Dead By Morning

exhaled.

And then he plunged the scalpel into her jugular. Blood gushed.

A mental and emotional orgasm began to build inside him. He sliced the sharp blade across her neck, from one carotid artery to the other, effectively cutting her windpipe in the process.

She died almost instantly, without a sound, never having opened her eyes.

His hands were steady, his outward demeanor calm. But a soul-deep enjoyment burst wide open inside him and sent climactic pleasure through his entire body.

Mimicking the Carver’s MO, he worked quickly, cutting triangles from her upper arms and thighs and stuffing the tiny pieces of flesh into the small insulated bag he had brought with him.

He took no pleasure in the mutilation of a body, but he was under orders. This was business, a necessary part of the job assignment.

At the foot of the staircase, the grandfather clock struck four times. He would be gone well before daybreak. And it would be morning before anyone discovered Poppy’s body.

Leaving his victim lying in her bloody bed, he walked across the room, opened the widow, and lifted the screen. Then he returned to the bed, picked the dead girl up into his arms and carried her to the window.

From the height of the second floor, he glanced down at the moonlight shimmering across the pool. Keeping a firm grip, he held her body out the window as far as he could reach and then released her. She sailed down, down, down, and hit the side of the pool. While her legs crashed onto the patio, her head and the upper two-thirds of her body sank into the water. Then the weight of her head and upper body submerged in the pool gradually dragged her legs into the pool and she slowly disappeared beneath the water’s surface.

Chapter 26

Maleah sipped on the coffee, black with one packet of Splenda, that Derek had brought her. When she had opened the door to him a few minutes ago, her expression had been filled with questions and doubts. Knowing what she wanted and needed this morning, he had set the tone for their day. Back to business as usual. Partners working on a case, their once adversarial relationship now bordering on friendship and definitely based on mutual respect. There would be time later, tomorrow or the next day or a week or month from now, for them to explore the reasons behind the sexual tension driving them both crazy.

“Anything you want to go over with me this morning?” he asked as he sat down on the sofa, snapped open the lid flap on his insulated coffee cup and took a sip of his black coffee.

“I don’t think so. I believe we pretty much took care of every possible scenario last night.” She joined him on the sofa.

“More than likely, Browning is going to tell you about how he killed Noah Laborde and the pleasure he derived from what he did. We assume he doesn’t know anything else about your personal life, and if we’re correct, that means he’s going to use Noah. He sees your former boyfriend as your Achilles’ heel.”

“I’m prepared for whatever he tells me.” She took several sips from the cup before placing it on the coffee table. “I’ll give him what he wants. I won’t try to completely control my emotions. If he wants to see me cry, I’ll cry.”

“I have to remind you that this may all be for nothing. You may give him exactly what he wants and get only useless information in return.”

“I know. I’m willing to take that chance.”

Derek nodded. “Barbara Jean contacted me about half an hour ago. Our orders are to head back to Knoxville after your visit with Browning.”

“Why? Has something happened? Has the copycat—?”

“No, and since the trail is cold and we have no new leads to follow, Sanders wants us back at headquarters to sit in on a top-level powwow, the two of us, Griff, Nic, Sanders, BJ, and Dr. Meng.”

“Any idea what this big powwow is about?” Maleah asked.

“BJ didn’t say, but I suspect Griff wants to discuss his theory about who the copycat is, who hired him and why.”

“And as Griff so often says, all roads lead to Rome.”

“In this case, Rome being Malcolm York.”

“Rome being Griff’s obsession with the pseudo York, if he actually exists.”

“I don’t think any of us can dismiss the real possibility that someone who calls himself Malcolm York exists,” Derek told her. “And if we accept that possibility, we also have to be prepared to accept the possibility that York hired a professional assassin to carry out some diabolical plan against Griff.”

“Have you actually bought into Griff’s theory?”

“I’m keeping an open mind and you should, too.”

“You’re right,” Maleah agreed. “If all of these copycat murders are a part of some elaborate scheme to exact revenge against Griff, then we’re up against far more than a single killer. Even if we find the copycat and stop him, that won’t be the end of it.”

“You’re right. It won’t end until York, whoever he really is, is found.”

Miss Carolyn was an early riser, as was Heloise. They enjoyed leisurely cups of coffee each morning in the small den adjacent to the kitchen, the television tuned to WJCL, channel 22, the local ABC affiliate. Her employer, whom she thought of after all these years as a dear old friend, watched only Good Morning America. She had been a huge Charlie Gibson fan and bemoaned his exit from the show, but had found consolation in watching him on the evening newscast until his retirement.

“I prefer to get my evening news from a man,” Miss Carolyn had said. “But I like Diane Sawyer well enough. She’s a smart lady. And as long as they keep Robin Roberts on Good Morning America, I’ll keep watching that show, too. I like her.”

Miss Carolyn was nothing if not opinionated and always believed her opinion was superior to and more important than anyone else’s.

Little Miss Poppy was not an early riser. She often slept until well past ten, sometimes as late as noon, much to her grandmother’s displeasure.

“These young people sleep away the best part of the day,” Miss Carolyn often said.

With the breakfast dishes neatly stacked in the dishwasher—she had a precise system of where to place each item—and the television turned off until the local mid-day news, Heloise began lunch preparations. Since it was only nine-thirty and lunch wouldn’t be served until noon, she had more than enough time to bake a blueberry pie, using the fresh berries she had bought at the Farmer’s Market. And she intended to use last night’s leftover chicken to make chicken salad, which she would serve with some of the buttery croissants she had picked up at the bakery.

Wearing her wide-brimmed sunbonnet and carrying her gardening gloves, Miss Carolyn came through the kitchen and paused at the back door. “If you need me, I’ll be in the garden. I want to prune the roses before it gets so hot. I can’t abide these ungodly humid days. I don’t remember it ever being this miserable in late June. When I was a girl summertime weather didn’t hit until the Fourth of July.”

Heloise didn’t bother pointing out to Miss Carolyn that the Fourth was only a few days away.

After Miss Carolyn was halfway out the door, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder and said, “When Miss Lazybones gets up, please tell her that I expect her to be here for lunch today because her great-aunt Sarah will be joining us.” She sighed heavily. “The woman is an absolute bore, but she is family. She was married to my dear brother Courtland for forty years.”

“I’ll be sure to remind her.”

“Oh, is the pool boy coming today? If he is, I need to speak to him.”

“Yes, ma’am, this is Tuesday and he comes every Tuesday. He should be here any time now.”

“I can see the pool from the rose garden, so I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Heloise smiled as she removed the blueberries from the refrigerator. Miss Carolyn had her good qualities and