The Dying Game (44 page)
“He was right,” Griff said. “So, would you mind telling him that I’m here and I’d appreciate a few minutes of his time.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Powell.”
Within five minutes, Griff was having coffee with Chief Crowell at the bookstore/coffee shop three doors down from Sandi’s Dance Studio.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the chief said. “Worst goddamn slaughter you could imagine.” He shook his head. “That poor woman. A wife and mother. A good Christian woman.”
“Is there anything you can tell me, unofficially, of course? I understand you weren’t sure at first if this was the work of our BQ Killer.”
“Yeah, that’s right. From what I knew, the BQ Killer didn’t chop his victims into pieces.” The chief swallowed. “Sandi Ford had been butchered. And nobody noticed the rose at first. Apparently, it had fallen off the corpse and onto the floor. One of the first officers at the scene actually stepped on the damn thing and left bloody footprints all over the place.” The chief’s gaze met Griff’s. “That’s definitely an unofficial statement. Stuff like that makes the department look bad.”
Griff nodded. “Who found the body?”
Crowell huffed. “The husband. The poor guy had been at Wednesday night church services with his three kids and when he got home and his wife wasn’t there, he came downtown to the studio to see what was keeping her.”
“Then the husband called the police?” Griff asked.
“Actually, one of their kids did. It seems Earl Ray Ford came out of the studio screaming hysterically. One of their daughters called nine-one-one. When the officers arrived on the scene, they found the wife’s body.”
“Then what?”
“I was contacted immediately. Something like this has never happened in Parsons.”
“I understand.”
“I called in the state boys immediately. I knew we weren’t equipped to handle a murder case, especially one like this. Hell, we haven’t had a murder in Parsons in five years.”
“So the state took over the case? That’s their people working the crime scene?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But I was informed this morning that the FBI would be handling the investigation here on out, as soon as they show up.”
Since Griff and Chief Crowell sat at a table in the front of the coffee shop, near the front door, Griff couldn’t miss seeing the door swing open and a woman enter. He grinned.
“I believe they’ve just arrived,” Griff said.
“Huh?”
Nic Baxter marched toward the table, hell’s fury in her dark eyes. She stopped, planted her hands on her hips and looked directly at Chief Crowell. “I hope you haven’t been discussing Sandi Ford’s murder with this man.”
A puzzled expression crossed the chief’s face. “Ma’am?”
“Chief Crowell, let me introduce you to Special Agent Nicole Baxter,” Griff said. “She heads up the FBI’s BQK task force. In other words, she’s the man in charge.”
Nic whipped around and glared at Griff. “I don’t have to remind you that this man is a private detective.” Although she was speaking to Chief Crowell, she was looking at Griff. “He is not, in any way, a part of the official investigation. If he has used persuasion or coercion to obtain information from you, I need to know right now.”
Chief Crowell shoved back his chair, stood, and tapped Nic on the shoulder. She froze momentarily, then turned to face him.
“Ma’am, I know I’m just a small town police chief, but I’m not an idiot. Mr. Powell here has been nothing but a gentleman. There’s been no persuasion or coercion going on this morning. We were just sitting here having us some coffee and talking about football.”
Griff barely managed to hold in his laughter.
Nic bristled. “Very well. Thank you.” Ignoring Griff completely now, she focused on the chief. “As soon as you’ve finished your coffee break with Mr. Powell, I’d like to speak to you. Privately.”
“I don’t know what happened to me,” Pudge said. “I swear, it was as if someone else was hacking away at her, as if I were watching it being done.”
All the while Ruddy listened to his cousin telling him about how he’d gone berserk when he had killed Sandi Ford, he kept thinking about the fact that Pudge had scored twenty points and they were now neck-and-neck, heading toward the finish line.
“It was the most exhilarating experience of my life,” Pudge said. “The whole thing was surreal, but utterly glorious.” Ruddy knew he had to move fast to get ahead. He couldn’t allow Pudge to score more points. The consequences would be deadly. Although he strongly suspected that Pudge had cheated and chosen Sandi Ford as his next victim before Ruddy had killed LaShae Goodloe, he hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t called foul. No, instead, he’d done a little cheating of his own. He had already found a lovely blonde, a former Miss Memphis, who had been a twirler. A baton twirler. Now, there was a talent for you.
“By the time I finished, I was bathed in blood.” Pudge sighed. “If I hadn’t been concerned that someone might see me that way, I wouldn’t have washed off there in the rest room at the studio. I rubbed her blood into my hands and my face. It was like a satiny smooth lotion.”
Ruddy thought about how he would kill the blond-and-beautiful Sara Ann Stewart. Cut off her hands? Chop off her arms?
Even after listening to Pudge’s exuberant retelling of Sandi Ford’s murder, Ruddy knew he would not derive a similar pleasure from butchering a victim. Of the two of them, Pudge was by far the more brutal, bestial type of killer. Ruddy preferred being less dramatic, but equally effective. After all, dead was dead.
Why not beat her to death with a baton?
a wicked inner voice with a sense of humor suggested.
Absolutely divine idea. And so appropriate. Something new and unique.
“Our game has gone on far too long,” Pudge said. “Admit it, you had become as bored as I had with doing the same old things time and again. Chopping little Miss Sandi into pieces invigorated me.”
“I’d think knowing we’re in the last days of our game would create enough excitement for both of us,” Ruddy replied.
“Getting worried, Cousin?”
“Not at all. I have every confidence in myself. But if you’re concerned, I’m willing to renegotiate terms.”
Pudge’s laughter irritated Ruddy in a way it never had. “You find that amusing?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. You see, dear cousin, I know you’re concerned that I shall be the winner and you the loser. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be all but begging me to change the rules this late in the game.”
“I was not begging. I was simply offering to give you a way out.”
“What’s wrong—you aren’t afraid of death, are you?”
“No more than you are.”
Today was March thirty-first. The end of the month, the end of the week. And the Beauty Queen Killer had struck four times in the past sixteen days. Sara Ann Stewart in Memphis, Tennessee. A blonde. Beaten to death with a baton. Audrey Smallwood, Macon, Georgia. Hacked to death as brutally as Sandi Ford had been. A brunette. Kalindy Naramore, Columbus, Mississippi. Hands cut off. Another brunette. Whitney Webster, Bowling Green, Kentucky. A blonde. Doused with kerosene and set afire.
Every other murder gruesome to the extreme.
How many points had each woman been worth to him?
“He’s on a killing spree,” Griff had said. “It’s as if he’s gone into a murderous frenzy right before April first.”
Derek Lawrence had advised Griff that it was highly possible that the killer planned to end his game on April first and knowing the end was near, he was murdering as many women as he possibly could, as quickly as he could.
Why hasn’t he come after me? After Paige Allgood?
Lindsay had been living the other woman’s life for a couple of weeks now, wearing a platinum, shoulder-length wig, contact lenses, and expensive designer clothes she hated. However, it was the jewelry that created the biggest problem for her. In every photograph of the wealthy former Miss UT, she was wearing several bracelets, heavy gold necklaces, a broach on her lapel or collar, and two sets of earrings dangled from the twin holes in each ear.
For a woman whose idea of jewelry was diamond studs and a wristwatch, being decked out in gold and jewels on a daily basis irritated the hell out of Lindsay. How did anyone function weighed down by so much clutter?
But for now, Lindsay sat, completely uncluttered, wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized cotton sweater, on the sofa in Paige Allgood’s den. Since Paige was notorious for sleeping until noon every day, Lindsay had her mornings free. Her afternoons were spent at the downtown building the real Paige planned to convert into a theater—the old Woodruff Building. Powell agents posed as contractors, designers, and investors, assisting her in bringing her role as Paige Allgood to life. The only question was did they have an audience? An audience of one.
Was the BQ Killer out there, watching and waiting? Or had he not even noticed a high profile, young, attractive, blond, former beauty queen who was ripe for the picking?
Deep in thought, Lindsay jumped when the phone rang. God, she hadn’t realized how jittery she was. Day after day of playacting while they waited and waited and waited was beginning to take a toll on her nerves.
Maleah, sans the black wig and glasses she wore in her disguise as the maid, came into the den, the portable phone in her hand. “Ms. Allgood, there’s a gentleman who’d like to speak to you.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “No name on the caller ID, just a number. But he said his name is Allen Posey. He’s interested in supporting local actors with a sizable donation to the little theater group you’re founding.”
Lindsay nodded. “Call Powell’s and run a check on this guy, then grab the other phone and listen in.”
“Will do.” Maleah handed Lindsay the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Posey, this is Paige Allgood.”
“Ms. Allgood, this is such an honor,” the distinctively Southern voice said. “I’ve been reading all about you recently, and I must say that I’m simply dying to get in on the ground floor of your little endeavor.”
“Are you really? Well, color me delighted. As you know, I don’t really need investors, but I don’t want to be selfish and not share with other like-minded philanthropists.”
“Then you’re not adverse to my making a sizable donation, are you?”
“My goodness, no.”
“I do have one small request.” He chuckled softly. “Well, actually two. First, my daughter, Cynthia, is a very talented girl. I’d like to see her cast in the first play you produce.”
“I … uh … I believe that could be arranged, especially if she’s very talented.”
“And my second request is that I’d like a private tour of the building you’re converting into a theater.”
“Oh, well … uh … certainly. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have my assistant meet you at your convenience—”
“No, no, my dear. You don’t understand. I’d like for you personally to give me a tour.”
A red warning signal popped up in Lindsay’s mind. “Uh … I believe that can be arranged.”
“Splendid. Shall we make it for tomorrow evening. Around six?” he asked, absolute glee in his voice.
A voice that sparked shivers along Lindsay’s nerves.
“Six tomorrow evening at the front entrance. Let me give you the address and directions on how to—”
“No need. I’m familiar with the area.”
“Then you’re from Knoxville?”
“Yes, of course. I thought surely you’d heard of me.” He sighed dramatically. “Would I be presumptuous in asking you to have dinner with me tomorrow evening, after the tour?”
Dinner? Hmm … Either this guy was on the up-and-up or he was giving a great performance. Lindsay wasn’t sure which, but her instincts told her it was the latter. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about Mr. Posey, but there was definitely something “off ” about him.
“Dinner? Well, all right. That sounds nice.”
“Until six tomorrow.”
Lindsay hit the Off button, then tossed the phone down on the sofa. Maleah, who’d been standing by and listening to most of the conversation on the portable extension, lifted her brows in a wasn’t-that-interesting expression.
“What do you think?” Lindsay asked.
“Could be our guy.”
“We know he’s an expert at luring intelligent women into his web. Derek has told us that he probably creates a different scenario for each victim and invents a personality for himself that for some reason appeals to the victim.”
“Makes sense.” Still holding the extension phone in her hand, Maleah sat down on the sofa with Lindsay. “What would appeal more to Paige than a refined gentleman interested in local theater?”
“We have a little over twenty-four hours to set things up. But first we have to find out all we can about Allen Posey. If there really is an Allen Posey.”
As if on cue, Maleah’s cell phone rang. She removed it from her shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Yes. Uh-huh. I see. Okay, I’ll tell her.” She closed her phone and turned to Lindsay. “That was the office. They ran a quick check and found that there is an Allen Posey. He’s a rich old codger. A native of Knoxville. Old family. Old money. And he has two daughters: Cynthia and Tracy.”
Lindsay nibbled on her bottom lip. “Then either our caller is on the up-and-up or he’s assuming the real Allen Posey’s identity and is guessing that Paige Allgood wouldn’t know the difference.”
“I say we contact Mr. Powell right away.”
“I’ll handle contacting Griff.”
“All right.” Maleah got up. “I’m in the mood for a Caesar salad for lunch. How does that sound to you?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
As soon as Maleah exited the den, Lindsay put in a call to Griff—on his private cell number.
Judd hadn’t told Lindsay when they spoke this morning that he was being released from the clinic around noon today. Before he went to Griffin’s Rest tomorrow to surprise her, he wanted to go home to Chattanooga first, get a haircut and a manicure, then look through his closet and find some decent clothes. He had already contacted his housekeeper and told her to get his old rooms prepared and to have his Porsche serviced and ready for him to drive. The first step in reclaiming his life was to return to the life he’d known before Jennifer’s murder and go from there. Yvette had made him see that he’d find some things from the past comforting, just like stepping into a favorite pair of old shoes. And other things from his former life would no longer fit him and would need to be discarded.