The Dying Game (20 page)
“Shit,” Griff mumbled under his breath.
“She’s not going to let us get anywhere near Lieutenant Skillman,” Lindsay said.
“Probably not,” Griff replied. “But as we all know, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Yvette Meng understood grief, from a personal standpoint as well as from her years of training and experience as a licensed psychiatrist. And she understood fear in a way only the victim of cruelty and abuse could comprehend it. She knew what it was like to have her life hanging in the balance, to be at the mercy of another for the very air she breathed.
Barbara Jean Hughes grieved for the sister that she loved, but her grief was in the first stage, where one cannot fully comprehend that the other person is truly gone. Forever. It is as if nature protects a person’s fragile emotions for days, sometimes for weeks, after the event. If not for this, one might go mad.
As Judd Walker had done?
She had seen it happen before, with strong, aggressive people, especially men who were accustomed to being in complete control of their own lives and the lives of others. Not madness in the truest sense of the word, but an anger and thirst for revenge that bordered on madness.
Over three years ago, Griffin had wanted her to help Judd. But first, one must want to be helped. Judd had spurned all offers. Even now, he was not ready to free himself from the past. He had become comfortable with his pain, had embraced it above all else.
“Would you care for more tea?” Sanders asked as he held the teapot over Yvette’s china cup.
“Yes, thank you.” Yvette loved Damar Sanders, as she loved Griffin Powell, as one loved brothers. “More tea would be nice and perhaps a few more of Inez’s delicious little cakes.”
Taking his cue to leave, Sanders replied, “I will see if she has more. If not, I am sure there are some of her homemade oatmeal raisin cookies.” He nodded curtly, the motion showing gentlemanly deference to her and Barbara Jean.
Once Sanders left, Yvette turned her attention on the woman who had been sitting quietly, her hands in her lap, watching the interchange between Yvette and Sanders. “You are wondering about our relationship?”
“No, I—your relationship is none of my business,” Barbara Jean said.
Smiling, Yvette reached over and laid her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Sanders is a brother of my heart. We have known each other for many years.”
“He—he’s a good man? I mean, he seems to be very kind.”
“He is more than kind.”
Barbara Jean nodded.
A marked silence fell over the room. Barbara Jean avoided eye contact with Yvette.
Sometimes the direct approach is best
. This woman was not stupid. She had to at least suspect why Griffin had brought a psychiatrist to Griffin’s Rest.
“I will be staying here for a few weeks,” Yvette said. “I am available to you, day or night, whenever you may need me. If you wish to talk, we will talk. If you prefer that I—”
“I can’t identify him.” The declaration whooshed from Barbara Jean in one gasping breath. “I’ve told Griffin all that I remember about the man. I swear that—”
Yvette patted Barbara Jean’s arm. “It is all right. There is no need to upset yourself. I am not here to pressure you, only to be at your service should you need me.”
Barbara Jean stared skeptically at Yvette, apparently wondering if she could trust her. “I won’t remember anything else. I know that for sure and certain. I–I can’t.”
Keeping a pleasant expression on her face, Yvette pulled back and picked up her cup of tea. “Sanders makes delicious tea. My favorite is this Earl Grey. I remember my mother drinking it when I was a child.”
The change of subject seemed to relax Barbara Jean. “Gale Ann liked our Grandma Hughes’s sassafras tea. When we were girls, she’d make it for us. I detested the stuff. It tasted too much like licorice to me and I can’t stand licorice.”
“I never knew either of my grandmothers,” Yvette said. “I was an only child, as was my mother. And my father’s sister died as a young girl. So you see, when my parents died, I had no family.”
“Gale Ann and I were so lucky to have each other.” Tears gathered in Barbara Jean’s eyes. “It’s so unfair that she …” A soft gulp. “It should have been me. I’m older and I’m …” she glanced down at her useless legs. “I’m crippled. If one of us had to die, it should have been me.”
Yvette waited. Tears trickled down Barbara Jean’s cheeks.
“If you could have, you would have died for your sister.” Yvette spoke softly, sympathetically. It was simply in her nature to be caring.
“Yes. Yes, I would have. I wish—wish I could have.” Barbara Jean wept, releasing some of the emotions she had been keeping bottled tightly inside her.
Facing reality could be a devastatingly painful experience, but it was necessary. Acceptance was cathartic and could lead to the next stage of grief.
“I’m sure your sister knew that you would have exchanged places with her,” Yvette said. “And I’m certain that, had the situations been reversed, she would be feeling now, just as you are.”
Barbara Jean continued crying.
Yvette sensed his presence before she glanced at the door and saw Sanders standing there with a platter of tea cakes and oatmeal cookies in his hand. He hesitated. Yvette shook her head. He eased backward and disappeared down the hall.
Griffin watched Nic Baxter as she took over the press conference and succinctly ended it with one statement. “The Sonya Todd murder is now a federal case. I will issue a press release tomorrow morning, at the earliest. Until then, do not approach any federal or local officer with questions.”
The crowd grumbled. Loudly. But everyone seemed to understand Special Agent Baxter’s take-no-prisoners attitude. All except the ferocious little redhead who apparently wasn’t as intimidated by Nic as the rest of the press corps. Or perhaps she simply wasn’t smart enough to know when to back down.
“Are we to assume that since the FBI is now involved that this is another Beauty Queen Killer murder?” the redhead asked.
Nic’s hot gaze melded with the redhead’s. “What’s your name?”
“Brigit Henson, the
Memphis Commercial Appeal
.”
“Well, Ms. Henson, I suggest that you assume nothing.”
Finale. Complete. Over and out.
Brigit opened her mouth to speak again, but before she got out a word, Griff interceded. “Special Agent Baxter!” Griff’s deep baritone voice rumbled like thunder in the hush of the dispersing crowd. Like in a freeze frame, no one moved.
Nic searched and found him in the crowd, not difficult to do since he stood a tad over six-four and weighed a good fifty pounds more than he had when he’d played ball for UT. Muscle, not fat. He prided himself on keeping fit.
She glowered at him, but didn’t respond.
“Why make these people wait?” Griffin said. “Within an hour, every one of these reporters can find out that you’re the special agent in charge of the Beauty Queen Killer cases. And any idiot can put two and two together and come up with four.”
Nic bristled. Her brown eyes glimmered with anger. “Now they won’t have to wait, will they, Mr. Powell, since you’ve shared the information with everyone present.”
He knew he’d pissed her off. He didn’t care. Getting a rise out of Nic Baxter had become one of his favorite pastimes. She would put up every possible barrier to keep him out of the loop. Of course, that was part of her job. He understood. Yet he resented the hell out of her attitude.
“Why not make a statement now?” He was playing with fire and he knew it. She could arrest him for interfering in a federal case. And she was just the type who would.
If Griff thought playing nice in the sandbox would get him anywhere with Nic, he’d be the nicest guy she’d ever met. But he had tried charming her. Hadn’t worked. Wouldn’t work. Apparently, she was not only immune to his charm, she had an aversion to it.
While the dispersing crowd lingered, waiting for Nic’s reaction, she ignored Griff completely. She turned, grasped Lieutenant Skillman’s arm and led him toward the front door of the Tupelo crime lab. Nic’s assistant, Special Agent Josh Friedman followed, but kept glancing over his shoulder, his gaze connecting with Griff’s a couple of times.
A few reporters zeroed in on Griff. One had recognized him, remembered him from his UT days. The two men and one female reporter—Brigit Henson—questioned Griff about his connection to the case.
“My client, Judd Walker, lost his wife to the Beauty Queen Killer almost four years ago. Mr. Walker hired me to do an independent investigation, but unfortunately, I have had no more luck than local and federal law enforcement agencies in tracking down this monster. However, when this psychopath killed Gale Ann Cain in Kentucky last week, he was seen leaving the woman’s apartment complex.”
“Are you saying there is an eyewitness, someone who can identify the killer?” Brigit asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Who is this person?” This question came from one of the male reporters.
“She is the sister of the murder victim.”
All three reporters shot question after question at Griff, who told them that he could give them no further information. “Not at this time.”
Griff made the finality of his statement clear by walking away, back to where Judd and Lindsay waited several feet down the sidewalk.
“You all but invited the killer to come after Barbara Jean Hughes,” Judd said.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
“But you didn’t mention where she was,” Lindsay said.
“I will.” Griff smiled. Unless he missed his guess, Brigit Henson was heading straight in his direction.
Barbara Jean was as safe as the gold in Fort Knox. No one could possibly harm her as long as she was at Griffin’s Rest. But he had no qualms about using her to tempt this madman into making a wrong move. It was highly unlikely that he would be stupid enough to try anything. They couldn’t get that lucky. But Griff wanted him to sweat, to spend sleepless nights worrying about an eyewitness being able to identify him.
“You could have asked my permission before you gave the press my name.” Judd looked past Griff. “Here comes your little pigeon, homing in on you.”
“The fact that you’re my client is old news.” Griff kept his gaze focused on Judd, acting as if he had no idea Ms. Henson was directly behind him. “But it was worth repeating. You inherited the vast Walker fortune. You’re always newsworthy. But the real news is that I have Barbara Jean Hughes safely tucked away in my home outside Knoxville.”
Brigit Henson cleared her throat.
Griff turned around slowly, only a hint of surprise on his face. He didn’t want to overplay his hand. “Ms. Henson, I trust that you won’t repeat what you’ve just heard.”
Her hazel green eyes rounded wide and sparkled with mischief. “Why not give me an exclusive, Mr. Powell, and we’ll discuss terms.”
“Please, call me Griff.” He offered her one of his cocky, self-assured smiles, the kind that made unspoken promises to a woman. And in this woman’s case, the promises were both professional and personal. He’d never been a man adverse to mixing business with pleasure.
Brigit laced her arm through his. “Well, Griff, why don’t we go somewhere for a cup of coffee and talk things over.”
Griff glanced at Judd. “You two take the car and I’ll meet up with y’all later, at the Wingate.”
He walked up Front Street and then onto Barnes Street where he had parked his Ford Taurus. Smiling at his own cleverness, he unlocked the door, then removed his hat and coat and tossed them into the backseat. Losing himself in the throng of reporters had enabled him to be front and center when the lead detective on Sonya Todd’s murder case made a statement to the press. Not that he had revealed anything of importance. But that was to be expected. The police always liked to keep things under wraps.
When both Special Agent Baxter and Griffin Powell had shown up, it had been like old home week. He hadn’t always been able to stay in a town the day after a kill, but more and more often now, he delayed his departure just long enough to savor his victory. These local yokels didn’t have a clue. And even the FBI had no idea who he was.
Laughing, he started the engine and pulled out into early afternoon traffic. He would drive home today, take his time, make a few necessary stops, but he would not stay overnight anywhere. There was too much to do when he got home. Photographs to print out and place in his gallery. Memories to savor while they were fresh. And one all-important phone call to make.
Perhaps I should also call Nicole Baxter
.
He had been tempted to telephone the lovely FBI agent in the past, if only to hear her voice. She had fascinated him from the first moment he saw her, when she had worked with Curtis Jackson before his retirement.
If only she were a former beauty queen …
Don’t get sidetracked. Nicole is an opponent, not a victim. Special Agent Baxter’s part in this game was that of a worthy adversary.
But when this game ended …
He could not believe that the end was near. Only a couple of months until the five years would be over and the winner would claim the ultimate victory. He and his cousin had been friendly opponents, sharing the thrill of each victory in a competition neither had realized in the beginning would become a game they lived to play. And what made their little game all the more fun was that no one had figured out that there were two of them—two Beauty Queen Killers.
He would miss the game, the rivalry, the quest to achieve the highest points. And he would miss his cousin most of all. But there could be only one winner and he intended for that honor to go to him. The alternative was to lose—not only the game, but his life.
Lindsay and Judd picked up burgers at a fast food restaurant before having their driver drop them off at the Wingate Inn on Stone Creek Boulevard. Sanders had booked a junior suite for Lindsay and an adjoining double for Judd and Griff. Luckily, the rooms were actually ready for them when they arrived at one-thirty. Despite check-in being at three, they were welcomed and given their keys.