Beverly Barton Bundle Page 4

  “Sure, come on in.”

  He escorted her to the living room. “Is there a problem? Something with Seth or—”

  “Nothing personal. I’m fine. My nephew is fine,” Maleah told him. “I’m here on business.”

  Frowning in confusion, Mike stared at her. “Explain.”

  “May I sit down?”

  “Sure. Please sit. Believe me, my mama taught me good manners. I just forget them sometimes.”

  Maleah sat on the sofa. Mike eased down onto the wingback chair directly across from her.

  “You know Lorie Hammonds, I believe,” Maleah said.

  Mike nodded. His gut tightened.

  “She has hired me, as a representative of the Powell Agency, to investigate two threats made on her life.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m quite serious.”

  “Don’t tell me the Women for Christian Morality folks are after her again. Believe me, those ladies are harmless.”

  “I’m not familiar with that group, but I doubt they’re involved in this situation. Lorie has received two letters, one a month ago and a second this weekend. Both letters were identical, both were death threats.”

  “Did you see the letters?”

  Maleah nodded. “Yes, one of them, the most recent. Unfortunately, she threw the first one away thinking it was a crank letter.”

  “Hmm…I wouldn’t take anything Ms. Hammonds says too seriously. She tends to be melodramatic sometimes. Actually, I wouldn’t put it past her to have written the letter herself in order to get attention.”

  “To get whose attention—yours, Mike?”

  His gut knotted painfully. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Do you think she’s that desperate to have you pay attention to her that she’d fake death threats?”

  Would she? Did he really believe she would go to that extreme just to draw him into her life? “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “Hey, I realize you two were an item when you were teenagers and she broke your heart when she went off to Hollywood hoping to become a movie star. But that was a long time ago. Don’t you think it’s way past time to let bygones be bygones? I don’t know Lorie all that well, but then neither do you. You knew the teenage Lorie. She’s not the same person.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “I’m really not concerned about your personal issues with her. But I do need to know that, as the county sheriff, you will treat these death threats as seriously as you would if any other woman in your jurisdiction had received them.”

  “You have my word on it. Ask Ms. Hammonds to come to the office tomorrow and give a statement. I’ll assign one of our deputies to question her.”

  “Thanks, Mike. I knew I could count on you.” Maleah stood.

  “Daddy,” Hannah called out from down the hall. “I’m ready for my good-night kiss.”

  “Go on,” Maleah told him. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Lorie sat alone in her semidark bedroom, the only light coming from the adjustable floor lamp behind her lounge chair. Oddly enough, the silence was comforting, the familiar a safe haven. The security system was armed. Her handgun was nearby in the nightstand. She was safe, at least for now. And it was possible that she wasn’t in any real danger, that whoever had written the two threatening letters would not follow through and actually try to kill her.

  She had halfway expected to hear from Mike. Perhaps Maleah hadn’t contacted him; perhaps she was waiting until morning. But Lorie knew that eventually, Mike would confront her. He wasn’t likely to take the situation seriously. He’d think she concocted the whole thing in order to get his attention.

  He couldn’t be more wrong.

  It had taken her nearly four years—ever since Molly Birkett had died and Lorie had hoped Mike would turn to her for comfort—to accept that Mike truly hated her and would never forgive her.

  Lorie gently ran her fingertips over the open book in her lap—the Dunmore High yearbook from Mike’s senior year. She had been a sophomore, only sixteen, and madly in love with Mike. Their first date had been for his senior prom.

  She slammed the yearbook closed and dropped it to the floor beside the cream and gold damask chaise longue.

  An odd idea came to mind. The corners of her mouth lifted into a sarcastic smile. The only person she could think of who might want to kill her was Mike. Of course, not literally kill her. But he would like nothing better than to make her disappear, to erase her and pretend she’d never existed.

  As she considered possible suspects from her life, past and present, she couldn’t think of anyone who had ever truly hated her except Mike.

  Her parents disapproved of her and were disappointed in her. Her father still wouldn’t speak to her and although her mother would talk to her briefly over the phone, she refused to see her.

  When she had lived in California and had been trying to break into show business, she had made a few friends and possibly a few enemies. But no one who would want to kill her, certainly not after all these years.

  What about Dean?

  She hadn’t thought about Dean Wilson in ages. The last time she saw him was the day she’d caught a bus home to Alabama. He had followed her to the terminal and pleaded with her not to leave him. He’d been high as a kite. She supposed that, in a way, she had loved Dean. He’d been good-looking and exciting and charming. But in the end, he had been her undoing. And for that, she could thank him. After all, if he hadn’t gotten her a small part in one of his movies, it might have taken her longer to realize how close she had come to hitting rock bottom. That final degradation had forced her to admit the truth to herself. She had failed miserably. She might have been pretty, had a small amount of talent and a great deal of ambition, but after nearly six years of trying to get a big break, she had gone from starry-eyed beauty pageant winner to a bit player in a porno movie.

  Was it possible that Dean had sent the letters? The last thing he’d said to her had been a threat.

  “Go ahead and leave me, bitch. But one of these days when you least expect it, I’ll show up and make you sorry you were ever born.”

  At the time, she hadn’t paid much attention to his drug-induced ravings. But…What if…

  Damn it, Lorie, why would Dean send you death threats now?

  Chapter 3

  Barbara Jean met the potential client at the front door, introduced herself as Sanders’s assistant, and showed him down the hall to Griff’s study. The door stood wide open and Sanders sat behind the antique desk, a somber expression on his face. She knew Sanders for the kind-hearted, caring man he was. She knew that he liked his tea without lemon, cream, or sugar, that he preferred to sleep on the right side of the bed, that he had a dour sense of humor and that he enjoyed classical music. His favorite color was yellow, his favorite snack was Cheetos, and his favorite season was summer. However, even now, after being this man’s lover for nearly three years, she knew very little about the mysterious past he shared with his best friend and employer, Griffin Powell, and with the alluringly beautiful Dr. Yvette Meng. And that secretive past had made him the man he was today. Although they were on intimate terms, friends as well as lovers, she thought of him as Sanders, his surname the one used by all who knew him, even Griff and Yvette. In their private moments, she occasionally called him Damar, but in reality, Damar was a man she didn’t know, a man who belonged to a past that she could never share. A past that belonged to a dead wife and child.

  Unlike Griff’s wife, Nicole, her dear friend, she accepted the fact that Sanders had secrets he chose not to share with her. But where she managed to curb her curiosity about the man she loved, about the years he had spent with Griff and Yvette, the three of them captives of a madman, Nic probed relentlessly into the past. Nic needed to know; Barbara Jean did not. It was enough for her that Sanders loved her now, and that he was loyal to the commitment they had made to each other. Perhaps it was because she had known from the very beginning that she was not th
e great love of Sanders’s life.

  When she paused her wheelchair at the door, their guest waiting with her, Sanders rose from behind the desk. “Please come in, Mr. Chambless.”

  The tall, broad-shouldered biracial athlete resembled his photographs, a handsome man with a toned body. But where in every picture Barbara Jean had seen of him, he’d been smiling, today he looked as if he might never smile again. Grief hung on his shoulders like a heavy shroud. The man had lost his wife only a month ago.

  When Tagg Chambless entered the study and strode across the room, Sanders came out from behind the desk and met him, his hand extended. Sanders was much shorter than the six-five former NFL star, but equally impressive in his own way. The first time she saw Sanders, she had thought he looked like Yul Brynner, the exotically handsome actor who had risen to stardom in the mid-twentieth century portraying the king of Siam in the Broadway production and later in the movie, The King and I. Same bald head. Same hot, dark eyes. Same regal, commanding manner.

  “My lawyer, Robert Talbot, told me that the Powell Agency is the best money can buy,” Tagg said as he shook hands with Sanders. “Seems Bobby and your agency’s lawyer are old buddies.”

  “Yes, that is my understanding,” Sanders said. “Camden Hendrix called me personally Saturday to set up this appointment today.”

  “Yeah. And you might as well know up front that I wanted to talk to Griffin Powell himself about this and was told he was unavailable.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Powell are away on vacation.”

  Tagg nodded. “So I get the number-two man instead.” He glanced back at Barbara Jean, who remained in the doorway. “What about Ms. Hughes?”

  “Come on in, Barbara Jean.” Sanders motioned to her and then focused his gaze on Tagg. “Just as I am Mr. Powell’s associate and second in command when he and his wife are not available, Ms. Hughes is my associate and privy to everything that goes on at the Powell Agency.” When Tagg made no comment, Sanders indicated a chair near the fireplace. “Please, sit down.”

  After Tagg took his seat, Sanders sat in the chair across from him. Barbara Jean entered the room and eased her wheelchair behind Sanders.

  “I think Mr. Hendrix explained what I want,” Tagg said.

  “He gave me the basic details—that your wife was murdered approximately one month ago, the police have done all they can and have no suspects in the case, and you want to hire the Powell Agency to do an independent investigation.”

  Tagg leaned over, his shoulders slouching with weariness, and sank his large, clasped hands between his spread knees. With his gaze directed to the floor, he breathed in heavily and released a deep, tortured sigh.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to see your wife’s dead body lying in her own blood…to know that she suffered.” Tagg choked with emotion.

  Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Sanders’s and without saying a word she conveyed her concern. He closed his eyes for just for a second and she understood exactly what he was reliving in that dark moment and how the other man’s words had touched a sharp, painful chord in Sanders’s very private memories.

  Sanders cleared his throat. “I’ll oversee the case personally, but I’ll put one of our top agents in charge of the investigation. His name is Holt Keinan. I called him in from Knoxville last night and he’s ready to return to Memphis with you today to handle things in the field. He will need your full cooperation. Do you understand?”

  “He’ll have it,” Tagg assured Sanders.

  “Whatever you share with us will go no further, even if you’ve been involved with anything illegal. But in order for us to do our job, we have to know about anything that might have the slightest bearing on your wife’s murder.”

  “No one I’m associated with killed her. I’m sure of that. Nobody was out to get me through Hilary.”

  “Nevertheless, we will be digging into your and your wife’s personal lives, past and present.”

  Tagg clenched his teeth and nodded.

  “The more you can tell us, the more time we can save investigating and having to find out things you could have told us.” Sanders paused, giving Tagg a chance to inject information into their conversation. He didn’t. Sanders continued. “You seem to think there’s no one in your life who posed a threat to you or your wife—what about someone in your wife’s life? Somebody from her past? Or someone—?”

  “It’s no secret that for a while, when she was in her early twenties, Hilary went from being a Las Vegas showgirl to a star in several low-budget adult movies.”

  “By adult you mean pornographic movies?”

  “Yeah. Hilary was a beautiful woman. She had a great body. And she loved showing it off. She loved life…loved sex. When we met, she gave up the movie business and her agent was none too happy. This guy wore two hats, one as an agent and another as a producer of porno flicks. He told Hilary that she’d regret leaving him to marry me, that she’d miss the business and come back to him the first time she caught me in bed with another woman.”

  “Did she?” Sanders asked.

  When Tagg looked him in the eye, his gaze questioning, Sanders clarified. “Did she ever catch you with another woman?”

  “From the day we married, there was never anyone else for either of us. It’s been that way for the past seven years.”

  “Who was this guy, the agent-cum-producer?”

  “Travis Dillard.”

  “Did your wife have any contact with him over the past seven years or perhaps only recently?”

  “No, none, not over the years or recently.”

  “We will check into it, find out if there is any reason to think he might be involved.” Sanders glanced at Barbara Jean. “See if Holt is free to join us and then have coffee prepared and served in approximately twenty minutes.”

  “Certainly.” Barbara Jean wheeled out of the room and headed straight for the kitchen. Holt would be there having a late breakfast. She had spoken to him less than fifteen minutes before Tagg Chambless’s arrival.

  The moment Cam Hendrix had contacted Sanders to tell him about Hilary Chambless’s murder, she had known Sanders would agree to take the case. He identified with any man who had lost his wife in such a brutal way. And each time he became involved in a case such as this, he relived his own wife’s death at the hands of a monster.

  Charles Wong placed the letter back in the envelope, tore the envelope into several pieces, and dumped the pieces into the kitchen wastebasket.

  “We’re off,” his wife Lily called to him from the living room. “Don’t forget that you’re picking the girls up from school today.”

  “I won’t forget,” he told her. “I’ll be there on time. Three o’clock sharp.”

  “Oh, and Charlie, call me after the interview, okay? Good luck, babe.”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  When he heard the front door slam, he released a loud huff as he poured himself another cup of coffee and opened the caramel crunch breakfast bar he had laid out on the counter after he had cleared the kids’ cereal bowls from the table. Right now, Lily was supporting the four of them—herself, him, and her twin daughters, Jenny and Jessy. Since he’d been laid off shortly before Christmas, more than three months ago, he had signed up for unemployment and become a househusband. He had gone on numerous job interviews; today’s interview was number twelve. Unfortunately, he wasn’t qualified for much. His last job had been at a local plant where he’d been a janitor. Today’s interview was for a job as a bagger at the grocery store two blocks from their duplex apartment.

  When he’d met Lily three years ago, he had been on the verge of giving up, of taking an overdose or jumping off the nearest bridge. They had met at an AA meeting. He had never known anyone like her. For him, it had been love at first sight. She had survived a teenage pregnancy, a boyfriend who abused her, parents who abandoned her, and a drinking problem that had almost cost her custody of her girls. But she had turned her life around and had helped him do the same.

/>   They had been married for a year, had a decent apartment, managed to survive on one paycheck, and were doing their best to be good parents. He adored Jenny and Jessy. Who wouldn’t? They were seven-year-old replicas of their mom. And they were calling him Daddy now. Their own father never had been a part of their lives.

  Charlie sat down at the small kitchen table, ripped open the breakfast bar, took a bite, and then washed it down with coffee. When he had lost his job in December, he had believed that was the worst thing that could happen to him, but he’d been wrong. In early January, he had received the first letter. He had dismissed it as nothing more than a stupid prank and threw the letter away. Then the second letter, identical to the first, had arrived in February, right before Valentine’s Day. Even though that one had unnerved him, he had torn it up and tossed it in the garbage. As far as he knew, he didn’t have any enemies who hated him enough to want to see him dead.

  Then Saturday, the third letter had arrived, another word-for-word replica of letter number two. He knew the message by heart.

  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?

  For the past couple of days, he’d been thinking about what he should do. Lily had enough on her mind with her job as a waitress, the two girls, and their barely having enough money to make ends meet. The last thing she needed was to find out that someone was sending her husband death threats. If he went to the police, what could they do? Not a damn thing. And what could he do? He had no idea who had sent the letters. Even when he had ended up in the gutter—literally—a few years back, he hadn’t encountered anyone who’d want to kill him. All he could do was watch his back, be careful, and not take any chances. And as far as he knew, Lily and the girls were safe. The letters had not mentioned his wife and kids, so he hoped that meant that only he was in danger. But from whom? And why?