If Looks Could Kill Aka As Good As Dead Part 25

"When I spoke to Teri, she said that with the evidence she's compiled, the Bureau will definitely want to become involved, but she's giving us twenty-four hours to get our act together before she reports what she's found."

"Did she get Line to come up with a profile of this killer?"

"Yeah. And Line says our guy is definitely the organized type," Dallas said. "High IQ, possibly college educated. Could have been a mama's boy or at least the family favorite. And there's a good chance he suffered some type of either physical or mental abuse as a child. And Terry said that Line suspects some traumatic experience involving a red-haired woman was the catalyst that brought out his killer instincts. In Line's opinion, this guy is probably a psychopath."

Jacob studied the facts in the doc.u.ments he held, then shook his head. "Some of these murders were a year or two apart, then less than a year and most recently, about every six or seven months. Until Becky Olmstead. It had been less than a week since he'd killed Kat Baker when he murdered Becky."

"Which means he will probably kill again soon." "J- just hope to h.e.l.l it isn't in Cherokee County." 'Whether it is or not, we're involved now. We're all look-lg for the same guy."

Becky Olmstead's murder case doesn't belong to us," Jacob said. "And since we're pretty sure Timmons's murder and Becky's are connected, you're right-we're looking for the same person that Sheriff Floyd is. If one case is solved-"

''Not only will they both be solved, but a string of murder cases that goes back at least twenty-five years gets solved.''

"It might be simpler if Jazzy's attacker turned out to our serial killer. If that were the case, we'd be looking one man, not two."

Dallas nodded. "I'm hoping that when Jazzy comes of the coma, she'll be able to tell us who attacked her."

"And her attacker has got to know he's safe only as lo as she remains in that coma.'

Reve had stayed at County General long enough to see Jazzy during the nine o'clock ICU visitation time. She'd sat beside her sister, held her hand and talked to her.

"I promise I won't screw things up too badly at Jazzy's Joint before you return," Reve had said. "I don't have a problem overseeing Jasmine's, but so far, I've stayed strictly in' the background at Jazzy's Joint. You know what a sn.o.b I am. We rich-b.i.t.c.h types hate smoky honky-tonks and sweaty men."

For the past half hour, she'd been trying to concentrate on a stack of unpaid bills piled on Jazzy's desk in her office at the back of Jasmine's, but her mind kept wandering to her sister. She could think of little else. Both Jacob and Dallas had convinced her that Jazzy wasn't a victim of the unknown serial killer.

"If it wasn't the serial killer, then who?" she had asked. "Who would want to harm Jazzy?"

"The same person who thought he'd killed both of you thirty years ago," Dallas had replied.

That was the reason she had agreed to allow Jacob and Dallas to rotate watchdogs for her. And that was one of the reasons she didn't sleep well at night and wasn't functioning normally. Not only did she have to be concerned with Jazzy's recovery, but she had to worry about someone from their past trying again to kill Jazzy or possibly making an attempt on her life as well.

When her cell phone ran, Reve jumped as if she'd been shot. Get a grip! She snapped open her leather clutch purse and removed her phone. The number shown on the caller ID was one she instantly recognized. The Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency.

She flipped open her phone. "h.e.l.lo, this is Reve Sorrell."

"Ms. Sorrell, it's Griffin Powell. I have some important information for you."

Reve's heartbeat quickened. "Have you found out who tried to kill Jazzy and me when we were infants?"

"No, ma'am, that I don't know yet. But it's only a matter of time. You see, I've narrowed down the field of women who could possibly be your mother."

"And?"

"And I think I know who your mother was. I'm holding in my hand a copy of what I believe is your birth certificate."

CHAPTER 23.

Reve met Griffin Powell at a restaurant in Sevierville at four-forty-five. They ordered coffee and dessert. One of Dallas's men had followed her there and sat several tables over, being as discreet as possible. She hadn't told anyone why she was meeting with Griffin. After all, until she saw: the evidence he possessed, she couldn't be sure she had anything to tell. And even if it turned out that he'd discovered the ident.i.ty of her mother, Jazzy was the first person-the only person-with whom she wanted to share the news.

Shoving aside the apple pie he'd ordered, Griffin laid his briefcase on the table, flipped it open and pulled out a file folder. Reve's heartbeat accelerated alarmingly. Griffin slipped two doc.u.ments from the folder and held them out to Reve. She hesitated.

"These are copies of what I believe to be your and Jazzy's birth certificates," he said.

She took the doc.u.ments from him and scanned first one and then the other. Mary Leanne Collins had been born five minutes before her identical twin sister Martha Deanne Collins. Mary Leanne had weighed six pounds even. Martha Deanne had weighed five pounds four ounces.

Mother's name: Mary Dinah Collins.

Father's name: Unknown.

Mother marital status: single.

Mother's age: twenty.**

Mother's address: 1803 Hyatt Street, Apt. 2-B, Sevierville, Tennessee.

Reve drew in a deep breath and released it slowly as she laid the two birth certificates on the table and looked right at Griffin.

"Why do you think these twins are Jazzy and me?" she asked.

"Because every other set of twins born anywhere in the state of Tennessee within six months of your approximate date of birth, before and after, is accounted for. Mary and Martha Collins seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth."

"What about Mary Dinah Collins?"

"She disappeared the same day as her four-week-old daughters."

"Four weeks old?" She and Jazzy hadn't been abandoned at birth. Their mother had kept them for four weeks.

"I've managed to track down a couple of neighbors who lived in the same apartment building as Dinah Collins," Griffin said. "Both told me that she went by the name Dinah. And they both agreed that she was a very sweet, quiet young woman who kept to herself and didn't bother anyone. But..." He paused as if trying to come up with just the right words before continuing. "They knew she was pregnant and unmarried. She did have a frequent visitor, and they thought Perhaps the man was her father."

''Her father? Are you saying we have a grandfather-" Or a father old enough to be your grandfather."

''Oh, great. Some guy old enough to be Dinah's father got her pregnant, didn't or couldn't marry her and then... what?"

I'm searching for Dinah Collins, but so far it appears she was here in Sevierville one day and gone the next. She'd told her neighbors she was taking her babies and moving out of1 state, probably to Atlanta." He held up a restraining hand. "Before you ask, yes, I already have agents in Atlanta searching for any clue to Dinah's whereabouts."

"Is there any other reason than the fact that Dinah and her twins disappeared that you think she might be our mother?" Reve needed more; she needed substantial proof of some kind.

"Dinah Collins was a pretty little redhead. Auburn-red hair. About the color of yours."

"How do you-" Griffin removed a photograph from the file folder.

She reached out and grabbed it, her hand trembling. Garnering her courage, she looked at the color snapshot of the young woman. Oh, yes, Dinah was indeed a pretty little redhead. No taller than five-four, with an hourgla.s.s figure that reminded Reve of Jazzy's build and perfect facial features; that strongly resembled both her own and Jazzy's.

This was her mother. Reve knew it as surely as she knew the sun would rise in the east tomorrow morning.

Mary Dinah Collins.

h.e.l.lo, Mother. Who were you? What happened to you?

"From what her neighbors said, I don't think Dinah Collins was the type who would have tried to kill her babies," Griffin told her. "One of the neighbors, a Mrs. Burton, said that Dinah adored her twins, that she was a good little mother."

"Then you think someone stole us from her and left us for dead. Who and why?"

"Possibly your father, who was probably a married man."

"I suppose it's not quite as horrible to believe your father left you for dead as it is to think your mother did."

"There are other possibilities," Griffin said.

"Okay, give me your take on what happened. You're the one with experience in these matters."

"All right. Let's say you and Jazzy were kidnapped, then why didn't Dinah contact the police to report her babies missing? She'd have been hysterical, wouldn't she? She'd have done anything to have found her baby girls."

"Oh, G.o.d! You think whoever left me in that Dumpster and Jazzy in that tree stump in the mountains killed our mother, don't you?"

Griffin didn't say anything for several seconds, then nodded. "I don't think we'll find Dinah Collins alive."

"Not unless she's the one who left us for dead."

"I'll keep up the search for Dinah," Griffin said. "And I'll do what I can to track down anyone else who might have known her. Old Mrs. Burton said Dinah had lived in the apartment on Hyatt Street for about a year and a half, but she never mentioned where she'd come from or who her people were."

"And this older gentleman was her only visitor?"

"No, not her only visitor, but her most frequent one. He came to see her weekly."

"So, what do you make of that? Looks like Dinah was some rich old man's mistress, doesn't it?"

"Do you want me to go any further with this investigation?" he asked. "Do you really want to know who your father was?"

"Oh, yes, I want to know who the son of a b.i.t.c.h was," Reve said emphatically. "And if he's still alive, I want to look him in the face and spit in his eye."

"It's your money, Ms. Sorrell." Griffin Powell stood. "I'll be in touch when I have more information."

Reve sat alone for several minutes, allowing her mind and her emotions to absorb this mind-boggling news. If only she could tell Jazzy, share this all-important revelation with her.

Jazzy, please, please come out of that d.a.m.n coma soon. I need you. I need my sister.

Sh.e.l.ly Bonner hated nights alone. She didn't like the dark, always slept with a nightlight on and when Ronnie Gene was on a run, halfway across the country in that eighteen-wheeler of his, she usually made a point of finding her a man to keep her from getting lonely. More often than not, she knew her lover-his name, where he lived, whether or not he was married. She'd even screwed around with a few of Ronnie Gene's buddies, but found out right quick what a mistake that was. These days she usually picked up a guy in Jazzy's Joint or across the county line at either Barney's or the Smoky Mountain Roadhouse. Tonight she'd run into this fellow at Barney's and knew right away that he looked familiar. He'd called himself Harry, but she figured that wasn't his real name. Who he really was hadn't come to her-not yet. But she figured that by morning, she would have remembered where she'd seen him before tonight.

He was older than her usual pickup and definitely a cut above the rough, rugged rednecks she preferred. But this guy had come on all sweet and attentive, telling her right off how pretty she was and how much he loved her long hair. She'd been a dishwater blonde most of her life, but recently she'd started streaking her shoulder-length hair with red highlights, making it a dark strawberry blonde.

When she'd made it clear to this guy that she was interested in more than him buying her a drink, he'd told her, "Meet me outside in about five minutes, and don't tell anyone you're hooking up with me."

"You're married, aren't you?"

"Yeah. And I don't want my wife to-"

"I'll be out in five minutes to get in my car. Why don you follow me home? That way n.o.body here will know we're leaving together."

When he'd smiled at her, she'd thought the guy had a really nice smile. A kind, gentle smile. She was usually a pretty good judge of character, and her guess was that old Harry was a real gentleman, somebody with a good job and lots of money. Being with a man like that would be a new experience for her, and she kind of liked the idea.

Harry had parked his car down the street, almost a block away, and walked to her house. She'd been a bit disappointed in the car he drove. Nothing special. No Lincoln or Corvette. Just a dark sedan of some kind. A late-model Chevy, she thought. Maybe the guy wasn't so rich after all. Despite the chill in the air, she'd waited for him on her front stoop after she unlocked the door to the house she and Ronnie Gene rented on Crenshaw Avenue. The place wasn't nothing fancy, but it beat the shack they'd lived in when they first got married eight years ago.

"Come on in." Sh.e.l.ly opened the door, entered the twelve-by-twelve living room and flipped on the light switch.

Harry came in behind her, then closed the door and locked it. He glanced around for a couple of seconds, then came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned back into him and was surprised when her hips encountered his erection. The guy was stiff as a poker. He'd probably want to jump in the sack right away, which was okay by her, just as long as she could persuade him to stay at least part of the night.

"I don't like guys who don't hang around for a while afterward," she told him as she turned slowly and lifted her arms up and around his neck.

"I've got all night."

"Your wife's not expecting you home?" Sh.e.l.ly rubbed herself against him, pressing her mound against his s.e.x.

He shook his head. "Not tonight."

"You want something else to drink first? I got a bottle of rotgut in the kitchen cabinet and a six-pack of beer in the fridge."

"I'm fine," he replied. "Maybe later. After..." "Yeah, after." She grabbed his hand and tugged. "My bedroom's this way."

He followed her like an obedient puppy, out of the living room, down the small, narrow hall and into the bedroom she shared with Ronnie Gene when he wasn't on the road.

"Don't look at the mess," she said. "I never bother making the bed."

Not only did she never bother making the bed, she seldom did a lick of housework of any kind. Once in a blue moon,-she'd pick up a little, and she did change the sheets once a month. Ronnie Gene was always complaining that they lived in a pigsty.

"A pigsty's good enough for a hog like you," she'd told him.

He'd backhanded her, sent her flying halfway across the room. He'd never hit her before, except a couple of times when he'd been drinking. She'd given him fair warning that if he ever struck her again, she'd leave him. That had been a year ago, and he'd been on good behavior ever since.

Sh.e.l.ly picked up the clothes strewn across the foot of the bed, tossed them on top of the dresser and then turned to Harry. "I like to leave at least one light on. Is that okay with you?"

"That's fine with me. I'll enjoy looking at you."

Oh, this guy was going to be fun. She decided right then to give him a seductive strip tease. Nothing too slow, since he was already primed and ready, but just slow enough to get him really worked up.

"Why don't you sit on the bed while I get undressed, then I'll help you take off your clothes."

He sat on the bed, antic.i.p.ation bright in his eyes.

She removed her sweater first and tossed it onto the floor. Then she stripped out of her blouse and jeans. He sucked in a deep breath when she stood before him in nothing but her bra and panties. b.u.t.t floss panties. While he stared at her, his mouth open and his hands balled into tight fists set atop his knees, she leaned over and kissed him. He grabbed her around the waist and toppled her over onto the bed. Hovering over her, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a condom. Before she had a chance to protest, he tore off her panties, unzipped his slacks and freed his jutting p.e.n.i.s.

"You want it pretty bad, huh?" she said.