Maleah smiled. “So, do we talk to Mr. Powell or—”
“Let me talk to him. I’ll tell him you did the research and came up with the plan, but that I want to be the one to impersonate Paige Allgood.”
“What do you think he’ll say?”
“I think he’ll say no way in hell.”
“But?”
“If I decided to do it on my own, would you help me?”
“You really think Mr. Powell will nix the idea?”
“I don’t know, but if he does—”
“I’ll help you,” Maleah said.
And in that moment Lindsay knew what she had to do, whether the plan worked or not, she had to try. For Judd’s sake. If she could lure the BQ Killer into a trap …
The only thing remotely Irish about O’Brien’s Pub was the name and a couple of Irish ales on tap. Typical of most bars, the music was loud, the air filled with smoke, and the customers a mixture of races, sexes, and ages. When Griff and Judd entered the place, Griff surveyed the bar area first and then ran his gaze over the tables.
“Just ask Pete, the bartender,” Watson had told Griff. “He’ll point you to my usual table.”
Griff knew what Watson looked like, but he certainly didn’t share that info with the detective. Rick had done a background check on Watson, along with other key players in the LaShae Goodloe murder, and each report had contained a photo.
“That’s him, over there.” Griff inclined his head in the direction of a back table where a lone man sat nursing a beer bottle. “Wait here and I’ll go ask the bartender to point out Watson.” Griff grinned.
A couple of minutes later, Griff and Judd approached the detective, who, when he noticed the two men heading straight toward him, stood up and watched them.
“Lieutenant Watson?” Griff held out his hand.
“Yeah. You Griffin Powell? You’ve changed a lot since you played for UT.”
“Twenty years will change a man.” Griff shook hands with Watson, then introduced Judd. “This is Judd Walker, an old friend of mine. His wife was a victim of the BQ Killer nearly four years ago.”
Watson shook Judd’s hand. “Sorry for your loss. We’re going to get the son of a bitch.”
When the three men sat down at the table, Watson motioned to a waitress and asked, “What do you guys want to drink?”
Griff’s gaze met Judd’s for a split second, then Griff looked at Watson and grinned. “We’re hooking up with some mighty fine ladies later, so we’ll just take a couple of Cokes. We want to wine and dine our dates properly. Too much liquor can keep a guy down, if you know what I mean.”
Watson chuckled and slapped Griff on the back. “Lucky you.” He looked at Judd. “You, too. Me, I’m going home to a microwave meal and my remote control.”
“A guy like you ought to be out there pleasing the ladies,” Griff said.
Watson grinned.
When the waitress showed up, Griff ordered two Cokes, then turned back to Watson, who ordered another beer.
As soon as the waitress was out of earshot, Watson said, “You didn’t get this information from me. I can rely on you not to mention my name, right?”
“Absolutely,” Griff assured the detective.
“Like I told you earlier today, we got ourselves an eyewitness.” Watson looked from Griff to Judd. “The night clerk at the motel, a guy named Tidwell, saw one man going into Room Ten the night of the Goodloe murder and another one coming out.” Watson leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “That Baxter gal thinks I didn’t figure out that the two men Tidwell saw were probably the same man, just wearing different disguises. She thinks I’m just a local yokel.”
“Special Agent Baxter likes to think she’s smarter than most men.” When Griff spoke, Judd gave him a you’re-so-f-of-shit look.
“She showed Tidwell some sketches she had,” Watson said. “Probably done by one of their FBI sketch artists from a description another witness gave them.”
“Is that right?” Griff said.
“Did this Tidwell guy see any resemblance between the man he saw, in either disguise, and the man in the sketches?” Judd asked.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. He said the profile sketch of the man in a hat and sunglasses looked like the man who’d left Room Ten on the night of the murder.”
Judd and Griff exchanged glances.
“I’ve got another little gem for you, Mr. Powell,” Watson said, a cocky glint in his eye
“Ah, come on now, Jere, didn’t I tell you to call me Griff?”
Watson chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.” He took a couple more swigs from his beer bottle. “Well, Griff, this bit is top secret and not a word of it can leak out. Understand?”
“Nobody will hear it from us,” Griffin said.
The waitress returned with a beer and two Cokes.
As soon as she placed the drinks on the table and left, Watson motioned for Griff and Judd to huddle closer. “This LaShae Goodloe did a morning talk show here in Birmingham. She interviewed people all the time.” He paused, looked right and left as if he thought someone might overhear him, then continued. “We found one of those mini-tape recorders in her purse, but we didn’t think much about it, considering what she did for a living. But the crime scene boys listened to the tape, and guess what they heard?”
Griff looked directly at Judd, who suddenly went stiff, his facial muscles tight.
“This Goodloe woman must have had the recorder on because it taped this guy telling her how he was going to kill her. Our CSI team says that it’s clear enough to make a match, if we had a voice to compare it to.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could get me a copy of that tape, is there?”
Watson blew out a long, huffing breath. “I’m afraid not, Griff. I’d like to oblige you, but I’d get my ass in big trouble doing something like that.”
Griff patted him on the back. “I understand, Jere. Don’t give it another thought.”
Half an hour later, when Griff and Judd were heading back to the Wynfrey, Griff said, “I’m going to find a way to get a copy of that tape.”
“Why bother? It’s just more worthless information about a phantom killer. The voice on the tape is useless without a suspect’s voice for comparison.”
“Look, I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to get all bent out of shape about it.”
“What?” Not just a question, but a demand.
“The sketches that Nic Baxter showed the motel night clerk—I sent them to her.”
Judd glared at Griff. “I take it that Barbara Jean Hughes finally managed to remember enough to work with a sketch artist.”
“Yeah, Barbara Jean is where we got the information.” Griff wasn’t lying; he was simply protecting Yvette. “Counting the motel clerk, we now have three witnesses who agree on an ID.”
“That’s great, but it amounts to nothing. One big monster-size zero. The sketch shows the guy in sunglasses and a hat. Big freaking deal. And you’ve got the killer’s voice on tape. Yippee. A vague description, a sketch of a guy wearing a disguise, and a taped voice that can’t be compared to squat. What good is any of that?”
“When I first saw the sketches after Wade Freeman finished them, I realized that there was something familiar about the man’s face.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I think I’ve seen this guy somewhere before, but I haven’t been able to figure out the when, where, or who.”
Sandi Ford checked her watch: Seven-twenty. She had hoped the Holloway family would show up earlier instead of later, but apparently not. No sense wasting time, not when she could be doing something productive while waiting on her potential students and their parents. A new shipment of costumes had come in this afternoon, right in the middle of her four-to-five-year-olds’ ballet class. The postal carrier had, as she always did, simply left the boxes on the floor just inside the front door. The spring recital was only a few weeks away, so the sooner she unpacked the costumes, fitted them to each child, and allowed time for alterations the better off she’d be. This past year she’d waited until the last minute and wound up paying for an overnight delivery.
After cutting off all the lights except the one florescent in the middle of the ceiling that she left burning twenty-four-seven, Sandi went to the front of the store and inspected today’s shipment. Just as she picked up the first of five large but not heavy boxes, she heard a strange noise that sent shivers up her spine.
What was that?
Clutching the box to her chest, she stopped dead still and listened.
Quiet.
It wasn’t the first time when she’d been here alone at the studio that she’d heard odd sounds. After all, this was an old building, built around 1910, and old buildings had a way of creaking and moaning. Old wooden floors and rafters. Ancient water pipes. The wind whistling down the two chimneys. Former owners had closed off the two fireplaces, one downstairs and the other upstairs, but when she and Earl Ray had renovated the place and turned it into a dance studio, they had reopened both fireplaces.
Ignoring her nervous reaction to the noise, she carried the box to the storeroom at the back of the studio, turned on an overhead light, and set the box on a long wooden table. Then one by one, she brought the other four boxes to the storeroom, lining them up on the table.
She had a couple of box cutters around here somewhere.
Think, Sandi
. Oh, yes, they were in the Lost-and-Found box on the top shelf of one of the molded plastic Dollar Store bookcases she used to keep miscellaneous items. Knowing she couldn’t reach the top shelf, she shoved one of the two folding chairs at the table over to the bookcase and climbed up on the chair seat. Even then, she had to stand on tiptoe to reach the box.
Why on earth had she put it up so high?
To keep little hands from being able to reach it, that’s why.
Just as she managed to grab hold of the box’s edge, a male voice inexplicably said, “Need some help?”
She practically jumped out of her skin. Gasping, her hands shaking, she dropped the box, which fell to the floor with a whopping flop.
Sandi stared at the man who had somehow made his way into the doorway. Medium height, a bit on the stocky side. Brown hair and eyes. Dressed in dark blue work clothes, the kind maintenance employees and mechanics often wore.
“Ma’am, I’m sure sorry I scared you.” He smiled warmly. “Are you all right?”
Sandi swallowed her initial uncertainty. “Are you Mr. Holloway?”
“Sure am. I’m running a bit late. I apologize.”
When Sandi started to climb down off the chair, Donald Holloway rushed over and offered his assistance. She braced her hand on his arm and stepped down, then turned to him and held out her hand. They exchanged a cordial shake.
“Where’s your wife and daughters?” she asked.
“The girls are out in the car,” he said. “I’m afraid Missy couldn’t make it. She had to work an extra shift over at the packing plant.”
“Oh, I see.”
There’s no reason to be nervous just because
you’re alone in the back storeroom with a man you don’t
know. He’s a husband and father. He has a pleasant smile
and a friendly attitude
. “Well, why don’t we go out into the studio. I have a brochure you can take to show your wife. Those and the application forms are in my desk up front.”
When he turned toward the door, Sandi breathed a sigh of relief.
But he didn’t walk through the open door. Instead he closed it and turned back around to face Sandi.
“What are you doing?” she asked, then realized how stupid her question had sounded. She marched toward him, deter mination in her walk. “Please, open the door, Mr. Holloway.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sandi.”
His smile altered. No longer a good-old-boy grin similar to Earl Ray’s and her daddy’s and most of the men in Parsons, but a sinister smirk.
Oh, God, she was in trouble!
Sandi’s heartbeat accelerated. Real fear radiated through her, prompting her body to send out a distress signal.
When Donald Holloway moved toward her, she eased backward very slowly. There was a back entrance to the building, just a few feet behind her. The heavy wooden door opened up into the alley, but she kept it locked. Damn it, her keys were in her purse, on her desk, in the studio, along with her cell phone and her can of pepper spray.
Damn! Damn!
This can’t be happening.
“I’m glad you made it so easy for me,” Mr. Holloway said. “I had wondered if there was a backroom where we could be alone.”
With a rush of adrenaline surging through her, Sandi tried to remember the basic self-protection tactics she’d seen on television. Go for the eyes. Go for the groin. Try to break the guy’s nose. Any of those would mean getting up close, which she really didn’t want to do. But it was going to happen. He was going to rape her unless she found a way to stop him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he told her. “You’re thinking of ways to fight me, hoping you can escape.” His eyes narrowed into evil slits, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “The harder you fight, the worse it will be for you.”
“Don’t do this. Please.”
“Ah, Sandi, Sandi.” He moved slowly toward her. Not rushing. As if he had all the time in the world. “Don’t you understand. I have to. You’re worth twenty points and I really need those points if I’m going to win.”
Puzzled by what he said, she stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
He reached out and grasped a lock of her chin-length hair. Cringing, she tried to pull away, but he yanked on her hair. She yelped.
“You’re a redhead. Such beautiful auburn hair. That makes you worth twenty points.”
“Are you playing some sort of sick game?”
When Donald Holloway laughed, the sound sliced through her like razor blades.
Their gazes locked in combat. Sandi decided right then and there that she was not going down without a fight. The fight of her life.
When he manacled his meaty hand behind her neck, she stood on tiptoe and head-butted him. Hollering in pain, he released her immediately. She slid around him and headed for the door.
“You’ll pay for that, bitch!” Just as she clasped the doorknob, he grabbed her by her hair. Yanking her backward, he dragged her across the room and slammed her into the wall. Her face hit the old plaster wall with a resounding thud, and she knew instantly that her nose was broken. Blood gushed from her nostrils.