The Dying Game (39 page)

Taking her by the waist, he lifted her up. While the aftershocks of her climax rippled through her, he brought her down over his erection, spearing deep and hard into her. She keened softly as he filled her. When she leaned her body forward, to give him access to her breasts, he immediately took one nipple into his mouth while he tormented the other with his thumb and forefinger.

He stroked her buttocks as she rode him, the tempo of her lunges steadily increasing. He grunted once, twice, then sucked greedily on her breast as he came. She slowed, then went still. When his shudders ended, he urged her into movement, and with him still semi-erect inside her, she managed to climax quickly.

Panting, physically drained, her whole body zinging with the aftereffects of her second orgasm, she spread out on top of him, her naked flesh adhering to his with their mutual musky perspiration. He stroked her back, then moved down to her buttocks, his caresses lingering.

She lifted her head enough to kiss his shoulder from neck to arm before melting into him and sighing contentedly.

“I could stay right here like this forever,” she told him.

He chuckled. “We’d eventually get hungry and I’d have to carry you to the kitchen for more milk and cookies.”

Closing her eyes, she savored the moment, knowing that she could no more make these hours she’d spent with Judd last indefinitely any more than she could actually stop time. During the years she had known Judd, she’d never heard him joke around, never heard the sound of laughter in his voice.

I might not be his love, but I am his lover. I make him
happy. I know I do
.

And she was willing to take what she could get.

“We don’t have to go to Birmingham,” she whispered, uncertain how he would react.

“Yeah, we do.” He rolled her off him and onto her back, then leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “We’ve been off in our own private world. Now, it’s time to come back to reality.”

Sighing, she nodded.

He caressed her cheek, then kissed her, robbing her of breath.

When he lifted his head, she looked up at him. “Does reality include the two of us being together?”

He sat up in the bed. “That depends on what you want … what you’re willing to settle for.”

Her chest tightened. There would be no declarations of love, no promises of forever after. That was their reality.

“I’ll take whatever you have to offer,” she told him as she sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed.

He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder while she had her back to him. “You deserve more than I can offer you.”

“You know that. I know that. But, unfortunately, my heart has a mind of its own.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Then it is what it is. Friendship and sex.”

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry
.

“Friendship and sex,” she repeated his words.

“Why don’t you take a shower while I fix us some coffee,” Judd said. “Then I’ll shower while you whip us up some breakfast.”

Forcing a smile, she glanced over her shoulder. “One night of wild, passionate sex together and you’re already expecting me to prepare your meals. What next, master, fetching your slippers and pipe?”

Keep things light. Make this easy for him. He’s taken a
giant step. Meet him more than halfway
.

Judd chuckled. “I don’t smoke a pipe, so just fetching my slippers will be quite enough.”

She stood, totally at ease with her nudity. After all, there wasn’t an inch of her body that Judd had not only seen, but touched and explored.

“I’m going to soak in the claw-foot tub this morning,” Lindsay said. “Bring me a cup of coffee while I’m soaking and I could be persuaded to make French toast for breakfast.”

“If you’ll make French toast, I’ll not only bring you coffee, but I’ll scrub your back.”

“Coffee will be enough, thank you. If you scrub my back, you might wind up in the tub with me.” She winked at him as she lifted her overnight bag from the floor at the foot of the bed.

“I could be coaxed into taking a bath with you,” he told her, his tone playful.

“If we’re going to make it to Birmingham this morning, we won’t have time for more hanky-panky.”

He climbed out of bed, gloriously, delectably naked.

God, she could eat him with a spoon.

“You’re drooling, sweetheart,” he told her.

“Can’t help it. You’re gorgeous.”

He eyed her from head to toe. “So are you. Every sweet inch of you.”

“Coffee,” she reminded him. “Then breakfast. And after that, we’ll hit the road and you can call Griff while I drive.”

“You’re a bossy little thing.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“Yeah, but my liking it is new.”

She laughed, hoisted her bag over her shoulder, and hurried out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom.

Two hours later, after coffee, baths, breakfast, and a quickie on the kitchen table, they locked up and headed toward Whitwell. Soon after hitting Interstate 24, they connected with Interstate 59, which would take them directly to Birmingham.

While Griff and Powell agent, Maleah Perdue, had checked into the Wynfrey Hotel, Rick Carson had set up meetings at different times with three potential informants. All three worked for the Bessemer PD in some capacity, although only one of them was directly involved with the LaShae Goodloe case. He’d been one of the first patrol officers on the scene when the motel manager had reported a murder in Room Ten.

Griff had personally telephoned the lead detective, Jeremy Watson, who had been cordial but standoffish at first. But the detective’s attitude had changed when Griff had made comments about how this really should be Watson’s case, and how unfortunate it was that the FBI had swarmed in so soon and taken over. His subtle hints that working with a female agent like Nic Baxter made a guy look all but emasculated to the press had worked like a charm on the he-man Watson.

Having a preliminary background check on Lieutenant Watson in his hand as he spoke to the detective gave Griff a definite advantage. It seems that Watson had been married to a man-eating, hot-shot Realtor who had left him for a wealthy client. Strike one against the female sex. And four years ago, he’d been passed over for a promotion, which had gone to a younger officer—a woman with less experience than Watson had. Strike two.

Griff grinned, knowing that it was highly likely that Nic Baxter’s kick-butt-and-take-names attitude had already pissed off the detective.

Strike three?

“Look, Jeremy … I can call you Jeremy can’t I?” Griff asked in his good-old-boy voice.

“Sure thing. But make it Jere. That’s what my friends call me.”

“And you call me Griff.”

“Yes, sir, it would be my pleasure,” Watson said.

“Well, Jere, it’s like this, I know you can’t officially include me in your investigation and I certainly don’t want to interfere in any way. But us guys have to stick together, don’t we?”

“Damn straight.”

“I know Special Agent Baxter is just doing her job—”

“Yeah, and running roughshod over me and my whole department in the process. She’s even taking over the press conference this afternoon.” Watson grumbled a few choice curse words under his breath. “You know the type. Hell, you know her personally, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ve had to deal with her on every Beauty Queen Killer case.” Griff lowered his voice, adding a soft chuckle before he said, “The woman’s a real ballbuster.”

Watson let out a belly laugh. “Look, I’ve got to go. She and her flunky, Friedman, are motioning for me to join them. They’ve brought in the night clerk from the Triple Eight Motel. Even though I took his statement yesterday, that wasn’t good enough for her. She’s got to question him herself. She won’t learn nothing new. He saw one guy go into Room Ten last night and another guy come out.”

“If that’s the case, you’ve got yourself an eyewitness?”

“Yeah, sort of. Problem is he couldn’t give us a decent description of either guy.”

Griff managed to keep his voice calm and level. “Thanks for the info.”

“You didn’t hear it from me.” Watson added, “Nothing official mind you, but why don’t we meet for drinks later today. Give me your number and I’ll call you.”

Griff called off the digits to his cell number, then said, “Thanks, man. I’ll owe you one.”

With a lead detective as cooperative as Watson, they might not need an informant, but Griff believed in covering all his bases. It wouldn’t hurt to have more than one source of information.

* * *

Nic had picked up Detective Watson’s animosity the moment they’d met. He was one of those old-fashioned police officers, despite not being a day over forty-five, who thought women should stay at home, barefoot and pregnant. No doubt, at sometime in his life, some woman had kept him pussy-whipped, making him resent all aggressive females. Well, tough shit. She didn’t have the time, patience, or inclination to care.

Suck-it-up had been her motto for a long time.

As a professional courtesy and in the spirit of cooperation, she had invited Lieutenant Watson to join her and Josh when they questioned Randy Tidwell, the night clerk from the motel where LaShae Goodloe’s body had been found.

Nic and Josh had arrived in Birmingham late yesterday and gone straight to the Bessemer Police Department before checking into their hotel. Four other members of the BQK task force had come in this morning and were at present doing their jobs, just as she and Josh were.

Ever since she arrived at headquarters at eight o’clock today, she’d been expecting to see Griffin Powell. He was like a bad penny, he kept showing up. But so far, he hadn’t put in an appearance. Was he waiting so he could show up at this afternoon’s press conference? Probably. He seemed to like nothing better than harassing her. One of these days, he was going to step over the line and give her a legitimate reason to arrest him.

She hated to admit that she lived for that day.

“Watson’s waiting for us,” Josh whispered for her ears only. “Ready to go in?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” She offered the Bessemer detective a curt nod, then opened the door to the interview room and marched in, Josh and Watson following her.

The motel clerk sat alone in the small room, reared back in one of the chairs at the table, arms up, his fingers locked behind his head. The guy certainly appeared to be relaxed.

“Mr. Tidwell, I’m Special Agent Baxter, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” She walked over to him and held out her hand.

He shot up out of the chair and shook her hand. “Are you the one in charge?”

“Yes.” She inclined her head to the side, where Josh stood. “This is Special Agent Friedman.” She glanced behind her and said, “And I believe you’ve already met Detective Watson, with the Bessemer PD. You spoke to him briefly yesterday.”

Tidwell’s gaze moved around the room, from one person to another, then he focused on Nic. “When my boss called and told me that LaShae Goodloe, from WBNN, was murdered at our motel, I didn’t know the killer had been one of the guys in Room Ten. Either the one who rented the room or the other one.”

“Tell me what the one who rented the room looked like,” Nic said.

“Well, he had shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. He was average height and just a bit on the stocky side. Not fat, just solid.”

“Would you recognize him, if you saw him again?” Nic asked.

“Probably.”

Nic narrowed her gaze. She got some odd vibes from Tidwell, nothing sinister, just slightly off. She had a feeling he was the type who liked the idea of being a key witness.

“You wouldn’t give Lieutenant Watson any details about either of the men you saw when he questioned you earlier. Why not?”

“I didn’t want to waste my time with an underling.” Tidwell grinned. “I was saving my story for the top dog.” He pointed at her. “That would be you.”

She knew that comment stung Watson’s masculine pride.

“Okay, so you saw this blond guy go into Room Ten, but then you saw another man come out a few hours later.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I had stepped outside to get a Pepsi from the machine in front of the office and I saw this other guy sort of sneaking out of Room Ten. He didn’t think anybody saw him. But I did.”

“What did that man look like?”

“About five-nine or ten, thick build, but not overweight. It was dark, so I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but his hair was brown. Dark brown, I think.”

Hair color and eye color could be easily changed in a matter of minutes with contact lenses, hair dye, or wigs. Her gut instincts told her that the blond man who entered and the dark-haired man who exited Room Ten were one and the same. Average height, stocky build.

Nic motioned to Josh, who removed copies of three sketches from his briefcase and handed them to her. Lieutenant Watson glared at the sketches she held, then looked up, and frowned at her.

“I have some sketches that I’d like you to look at and tell me if any one of them resembles either man you saw.” Nic laid the sketches out on the table, one by one. “Take your time.”

While Tidwell studied the sketches, Lieutenant Watson gradually maneuvered around behind Nic so that he could get a better look.

“None of them are the blond guy,” Tidwell said. “And I’m not sure, but this one—” he tapped his fingers against the profile sketch that Griffin Powell’s artist had drawn.

She hadn’t been surprised when she had received the sketches, via e-mail attachments, a couple of days ago. After all, Griffin had been sharing information with the FBI ever since Judd Walker hired him to search independently for Jennifer Walker’s killer. Nic hated to admit that sometimes he’d gotten hold of info they hadn’t.

“Was the man you saw leaving Room Ten wearing a hat or sunglasses?” Nic asked.

“Nope, but I saw him from the side, just like in this picture and this looks like the guy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tidwell.” She turned to Josh, who nodded his understanding. She then spoke to their eyewitness again. “Special Agent Friedman is going to ask you a few more questions, and take your official statement, then you may go. And thank you for your cooperation.”