Scudder first; then Cindy Di Blasi.
Albert Durham wasn’t a problem. Even if the Powell Agency could find the reclusive author, there wasn’t a damn thing the man could tell them.
He had known the Powell Agency would eventually get around to interviewing Browning, which would prompt them to check out his recent visitors. However, they had moved a bit faster than he had anticipated. Too bad Scudder wouldn’t get to enjoy his big payoff.
The walk from the Travelodge Suites on Broadway Street took only a few minutes and would have been rather pleasant if not for the rain. When he had left his hotel, the sky had been overcast. He had gone to his car to drop off his jacket and had picked up an umbrella. By the time he reached the corner of Walnut and Third, heavy droplets had begun falling. Now that he had reached the building that housed Wyman Scudder’s new law office, a steady drizzle had set in.
After entering the lobby, he closed his black umbrella and headed straight for the elevators. While he waited for the Up elevator, the Down elevator opened and a man and woman emerged. The couple was so absorbed in their conversation with each other that they barely noticed him. Later on, if asked, they would say they had seen a black-haired man with a neat mustache and Van Dyke, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. And perhaps one of them would remember that he had a large skull tattoo on his left arm.
He had learned long ago that a disguise should be simple and the effect subtle. Sometimes little more than a cap and a pair of glasses were needed to alter his appearance.
Scudder’s office was on the third floor, a corner office that faced the street. The outer door was closed.
He knocked.
No response.
He tried the handle and the door opened to an empty outer office. No furniture. No secretary. Scudder hadn’t had time to acquire either.
“Hello, anybody here?” he called out, wondering if perhaps Scudder had gone home early.
The door leading into the private office opened. A bleary-eyed, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a slight paunch hanging over his belt stood in the doorway and stared at him.
“Who are you?” Wyman asked, his speech slightly slurred.
The idiot was drunk.
“A potential client, Mr. Scudder,” he said using his best good old boy accent.
“Well, come right on in, Mr.—” Wyman squinched his eyes and studied his visitor. “Have we met before?”
“Might have, if you’ve ever been down to Perry. I got a motorcycle repair shop.” He moved toward Wyman, who backed up into his office as his guest approached. “You got a motorcycle, Mr. Scudder?”
A perplexed look crossed Wyman’s face. “No, I don’t have a motorcycle.”
He closed the door behind him. Wyman staggered toward his desk.
“Just how can I be of assistance, Mr.—?”
“Just call me Harold.” He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out the strong thin strip of nylon cord.
Wyman lost his balance and fell toward his desk, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing onto the edge of the only piece of furniture in the room other than a leather swivel chair.
“Yes, sir, Harold. Tell me why you need a lawyer.”
“I don’t need just any lawyer. I need you.”
Before Scudder had a chance to turn and face him, he moved in for the kill. Quickly. Adeptly.
With the expert ease gained from years of experience, he walked up behind an inebriated Wyman Scudder and brought the cord over his head and across his neck before the unsuspecting fool realized what was happening. He struggled, but he was no match for a stronger, more agile, and sober man.
Halfway between Vidalia and Macon, the bottom fell out, and within minutes, Maleah could barely see the road. The rain came down in thick, heavy sheets, all but obliterating her view through the windshield. With little choice, for safety’s sake, Maleah slowed the SUV to a crawl—twenty-five miles an hour.
“Maybe we should find a place to stop,” Derek said. “At least until the worst passes.”
“I’m okay,” she assured him. “If it gets worse, I’ll exit the interstate.”
When he didn’t respond, Maleah knew what he was thinking. Derek wished he was driving. Being the superior male, he could probably use his x-ray vision to see through the heavy downpour and his innate masculine abilities to maneuver the SUV through floodwaters.
After several minutes, Derek ended the awkward silence. “Do you know what puzzles me?”
“What? That I have managed not to wreck us?”
“Huh?” He laughed. “No. You’re doing a great job. Better than I could do. I hate driving in heavy rain. Makes me nervous.”
Maleah almost took her eyes off the road to glance at Derek, to see if he was mocking her. But she didn’t. He sounded sincere, so she’d take him at his word.
“Okay, tell me what puzzles you.”
“Why would someone hire Wyman Scudder, or any lawyer for that matter, to represent Jerome Browning, a man who confessed to murder and is serving consecutive life sentences?”
“I have no idea. You tell me.”
“Let’s say Albert Durham is our copycat killer. He wanted Browning to reveal all his little secrets so that he, Durham, could duplicate Browning’s MO. Maybe simply telling Browning that he wanted to write the story of his life wasn’t enough incentive for Browning to open up and share all.”
Derek was right. Damn, he was always right! “I see what you’re getting at. Durham promised Browning a new lawyer, maybe made him think Scudder could find grounds to reopen his case, as far fetched as that idea is. And he promised Browning a lady friend.”
“Cindy Di Blasi. What are the odds that Cindy, or whatever her name is, gets paid by the hour?”
“A prostitute? Makes sense.”
“Another thing that puzzles me is, if Durham isn’t the copycat killer, why a writer with Durham’s reputation would get involved with Browning. He’s never chosen a convicted criminal as the subject of one of his biographies. If someone hired him to do it, why would he agree?”
“Maybe he needs the money.”
“Possibly. But he’d have to know he was getting himself mixed up with something illegal.”
“What if he’s being blackmailed,” Maleah said. “Or maybe Durham really is our copycat.”
“Maybe he is. But if he is, why would he leave us a trail leading straight to him?”
“He wouldn’t.”
“We have too many unanswered questions.”
“You’re right. We need answers, so we start with Scudder. We know where to find him. He may be able to tell us something.”
“I figure Scudder will talk for the right amount of money,” Derek told her. “But I’m not sure how much he actually knows.”
“Hopefully the agency will dig up more info on Cindy and Durham and once we’ve questioned Scudder and gotten some answers, we’ll be able to move on pretty quickly to Cindy and Durham.”
“It could take time to track them down, especially if they don’t want to be found.”
Maleah and Derek continued discussing the case, their conversation gradually dwindling down to an occasional comment by the time Maleah exited the interstate. The rain had slacked up to little more than a drizzle, but the pavement was slick and mucky with roadway residue. Muddy water filled the potholes and gushed across low-lying areas in the highway.
Following GPS directions, they watched for Mulberry Street, which crisscrossed with Third Street where Wyman Scudder’s new law office was located.
Maleah noted the congestion ahead, but neither she nor Derek immediately realized that the next street was partially blocked by emergency vehicles, including a fire truck, an ambulance, and several patrol cars. As they drew nearer, she noticed a uniformed officer directing traffic. He stood in front of their destination.
