Dead by Midnight Part 13

Lorie managed a fragile smile. "Thank you."

Both of them heard the doorbell.

"I'd better get that," Maleah said. "You stay here until I see who it is."

"I've got it," Derek called from below.

Maleah raced down the stairs and arrived in the foyer just as Derek opened the door to Mike Birkett and a broad-shouldered, auburn-haired man wearing tan dress slacks and a blue blazer. Although he wasn't traditionally handsome, masculinity oozed from his pores and sparkled mischievously in his hazel brown eyes. Maleah liked him on sight. There was a gentle calmness to the man, and his warm smile expressed an easygoing manner.

Mike made the introductions quickly. Derek Lawrence, former FBI profiler, now a Powell Agency employee. Special Agent Hicks Wainwright, from the Birmingham field office.

"And this is Maleah Perdue," Mike said. "She's the Powell agent that Lorie Hammonds hired as soon as she received the second of two threatening letters."

Maleah shook hands with the federal agent. When he smiled at her, she returned his smile. Her gut instincts told her that Hicks Wainwright was her kind of guy.

"Special Agent Wainwright has been a.s.signed to investigate the three murders we believe are linked and make a judgment call on whether or not the Bureau should form a task force," Mike explained.

The usually charming Derek said rather gruffly, "It won't take much investigating to figure out that we're dealing with a serial killer."

Mike and Maleah stared at Derek, both surprised by his tone of voice. But Wainwright seemed not to notice and replied, "I'm sure I'll discover that you're right. And if I do, I've been instructed by SAS Josh Freidman, from headquarters in DC, to ask for the Powell Agency's cooperation. We don't want to work at cross-purposes, do we? And I'm sure your team does not want to interfere once this becomes a federal case."

"Of course we don't," Maleah said. "The Powell Agency always does everything possible to work with law enforcement, local, state, and federal."

Derek grunted. Mike cleared his throat.

"I'd like to talk to Ms. Hammonds," Wainwright said. "I understand she'll be going back to her home tonight and will have the protection of both Sheriff Birkett's deputies as well as a private bodyguard."

"That's right," Mike said. "A patrol car will be a.s.signed to park at Ms. Hammonds's home every night from ten until one. We're a.s.suming the killer won't deviate from his MO, which includes killing his victims sometime around midnight."

"Sounds like y'all have all your bases covered." Special Agent Wainwright focused on Maleah. "Will you be personally guarding Ms. Hammonds?"

"Actually-" Maleah began, but was cut off by Derek's response.

"Ms. Perdue will be working with me. We're flying into LA tomorrow to begin interviewing people who were involved in making the movie that connects the three victims with Ms. Hammonds."

Maleah bit her tongue to keep from telling Derek that she was perfectly capable of speaking for herself. Instead, she swallowed her aggravation, ignored Derek, and smiled pleasantly at Hicks Wainwright. "As I was saying, actually, another Powell agent, Sh.e.l.ley Gilbert, will be taking over as Lorie's personal bodyguard. She's driving in from Knoxville. We expect her to arrive later this evening."

Wainwright nodded. "Good. Good. Now that we have that settled, may I speak to Ms. Hammonds?"

"I'll get her," Maleah said, and then turned toward the stairs.

She had barely reached the landing when Lorie came out of her room and met her. "I kept my door open and overheard what y'all were saying. So, the FBI is involved now, huh?"

"It seems so, which is probably a good thing. A very good thing. You'll have not only the Powell Agency and all its resources working to find the killer, you'll also have the power and resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation at work on your behalf."

"And the local sheriff," Lorie reminded her.

"You're right. We should never underestimate the importance of local law enforcement."

He adored Lorie Hammonds. She was beautiful and kind and sweet and s.e.xy as h.e.l.l. He had wors.h.i.+pped her from afar for a couple of years, but she didn't really see him as anything other than an acquaintance, a nice hometown guy who had always treated her like a lady. Everybody here in Dunmore knew she was still hung up on Mike Birkett and the d.a.m.n fool wouldn't give her the time of day. At least not until recently. Now the sheriff was sniffing around Lorie, acting all protective and concerned. Too little too late as far as he was concerned. It wasn't fair that Mike got to step into the role of Lorie's knight in s.h.i.+ning armor. Given half a chance, he would take on the role himself. He dreamed of the moment Lorie would look at him and see that he was the man she'd always needed, the man who would do anything for her.

One of these days, he would work up the courage to ask her for a date. He'd walk into Treasures and go right up to her and say, "How'd you like to go out Friday night for dinner and a movie?"

And she'd say, "Whatever took you so long to ask me out? I'd love to go."

That would be the first of many dates, evenings that would end up back at her house, in her bed, the two of them s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g like crazy all night long.

Just the thought of touching Lorie gave him a hard-on.

Hidden in the shadows outside Jack and Cathy Perdue's home, he wondered what all the activity going on inside the house was about and how soon he could find out any details. Whatever concerned Lorie, concerned him, because whether she knew it or not she belonged to him

Later that evening, Mike pulled his truck into the parking lot adjacent to the sheriff's office where Special Agent Wainwright had left his car. As soon as he killed the engine, Mike reached to open the driver's side door, but Wainwright's comment stopped him cold.

"Ms. Hammonds is even more beautiful now than when she made Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade."

Mike swallowed hard. "You've seen the film?"

"Yeah, strictly in the line of duty, of course." Wainwright chuckled.

Do not lose your cool. This man doesn't know you were once engaged to Lorie. As far as he's concerned, this is just guy talk, nothing more and nothing less.

"Yeah, sure." For the life of him, Mike could not fake a smile.

"It's a good thing the Powell Agency has a.s.signed a woman to guard Ms. Hammonds. I can see where a guy could easily get personally involved when the client is a woman like Lorie."

"You're a.s.suming a great deal about her simply because she made one p.o.r.no movie."

Wainwright narrowed his gaze and studied Mike. "The lady's past had nothing to do with my comment. The fact that she's gorgeous and vulnerable and a guy could drown in her big brown eyes is what I was talking about. Just interviewing her for half an hour gave me a pretty good idea what kind of person she is."

"Care to elaborate?"

"You wouldn't have a personal interest in the lady, would you?"

Did he? h.e.l.l yes!

"My only interest in Lorie Hammonds is in my capacity as the sheriff of this county. She's one of the citizens that I'm sworn to protect."

Wainwright smiled. "Then the fact that you two were once engaged doesn't factor into your feelings about her?"

Wham! A two-by-four right between the eyes. That's how Wainwright's question affected Mike. Rendered momentarily speechless, he stared at the FBI agent.

"When I'm a.s.signed to a case, I do my research, Sheriff Birkett."

"Then you know that there has been nothing between Lorie and me since she came back to Dunmore more than nine years ago."

"Nothing? No feelings whatsoever, huh? I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it."

"It must have been difficult for you when she came back to Dunmore, knowing every man in town had not only seen her naked in Playboy Playboy, but had watched her screw a couple of guys on film."

It took every ounce of Mike's self-control not to punch Wainwright in the mouth. With his jaw clenched and his hands balled into tight fists, he glared at the man.

Wainwright looked Mike right in the eye. Neither of them blinked. Neither flinched. Finally, Wainwright asked, "Did you hate her? Do you still hate her?"

A low, guttural growl rose from Mike's chest and crawled up his throat. Only his clenched teeth diluted the sound from a roar to a rumble. "What are you really asking?"

"Do you hate Lorie Hammonds enough to want to see her dead?"

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h! Are you implying that I'd-?"

"It's a legitimate question," Wainwright told him. "And to answer your question-no, I do not think that you're in any way involved with the murders. But someone could easily use the murders as a smokescreen to hide behind if they wanted Lorie out of the way."

"You're talking about a copycat murder? Why would you think I or anyone else in Dunmore could hate Lorie enough to want to see her dead?"

"I like to get the lay of the land where all the players are concerned, and you were the only one on my possible suspects list who had reason to truly hate Lorie Hammonds. Let's just say that I can mark that particular scenario off my list. It's obvious that whether you know it or not, you still have some strong feelings for the lady."

"You're wrong."

"Am I? Then why did you turn ten shades of green when I mentioned how it must have felt knowing so many other men had seen your former fiancee in all her naked glory?"

Chapter 11.

He was dying. His doctor had delivered his death sentence shortly after Thanksgiving this past year. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. He'd had four long months to learn to accept the reality of his situation. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Original prognosis: a few months, a year at most. He knew he was already living on borrowed time.

Travis Dillard smoothed his fingertips over the cold, glossy surface of his mahogany desk, a twenty-five-thousand-dollar antique that his decorator had chosen for his home office ten years ago. He had surrounded himself with only the best money could buy because he could afford it. He had lived in a house worth thirty million, owned a dozen high-dollar automobiles, smoked Cuban cigars, drank Krug Grande Cuvee champagne, and wore Moreschi shoes and Astor & Black hand-tailored suits.

But that had been then. This was now. Divorce in California was expensive and although he had managed to hide some of his a.s.sets with wives three and four, wife number five had outsmarted him by stas.h.i.+ng away millions neither he nor his lawyer had ever been able to find.

He turned and gazed out the vast expanse of windows that showcased a splendid view of the Pacific Ocean. Beauty unparalleled in nature-except for the exquisite human form, both male and female in their prime.

Travis sighed heavily. Ah, for the good old days.

Be grateful for what you have, you old son of a b.i.t.c.h.

It wasn't as if he lived in poverty. He still owned the beach house he had inherited from his second wife, Valerie. Dear Valerie, to whom he owed so much. She had been the one who had taught him how to enjoy the finer things in life. Although he had never loved her-had he truly loved any of his wives?-he would forever be grateful to her for leaving him her millions.

And he still owned the rights to forty of his films, adult movies that had been rereleased recently on DVD. The income off those movies didn't afford him the luxury lifestyle to which he had been accustomed, but it did pay the bills and allowed him and his latest wife to maintain the facade of wealth. Dawn-his sixth wife-was young and gorgeous and sported the best body cosmetic surgery could give her. She wasn't overly bright, but after his fifth wife-the one who had taken him to the cleaners-Travis was perfectly content being married to a gorgeous, airheaded bimbo.

By his standards, he had lived a good life. h.e.l.l, he'd lived a great life. How many men could say they had screwed hundreds of lovely ladies? From his first f.u.c.k at the age of fourteen, he'd had his pick of sweet p.u.s.s.y. Not that he was all that handsome himself, just an average-looking Joe. But he had a big c.o.c.k and a big ego and women seemed to love both of his best a.s.sets.

If he had his life to live over again, would he do anything different? h.e.l.l, no! He had lived every moment of his life to the fullest and had no regrets.

Well, maybe one regret. The doctors claimed that his two-packs-a-day smoking habit had probably caused the cancer that was now killing him.

But why him? d.a.m.ned if he knew. Bible-thumpers would say he was getting his just punishment. Screw 'em all, every last sanctimonious hypocrite out there. There wasn't a heteros.e.xual man alive who didn't enjoy the pleasures of looking at, touching, and using a woman's body. The films he'd made catered to the normal human desires that existed in everyone.

"Mr. Dillard?" Louie Tong cleared his throat. "Your guests are due to arrive shortly. Do you wish for me to-?"

"Is it that late already?" Travis turned and faced his housekeeper of twenty years, a man he called friend, possibly the only real friend he had. "Did you compile all the information I asked for?"

"All the information is in the red binder there on your desk," Louie said. "I placed it there earlier today."

Yes, of course, he had. Travis remembered now. Odd how easily he forgot things these days. "Thank you. It had slipped my mind."

"Will there be anything else?"

"No, I...uh...I'm just wondering about these murders. Someone has killed Hilary and Dean and Charlie. Hilary and Dean were some of the best in the business. I loved them both, you know." He chuckled, remembering how often he had "loved" Hilary. G.o.d, she'd been a wild woman in bed. "And Charlie was a real card. The guy had a wonderful sense of humor. I loved him, too."

"Yes, sir, it's a shame what happened to them."

"d.a.m.n shame. They were all far too young to die." Travis slammed his fist down on the antique desk. "d.a.m.n it, I'm too young to die! People live to be a hundred these days. I should have had at least another twenty years."

Louie stared at him, a look of concern and sympathy in his black eyes.

Travis waved his hand in the air and grunted. "When those Powell agents arrive, show them into the living room. I'll be in there drinking some of my Macallan scotch and smoking one of my Havanas. I'm going to enjoy every day I've got left, drinking and smoking and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g to the end."

Travis Dillard had agreed to meet with them at four-thirty at his beach house on the Pacific Coast Highway. The Powell Agency office in Knoxville had quickly pulled together more info on Dillard, including the particulars of the property he owned. It seemed that he had been forced to sell his Bel Air mansion, which he had acquired through marriage to an heiress a good twenty years ago. The woman had been much older than Dillard and had died of an apparent heart attack after two years of marriage to the up-and-coming p.o.r.no filmmaker.

"Wife number two financed Dillard's first ten movies," Derek read from his laptop screen. "But after her death, wives three through five pretty much bankrupted the guy, especially wife number five. All he owns now is the place in Malibu, a couple of antique cars, and the rights to more than forty of his films."

Maleah turned their rental car off onto the drive leading from the highway to Dillard's house. "How old is he?"

"Hmm..." Derek scanned the file that the agency had sent this morning. "Sixty-six. Why?"

"And his present wife is how old?"

"Twenty-two."

"Figures. Is she a p.o.r.no star?"