“Yes, ma’am, I can see to it that you get copies of whatever you need.”
“Then I can’t think of any reason we should keep y’all up any later than we already have.” Maleah glanced from the handsome young sheriff to the fifty-something coroner. “Mr. Lawrence and I are at the Holiday Inn Express.” She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Devin Gray. “We’d like to stay here and wait on Ben Corbett, if that’s all right with you?”
“Certainly,” Sheriff Gray said. “Feel free to use my office.”
When Sheriff Gray and Freddy said their good-byes and started to leave, Derek called to them. “By any chance, was Mr. Corbett found in or near a body of water?”
Both men froze to the spot. Freddy cleared his throat before glancing over his shoulder and saying, “He was found on the riverbank, face down, his feet in the river.”
“Were the others found in water?” Sheriff Gray asked, his gaze sliding slowly from Maleah to Derek.
“Yes, they were,” Derek replied quickly.
“Just another similarity, huh?” Freddy said. “Guess it’s looking more and more like the same person who killed those other people killed Mr. Corbett.”
“Apparently so.” Derek glanced at Maleah.
She knew what he was thinking.
Four innocent victims, their only connection the Powell Agency. But who had killed them? And why?
Maleah and Derek waited for Ben Corbett. When he arrived at the sheriff’s office at a little after three that Sunday morning, they shared with him all the information the sheriff and coroner had given them.
Ben had been with the agency for several years, coming straight from the army after his retirement. Three- fourths of the Powell agents had either law enforcement or military backgrounds. A few, such as Maleah, had been chosen because of their high IQs and willingness to learn on the job.
Although Ben had managed to control his emotions, Maleah hadn’t missed the subtle signs of anger and hurt. While they had explained what had happened and how they suspected his father’s death was related to the other three murders, his gaze wandered aimlessly, often focusing on the wall. Once or twice he had mumbled incoherently under his breath, then quieted suddenly and clenched his jaw, as if it was all he could to maintain his composure.
“Dad was a ladies’ man,” Ben told them. “He loved to flirt. Never bothered Mom. She’d just laugh about it. He never cheated on her, loved her to the day she died.” He swallowed hard. “I suspect he loved her till the day he died.”
“We’ve been authorized to help you in any way you need us,” Maleah said. “If you’d like us to make the arrangements or help you make them—”
“Thanks. That won’t be necessary. Dad made all the arrangements right after Mom died. Paid for everything. Chose his casket, picked out the suit he wanted to be buried in. Made his will. Told the minister what songs he wanted at the funeral. He said he didn’t want me to have to worry with any of it when the time came.”
For several minutes, the three of them remained silent. Then Ben asked the inevitable question. “Who the hell is doing this and why?”
“We don’t know,” Derek said. “The only thing the victims have in common is their connection to the Powell Agency. The killer’s MO is identical in all four cases, so we’re relatively certain we are dealing with one killer. But we have no idea what motivates him or how he chooses his victims.”
“At random, maybe,” Ben said. “Anybody associated with the agency is a target, right? And for whatever reason, the killer picked my dad.” Ben’s dark eyes misted. He turned his head.
Derek clamped his hand down on Ben’s shoulder. “We’re going to catch him and stop him.”
Ben nodded.
“Is there anything, anything at all, we can do for you?” Maleah asked.
Ben cleared his throat a couple of times. “No, thanks. I can’t think of anything. I’m going over to Dad’s place and try to get a few hours of sleep. When are y’all heading up to Griffin’s Rest?”
“If you don’t need us here, we probably won’t stay longer than mid-day tomorrow,” Derek told him. “Copies of the reports and the crime scene photos can be sent directly to the office as soon as they’re available. I expect Nic and Griff will be moving forward with their plans to form their own task force and since I’m the agency’s profiler—”
“Count me in on the task force,” Ben said. “After Dad’s funeral.”
Neither Derek nor Maleah responded, knowing it would be up to Griff and Nic to choose the agents who would lead the investigation and those who would assist. If Ben had been a police officer, he wouldn’t have been allowed near the case because his dad had been one of the victims. But Griff’s rules and regulations differed from regular law enforcement. On occasion, the Powell Agency came damn close to doling out vigilante justice, a fact that often created tension between Griff and Nic.
He could go days without sleep and could easily get by with four hours per night on a regular basis. He was no ordinary human being. Years of training, self-sacrifice, and stern discipline had honed both his mind and body into a superior being. He had no weaknesses, wasn’t vulnerable in any way, and therefore was practically invincible.
The espresso at the airport coffee bar was barely acceptable, but it served the purpose of giving him a caffeine boost. To pass the time while he waited for his flight to Miami, he flipped open his laptop and scanned the information about Errol Patterson.
Patterson was a former member of the Atlanta PD SWAT team, a crack shot and a decorated officer. He had loved his job, but when his fiancee had insisted he find a less dangerous profession, he had chosen love over duty and signed on with the Powell Agency.
He smiled.
How could he or his fiancee have known that choosing to work for the Powell Agency would cost him his life?
Patterson had been chosen for two reasons—he was associated with the Powell Agency and he was male.
He did more than stay one step ahead of the authorities. He outsmarted them, never leaving behind even the vaguest clue to his identity. Over the years, he had gone by many names, so many that it was easy to forget who he really was. His true identity was a guarded secret, known by only a handful of individuals. In certain circles, he was known as the Phantom. Nameless. Faceless. An illusion. Unseen. Unheard. A dark angel of death.
Maleah woke to the sound of incessant pounding. Inside her head? No, outside her hotel room. Some idiot was knocking on her door and calling her name.
She shot straight up in bed where she lay atop the wrinkled floral spread. Groggy and only semi-alert, she slid off the side of the bed and stood unsteadily on her bare feet for a few seconds.
“Maleah,” Derek called to her through the closed door.
Damn it! What time was it? She glanced at the digital bedside clock. 8:30 A.M.
She groaned. Three and a half hours was not nearly enough sleep.
“I’m coming,” she told him as she padded across the carpet. When she reached the door, she cracked it open, glared at Derek, who looked fresh as a daisy, and asked him, “Where’s the fire?”
He shoved open the door and breezed past her. She closed the door and turned to face him. Obviously he had shaved, showered, and pressed his slacks and shirt. His stylish, neck-length hair glistened with blue-black highlights. His deep brown eyes focused on her with amusement.
