The Watcher

“If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”

“My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”

“Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.

Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”

“Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.

“Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”

Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?

“We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”

“So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”

Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.

“Sure,” Nic said. “I’ve got the balls, if you do.”

Griff chuckled under his breath.

Nic smiled to herself, an internal don’t-screw-with-me smile; but outwardly her facial expression remained unchanged.

“There it is—” Nic pointed to the left. “Old Stillwater Road.”

Griff slowed the SUV, and then turned left onto the twolane country road. After going over two miles, they had seen little except open fields, probably once planted annually in cotton, but now planted in corn. The pavement, filled with potholes and covered with cracked and crumbling asphalt, needed repairs.

Nic saw two vehicles parked alongside the roadway about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. As they got closer to the truck and the Jeep, she noticed two men standing in the shade of a large maple tree near a narrow bridge. Griff pulled the SUV in behind the other two vehicles and killed the engine.

“Be nice,” Griff said. “Act like a lady and not a hard-ass FBI agent.”

Glaring at him, she made a hissing sound.

Laughing, he opened his door and got out. Before he had a chance to round the hood and open her door, she jumped out and met him at the right front bumper. He nodded in the direction of the big tree.

“Ladies first,” he said.

She walked ahead of him, up the side of the road and into the area near the bridge. The two men standing there watched as she and Griff approached. The younger man, wearing a tan Stetson and brown leather boots stepped forward.

“Mr. Powell?” he asked as he held out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Touchstone.”

Griff shook hands with Dean Touchstone, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He was hazel-eyed, brown-haired, Texas-lean, and sported a thick, old-cowpoke mustache.

He turned to Nic, removed his hat, and nodded, “Ma’am.”

“This is Nicole Baxter,” Griff said. “She’s working with me on this case.”

Nic had to bite her tongue to keep from correcting him and saying that he was working with her and not the other way around. But she forced a smile and shook hands with the sheriff.

“This is Vance Coker.” The older man nodded to Griff and gave Nic an appreciative appraisal, the kind men give most women at first glance. “Vance is the one who found Gala Ramirez’s body hanging from that tree right there.”

Vance was probably sixty, short, wiry, and gray-haired. At least what hair he had left was gray. He had the kind of weathered skin that a person has after years of sun exposure.

“Vance owns this land,” the sheriff said.

“Been in my family over a hundred years,” Vance added.

“He found Gala’s body hanging from that maple tree there by the bridge, the first of August. Me and Ellis, one of my deputies, came out just as soon as Vance called us.” Dean Touchstone turned his head and stared at the tree. “It’s been over ten years since we had a murder in Durant County.”

“Sure was a troubling sight,” Vance said. “That poor little gal was strung up like a piece of beef, her ankles bound together and her head scalped. You can’t imagine what that looks like if you ain’t never seen it. Real troubling.” Vance shook his head back and forth.

“Was she naked?” Nic asked. “Was there any evidence she’d been sexually assaulted?”

“She wasn’t naked,” Vance said. “She was wearing shorts and a blouse, both of ‘em bloody. Real bloody.”

“She wasn’t sexually assaulted,” Sheriff Touchstone said. “The coroner’s report ruled out rape.”

“What did the coroner’s report tell you other than she hadn’t been raped?” Griff asked.

Ignoring Griff’s question, Touchstone looked at Vance. “Thanks for meeting us here. I appreciate it.” He turned to Griff. “You folks have anything else you want to ask Vance before he leaves?”

Beating Nic to the punch, Griff asked the farmer half a dozen questions. His answers were succinct, but not very informative.

“If that’ll be all, Mary Lou’s holding lunch for me.” Vance looked to the sheriff for permission to leave.

Touchstone nodded. “Thanks again, Vance.”

As soon as the farmer got in his truck and drove off, the sheriff faced Griff and Nic. “I’ll give you folks the basic facts of the case, but that’s all. I’m not opening my files to you and I’m not sharing privileged information. Understood?”

Nic smiled. “Yes, Sheriff, we understand. You can’t divulge privileged information to just anybody, not even private detectives.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Touchstone smiled at her, a flirting twinkle in his eye.

Griff cleared his throat. “As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone, what we need is to confirm that the similarities between Kendall Moore’s murder and Gala Ramirez’s murder are enough to indicate a link between the two and possibly point to a serial killer.”

“I understand,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t want y’all bandying around the words ‘serial killer’ in Stillwater. Folks are upset enough by the Ramirez girl’s murder without hearing that there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“We don’t intend to speak to anyone else in Stillwater,” Griff said. “You’ve already told us that Gala was hung upside down from that tree.” Griff nodded to the grand old maple. “Her feet had been bound and she’d been scalped, but she hadn’t been raped and she wasn’t naked. Could you confirm her cause of death?”

“She’d been shot in the head.”

“The scenario you described fits Kendall Moore’s murder,” Nic said. “What we need is for you to contact SAC Doug Trotter at the FBI field office in D.C. and tell him you suspect that the same person who killed Kendall Moore in Ballinger, Arkansas, might have killed Gala Ramirez.”

Squinting against the noonday sun, Touchstone replaced his Stetson and focused on Nic. “I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll call the police chief in Ballinger and if he backs up everything y’all have told me, I’ll contact the FBI.”

“Thank you.” Nic rewarded him with a wide smile.

“You folks staying on overnight? If you are—”

“We’re not,” Griff said. “My plane is waiting for us in Lufkin and we’ll be taking off from there and heading back to Tennessee. But if you need to get in touch with me, with us, you have my cell number.”

“Sure do,” Touchstone said. “But I don’t have yours, ma’am.”

“If you need to reach Ms. Baxter, just call me,” Griff told him.

Pudge booked a first-class ticket from Baton Rouge to Nashville. Once there, he would use a fake ID to rent a car and then drive on to Knoxville. He would check into a cheap motel as close to Amber Kirby’s apartment as possible and the following day he would begin observing her. Within a couple of days, he should know enough about her daily routine to choose the best time to abduct her. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but because she was an athlete and had to stay in superb physical condition, he assumed she ran at least once every day. If he was lucky, her routine would include either an early-morning or a late-night run.

Before he packed, he needed to choose a disguise. Nothing elaborate, just enough to change his appearance so that if anyone remembered seeing him, they wouldn’t describe him as he actually looked. After unlocking the wooden chest at the foot of his bed, he sat on the floor and casually went through the contents. He laid out a brown mustache that matched the color of his hair; then he found a pair of black-framed glasses. He added an Atlanta Braves baseball cap to the subtle masquerade items he would use. While in Nashville, he’d find a Wal-Mart and buy some inexpensive clothes. Nondescript. A cotton shirt and trousers. A pair of athletic shoes.

A couple of loud taps on his locked bedroom door reminded him that he was not alone in the house. Allegra was here. But he never worried about the old woman. She was a trustworthy old soul and even if she saw or overheard anything unusual, she didn’t have enough sense to figure out what was going on.

“Lunch is ready,” she called through the closed door. “I fried up some of them fresh catfish that Pappy Rousey brought by this morning.”

“Thank you, Allegra. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t you dawdle too long and let my fried conrbread balls get cold.”

Pudge heard her shuffling away, going back down the hall. He wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to make the trip out here to Belle Fleur every day. Her daughter, Fantine, dropped her off and picked her up on her way to and from her job as one of the maids for the Landau family who lived about ten miles down the road. He supposed when Allegra either died or retired, he’d have no choice but to find a new cook. When that day came, he would have to be more careful about playing his games.

Surely there’s a halfwit out there somewhere who knows how to cook.

Pudge picked up his disguise, got up out of the floor, and carried the items over to the bed where his open suitcase lay. He removed a small plastic case, laid the items inside, and put the case back into the suitcase.

As he left his room, he whistled to himself, some nonsensical tune from his childhood. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the words to the song, didn’t even know the name of the song, but he found himself humming it whenever he was plotting a new adventure. It was a happy song. His mother had hummed it to him to comfort him after she rescued him from his father’s wicked temper tantrums. Why his father had lashed out at him and never at Mary Ann and Marsha, he didn’t know. But whenever Daddy got in one of his moods, he had always called for Pudge to be sent to his study.

Don’t think about how mean Daddy was to you. Think about how kind Mommy was to you afterward.

Nic hadn’t chewed Griff out the way she had wanted to and it had taken every ounce of her willpower. She had wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he had no right to speak for her, that maybe she had wanted to give the handsome sheriff her cell number. And if she had, it wouldn’t have been any of Griff’s business.

On the drive from Stillwater to Lufkin, he’d glanced at her every once in a while, as if trying to gauge her mood, but she’d remained calm and silent, speaking to him only when he asked her a direct question.

Finally aboard the Powell jet and waiting for a powerful summer thunderstorm to pass before taking off, she and Griff sat in the luxurious cabin, sipping on early-evening drinks. Crown Royal and Coke for Griff. Plain Coke for Nic.

“He’ll contact us again,” Griff said, the statement coming after endless minutes of complete silence.

“Who?” Nic asked.

“The killer.” Griff pivoted on the leather sofa and faced Nic, who sat across from him. “Who did you think I meant—Sheriff Touchstone? Hell, what kind of name is that, anyway—Touchstone? A pretty name for a pretty boy.”

“He was rather handsome, wasn’t he?”

“He took an instant shine to you.”

“Do you find that so hard to believe, that a good-looking man would find me attractive?”

Griff downed the last drops of his drink, set the glass on the side table at the end of the sofa, and replied, “No, of course not. You’re attractive. I never said you weren’t. It’s not your physical appearance that I object to, it’s your personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?” That’s it, Nic, ask him and he’ll no doubt tell you.

“You’re abrasive, aggressive, bossy, and—”

“Traits that you would admire in a man.”

“Why do you want to act like a man?”

Answer that one, she told herself. Damn him!

Nic finished off her Coke but didn’t put down her glass. Instead she shook the tumbler, making the ice chips click together as she absently stared into the glass.

The distinctive ring told Nic that it was her cell phone and not Griff’s. She removed the phone from her pocket, checked the caller ID, and flipped it open. This just might be the call she’d been hoping for.

“Hello, Doug.”

Griff’s eyes widened. She didn’t pay any attention to him. Let him wait.

“I received two rather interesting phone calls today,” Doug Trotter said. “First this morning, Chief Benny Willoughby from Ballinger, Arkansas, called me and then this afternoon, Sheriff Dean Touchstone from Stillwater, Texas, called. Seems they’ve each got an unsolved murder and they think the same killer committed both crimes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about either of those, would you, Nic?”

“I might.”

“Might, my ass. Just where the hell are you? And don’t give me any bullshit about your being in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains.”

Nic sensed Griff’s impatience. He was dying to know what her boss had to say. Tough shit. The longer she could make him wait, the better.

“I’m on a private jet that will soon be taking off from Lufkin, Texas,” Nic said.

“How’d you get yourself involved in this?” Doug asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you’ve gone over to the dark side.”

Nic laughed softly. “I take it that you’ve heard I’m in league with Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Griff asked, faking an indignant expression as he pointed to himself.

“What are you doing with Griffin Powell?” She heard the obvious disapproval in Doug’s voice.

“Remember my theory that there were two BQ Killers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Griff and I both received calls a couple of days ago from a man who implied that he was that second killer. And he told us that he has begun a new game. He gave us both clues, each the name of a town and state and a time frame.”

“Go on.”

Nic wondered why Doug didn’t seem surprised. “There had been murders in each of the towns he named, and the time frame he gave us fit the time frame for each murder. Four days ago and four weeks ago.”

“So, instead of contacting me, you went with Griffin Powell to Ballinger and on to Stillwater. Want to tell me why?”

“Because Griff and I knew we needed some sort of proof that the murders were connected and that the local law had to get on board before—”

“You’re calling him Griff now, traveling on his private jet with him, partnering with him. I don’t like it, Special Agent Baxter.”

“Yes, sir. I’m not thrilled with the arrangement myself.”

“I want you to part company with Powell as soon as possible,” Doug told her. “Then I want you to hop a commercial jet to Atlanta. I want you to speak to a couple of detectives there. After I heard from Benny Willoughby this morning, I set some wheels into motion and discovered a really ugly trail of scalped female bodies hanging from tree limbs.”

A ripple of fear zipped through Nic’s nervous system as a sick feeling hit her in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?” Griff asked, a concerned look on his face. “What’s going on?”

Nic shook her head and motioned for Griff to be quiet, then she asked Doug, “Are you saying there were others besides Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore?”

“Yeah. So far, we’ve discovered three other similar murders in three states—Georgia, Oklahoma, and Virginia. All three women were young—under thirty.”

“Virginia?”

“Yeah. I’ve got Josh on it until you get back here.”

“Were all three women brunettes?” Nic asked as she absorbed the facts.

“There were three other murders?” Griff asked.

Nic laid her phone on her chest, glowered at Griff and told him, “Yes, there were three more. Now, will you please shut up until I finish talking to my boss!”

“Nic?” Doug called her name.

She lifted the phone to her ear. “I’m here. I had to swat a pesky mosquito.”

“To answer your question, no, they were not all brunettes. The first one, killed back in April, was blonde. The second one, killed in May, was a redhead, but the third one was a brunette. She was killed in late June.”

“Then her hair color may not have anything to do with his choice. It may not play a part in his new game the way it did in the BQK murders.”

“There is a connection between the women, other than the fact that they’re all young,” Doug said.

“And that would be?”

“Five of the four women were athletes.”

“Interesting. We already know that Gala was a tennis pro and Kendall was a former Olympic silver medalist in the long-distance running competition.”

“Dana Patterson was a gymnast and Candice Bates was a rodeo athlete.”

“And what was the fifth one?”

“Angela Byers was an Atlanta police officer.”

The wheels in Nic’s mind turned at lightning speed. “My guess is that Angela Byers was in tiptop physical condition. We can check it out, but I’d bet my pension on it.” Nic took a deep breath. “What all five women definitely have in common is the fact that they were physically fit. For whatever reason, our killer either wants or needs only women in their physical prime.”

Chapter 6

Anxious to know every detail of the information Doug Trotter relayed to her, Griff waited impatiently for Nic to finish her conversation. From listening to her side of the exchange, he surmised that Gala Ramirez had not been the first kill and that three other women’s murders fit the same MO.

Nic looked at Griff and wiggled her fingers. “I need a pen and paper,” she said as she held the phone sideways to prevent her boss from overhearing her request.

Griff hurried to a built-in desk, opened a drawer, and grabbed a notepad and paper, then slid the pad into Nic’s lap and handed her the ink pen. She nodded her thanks, then began writing rapidly as she straightened the phone and said, “I’ll get to Atlanta as soon as possible. Want to give me the names of the officers I should contact and where I can locate them?”

Griff watched while she continued writing furiously, nodding her head occasionally and giving simple, one-word replies. Finally, just as his patience wore thin, Nic said goodbye, closed her phone, and slipped it into her pocket.

“Well?” Griff asked.

“Doug unearthed some information that led him to believe there have been five connected murders, not two.”

“And?”

“The bureau is looking into each. He’s contacted the various law enforcement agencies in the affected states—Georgia, Virginia, and Oklahoma. He’s also contacted the field offices in those areas. He wants me to go to Atlanta before I return to D.C.”

“No problem,” Griff told her. “I’ll just have Jonathan file a new flight plan and we’ll head for Atlanta instead of Knoxville.”

“I don’t remember inviting you.” Clipping the ink pen to the top of the thin notepad, she looked directly at Griff. “Doug told me to go to Atlanta. He didn’t say anything about bringing you along with me.” She pressed the pad to her chest. “As a matter of fact, he disapproves of your involvement up to this point.”

“Tough.” Griff had no intention of letting Doug Trotter shut him out. He didn’t take orders from the bureau and although he tried to cooperate with all law enforcement agencies, he always did what he believed was in the best interest of everyone involved. He felt a special need to assist the victims’ families and to see that justice was served. Of course, it wasn’t always the type of justice he would prefer. His type of justice would be swift and deadly. No mercy whatsoever for vicious murderers like Cary Maygarden and his unknown partner, who had already begun a new killing spree.

“Look, Griff, it’s not going to work, our partnering up. Not now. It’s only a matter of time before this case is official FBI business. And when that happens—”

“You know that I’ll either be one step ahead of you or one step behind you. It doesn’t make sense for us not to cooperate.”

“I’d ask you to stay out of this and allow the proper authorities to handle the matter, but I know you won’t listen to anything I say.” Nic clutched the notepad to her chest with both hands, as if she were determined that he not catch even a glimpse of the info she’d jotted down during her conversation with Trotter. “You’re going to do whatever you want to do and damn the consequences. You want to solve this case and be the big dog in the news. You want everyone saying what an amazing PI Griffin Powell is, how he’s doing law enforcement’s job for them.”

“Do you honestly believe that I get involved in these cases because I like the publicity?” Good God, she really didn’t know him at all, did she? But then, he probably didn’t know her any better and might be judging her as unfairly as she was him.

“Are you saying you don’t love the publicity?” She snickered mockingly. “Odd, huh, that you wind up with your picture in the paper on a regular basis. If it’s not a story about Griffin Powell on the trail of a killer, then there’s one about your appearance at the latest highbrow social event with some gorgeous heiress on your arm.” She huffed. “Admit it—you love being in the public eye.”

Griff glanced at the notepad she held so protectively. She tightened her grip on the edges of the pad, eased it away from her chest, turned it over, and laid it in her lap. She pressed her folded hands down on top of it.

“I like solving crimes,” he said. “I like helping put criminals behind bars. I like doing what I can to stop evil people from harming others.”

“Then become a police officer, join the FBI, or get a law degree and—”

“There are enough police officers and lawyers”—he looked her square in the eyes—“and enough FBI agents. And you’re all required to work within the system, to follow the rules and walk the straight-and-narrow. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t. I have the freedom to cut a few corners, to sidestep a few rules. Sometimes my way works better. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“What is it with you?” she asked. “Why do you care? If it’s not for the thrills and the publicity, then why do it? You’ve got more money than God, so why not enjoy your playboy lifestyle and not get your hands dirty with murder and mayhem? I’ve never understood why you opened a PI firm in the first place.”

“Why I care is a personal matter,” he told her. “And because I do have more money than I could spend in several lifetimes, I have the means to help other people. Powell’s takes all kinds of cases, from people like Judd, who can pay dearly for our services, as well as from people who can’t pay us a dime. It doesn’t matter to us—to me—as long as we do our job.”

“So, you want me to believe that the Powell Agency is some philanthropic organization and you’re the benevolent benefactor?”