down the hall, Maleah closed the door, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Noah. Sorry that you were so brutally murdered. Sorry that I didn’t ask for details about your death when your sister called me. Sorry that I didn’t love you enough to marry you.”
Griff poured Macallan single malt Scotch whisky into two glasses, handed one to Derek and lifted the other to his lips. After taking a sip, he motioned for Derek to take the left of two leather chairs flanking the seven-foot-high rock fireplace in his private study. As Griff sat in the opposite chair, Derek studied the man briefly, noting the weariness in his expression. The four recent Powell Agency–related deaths had begun to take a toll on the seemingly invincible billionaire.
“I had Sanders put a call in to the Georgia governor,” Griff said. “I saw no point in wasting my time going through the normal channels to acquire visitation privileges for you and Maleah at the Georgia State Prison.”
Derek nodded. Why indeed? There would be no point in Griff calling the prison’s warden when he was on a first name basis with the governor.
Born into a wealthy, old Southern family, Derek had taken for granted all the things most people struggle for on a daily basis. His mother hobnobbed with other society matrons, his sister married a suitable young man from a proper family, and Derek’s grandparents had left him a trust fund worth more millions than he’d ever spend in one lifetime. Griffin Powell had been born dirt poor, but was now one of the wealthiest men in the world. No one knew how the former UT football hero had earned his billions during the ten years after he had mysteriously disappeared.
“I’d rather not send Maleah to do the initial interview even if she is one of our best agents. But under the circumstances, I feel she’s the only choice. The killer didn’t choose to copy the Carver’s murders without a reason.”
“You’re assuming Maleah is the reason, right?”
“In a roundabout way,” Griff said. “He wanted a connection between the killer he copied and one of our agents. It could be a coincidence that Maleah is that agent. Or it is possible that Maleah’s friendship with my wife is the reason. What hurts Maleah hurts Nic and what hurts Nic hurts me.”
“That’s the way love and friendship works.”
Griff took a hefty swallow of the aged whisky. Holding the drink in one hand, he absently stroked the side of the glass with his other hand, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the smooth surface.
“Do you think Browning personally knows our killer?” Derek asked. His gut instincts told him that the Powell Agency killer and Browning were at the very least acquainted. Possibly friends. Or more likely, student and teacher.
“Probably. What do you think?”
“Probably.”
“Browning could well be the key to unlocking our killer’s identity.”
Derek took his first sip of the premium Scotch whisky. He wasn’t a drinking man himself, but he did enjoy an occasional sip of the good stuff. Not that he was a teetotaler by any means. But seeing what alcohol addiction had done to his father and older brother made Derek conscientious about his drinking habits. After the smooth liquor made its way down his throat and warmed his belly, he glanced at Griff, who was staring into the cold fireplace.
“We both know that Browning isn’t going to willingly offer us any information,” Derek said.
“No, he’ll sense from the get-go that he has the upper hand. And he’ll use it to his advantage. He’ll want something in return for anything he gives us.”
“For anything he gives Maleah.”
Griff nodded. “She’s strong and smart and I’d trust her with even the most difficult assignment. But this is different. From what I’ve read about Jerome Browning, he’s going to play hardball and I don’t know if Maleah is a tough enough opponent.”
“She’s not going into this alone,” Derek reminded his boss.
“That’s true.” Griff stared at Derek, as if he was judging his worth as a warrior. “She’s going to need you. She won’t like it and may even resist your advice and assistance. You know what a stubborn little mule she can be.”
Derek chuckled. “That’s an understatement. She is without a doubt the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known.”
“Nic is worried about her. She understands why Maleah is the one who should interview Browning, but they’re close, almost like sisters, and know each other’s weaknesses. Nic’s concerned that Browning may use any weakness he senses in Maleah against her.”
“If Browning picks up on any weakness in her, I have no doubt that he’ll use it. But I’ll be there to advise her.” Derek took a second sip of whisky and then set the glass down on the floor beside his chair. “Before we leave for Georgia, I’ll go over all the files we have on Browning and do an in-depth study on the guy. After we meet him, I’ll work up my own profile and compare it to the old FBI profile the agency put together.”
Griff nodded. “I want the copycat killer found and stopped before anyone else dies.” He downed another gulp of the Macallan, huffed out a deep breath, and took another swig.
It was Derek’s opinion that recently Griff had been drinking too much. The man had a high tolerance for alcohol, was able to drink enough to knock another man on his ass, and usually knew his limit. But for the past couple of months, Derek had noticed a distinct change in his boss, and not only in his drinking habits.
“You do know that these murders are not your fault,” Derek said.
Griff’s grumbling growl came from his chest, a combination of anger and pain. “He is sending me a message. No matter what anyone thinks, I know that I’m the ultimate target. He wants me to suffer, to know that he’s killing these people because they are in some way associated with me.”
“I know that’s what you believe, but there is no way you can be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Look, Griff, I’ve never asked for specific details about your past, about those missing ten years,” Derek said. “I figured everything that happened to you and how you earned your billions was nobody’s business. Certainly not mine. What I know, you’ve told me yourself, and I appreciate your trusting me with the information. But if there’s something specific that I need to know, something that could help me—”
“Go with Maleah to see Browning. Size up the guy. Get all the info you can out of him and then we’ll talk.” Griff finished off his glass of whisky.
Derek didn’t need to say more. He understood that Griff had dismissed him. He stood, said good night and closed the door behind him when he left.
As if he were standing guard, Sanders waited across the hall from Griff’s study, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. With a stocky, fireplug build, every muscle toned, a sharp mind always in observation mode, the man appeared to be battle ready at all times.
“He’s drinking too much.” Derek paused long enough to make direct eye contact with his boss’s right-hand man.
Sanders nodded.
“He thinks the murders are his fault.”
“Griffin carries the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Sanders said.
“Someone who knows him far better than I do needs to convince him that he’s not to blame, no matter what the killer’s motives might be.”
“Griffin is a man who accepts responsibility.”
Derek stared at Sanders, not quite understanding his comment. Did he believe that Griff was in some way responsible for the actions of a psychopath?
“No one person can right all the wrongs in the world, no matter how rich and powerful they might be,” Derek said.
“One person can try.”
“My God, what grievous sin did he commit that he feels compelled to atone for by wearing a hair shirt the rest of his life?”
“I advise you not to profile Griffin Powell with that analytical mind of yours, Mr. Lawrence.”
