Authors: Beverly Barton

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense

Dead by Morning (11 page)

BOOK: Dead by Morning

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Heloise snorted. “Mr. Court and Miss Anne Lee are totally irresponsible. Your grandmother is sorely disappointed in those two.”

“It’s hardly their fault if they’re spoiled brats,” Poppy said. “Grandmother should blame their parents for their behavior, but she won’t criticize Aunt Mary Lee the way she does my mother because she’s her daughter.”

“I have no intention of getting into a conversation with you about the dynamics of the Chappelle family. It’s not my place to agree or disagree with you. I shouldn’t have said anything about your cousins. I simply meant to remind you not to be late this evening.”

Poppy rushed over to Heloise and hugged her. The dour-faced old maid who seldom smiled cleared her throat and patted Poppy’s back.

“You’re a good one, Miss Poppy. You and your uncle Saxon. You two are the best of the lot, if you ask me.” She shoved Poppy away and gave her a push toward the front door. “You behave yourself with those hooligan cousins of yours and don’t let them get you into any trouble.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

A car horn announced her cousins’ arrival. Poppy opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She paused, glanced over her shoulder and waved at Heloise, then bounded down the brick steps and hopped into Court Dandridge’s black BMW M6 convertible.

Maleah and Derek ordered dinner in her suite, the same luxury suite that Nic and Griff had occupied before their departure from Nassau that morning. Nic had insisted she use the suite since it was paid for through the end of the week. The butler, included with the suite, cleared away the table, stacked the dishes on a serving cart and wheeled it away.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the prim and proper butler asked.

“Uh . . . no, thank you.”

“Very well.”

As soon as he pushed the cart out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, Maleah laughed.

“What’s funny?” Derek asked.

“I’m glad I’m not rich. I don’t think I’d ever get used to hot and cold running servants.”

Derek stared at her, an odd expression in his black eyes. “You have to be the only woman I know who wouldn’t love having servants to do her bidding.”

“You need to get to know a better class of women.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

She eyed their twin laptops, provided by the agency, lying side by side where they had placed them on the coffee table when the butler had set the table for their dinner. “We should check to see if Sanders has any new info for us before we go over the list Warden Holland gave you.”

“You check your e-mail and I’ll pull up the file containing the list of Browning’s visitors, telephone calls, and correspondence.”

Maleah picked up her computer and took it with her over to the sofa. She kicked off her low-heel sandals, wriggled her toes, and settled at the end of the sofa. After flipping open her laptop, with an attached USB-Connect device, she logged on to her Powell Agency e-mail account.

“Nothing from Sanders,” Maleah said.

After removing his sports coat, neatly folding it and laying it across the back of one of the chairs at the dining table, he got his laptop and joined Maleah on the sofa. They sat at opposite ends, leaving a wide space between them. Derek pulled up the file that Warden Holland had sent him about an hour ago. This was his first chance to take a look at the lists.

“Want me to read it to you or would you rather we take a look at this together?” he asked.

She shrugged. She wanted to read the info herself, but that meant close contact with Derek, something she usually avoided.

Grow up, will you, Maleah,
she told herself.
He may have a Don Juan reputation, but it’s not as if he’s going to try anything with you. The guy is no more interested in you—in that way—than you are him. You’re not his type. And God knows he’s not your type.

Who was she kidding? Derek Lawrence was every woman’s type.

She scooted across the sofa until she sat beside him, only inches separating their bodies. He grinned. She faked a pleasant smile. He lifted his laptop and rested it between them, one edge on her left knee and the other edge on his right knee.

Look at the damn computer and stop thinking about Derek’s knee pressed against yours.

“The first list has the names of all of Browning’s visitors for the past year,” Derek said.

They looked over the list, which turned out to be extremely brief.

“There are only three names,” Maleah said.

“Albert Durham, Cindy Di Blasi, and Wyman Scudder,” Derek read. “Scudder is listed as his lawyer. He visited him twice.”

“The other two are listed as friends.”

“Did the warden send Sanders a copy of this?”

“I don’t know, but I forwarded it to him before lunch, just in case.”

“Then it’s too soon for us to expect Sanders to have found out anything about these people.”

Derek grunted. “Let’s move on to telephone calls.”

“Same three names,” Maleah said. “His lawyer and his two friends. One call to the lawyer, one call to Durham and one call every week to Ms. Di Blasi.”

“Curious. I’m surprised Browning hasn’t asked for conjugal visits.”

“Don’t make me sick. What woman in her right mind would willingly have sex with a psycho like Browning?”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Derek told her.

Maleah groaned. “Don’t remind me about how many screwed-up women there are in this world, women who willingly demean themselves. They make me ashamed of my own sex.”

“Women don’t hold a monopoly on stupidity. The world is full of pussy-whipped men being led around by the nose by heartless bitches who get their kicks out of emasculating the idiots.”

Maleah snapped her head up and stared at Derek. Their gazes joined instantly, fusing together like two pieces of hot metal. Good God Almighty! She and Derek were two sides of the same coin. Why had she never realized that fact until two seconds ago?

“Uh . . . did we just say the same thing, sort of?” she asked, still partially puzzled by the revelation.

“Sort of,” he agreed. “You have no respect for weak, spineless women who let men use them. I have no respect for weak, spineless men who let women walk all over them.”

If you know what’s good for you, you’ll break eye contact with him. Do it now before something happens between the two of you that you will regret.

“We should look at the third list,” she said, her voice softened by emotion.

“Right.” He looked straight at the computer as he brought the next list up on the screen.

“Hmm . . . two names,” Maleah said. “Albert Durham and Cindy Di Blasi. He received two letters from Durham and sent two replies to the man.”

“Cindy has written to him every week for the past four months and he has replied to every letter.” Derek went back to the first list. “Check out the dates. Durham visited for the first time five months ago, and then four months ago, Di Blasi visited for the first time. Why did they both start visiting Browning all of a sudden?”

“What about the phone calls?” Maleah asked.

They scanned the list of Browning’s telephone calls again, checking the dates. “He called Durham two days after Durham’s first visit.”

“And he called Di Blasi two days after her first visit.” Maleah pointed to the date. “Do you think there’s a connection between Durham and Di Blasi?”

“There could be,” Derek said. “It depends on exactly who Cindy Di Blasi is and what her relationship with Browning is and how long they’ve known each other. She could be just one of those women who is fascinated by hardened criminals.”

“And if she’s not some wacko who’s fallen in love with Browning?”

“We don’t need to get ahead of ourselves and put the cart before the horse. Until Sanders does a background check and we know who these people are, we’re wasting our time trying to figure how they’re connected to Browning.”

“Call Sanders and ask him to do a rush job on those background checks,” Maleah told him. “And I’m going to get in touch with Warden Holland.”

“Dare I ask why you’re calling the warden?”

“He told me that he needed twenty-four hours’ notice for me to see Browning again. I plan to talk to Browning again tomorrow afternoon.”

When Derek didn’t respond, she said, “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

“We’re not in agreement,” he told her. “But I choose my battles wisely.”

Ignoring his remark, she said, “The copycat killer is going to strike again. We all know it’s only a matter of time. If there’s one chance in a million that Browning knows something about the copycat, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get him to tell me what he knows.”

“And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Their glazes clashed, but neither said anything, each knowing the other would not give an inch in a confrontation.

Chapter 11

Derek had misgivings about Maleah seeing Browning again, but had kept his concerns to himself. Although he hadn’t tried to talk her out of coming to the penitentiary today, he had insisted on accompanying her. She tried not to think about how protective Derek was, chalking it up to just a generic masculine trait that all men possessed. It was nothing personal.

She had to admit that in some ways Derek reminded her of her brother Jackson. She suspected that as Jack had once done, Derek would volunteer to be her standin and take any beatings intended for her. And that, too, wasn’t personal. The guy probably saw himself as hero material. After all, it was no secret that Derek Lawrence had a reputation with the ladies. Women tended to take one look at the guy and swoon at his feet.

She could not deny she understood why women swooned. He was incredibly handsome.

Good God, Maleah, is that ever an understatement.

Derek was drop-dead, eat-him-with-a-spoon gorgeous. And he was highly intelligent and rich and charming. And he made her laugh. But on the other hand, he could be an arrogant know-it-all. And his way-with-the-ladies was just a nicer way of saying he was a womanizer.

Maleah didn’t want Derek or anyone else protecting her from the big, bad world. She no longer needed a big brother to run interference for her. She was fully capable of taking care of herself in every way. She was an excellent marksman, adept with both a handgun and a rifle. She had earned a black belt in karate, thanks to Michelle Allen’s excellent tutelage. She earned a six-figure yearly salary as a Powell agent, so she certainly didn’t need to depend on anyone else financially. And after several years of intensive counseling, she was in a reasonably healthy place mentally and emotionally.

Okay, so she still had some control issues.

The creak of an opening door followed by the clinking of chains against the floor brought Maleah from her thoughts and into the present moment.

Standing with her back rigid, her hands gripping and releasing repeatedly, she took several deep breaths and did her best to relax. Browning would instantly sense her nervousness and use it against her. He was the type of animal who would pick up the scent of fear and gladly use it against his opponent, quickly seeing them as easy prey.

Maleah was once again slightly disoriented by the man’s good looks and air of sophistication, even in his simple prison attire. And once again she wondered how many people had been fooled by this man’s physical appearance.

“How delightful to see you again, Maleah,” Browning said as the guard indicated for him to sit. “You’re looking quite lovely. That shade of teal brings out the green in your eyes.”

She ignored his compliment. Odd that the salesclerk who had sold her the blouse had said exactly the same thing about the teal bringing out the green in her hazel brown eyes.

“Your copycat has killed again,” Maleah said. Succinct and to the point.

“Has he? Male or female?”

“Male.”

“Not brown-eyed.”

“No, not brown-eyed. But then none of your victims were brown-eyed, were they?”

“My mother was brown-eyed. I loved my mother. She died when I was six, you know.”

“Yes, I know. You were an only child. Your father married a woman with two daughters and a son. You tried to strangle one of the daughters. You were ten years old. Your father sent you to live with your mother’s uncle.”

His sickening sweet smile never faltered, but she noted the momentary flash of anger in his eyes. “Did you find my life story fascinating?”

“I found it instructive. Tracing your life from birth to the present allowed me to see the slow, steady progression of a psychopath from a boy who tried to kill his stepsister, to a teenager who killed six young women, to an adult serial killer who got his kicks from slitting his victim’s throats and slicing pieces of their flesh from their arms and legs.”

“Souvenirs. Little trophies that I could take out and look at from time to time.”

“In order to relive each kill?”

“Something like that.” He looked up at her. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, or do you think standing over me gives you some type of psychological advantage? I assure you, it doesn’t.”

“Then what difference does it make to you whether I sit or stand?”

He shrugged. “I simply thought you might be more comfortable sitting. And it might be more pleasant for both of us if we’re facing each other, eye to eye.”

Maleah made an instant decision. She walked over and sat down in the chair facing Browning, the protection of two guards securely between her and any physical danger. But she and Browning were now at the same eye level. She squared her shoulders and calmly rested her loosely clasped hands in her lap.

“Now, isn’t that better?” Browning asked.

“I have a question.”

“Let me guess . . . hmm . . . You want to know what I did with my souvenirs. The police never found them, you know.”

“I’m not interested in your souvenirs. It doesn’t really matter where you stored them. Not to the police. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“He’s not keeping them the way I did, is he?”

How the hell did he know that?
“No, he isn’t.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew?”

“If I did, would you tell me?”

Browning laughed, the sound as smooth as his silky voice. It was a practiced laugh, nothing about it genuine. “I find it curious that you have no interest in my trophies, considering the fact that I took eight little triangular souvenirs from Noah Laborde’s body. I could tell you about that night, every detail, from the moment I punctured his jugular until I left him on the banks of the Chattahoochee River.”

Noah’s smiling face—young, handsome, sweet—flashed through her mind. “I want the answer to a question.”

“Then ask your question.” He seemed only slightly perturbed that she remained unfazed by his reminder that he had killed Noah.

“Who’s Cindy Di Blasi?”

Browning stared at Maleah as if trying to see inside her head, wondering how much she already knew and what price she was willing to pay for his answer.

“Cindy is a lady friend.”

“How did you meet her?”

“We have friends in common.”

“How long have you known her?”

“For a while.”

“How long is a while?” Maleah asked.

“That’s four questions,” he reminded her.

“And only three answers.”

“A mutual friend on the outside hooked me up with Cindy. A guy gets lonesome for a little female companionship in a place like this.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You could say that Cindy is my girlfriend.” Browning winked at Maleah. “If Cindy finds out about you, she’s going to be jealous.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Browning laughed again, just a hint of sincerity in the sound.

Maleah didn’t buy any of it. Not the part about Cindy being a friend of an old friend. Or that she visited Browning, wrote him letters, and took his phone calls because she was now his girlfriend. Maleah didn’t know who Cindy di Blasi was or what her real relationship was with Browning, but she intended to find out.

“Is Albert Durham a friend, too?” she asked.

Browning smiled. “An acquaintance. And before you ask, Wyman Scudder is my lawyer.” He leaned forward, his piercing gaze unnerving and intimidating.

Maleah didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.
Good try, you cunning son of a bitch, but no cigar. Not this time. That crazy, I’m-dangerous glare doesn’t scare me.

“Interesting,” Browning said. “Nerves of steel, huh, Maleah? Makes me wonder just what it would take to unnerve you, just how hot the pressure would have to be to melt that steel.”

He knew that she knew what this game was all about, that his ultimate goal was to see her fall apart completely. He would keep chipping away at her armor, searching for the weak spots.

“Sticks and stones, Jerome,” she told him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He studied her for several minutes. She examined him just as thoroughly. Whatever he dished out, she could take, and then dish it right back to him.

“I’m glad that you’re not afraid of me,” he finally said. “Makes things all the more interesting, doesn’t it? I’ll be thinking about you during the time between your visits. Thinking about curling your long blond hair around my finger.” He held up his right index finger. “Thinking about running my hands down your throat. Thinking about what I could do to make you afraid of me . . . very afraid.”

“If you don’t tell me something I consider useful in my investigation about Cindy Di Blasi or Albert Durham or the copycat killer, I won’t be coming back for another visit.”

“Oh, Maleah, you disappoint me. Resorting to idle threats?”

“Not a threat. Just stating a fact. I have no intention of wasting my time pursuing a dead end. And that’s what you’re becoming, Jerome—a dead end.”

He tensed his jaw and narrowed his gaze. One hand curled into a tight fist. She had pushed the right buttons. Mentally patting herself on the back, Maleah rose to her feet.

“Leaving already?” he asked.

“Unless you want to answer my questions.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’ll come to see me again,” he told her.

“Only if I get what I want before I leave today. And I’m on my way out right now, so you’d better hurry.”

Silence.

She turned her back on him and walked toward the door where her escort waited. “I’m ready to go now,” she told the uniformed guard.

The guard opened the door.

“Wait,” Browning called to her.

She paused.

“Albert Durham is writing my biography,” Browning said.

Maleah’s breath caught in her throat. Durham was a writer? If so, then he had come to the prison to interview Jerome, to pick his brain for information. Was it possible that Durham was the copycat killer?

“Thank you, Jerome.”

“You’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow,” she told him. “But soon.”

Derek didn’t immediately question Maleah about the interview. Outwardly, she seemed completely unaffected by today’s encounter with Browning. She shook hands with Warden Holland, thanked him and requested a third interview for next Monday.

Why wait until next Monday?
Don’t ask. She’ll explain later.

On the way to the parking area, Derek glanced at the overcast sky and commented about the weather. “Looks like rain.”

Her gaze followed his. “Hmm . . .”

“I was thinking we could have a nice lunch at the Steeplechase Grill when we get back to Vidalia,” Derek said. “I checked the place out online after the clerk at the hotel mentioned it was a great place to eat.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Maleah unlocked her SUV. “Have you heard anything from Sanders this morning?”

Derek opened the passenger side door. “As a matter of fact, he sent us the info we requested about Browning’s recent visitors while you were chit-chatting with the guy.”

Maleah shot him a screw-you glare before opening the door and sliding in behind the wheel. She waited until he got in before asking, “Do we have addresses? Phone numbers?”

“We have an address for Wyman Scudder. He isn’t Browning’s original attorney nor is he even with the same law firm or in the same city. Someone hired him six months ago to represent Browning’s interests.”

“Why would a man who confessed to murder, struck a deal with the DA, and exhausted all of his appeals need a new lawyer? It’s not as if Browning has been screaming ‘I’m innocent’ for the past ten years.”

“Scudder isn’t exactly the best money can buy. According to Sanders’s report, the guy’s reputation as a lawyer isn’t all that great. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs, has an ex-wife who’s still bleeding him dry after their divorce two years ago, and he was living in his office up until six months ago.”

“Who retained Scudder for Browning and why? Sanders needs to get the Powell team to dig deeper and get us the answers.”

“He’s already on it.”

Maleah started the engine and pulled out of the parking slot. “Is that all you’ve got on Scudder?”

“For now.”

“What about Cindy Di Blasi?”

“Cindy Di Blasi is a mystery woman. Seems the Georgia driver’s license that she used as ID for her visits to Browning is a fake. The street address on the license is for a church in Augusta. The phone number Browning called when he talked to Cindy was for a pre-paid cell phone. No way to track it.”

“Interesting.”

“Confusing.”

BOOK: Dead by Morning

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