Dead By Morning

They knew, he, Yvette, and Sanders, how completely insane Malcolm York had been. Diabolically insane.

“Are we to believe that this pseudo Malcolm York has sent a hired killer to murder people connected to the Powell Agency?” Yvette asked. “And he is a professional assassin, who according to official records is dead?”

“It’s all too far fetched to believe,” Nic insisted, her gaze traveling the room, searching the others’ faces for any signs of disbelief. “Please tell me that none of you actually believe this story.”

“Far fetched or not, we can’t dismiss the possibility,” Griff said.

“Good God, Griff, you think it’s true, don’t you?” Nic glared at him. “You think somehow, someway, York is reaching out from beyond the grave to seek revenge.”

“No. I don’t believe that Malcolm York is reaching out from beyond the grave,” Griff said. “But I do believe that a real live person is using York’s name.”

“But who?” Nic asked. “And why?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” Griff replied. “That’s why I want to send Meredith to London as soon as possible to join Luke.” He looked at Yvette. “He’ll need her from here on out. Will you speak to her and persuade her to help us?”

Yvette didn’t respond immediately. Griff could see that the idea of sending the emotionally vulnerable Meredith Sinclair to aid Luke in his dangerous investigation bothered Yvette greatly. She was extremely protective of her proteges, the way a mother would be of her children.

“The choice is hers,” Yvette finally said. “But if she agrees, then I believe I should go with her.”

“No, it’s far too dangerous for you to leave Griffin’s Rest.”

“I can’t let Meredith go alone.”

“You can and you will, if she agrees. Luke will take care of her. He understands her special needs. He won’t let anything happen to her.”

Chapter 22

Maleah had barely managed to force down a piece of toast and drink a cup of coffee that morning. Her stomach was tied in knots. She had put up a brave front, but suspected that Derek knew just how nervous she was. As she waited for the guard to bring in Jerome Browning, she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Her mind reeled with information overload. Focus, damn it, focus. Remember what Derek told you—don’t over- think anything, just go with your gut instincts.

The moment she heard the door open, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and stood tall and straight. The guard escorted a handcuffed and shackled Browning into the room. As on the previous visits, Browning was neatly groomed, clean-shaven, hair trimmed. His dark complexion appeared even darker against his prison uniform of white shirt and pants.

When he saw her, he smiled. “Hello, Maleah. How nice to see you this morning. May I say how lovely you look.”

“Thank you.” She approached the chair facing the one in which the guard placed Browning. Using the advantage of height, she stood and looked down at him. “I told you that I would come back to see you this week.”

“So you did.” As he looked up at her, his smile widened. “I appreciate a lady who keeps her word.”

Enough chit-chat. She wouldn’t waste another second on pleasantries.

“My partner and I met Albert Durham on Saturday.”

She watched Browning’s face for a reaction and saw nothing to indicate he was surprised or concerned. His smile didn’t waver. He didn’t even blink.

What had Derek said about someone not blinking? Did it mean he was lying? But lying about what? His calm reaction to her statement?

Don’t over-analyze.

Assume nothing.

“And how was he? Well, I hope,” Browning said.

“Quite well. And confused about why we had tracked him down to ask about his relationship with you.”

“Was he? Odd. I never found Albert to be confused about anything.”

Browning kept his gaze focused on Maleah’s face.

Unwavering eye contact. That meant Browning’s thoughts about what she had said were positive. Either that or it meant he didn’t trust her enough to take his eyes off her.

Damn it! All this reading body language shit was driving her nuts and defeating the purpose of gauging Browning’s reactions and reading between the lines of what he said or didn’t say.

Remember, gut instinct, first and foremost.

“I’m afraid the Albert Durham you know isn’t the real Albert Durham, the writer who has published more than a dozen biographies,” Maleah told him. “Whoever the man was who visited you under the pretense of writing your life story was a phony.”

Browning lifted his cuffed hands, tented them together and rubbed the tips of his index fingers across his chin. “Was he, indeed? How utterly fascinating.”

Rubbing the chin meant disbelief. Right? Didn’t Browning believe her? Who knew? Hell, maybe his chin itched.

“Did you know he was a phony?” she asked.

“How could I have known?”

“He could have told you who he really was and what he wanted from you.”

“He wanted to write my biography because he found me to be a fascinating subject.”

“Is that really what he told you?”

Browning eyed the empty chair across from him. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, and make yourself comfortable. I’m tired of straining my neck to look up at you. And our sitting face to face is so much more intimate, don’t you think.”

She remained standing. She wasn’t giving him what he wanted without getting something in return. “Did Durham really tell you he was going to write your bio? And if he did, did you believe him?”

“He did. And I did.”

She sat down then, keeping her back straight as she crossed her arms.

Browning studied her pose and then widened his eyes. He was observing her body language as closely as she was his. Got you! she wanted to scream. She had deliberately crossed her arms, an indication that she had put up a barrier between them, to see how he would react. Now she knew that he would play her, not only verbally, but with his gestures.

“Tell me about your conversations with Durham,” Maleah said. “What did the two of you talk about during his visits?”

“We talked about my favorite subject—me.” He chuckled.

“About your favorite color, your favorite food, your favorite music—”

“About my favorite way to kill.”

“He wanted to know the details, didn’t he, because he wanted to copy the Carver’s MO?”

“That’s your theory.”

Changing her tactics just a bit, Maleah asked, “Are you pleased with your protege? That is how you see him, isn’t it? You taught him everything you know. You instructed him on how to kill.”

Browning laughed.

Her gut instincts told her that the laugh was genuine, that for some reason, her comments had amused him.

“Do you want me to guess why you find what I said so entertaining?”

“I find you entertaining, Maleah. Oh so sure of yourself. So confident and self-contained. A lady who doesn’t allow anyone to control her.” His gaze raked over her in a sexual way, pausing first on her lips and then on her breasts. “But that wasn’t always the case was it? Not when you were a little girl . . . when you were a