“They were,” Richter said. “Was there anything else, anything unusual about the body?”
Thompson’s lips curved downward in a contemplative frown. “I assume you are referring to the triangular pieces of flesh cut from the victim’s upper arms and thighs.”
Yes, that was exactly what Richter had been referring to, that final piece of information that irrefutably linked Patterson’s murder to the other four.
“Yes,” Derek and Richter answered simultaneously.
“An autopsy will be performed,” the inspector said. “And a toxicology screening has been ordered. Mr. Patterson was a large man in his prime, a security agent trained to protect himself and others, so how was it possible for someone to overpower him? And why did his wife sleep soundly while her husband was being murdered?”
“They were both drugged.” Richter stated the obvious.
“We suspect so, yes.”
Derek’s opinion of Inspector Thompson as an investigator rose by several degrees.
“In the other four murders, the killer left behind no evidence that could help identify him or enable the police to track him,” Derek said. “Is that true in this case?”
Thompson grunted. “Unfortunately, yes.” He looked directly at Derek. “That is the sign of a true professional, is it not, Mr. Lawrence.”
Thompson had done his homework, no doubt running a check on the three of them, which meant he knew that Derek was a former FBI profiler.
“Professional in the sense that he was no amateur,” Derek said. “He is a skilled killer, which tells us that he’s killed before, perhaps numerous times.”
The thought that the copycat could be a gun-for-hire had crossed his mind, but that possibility was only one of several scenarios that he had considered. Until he had more evidence to back up any one theory, he had no intention of suggesting to Griff that the man they were hunting could be a professional assassin.
As if understanding Derek’s assessment of the situation, Thompson simply nodded before inquiring, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”
“I think Ms. Perdue and I have what we need,” Derek said.
“And you, Mr. Richter?”
“I would like to speak to the first responders on the scene,” Richter said. “As well as any witnesses your people interviewed. I’ll need copies of all the reports, photographs, and preliminary findings.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Perdue will be leaving Nassau tomorrow, but I will be staying on for several weeks, as the Powell Agency representative.”
Inspector Thompson barely managed to hide his negative reaction. He quickly turned his frown into a forced smile as he shook hands with each of them.
“I wish you both a safe flight tomorrow.” And then his dark gaze settled on Richter, each man sizing up the other. “I have the greatest respect for you, as a former ICPO agent, Mr. Richter. I suspect I may be able to learn a great deal from you.”
Yes, Inspector Thompson had done his homework. Derek didn’t doubt that the man probably knew what he, Richter, and Maleah had each eaten for breakfast that morning.
Nic knew her husband well enough to understand that he was not concerned about his own life, but was greatly concerned about her welfare as well as the lives of everyone associated with the Powell Agency. He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. His primitive protective instincts made him a dangerous opponent when those he cared about were in danger, but those same instincts were his personal Achilles’ heel, his only weakness. Griffin Powell’s ability to love equaled if not surpassed the passion with which he hated. She admired his ability to stay calm under pressure, a trait she tried to emulate. But beneath that cool, controlled exterior, a violent rage smoldered just below the surface.
And it was that rage inside Griff that worried her.
They had calmly discussed the untraceable phone call he had received at the Nassau resort. She had struggled to match his restrained composure when faced with a threat against both of them.
“He’s taunting me,” Griff had said. “He wants me to know that all roads lead to Rome, that every murder is leading him closer to me.”
“Maybe he just wants you to think that. Maybe he’s trying to steer us in the wrong direction.”
“Maybe, but unlikely.”
Nic still wasn’t totally convinced that Griff was the ultimate target, that the copycat killings were connected to his past, to a dead man named York. Admittedly, that possibility frightened her far more than any other. Was that why she clung so doggedly to other theories?
At his request, she joined Griff in the agency’s home office, an area inside their house that had been designed to allow Griff to oversee his vast empire without ever leaving Griffin’s Rest. The Powell Building, located in downtown Knoxville, housed the inner workings of the agency, as well as the staff for the numerous Powell philanthropic endeavors. Each year, the Powell Empire required more and more employees, which meant that at the present time, approximately two hundred people and their families were at risk. Of course, those directly employed by the Powell Agency comprised only the tip of the iceberg. Indirectly, Griffin Powell employed countless thousands.
When she entered the state-of-the-art office suite, Nic paused in the doorway, allowing her gaze to travel around the room and pause on each occupant. Her initial thought—“round up the usual suspects”—would have made her smile if not for the seriousness of the situation.
Dr. Yvette Meng, the epitome of exotic elegance, stood away from the others, alone and infallibly serene. If her goal had been to be as inconspicuous as possible, she had failed. There was no way the dark-eyed beauty, whose very presence in any room commanded attention, could be overlooked.
Sanders stood behind Griff, who sat at the head of the conference table. She respected her husband’s guard dog, which was the way she thought of the quiet, reserved man with the perpetual hint of sadness in his dark eyes.
Barbara Jean, her friend and confidant, glanced up from where she sat in her wheelchair at the far end of the table. She offered Nic an encouraging smile. One of the many things Nic loved about Barbara Jean was her optimistic outlook on life, which considering the tragedies she had endured was in and of itself a miracle.
Powell agents filled five of the ten chairs at the table, leaving the end chair—her chair—unoccupied. As she entered the office, she quickly noted which agents had been called in for duty at Griffin’s Rest. Shaughnessy Hood, who had been with the agency since its infancy, a bear of a man at six-six and three hundred pounds; Luke Sentell, a former Black Ops commando, the most mysterious and most deadly member of the team; Saxon Chappelle, a Harvard graduate, who like Derek Lawrence possessed a borderline genius IQ. And then there were the two female agents: Feisty, petite Angie Sterling Moss, five months pregnant and presently on restricted duty. And Michelle Allen, an expert in martial arts, recruited after the death of her fiance with whom she had owned a franchise of martial art studios throughout the state of Tennessee.
As Nic approached the conference table, Griff looked at her. The moment she took her seat, Griff broke eye contact with her and surveyed the others in the room.
“Starting today, from now until the Copycat Carver is apprehended, security at Griffin’s Rest will be tripled and access both in and out of the estate will be limited. Those living here should be safer than any of the Powell employees living and working on the outside. Unfortunately, we have no way to predict who the copycat has chosen as his next victim.”
An unnatural silence fell over the room.
“Luke will be leaving tomorrow for an assignment in London,” Griff said.
Nic tensed. Griff had deliberately not discussed Luke’s new assignment with her. She knew he had been trying to protect her, trying to postpone the inevitability that his actions would upset her, and trying to avoid yet another argument. But what she couldn’t get through his stubborn head was how that type of protective maneuver only made matters worse in the end.
