“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.”
“Do you think Cindy Di Blasi is an alias?”
“Could be,” Derek said. “Using the description of the woman we got from the guards who remember her, the Powell team will compare her description, along with approximate age, to see if there’s a woman by that name anywhere in the state of Georgia.”
“Browning told me that Cindy is a lady friend and that a mutual friend hooked them up.”
“And that mutual friend could be Wyman Scudder or—”
“Or Albert Durham.”
“Albert Durham is a real person, not an alias. Sanders is checking out the info on the driver’s license ID he used when he visited Browning. The man’s a writer. He writes biographies about historical figures, presidents and generals, world leaders in various areas.”
“This is becoming more and more curious, isn’t it?” Maleah glanced at Derek. “Do you have a theory?” She refocused on the road immediately.
“I think we have three possible scenarios,” Derek told her. “The Copycat Carver hired Scudder, Durham, and Cindy and has used them as go-betweens to contact Browning. Or the Copycat Carver is actually one of them— Scudder or Durham or Cindy.”
“Cindy? I thought everyone was in agreement that the copycat is a man.”
“Who said Cindy was a woman?”
Maleah snorted. “I say Cindy is a woman. Either a woman or a very small man. The guards said she was about five-two and maybe weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet.”
“Yeah, Cindy is probably female. But that still leaves Scudder and Durham.”
“Agreed. So, what’s your third scenario?”
“Ah yes, my third scenario.”
“Stop being so dramatic and just tell me.”
Derek grinned. “Someone hired Scudder, Durham, and Cindy, as well as a professional killer to copy Browning’s murders.”
“This is the Griffin Powell theory, isn’t it? Some mystery man over in Europe who is using the name Malcolm York is striking out at Griff by killing Powell agents and members of their families.”
“It’s one of three theories. At this point, I don’t have a favorite. I don’t know enough to make a judgment call. I don’t even have a gut instinct pick.”
Maleah remained silent for several miles, but Derek knew she was thinking, mulling things over, and deciding what she wanted to say.
“Browning was careful not to tell me anything I couldn’t easily find out on my own,” Maleah said. “That Scudder was his lawyer and that Cindy was his lady friend. But he did share something about Durham that seems odd to me.”
Derek waited, allowing her to progress at her own speed.
“Just as I was leaving, Browning told me that Albert Durham was writing his biography.”
“Why would a renowned biographer of historical figures choose to write the bio of a condemned serial killer?”
“What if he’s not the real Albert Durham?”
“If he is or isn’t the real Durham, you do realize that Browning probably believes he is,” Derek said. “And Browning would have been inclined to share numerous details about the murders with his biographer.”
“Which means Durham would have the info he needed to duplicate those murders.”
“If we can find Albert Durham, we just might find the Copycat Carver.”
Chapter 12
How many times had his ex-wife said those exact words?
She’d been right. Sheila had been right about a lot of things.
Wyman lifted the open bottle of Wild Turkey 101 proof bourbon whiskey and poured his glass threefourths full. The damn stuff had cost him sixty bucks, but he had the money, didn’t he? It was nobody’s business what he paid for his pleasures and a good bottle of bourbon headed his list of carnal delights. He lifted the glass to salute his ex-wife, his ex-associates, and his ex-life. He might have been on his way down six months ago, but not now.
“Here’s to Wyman Scudder. Long may he live the good life.”
He downed one long, glorious gulp, shivered, coughed, and then laughed. When he left his office today—a right nice office, if he did say so himself—he’d be going home to a Mill Creek Run apartment. After living in his old office for nearly a year, he had every right to celebrate his good fortune, didn’t he? A new office on Third Street, a first-rate apartment, a good bottle of bourbon, and a new suit. He ran his hand over the quality material of his thousand-dollar pin-striped suit. It might be off the rack, but it was a damn expensive rack.
Wyman took a sip of the smooth whiskey and then another before placing the glass on a fancy soapstone coaster atop his desk.
He had a chance now to put his life back together and that’s just what he intended to do. Screw Sheila. Screw his old law firm. Two years ago, both his wife and his firm had thrown him out as if he were yesterday’s trash.
He’d show ’em just what he was made of.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hollered into the emptiness of his new office.
If anybody asked him who had hired him to represent Jerome Browning, he’d tell them the truth. He hadn’t done anything illegal. He’d seen Browning only a couple of times, did what he’d been paid to do—consult with his
