Her Dying Breath (32 page)

Nick and the Stowes exited the sanitarium, the senator’s bodyguards hovering close by, scanning the parking lot for trouble. Brenda tracked the crowd; it made her feel marginally better to know that Nick would make sure every person present at the scene had been interviewed.

Louis nudged her and turned the camera toward the Stowes as they crossed the grass to the area where their son’s body had been left. Thankfully, Nick blocked the couple from getting close, or seeing inside the protective screen the police had erected.

Louis trained his camera on the couple as they paused beside Jake. Brenda sucked in a breath. She had to do her job. But now wasn’t the time to confront the Stowes, not when the senator had already accused her of causing his son’s death.

They spoke to Jake for a moment, then her father gave Mrs. Stowe a hug and shook the senator’s hand, no doubt assuring him that he’d make certain their son’s killer was caught.

A couple of people still lurking by the crime scene tape darted toward the senator.

“What are you going to do to stop this crime spree?”

“Did your son know the other men who were killed?”

Jake rushed to block them while the bodyguards surrounded the Stowes.

Louis hurried toward them with his camera. The senator paused in front of it. Brenda realized he intended to address the public, so she gripped her microphone. “Senator, I know that I speak for everyone in Slaughter Creek when I express my sincerest condolences for your loss. Would you like to make a statement?”

His eyes seared her with contempt, but he nodded, his grief-stricken face solemn as he spoke. “My wife and I are devastated at our son’s death and need time to grieve and make arrangements for his funeral.” He paused, voice choking.

“No parent should have to bury his child,” Brenda said sympathetically.

He swallowed hard. “No. Ron was a good man who didn’t deserve to be murdered.” He cast a scathing look toward Jake and Nick while his wife hung back, looking faint. Then he looked straight into the camera, his face determined. “I don’t know who you are or why you killed my son, and I don’t care. But I promise you that I won’t stop until you’re rotting in prison.”

Then he took his wife’s arm and led her back toward their town car, his bodyguards fending off questions from the crowd.

Nick strode toward her. “Come on, I’m heading to Stowe’s apartment to search his things. I’ll drop you at home.”

“I’ll go with you,” Brenda said.

“No way.” Nick motioned to Jake that he was leaving. “I have to do this by the book, Brenda, especially with the senator’s attitude toward you.”

“I promise I won’t get in the way or touch anything, Nick. I just…need to do something to help.”

Nick lowered his voice. “Brenda, for all we know, Stowe’s home might be the crime scene.”

Bile inched up her throat as she imagined what that might look like. A bloodbath, probably.

Nick helped her into the car, closed the door, then went to the driver’s side and got in. “Go home, or to your office if you have one. Do all the research you can on Ron Stowe while I search his apartment. Maybe you’ll find something in his background to indicate the reason Seven chose him as a victim.”

Brenda nodded. Yes, she was good at research. And dividing the tasks would help them work more efficiently.

After all, Seven was growing more violent, taking more risks.

And the clock was ticking.

Seven watched the scene unfolding from the window in the sanitarium.

When she’d left this place, she’d vowed never to return.

She smiled. Now it was fitting that she be an observer to the drama below.

How many times had she stood by a window here and hoped someone would come for her? That they would look up and see her crying in the window? That they’d rescue her?

But no one had.

Then the Commander had taken her to another horror.

Laughter bubbled in her throat. The only thing that would make the moment sweeter was if it were the Commander’s body lying down there for all of Slaughter Creek to see.

It would be, in the end.

But first she had to finish with the others.

She gripped the paper she’d stolen from her father’s files years ago and looked at it. Although there was no real need.

She’d memorized it long ago.

Brenda Banks’s name was on it. Brenda, the little girl who was supposed to be part of the project.

Brenda, the little girl who’d grown up with parents who loved her and gave her all the dolls and Christmases she wanted. The little girl who’d had nice warm blankets and pillows to sleep on, for whom punishment had meant sitting in a room by herself for a few minutes, not being buried in a dark, deep hole. Brenda, who’d had hugs and kisses and spoiling and all the doting a little girl could handle.

Yes, she would take care of the others who’d hurt her.

Then she’d take care of Brenda.

I
t took Nick a couple of hours to obtain a warrant for him to search Ron Stowe’s apartment, as well as his phones and computer. Knowing the senator would try to prevent him if he suspected that his son had skeletons in the closet, he decided it was better to cover his bases. With the election coming up in a few months, Senator Stowe would definitely be protecting his campaign.

Even if it meant withholding pertinent information in his son’s murder investigation?

Possibly.

Nick flashed his badge to the security detail at the gated community where Stowe lived, then parked in front of the multimillion-dollar high-rise condo and walked up to the entrance.

The automatic doors parted to reveal a two-story entryway with gleaming marble floors, ornate columns, and a security desk to the left.

He stepped up to it, flashed his ID again, and explained the reason for his visit.

“We were so shocked to hear about his death,” Sonya, the woman behind the desk, said. “He was such a charmer. And always so polite.”

“Was he seeing anyone?”

She tucked a strand of silver hair behind one ear. “This is an exclusive community,” she said. “Our owners value their privacy.”

“I understand that, and trust me, I’ll use discretion. But the man was murdered,” Nick said, emphasizing the word. “So anything you can tell me about his personal life might help us uncover his killer.”

She glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. “Honestly, I never saw him with any women. If he dated, he didn’t bring them to his condo. It made me wonder…”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “If he was gay?”

She shrugged. “I can’t confirm, one way or the other. Like I said, he was always polite and friendly. He kept busy running his father’s campaign.”

Nick nodded, then handed her the warrant. “Can you let me into his place?”

She checked the warrant, then reached behind the desk and retrieved a key card. “Here you go. It’s the penthouse unit.”

Of course the senator’s son would own the best. He had probably thought his exclusive address would protect him from harm. “I’ll also need to question the other people in the development.”

“All right. I hope you find who murdered him.”

“I intend to.” Nick took the key, strode to the elevator, and rode it to the top.

The entire top floor belonged to the man. Had Brenda been attracted to his money and status?

It doesn’t matter. You and Brenda Banks are strictly on a professional level
.

And that was all it could ever be.

Resigned, he unlocked the door and slipped inside. Chrome and glass dominated the space as he entered, the modern furnishings of the living room—a massive entertainment center, white couches, and white carpet—stark in their clean lines. The
effect was cold and impersonal; not a place where he’d feel at home, Nick thought, though the condo did have an enviable view of downtown Nashville’s skyline.

The kitchen was stocked with Perrier, expensive wines, and gourmet coffee, but the cupboards and refrigerator held very little food; Stowe probably dined out most of the time. A take-out container from a local Chinese place was half empty, and the date on the eggs had expired.

Searching the kitchen desk, he found an organized tray of assorted bills. He rifled through them but detected nothing out of the ordinary. Next, he headed into the bedroom. The king bed was covered in a gray satin comforter, the neatly organized closet filled with designer suits, with separate bins for sweaters, and casual shirts still encased in plastic from the dry cleaner’s.

Nick rummaged through his dresser but found only socks and underwear organized in built-in compartments. He then checked beneath the bed, but there was nothing hidden there either.

He searched for a cell phone, but obviously Stowe had had it with him. The killer must have either kept it or disposed of it. Hopefully their tech department was savvy enough to trace the number and any incoming or outgoing calls.

He returned to the living room and searched through Stowe’s video collection, looking for S & M or porn but finding only political dramas, documentaries, and an occasional science fiction movie.

Finally he crossed to the man’s office on the other side of the living room. Political posters, charts of campaign strategies, and a wall calendar detailing future plans scheduled for his father’s campaign covered one wall.

If Stowe was in charge of the campaign, why had he skipped the fund-raiser?

Because he’d had a more enticing offer?

Nick booted up Stowe’s computer and spent the next hour examining his e-mails. The large majority focused on work, social events for the campaign, meetings to discuss campaign strategies—everything he would expect.

Dammit, the man looked perfect on paper.
Too
perfect.

Nick scrolled through Stowe’s browser history and again found dozens of politically related sites. He had to be missing something. Nobody was this squeaky clean.

He searched the man’s desk drawer. No photos of naked women, porn magazines, or erotica-related material.

The bottom drawer stuck, though, and he had to yank it hard to open it. He found several files on financial matters on top, then dug deeper and realized a false bottom had been built into the drawer.

Curious, he set the file on the floor and lifted the insert. A smile creased his face.

Stowe had a separate computer hidden in the drawer.

His fingers itched as he opened it and booted it up. Seconds later, he discovered what he was looking for. Dozens of porn sites Stowe had visited, S & M and erotica chat rooms, and videos he’d made of himself with various women in compromising sexual activities. Several featured Stowe being dominated and even abused.

But in all of them he was alive. And he walked away with a satisfied look on his face.

Had he taped himself with the killer? Or had she taped the two of them and then kept a video of their sexual escapades—and his murder?

He studied the faces of the women, who enjoyed controlling and dominating their sex partner. Whips were involved, as was punishment and humiliation in ways that made Nick’s skin crawl. Although none of these depicted autoerotic asphyxiation, in one video, a brunette was strangling Ron with a silk scarf.

What if Stowe had had sex with the killer prior to the night he’d died? Her face could be on one of these tapes.

And if Stowe realized she was the Slaughter Creek Strangler, could that have been her motivation to kill him?