’s correct.”

Maleah questioned Ransom for the next ten minutes and received replies that revealed very little new information. If this man was a killer, she would be surprised. He seemed like a gentle soul, wounded and lonely. But it was possible that beneath that melancholy exterior, another man existed, a man capable of murder.

As she and Derek walked down the sidewalk toward their parked rental car, she paused and said, “So, what do you think?”

“I think Tyler Owens hates his father,” Derek told her. “And I think there’s more to Ransom Owens than meets the eye.”

“Do you think either of them could be the Midnight Killer?”

“Sure. Either of them could be. But at this point, the way I see it is that each is pointing the finger elsewhere to take suspicion off himself.”

“Great father-son relationship, huh? Makes me feel sorry for Tyler. Most fathers would do anything to protect their son, but Ransom Owens would be willing to sacrifice his son to save himself.”

Doing her level best to keep her hand steady, Lorie gave Jack the letter she had received in today’s mail. Another threat. The wording was identical to the other two messages she had received, and this envelope was postmarked Atlanta, Georgia. The son of a bitch had mailed the letter after he’d killed Shontee. Had the others—Jean, Terri, Charlene, and Sonny—also received another letter? In her phone call last night, Maleah had told Lorie about interviewing Terri’s son and their plans to interview her ex-husband.

“Tyler Owens thinks his father is the Midnight Killer,” Maleah had said.

“What do you think?”

“Derek and I are both reserving judgment until we meet with Ransom Owens in the morning. After that, we’re set to fly to Louisville in the afternoon and interview the Reverend Grant Leroy.”

Lorie had laughed at the thought of Grant Leroy being a born-again Christian evangelist. The Grant she remembered had been a hard-drinking, womanizing, foul-mouthed SOB. On occasion, he had been charming, but only when he thought it would get him something he wanted.

“What about Sonny and Charlene?” Lorie had asked. “Has Powell’s been able to track them down?”

“Sonny’s in Europe somewhere, but that’s all we know right now. As for Charlene Strickland, she seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. But eventually, we’ll find them. The one good thing is that if we’re having this much difficulty finding them, then so is the killer. If his letters aren’t reaching them, he’d have no way to know since there’s no return address.”

Lorie watched as Jack scanned the letter and then carefully placed it in a plastic bag. Even though there was little chance the killer’s fingerprints were on the envelope or letter, Jack followed the proper procedure.

“How many letters did Shontee receive before he killed her?” Lorie looked to Shelley for an answer. “And what about Hilary and Charlie?”

“The number of letters received before each was killed has varied,” Shelley replied. “If each had received the exact number, then we could connect the dots and figure out who’s next. We believe that’s the reason the number of letters varies. He wants to warn the intended victims, frighten each of you, torment each of you, but not actually let you know for sure that you’re next. It’s all a part of the satisfaction he acquires from forewarning his victims.”

Jack placed his hand on Lorie’s shoulder. “I know it’s rough staying cooped up here. The offer for you and Ms. Gilbert to stay with Cathy and me is an open invitation. You’d still be confined to quarters, but you’d be with friends. It might be good for you to be with Cathy, and if you were with us, she’d worry a little less about you.”

“I’ll consider it,” Lorie said. “But for now, I’m staying put, here in my own home. And if that newspaper article hadn’t come out and those flyers hadn’t been circulated around town, I’d be going to work today.”

“It’s a good idea to keep a low profile a little while longer.”

Lorie nodded. “By the way, did Mike tell you about Hannah and M.J. coming here to see me yesterday?”

“He mentioned it.”

“Did he tell you that M.J. socked another kid because he said something ugly about me?”

“Yeah, Mike mentioned that, too.”

“This crazy business with the Midnight Killer is affecting not only my life, but the lives of people I care about. You and Cathy and Seth. And Mike…and Mike’s children. Maybe I should leave town, go somewhere—”

Jack grasped her by the shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying put right here where the people who care about you can look after you. If you left town, my wife would go with you.”

When Jack offered her a comforting smile, she smiled back at him.

“Speaking of your wife—did she open Treasures today?”

Jack’s smile faded. “No. We thought it best to keep the shop closed this week.”

“That’s certainly going to affect our bottom line.”

Lorie’s income came from her half of the profits from Treasures. Over the years, she had managed to buy a house and a car and open a savings account. But with the shop closed for a week—possibly longer—she would have no choice but to dip into her small savings, and it wouldn’t take long to deplete every penny.

“Don’t worry about money,” Jack told her. “Cathy and I will—”

“No, you will not! I’m not taking money from y’all. I’ve got some savings. If necessary, I’ll use it to tide me over.”

Jack grimaced. “You’re as stubborn as Cathy. I’ll let you two hash it out.” He gave Lorie’s shoulder a tight squeeze. “I’m just a phone call away.”

“I know. I appreciate everything you and Mike are doing.”

As Lorie walked Jack to the door, Shelley’s phone rang. They both paused and waited while she took the call. Her end of the conversation was limited to mostly listening and saying very little. The moment she hung up, she turned and looked directly at them.

“That was Maleah. She wanted us to know that Powell’s found Charlene Strickland. She’s dead.”

Lorie gasped. “Dead? But how’s that possible? He’s been killing only one person each month.”

“The Midnight Killer didn’t murder her,” Shelley said. “She died over a year ago from a drug overdose. She was working as a prostitute and had pretty much fallen off the radar. She wasn’t using her real name, wasn’t staying in contact with anyone she had known, not family or friends.”

“I didn’t know her all that well. She was an odd sort of girl and even back when we made
Midnight Masquerade
, she was into the drug scene big-time.”

“With Charlene Strickland already dead, that leaves only four actors from the movie left alive,” Shelley said. “Jean Misner, Sonny Deguzman, Terri Owens, and—”

“And me,” Lorie said. “The only thing we don’t know is if he plans for me to be the May, June, July, or August victim of the month.”

During the past six years, Reverend Grant Leroy, with the assistance of his wife and son, had built up a rather impressive congregation in Louisville, Kentucky. His followers had donated generously, allowing the reverend to build a huge church that seated a thousand people and a six-thousand-square-foot parsonage where he and his family lived. When Powell’s had contacted the man who had directed numerous porno films in the past three decades, including
Midnight Masquerade
, his wife hadn’t hesitated, even for a second, to set up an appointment.