“It seems that Linden may be alive and well and is reported to have been in the U.S. for the past six months.”
Sanders didn’t react, didn’t even blink. “And did Luke ascertain what the presumed dead Mr. Linden is doing in the U.S.?”
“It seems Linden is now a professional assassin.”
Sanders’s eyes widened. He clenched his jaw.
“Luke was told that Linden is working for Malcolm York,” Griff said.
Sanders’s nostrils flared as he released a deeply inhaled breath. “How reliable is Luke’s source?”
“As reliable as fifty thousand dollars can buy. It seems that the source claims to have had drinks with Linden the night before he left for America. Luke assumes that his source and Linden are in the same business.”
“If Anthony Linden is alive and if he is in the U.S., sent here in his profession as an assassin, you and I know that the man who hired him is not Malcolm York. York is dead.”
“Is he?” Griff asked.
“You know he is.”
“Yes, of course I know he is. He was dead when we left him on Amara. No one could have survived what we did to him, not even an inhuman demon like York.” Griff looked at Sanders for affirmation, needing to hear him say the words, to vanquish the ghost that haunted him. Malcolm York was dead and yet . . .
“What York did to us, and to many others, lives on in each of us, like an incurable disease,” Sanders said. “But York is dead. He was dead long before we chopped off his head.”
Chapter 21
The trip from St. Simons Island to Vidalia took close to two and a half hours. Maleah drove straight through without making any stops. When they arrived at the Hampton Inn that Sunday afternoon, they went to their separate rooms. Although they had both acted as if last night’s kiss had never happened, that singular event stood between them, an invisible wall of uncertainty. After making a concentrated effort for months to persuade Maleah to like and trust him, why had he done something so monumentally stupid? Any fool would have known that by kissing her, he would alter their fragile friendship.
If he could take back the kiss, would he?
Maybe.
But when he had kissed her, she had kissed him. Crazy thing was that he suspected she had enjoyed the kiss as much as he had, that it had affected her as strongly as it had him.
As he settled into his room, he tried to stop thinking about Maleah as anything other than his partner on a Powell Agency case. He unpacked his suitcase, hung up his clothes, and placed his shaving kit on the bathroom sink counter. He picked up the ice bucket and took it with him when he left the room in search of the refreshment center. He returned to his room with a full ice bucket and four canned colas, two in his jacket pockets and two balanced atop the bucket.
After placing three colas in the mini-fridge and the ice bucket on the desk, he upended a glass from the paper coaster, filled the glass with ice and popped the tab on his Coke. Then he removed his jacket and shirt, as well as his shoes and socks, stripping down to his T-shirt and bare feet. After setting up his laptop, he grabbed the glass of cola, along with a pad and pen, and relaxed on the sofa. Kicked back, sipping on the cold drink, he propped his feet up on the coffee table.
On the drive from St. Simons Island, he and Maleah had avoided any mention of last night. She had focused on driving; he had checked e-mails and text messages and given his full attention to the copycat killer case. They hadn’t talked much and when they had, their conversation had been limited to strategic planning for tomorrow.
Maleah had a ten o’clock interview with Browning in the morning. She understood that the first goal was to find out if Browning knew that his visitor Albert Durham was not the real Durham, the real biographer. If the fake Durham had fooled Browning, then it might be possible to coax him into betraying any confidences the two men had shared. But he wouldn’t give the info to Maleah without equal payment in return. He would want his pound of flesh. And he would want to strip it off Maleah himself, inch by inch.
If Browning knew that his visitor had been a fraud, his knowing that would change everything. That could mean the two men were co-conspirators, working together, each getting something they wanted from their alliance. If that were the case, then Browning wouldn’t be inclined to offer any info to Maleah. Not unless she could up the ante and offer him something that the fake Durham couldn’t.
Derek could only imagine what price Browning would demand.
Would Maleah be willing to pay the price?
Would he let her?
While he jotted down first one thought and then another, anything and everything that came to mind, he finished off the first Coke. Just as he got up, refilled his glass with ice and reached into the fridge for a second can, someone knocked on his door.
He set the can beside his glass on the table and padded barefoot across the carpet. When he peered through the peephole, he smiled. He hadn’t expected to see her again until morning.
He opened the door. “Hi.”
“May I come in?” Maleah asked, her chin high, her gaze direct.
He stepped aside to allow her room to enter. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”
When she scanned him from head to toe, he realized she was taking in his completely casual appearance. “I was settling in for the evening.”
“I apologize for disturbing you.” She was still dressed just as she had been when they had arrived at the hotel. Navy slacks, tan jacket, and sensible low-heel shoes.
“You’re not disturbing me,” he told her as he closed the door. “Would you like a Coke?”
She eyed the glass filled with ice and the unopened cola can on the desk. “Do you have another?”
“Two more as a matter of fact.” He moved past her toward the desk.
“Then, yes, thank you, I’d like a Coke.”
“Have a seat.” He busied himself preparing a second glass with ice and then split the Coke between the two glasses. He walked over to where she sat on the sofa and offered her the drink.
Before joining her on the sofa, he opened the fridge and retrieved a second cola, popped the tab and set the can on the coffee table beside Maleah’s glass. When he started to sit down, Maleah reached out and picked up the notepad he had left lying on the sofa.
“Take a look,” he told her. “I was just putting down some thoughts on your meeting with Browning in the morning. See if there’s anything you think you can work with, anything that strikes you as doable.”
She read over the page of notes, and then set the pad on the coffee table before lifting her glass and sipping on the cola.
“First and foremost, you have to find a way to figure out if Browning knows that the Albert Durham who visited him is a fake,” Derek said.
“I figure a direct approach is best,” she said. “I think I should lead off with the news that we spoke to the real biographer, Albert Durham, and that the man who visited him and passed himself off as a writer wanting to tell the world Browning’s life story is a phony.”
“I agree. Watch him closely for his initial reaction. After those first few seconds, he’ll hide what he’s feeling and thinking. Browning is smart. He’ll figure out what you want almost immediately.”
“And that’s when the games begin.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“What if I can’t read him well enough in those first few minutes to figure out if he already knew Durham was a phony?”
“You’ll get an initial gut reaction in those first few seconds,” Derek told her. “Go with your gut, let it lead you into what you’ll say next. Don’t listen as much to what Browning is saying as to what he isn’t saying. Read between
