Dead by Midnight Part 4

"And you believe that the situation warrants the Powell Agency becoming involved."

"Yes. Pro bono. Ms. Hammonds is not a rich woman."

"I see."

Maleah could tell by the tone of Sanders's voice that he was actually considering denying her request. "Look, I'm on vacation, but if you'll give me an okay to take Lorie on as a client, I'll work without pay for the duration of my time off from the agency."

Silence.

d.a.m.n it, say something. But when he remained silent, she knew he was thinking about her proposition. But when he remained silent, she knew he was thinking about her proposition.

"Agreed," Sanders told her. "You took time off to stay in Dunmore for two weeks, on a paid vacation. Use that time to begin the investigation, and if when your vacation comes to an end you have found evidence that Ms. Hammonds's life is in danger, then Powell's will pick up the tab for continuing the investigation."

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Thank you. I a.s.sume this means that the agency's resources are at my disposal?"

"Certainly. However, unless you can show me the necessity of additional agents becoming involved-"

"I don't think Lorie needs a personal bodyguard at this point, but if she does, I'll handle it."

"Then feel free to proceed. And if while Griffin and Nicole are away, you require anything else, simply let me know."

"Yes, thanks. I will."

"Good day, Maleah," Sanders said, ever the courteous if somewhat stern gentleman.

Lorie had changed clothes four times that morning. The routine of bathing, doing her hair, applying makeup, and dressing usually took about an hour, less if she hurried. But today it had taken her two hours. When she had put on the first outfit and checked herself in the mirror, all she had seen was how large her b.r.e.a.s.t.s looked in the clingy yellow cashmere sweater, a Christmas present from Cathy and Jack this past year. She certainly didn't want Mike to accuse her of using her s.e.xuality to gain attention or, G.o.d forbid, to entice any of his deputies. The second outfit had gone too far in the opposite direction, the long-sleeved, mid-calf-hemmed dress making her look as if she were trying to downplay her attractiveness. Her third attempt had been jeans, the legs tucked into black boots, and a hooded black rhinestone sweatshirt. Too youthful. Mike would think she was trying to look like a teenager. Finally, she had chosen a pair of charcoal dress slacks, a silvery gray silk blouse, and a simple black sweater.

When she walked into the sheriff's department, all eyes turned toward her. What was wrong with these people? But she knew that, to a person, all of Mike's employees either knew firsthand or had heard through local gossip about Mike and her, about their past relationship and the fact that Mike now despised her.

Her heart raced and moisture coated the palms of her hands. She was so nervous that you'd think she was a criminal who had been caught red-handed. Instead, she was the victim or at the very least, the potential victim.

A middle-aged female deputy, her brown hair cut short and styled in choppy disarray, approached Lorie, a noncommittal expression on her face, neither smiling nor frowning.

"Good morning, Ms. Hammonds. I'm Deputy Ladner. The sheriff has a.s.signed me to take your statement."

Lorie nodded and offered the woman a hesitant smile, which was not reciprocated. Instead the deputy said, "Come with me, please."

As instructed, Lorie followed the woman to what she a.s.sumed was the deputy's workstation. She pulled out a chair for Lorie and motioned for her to sit. Deputy Ladner sat behind her metal desk, picked up a pen and paper, and interrogated Lorie. Or at least that was how Lorie felt, as if she were being given the third degree. Five minutes later, apparently finished, the deputy handed the pen and file form to Lorie.

"If you'll sign"-she tapped her finger on the dotted line-"right here, please."

Lorie hurriedly read over the form, then signed it and laid it and the pen on the desk. She looked directly at the deputy. "Thank you."

When she rose to her feet, the deputy did the same. "You'll let us know if you receive another letter or a phone call or-"

"Yes, of course," Lorie said. For all the good it will do me. This woman doesn't believe a word I've said. She thinks I made the whole thing up. No doubt Mike told her to do her duty, but warned her not to take me seriously. For all the good it will do me. This woman doesn't believe a word I've said. She thinks I made the whole thing up. No doubt Mike told her to do her duty, but warned her not to take me seriously.

"Is Sheriff Birkett in his office?" Lorie asked.

"Uh...yes, I believe he is," Deputy Ladner replied, "but...er...I'm sure he's busy. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Hammonds?"

Without replying, Lorie turned and walked away hurriedly, every step taking her closer to Mike's closed office door. Just as she reached the half-gla.s.s door and could plainly see Mike sitting behind his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, Deputy Ladner grasped Lorie's arm.

She turned and glared at the other woman, who loosened her hold and then dropped her hand away.

"You can't see the sheriff right now," the deputy said.

Lorie glanced around the room and noted that to a person, everyone in the sheriff's department was staring at the two of them. She smiled. "Why not? It's obvious he isn't busy."

Before Deputy Ladner could do little more than clear her throat, Lorie watched while Mike put down his cup, stood up, and walked to the door.

When he opened the door, the deputy jumped back. "Sir, I told Ms. Hammonds that you were unavailable."

"It's all right, Lana. Ms. Hammonds doesn't like to follow the rules. You may go now. I'll handle this."

Lana Ladner? The name certainly didn't suit the plump, plain female deputy. The name was far too fancy for such an ordinary-looking woman.

When Lana walked away, Lorie flashed Mike with a lavish smile. Totally fake, of course.

"I take it that I'm what you intend to handle," Lorie said.

Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her into his office, then closed the door behind him. "You wanted to see me. Here I am."

"You're really p.i.s.sed about this, aren't you?" When he c.o.c.ked an eyebrow as if saying I-don't-know-what-you-mean, she elaborated. "You don't like my invading your territory, even with a valid complaint."

Mike snorted.

"I know you don't believe that I'm in any danger. You think I concocted those two death threats, don't you?"

"One letter," Mike corrected. "Maleah explained that you threw the first one away...if there was a first one."

"You egotistical son of a b.i.t.c.h. You actually think that I'm so determined to get back into your life that I'd fake death threats." She punched her index fingertip into his chest. "Get this straight." She repeated the punching motion again and again as she said, "I got the message loud and clear. You don't want me. You wish I had never come back to Dunmore. You think I'm poison. Fine. Now, listen up-I'm over you. Finally. I wouldn't have you if you were served to me on a silver platter with a gold apple in your mouth."

He stood there and stared at her, his blue-black eyes wide with surprise.

She lifted her finger from his chest and balled her hand into a tight fist. "Someone has sent me two letters telling me that I'm going to die. It may be somebody's idea of a sick joke or it could be that out there somewhere there's a crazy person who intends to kill me. So, do your job, Sheriff. I'm a tax-paying citizen of your county."

Lorie turned and left his office, ignored the wide-eyed department personnel, and marched straight out the front door.

Chapter 4.

He exited the small commuter airplane, hoisted his vinyl carryall over his shoulder, and went directly to the car rental kiosk. If anyone remembered seeing him, they would describe him as a gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. They might add that he wore sungla.s.ses and dressed in wrinkled khakis and a plaid shirt. And if the airline pa.s.senger list were ever checked, his real name wouldn't appear, only the name on his phony ID.

He was a smart man. He had covered all his bases.

Within twenty minutes, he was behind the wheel of a low-mileage Ford Taurus and halfway across town. Charles Wong, aka Charlie Hung, lived in a duplex on Rider Avenue. The adjoining apartment had been recently vacated and was For Rent. Charlie now had a wife and a couple of stepkids, and was presently unemployed. It was amazing how much you could find out about a person by simply using the Internet.

He turned off the main street that went straight through Blythe, Arizona, population ten thousand, a quiet little border town southeast of Yuma. From what he could tell, the town was overrun with Mexicans and he figured half of them were illegals.

He slowed down as he drove past Charlie's apartment, but he didn't see anybody, not even a stray dog. His first stop would be at the Blythe City Diner, where Charlie's wife was employed. He had called earlier and found out she was working the evening shift. If he was lucky, she'd be the talkative type. All he needed to know was what night he could kill Charlie, a night when neither she nor her daughters would be at home. If necessary, he could wait for just the right moment, and in the meantime, he'd simply choose the next person on his list and come back for Charlie later.

Tagg Chambless stared at the two envelopes he held in his hand, both neatly sliced open, probably with Hilary's pearl-handled letter opener. He held them up, showing them to the Powell agent who had accompanied him home to Memphis a few days ago.

"I found these this morning," Tagg said. "In one of her lingerie drawers. They were hidden beneath the scented lining. I guess when the police searched our bedroom, they somehow overlooked these."

Holt Keinan glanced from Tagg's haggard face to the nondescript white envelopes he clutched tightly in his closed fist. "What are they?" He sure as h.e.l.l hoped they weren't love letters some other guy had written to the man's now deceased wife.

"Death threats," Tagg replied, a catch in his deep voice.

Holt focused on the envelopes. "Mind if I take a look?"

Tagg handed the letters over to Holt, who laid one down on a nearby end table in the den and then slipped the single page from the other envelope, unfolded it, and read aloud. "'Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You're on the list. Be prepared. You don't know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?'"

"Why didn't she show me these letters?" Tagg asked. "Why did she hide them from me?"

Holt inspected the envelopes. Typewritten. No return address. One was postmarked Knoxville, Tennessee, and the postmark on the other was smudged, making it illegible. The messages were identical.

"Any idea who might have sent these to your wife?"

Tagg shook his head. "I'm certain she didn't know anybody from Knoxville."

"Where the letters were mailed may or may not be important. But the message is important. You're right-these are definitely death threats."

"You think the person who murdered Hilary is the one who sent her these letters?"

"I think it's a good possibility."

"Is there any way to find out who-?"

"Probably not," Holt said. "But I'll overnight these to our lab."

"Shouldn't I show them to the police?"

"Let me handle that. Our lab will get to the letters immediately. With the police, it could take weeks...or longer."

Tagg sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah, you're right. The police have gotten nowhere. I'm pretty sure they think that I'm involved with some unscrupulous business partners and one of them had my wife killed. They're wrong. I've tried to tell them that, but they won't believe me. I'm putting my trust in the Powell Agency. I expect you to uncover the truth and find out who killed Hilary."

"The only promise we can make is that we will use every resource available to us to find your wife's killer and we won't stop looking until we either find the person responsible or you tell us to stop."

"Understood."

Sanders sipped on the cup of hot tea that Barbara Jean had, only moments ago, brought to him there in Griffin's study. During the past few years, he had come to rely on her as a friend, a lover, and an a.s.sistant. She meant more to him than she would ever know. His love for her was deep and sincere. He would willingly lay down his life and die for her. Barbara Jean possessed a sweet, gentle nature and a warm, friendly personality, where on the other hand, he was quiet, stern, and very much an introvert. He preferred his own company to the company of others.

After his wife's death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffin's Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sister's killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had pa.s.sed, he had grown to love her.

As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinan's recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question was-why had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?

"I'm overnighting the letters to our lab," Holt had said. "I doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police."

Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadn't been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where he'd taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.

His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm York's domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of h.e.l.l.

And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.

Even if his wife and child had not.

A soft rap on the outer door of Griffin's private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.

"Come in," Sanders said.

Barbara Jean eased open the door, but didn't enter the study. "Mr. Wilson just arrived. He's waiting in the living room."

"I am ready to see him."

"All right." She looked directly at Sanders. "Promise me that after your meeting with Mr. Wilson, you will come to the kitchen for an afternoon snack."

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He almost smiled. Sweet Barbara Jean. A mother hen if ever there was one. She was the type of woman who should have had half a dozen children to smother with love and attention. But she would never have a child. Nor would he.

"I promise," he replied. "Now, send in Mr. Wilson."

She nodded, then turned and wheeled down the hallway.

Within minutes, a tall, slender man wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy and blue striped tie stood in the open doorway. As Sanders came out from behind the desk, he inspected his visitor from the top of his gray streaked dark hair to his leather shoes. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties and from his demeanor, Sanders would have surmised that he was a confident, successful man. Of course, the background check on Mr. Wilson had given him that information. Jared Wilson was a professor at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. He and Griffin were both alumni of the school and had known each other for years, so when he had contacted the Powell Agency, he had immediately been given an appointment with Sanders.

"I am sorry that Griffin is unavailable," Sanders said as he held out his hand to his visitor. "He and Nicole are on a second honeymoon. But I can a.s.sure you that I and the Powell Agency will a.s.sist you in any way possible."

"Thank you, Mr. Sanders." Jared exchanged a firm handshake with Sanders. "Griffin knows about my brother's murder. He was kind enough to send flowers and he and Nicole attended the funeral."

"Is your brother's murder the reason you're here?" Sanders indicated with a sweep of his hand for the other man to sit. When Jared took one of the two chairs flanking the fireplace, Sanders took the other one.