Chapter 29
Maleah awoke disoriented and confused.
She was lying in bed, fully clothed, and cuddled against Derek
Lawrence. The last thing she remembered was weeping in his arms.
Apparently, she had cried herself to sleep. When she looked
directly at him, he looked back at her and smiled. Her mind told
her to disengage her body from his, to lift her head from where it
lay nestled on his shoulder and to move her arm from around his
waist. But she didn’t change her position by more than a fraction
as she leaned back her head and tilted her chin so that they
wouldn’t be practically nose-to-nose.
“How long have I been asleep?” she
asked.
“Not long. A little over an
hour.”
“Have you been awake the entire
time?”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you—?”
“I enjoyed watching you sleep,” he told
her. “And you were exhausted. You needed some rest.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You
enjoyed watching me sleep?”
His grin widened. “Yeah. Did you know
you make funny little noises in your sleep? You fell asleep in my
arms, the two of us sitting up, so I just eased us down onto the
bed and when I did that, you whimpered and cuddled up against
me.”
She lifted her head from his arm and
scooted away from him, putting a couple of feet between them. “I
need to tell you about my interview with Browning.”
“Your final interview,” he told
her.
“Yes, my final interview.” She sat up
and leaned back against the headboard, determined to return her
relationship with Derek to business only. “Browning and the copycat
killer made a bargain. We already figured out that the copycat
agreed to provide Jerome with a new lawyer, a female visitor, and a
new victim, one he couldn’t actually kill, only emotionally
torment.”
“And you were that victim.” Derek
grumbled unintelligibly, no doubt a few choice curse words. “I’d
like to have five minutes alone with Browning.”
Maleah laid her hand on Derek’s
shoulder. His gaze connected instantly with hers.
“I’ll condense things for you,” Maleah
said. “It seems Browning and the copycat formed a rather unique
relationship, one killer to another, during their phone calls,
letters, and visits. The copycat never told Jerome his real name,
but when Jerome asked if he was a professional, he didn’t deny
it.”
“Which was as good as an admission,
right?” Derek sat up beside her.
“Right.”
She noticed that several buttons in the
center of Derek’s shirt were open, leaving the material gapping.
Had she done that—unbuttoned his shirt in her sleep?
Concentrate on what you
need to say and not on Derek.
Keeping strictly to the facts and not
elaborating, Maleah told him about her conversation with Browning
and the information he had given her.
“Browning said that the copycat is an
international contractor, his word—contractor. And his current
employer is a billionaire who owns a private island retreat, where
he enjoys the perks of his business.”
“And his business is human
trafficking.” Derek frowned. “The description sounds familiar,
doesn’t it, too familiar.”
“Are you saying Browning was
lying?”
“No, I’m saying that maybe the copycat
was lying to Browning, knowing he would pass along false
information.”
“If you’re right about that, then
Browning actually gave me nothing. I paid for more useless
information.”
“I didn’t say that. For all we know,
everything Browning told you is the truth.”
“But you said—”
“I said maybe the copycat was lying to
Browning. Maybe he wasn’t. But any way you look at it, you came
away with one very important piece of information.”
“Okay, maybe I’m slightly addled from
my miniemotional meltdown and mid-day nap, but you’re going to have
to enlighten me. My brain isn’t—”
“The copycat, whoever he is, knows
something about Malcolm York, either the original York or the
pseudo York rumored to be in Europe somewhere at
present.”
“You’re right,” Maleah said, suddenly
feeling more like her old self by the minute. “And this info adds
more weight to Griff’s theory that the copycat murders are
connected to his past and to both Malcolm Yorks.”
“I think we can safely assume that
Griff’s theory is correct. I have little doubt now that the copycat
is, as we suspected, a hired assassin.”
“An assassin hired by the fake York,
right?” Maleah got up, brushed off her wrinkled slacks and searched
for her shoes. “We should contact Griff right away and let him
know.” She found her shoes halfway under the bed, dragged them out,
and slipped into them.
“First of all, yes, logically, we can
assume that the man who calls himself Malcolm York hired the
copycat, but we need more proof before we can be certain.” Derek
buttoned his shirt and got out of bed. “Secondly, there’s no need
to call Griff because we’ll see him this evening. I got a call from
Sanders while you were in with Browning this morning. It was bad
news.”
“And you’re just now telling me about
it?”
“I thought it could wait,” Derek said.
“All things considered.”
“You mean considering the fact that I
came away from the interview with Browning an emotional
wreck.”
“You just needed a little time to
recover, honey. You should be proud of yourself. You held your own
against a psychopathic monster.”
“If you say so.” He’s
right, damn it. You might have come away with a few battle scars,
but for all intents and purposes you won the game. And you
survived. “What’s the bad news from Sanders?”
“The copycat struck
again.”
Oh God, no.
“Who?”
“Saxon Chappelle’s sixteen-year-old
niece.”
Maleah sucked in an agonized breath.
How could anyone kill a young girl who was little more than a
child?
“Poppy Chappelle was spending the
summer with Saxon’s mother. The grandmother found her this
morning.”
“They didn’t let Saxon go to Savannah
on his own, did they?”
“Saxon may not even know yet,” Derek
told her. “He left early this morning to escort Meredith Sinclair
to London. But once he hands her over to Luke, he’ll return to the
U.S. tonight. Griff sent Holt Keinan to Savannah.”
“Griff wants us at Griffin’s Rest by
tonight because he’s circling the wagons, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Then let’s get the show on the road. I
need to go back to my room and grab my suitcase and then we can
check out.”
“Take your time, Blondie. I’ll check us
out. You can meet me in the lobby. But first, wash your face, put
on some lipstick, and comb your hair. You look like you just got
out of bed.”
The Berkeley Knightsbridge, a five-star
luxury hotel, was located on Wilton Place, in the heart of
residential Belgravia. From this location, they were only moments
from the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge and not far from
Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and Belgrave Square. During the years
Meredith had spent in London with Yvette and her fellow misfits,
they had lived in comfort, but not in splendor. She suspected that
Griffin Powell had arranged for the two-bedroom suite at this
luxurious hotel just for her. He understood the type of sacrifice
she was making in order to help him find and stop a killer and no
doubt wanted to compensate her for the mental and emotional pain
and anguish. Meredith was doing this out of a sense of loyalty to
Yvette, but also because she, too, did not want to see another
innocent person die.
“We can order room service for dinner,”
Luke Sentell told her as he escorted her into the spacious living
room, which was both elegantly sophisticated and yet beautifully
understated.
The moment she walked into the room,
the image of a woman appeared in her mind. Blond and attractive.
Possibly the interior designer. Someone who liked a clean, lean and
yet classic look.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,”
Meredith replied.
“I’ve given you the master suite,” Luke
told her as he walked across the living room and opened the bedroom
door. “I’ll put your suitcase in here and if you’d like to rest for
a while—”
“I’d like to call home and speak to
Yvette. I’m concerned about Saxon Chappelle.” Meredith glowered at
Luke, whose stoic stare slightly unnerved her. “You could have been
a little less blunt when you told him his niece was the Copycat
Carver’s latest victim.”
As if ignoring her comment, Luke
disappeared into the bedroom for a couple of minutes. Once again,
as she had done in the past, she tried to sense something in Luke
Sentell other than his steely determination to protect himself from
her probing. On the outer edges of his consciousness, she picked up
on rigid control and single-mindedness, both aspects of his
apathetic personality.
Deciding not to make an issue of his
rudeness, she surveyed her surroundings. The cool taupes and grays
and beiges used with the dark, gleaming wood in the room soothed
Meredith. She preferred the gentleness of neutral colors, the
peacefulness of muted tones.
“I assume you can unpack for yourself,”
Luke said as he emerged from her bedroom.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I told Chappelle the facts. If I had
put my arm around him and shed a few tears, do you honestly think
it would have helped him any?”
“No, but you were so cold and
matter-of-fact.”
Luke grunted. “Make your call to Yvette
while I order our dinner.”
“I don’t want anything,” she told
him.
“Well, I do.” His scrutinizing gaze
raked over her with cold precision. “You need to eat something to
build up your strength before you start earning your
keep.”
“I’ll be sure to eat a substantial
breakfast.”
“You’ll eat a substantial dinner, too,
because I intend for us to begin work tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight.”
“But—”
“I realize that you’re probably tired
from your long flight and more than a little pissed about getting
stuck with me as your babysitter, but the sooner we locate Anthony
Linden, the sooner we will be able to stop him from killing anyone
else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I just didn’t
realize you had anything available here at the hotel for me to use
to connect with Linden.”
“I do.”
“Then let me freshen up and unpack
while you order dinner. And as soon as I call Yvette, I’ll be
ready.”
She didn’t bother asking him what he
had in his possession that had at some time belonged to Anthony
Linden. She would know soon enough. Even something as insignificant
as a cigarette lighter or an unlaundered handkerchief could be used
as a catalyst to connect her with the person or persons who had
used the specific object. The fewer people who had handled the
object, the more precise her revelations.
“Do you have any preferences about
dinner?” he asked. “Protein of some type, right?”
“Yes, protein,” she told him. “For
strength and stamina.”
“And if I remember correctly, no wine,
no liquor of any kind. Just water.”
“That’s correct.”
Meredith found herself unable to break
eye contact with Luke, his steel-gray eyes holding her attention
like metal to a magnet. A whirlwind of energy spun around them,
cocooning them together inside a kinetic force neither could
control.
Trust me. I’ll take
care of you.
Luke hadn’t spoken, but Meredith had
heard his thoughts.
But that was the problem. She wasn’t
sure she could trust him. “If I go in too deep, you’re the only one
who can save me.”
“Yes, I know.” He turned, walked away
and entered the foyer that led to the entrance to the second
bedroom that was attached to and yet separate from the rest of the
suite.
Prompted by the incentive of a bonus,
he had wasted no time in making arrangements to pick up the special
guest for his current employer. Locating her had not been a
problem, but removing the obstacles in his path would require
quick, decisive action. Complicated by the presence of a private
security agent who made rounds outside the home every two hours, as
precise as clockwork, and disarming the home’s security system had
taken a while longer than he had anticipated. He was pretty sure
the guard wasn’t a Powell agent. He wore a uniform of some kind and
Powell agents didn’t wear uniforms. His guess was that the family
had hired him for protection in case the Copycat Carver targeted
one of them.
Unlike the Chappelle home in Savannah,
there was no outside basement entrance, leaving him with only the
windows and doors on the first and second levels of the house as a
means of entry and exit. With a guard on duty, probably stationed
downstairs, his best bet was to find a way to enter through an
upstairs widow. And since time was of the essence if he wanted that
big bonus, he needed to check out the house’s interior quickly and
pinpoint her bedroom. But with only three occupants, other than the
bodyguard, it should be a relatively simple matter. All he’d have
to do was look into the bedrooms to find her. At this time of
night, she would be alone. And her room would no doubt be
distinctly decorated.
With a few twists, he locked the carbon
steel talons of the compact grappling hook into position and sent
the hook sailing up and atop the sloping roof at the back of the
house. Testing the connection and finding it secure, he began his
ascent up the lightweight nylon rope. Once on top of the roof, he
made his way carefully over to the nearby single window, one he
assumed would take him into a bathroom. He removed the glass cutter
from his pocket, along with a suction device, and removed a section
of the windowpane without breaking it. He reached through the
opening, unlocked the window and raised it high enough to allow him
enough space to slip inside the house.
As he had assumed beforehand, he now
found himself inside a small bathroom, well lit with a decorative
hot pink glitter nightlight. How lucky for him that he had, no
doubt, entered through her bathroom window. Not having to search
the entire upstairs to find her simplified his job enormously. The
bathroom door stood wide open. With practiced stealth movements, he
entered the bedroom silently, not making a sound. Another
nightlight identical to the one in the bathroom cast a pink glow
across the carpeted floor and moonlight streaming through the sheer
striped curtains illuminated the wicker bed in which she
slept.
He reached into his pocket, removed a
small vial and a linen handkerchief and then opened the vial and
soaked the linen with its contents as he crept closer and closer to
the bed. She lay there in all her beautiful blond innocence, never
knowing the part she would play in a madman’s diabolical scheme.
But this specific madman paid extremely well. And it wasn’t his
place to judge the people who employed him to do their dirty
work.
He leaned down, placed the ether-soaked
handkerchief over her nose and mouth and positioned his other hand
in the center of her chest to hold her in place if she woke. Her
eyes flew open. She stared up at him for a few moments and then
closed her eyes as the anesthetic took affect. He reached inside
the inner pocket of his snug-fitting jacket, removed an envelope
and laid it beside her pillow. Without hesitation, he flung back
the covers, lifted her up and into his arms and retraced his steps
through the bathroom. He eased her through the window, placing her
solidly on the roof before he climbed out and joined her. The
moonlight struck the tiny pink sequins outlining the ruffles on the
hem of her gown.
After checking below on the ground, he
hoisted her up and positioned her beneath his arm, clamping her
securely between the inner curve of his elbow and his ribcage.
Mindful that one wrong move could result in him dropping her to the
ground, he grasped the nylon rope and descended with careful
precision. Once on the ground, he lifted her up and across his
shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and then ran up the alley toward
the car he had parked there less than twenty minutes
ago.
A private jet would be waiting for them
in Nashville. In two and a half hours, he and his employer’s
special guest would board the jet and be ready for take off to
London by daybreak.