have written to him and the names and phone numbers of the people he’s called compiled and sent to me and to Powell headquarters as an e-mail attachment. He’s promised we’ll have the information by the end of the day.”
“Great. We’ve finally got something to work with, don’t we?”
“Yep.” When she didn’t continue their conversation, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“We’ll have to talk about your interview with Browning. I’ll need to know what he said, everything you can remember.”
Maleah adjusted her seat so that she could lean further back. She rested her head on the cushioned leather and folded her hands together in her lap.
“He asked what color my panties were and I told him beige with lace trim and that I was wearing a matching bra.”
“Son of a bitch.” Derek growled the comment under his breath.
“He still didn’t give me the copycat killer’s name or a description of him. But he did say that he knew things about this guy that could help us find him.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I didn’t disbelieve him.”
“He’s playing you. He may not know a damn thing.”
“He said if the copycat follows the Carver’s MO, he’ll alter the sex of his victims pretty much willy-nilly.”
“Something we already knew.”
“We didn’t know that his next victim wouldn’t have brown eyes.”
“What?”
“He called out to me just as I was leaving. He said the next victim wouldn’t be brown-eyed.”
“How could he possibly know that?” Derek suspected that Browning wouldn’t say something like that off the top of his head. If he wanted Maleah to come back to see him, he would try to impress her with his knowledge.
“I have no idea, but maybe we should check and see what color the first four victims’ eyes were. Maybe there’s a pattern.”
“We’ll contact the agency—”
Derek’s phone rang. No music. Just a strong, routine ring tone.
With one hand on the wheel and his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he pulled the phone from his pocket, hit the On button and said, “Derek Lawrence speaking,” without checking caller ID.
“I want you and Maleah at the Vidalia Municipal Airport as soon as you can get there,” Griff Powell said. “There’s a charter plane waiting to fly y’all to Atlanta. Nic and I will be taking off in the Powell jet within the next thirty minutes. We’ll pick y’all up in Atlanta. We’re flying from there straight to Nassau. The copycat struck again last night. He killed Errol Patterson. Errol’s wife found his body in the bathroom of their hotel suite. She’s under a doctor’s care at the moment and heavily sedated. She’s going to need all the help we can give her.”
“We’ll pick up our bags at the hotel and drive straight to the airport.”
Succinct and to the point. Conversation ended.
“What’s happened?” Maleah asked.
“The copycat killed Errol Patterson last night and his wife . . . his new bride . . . found his body this morning.”
Chapter 9
Derek and Maleah boarded the Powell private jet in Atlanta. Nic met them the moment they arrived, but Griff was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s in the bedroom making phone calls,” Nic explained. “He’s double checking with Barbara Jean about the arrangements for Cyrene’s sister to fly in to Nassau as soon as possible. From what we understand, Cyrene is in no condition to return home alone and we felt it best for a family member to be with her.”
Maleah had known Errol for several years, but only in a professional capacity. They had never worked a case together and she had probably seen him, at most, a dozen times. And she had never met his wife. With more than fifty agents employed by Powell’s, some had never met and many knew one another only in passing. Agents were chosen for cases by their specific qualifications for the job and by their availability. Only when partnered with another agent or when pulling duty at Griffin’s Rest together did the agents get a chance to form friendships.
It was not a surprise that when Nic introduced them to Brendan Richter, the agent who had accompanied Griff and Nic, Maleah drew a blank. She had no memory of ever meeting the somber, auburn-haired Powell agent.
“Good to see you again, Richter,” Derek said as he shook hands with the spit-and-polished man who looked as if he should be in uniform.
Maleah wondered if he had come straight out of the military.
“Likewise, Mr. Lawrence,” Richter replied with a slight, almost indiscernible accent.
To Maleah’s ear, the accent sounded German.
“That’s right, you two know each other,” Nic said. “Brendan is accompanying us to Nassau. He will be staying and overseeing Powell Agency concerns connected to Errol’s murder.”
“How long have you worked for our agency, Mr. Richter?” Maleah asked. She also wanted to ask how he and Derek knew each other, but she didn’t.
When Richter looked at Maleah, his cold blue eyes inspected her with aloof detachment. “Six months.”
He had answered her question without giving her any other information. “Are you retired military?”
“No, Ms. Perdue, I am not.”
Seeing no point in continuing this line of conversation, she turned to Nic. “How much information do we have about Errol Patterson’s murder?”
“Nothing really, except that he’s dead and that his wife found him in the bathroom of their hotel suite. So far, Griff hasn’t been able to find out anything else, no details.”
“Then we don’t know for sure that his throat was slit or that his body was mutilated?” Maleah asked.
“No, we don’t know for sure, but Griff is convinced that the Copycat Carver has struck again.” Nic glanced at Derek. “What do you think?”
“I think Griff is probably right.”
Maleah’s mind whirled with various thoughts, combining information and mixing it until an idea hit. Suddenly, she said, “I know this is going to sound like a really stupid thing to say, but—Errol was African American, but he had green eyes, didn’t he?”
Everyone stared at her. Her comment didn’t make sense to anyone except Derek.
“Is there some significance to the fact that Errol was green-eyed?” Nic asked.
“Jerome Browning told me that the copycat’s next victim would not be brown-eyed.”
“Perhaps it was only a lucky guess,” Richter said. “Or perhaps Mr. Browning chose his victims by eye color, eliminating those who had brown eyes, and he assumes the copycat killer will follow his lead. Do we know the eye color for the first four victims?”
“Shelley had blue eyes,” Maleah said. “And so did Kristi.”
“I don’t know about Holt’s brother or Ben’s father,” Nic said. “But I can find out.”
“How would the copycat have acquired such a seemingly unimportant piece of information about the original Carver’s victims?” Richter asked.
“Two ways,” Derek told them. “Either he has access to police records or Jerome Browning told him.”
“Neither Norris Keinan nor Winston Corbett were brown-eyed,” Griff said from where he stood in the open doorway to the bedroom suite. “I had met both men in the past.”
Everyone stared straight at Griffin Powell, his huge frame filling the doorway.
“My guess is that none of Jerome Browning’s victims were brown-eyed.” Griff came over, sat down beside Nic, and looked at Maleah.
