The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON
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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?”
“Believe whatever you want.”
Nic looked down at the notepad in her lap. “This is information you’ll find out sooner or later.” She flipped the pad over. “I’ll share this with you, and then I need to get off your plane and book a reservation on the next commercial flight out of here for Atlanta.”
“As soon as we can get airborne, I’ll have Jonathan fly us to Atlanta.” Before she could protest—and she was on the verge of doing just that—he held up a restraining hand, asking her to wait. “Once we’re in Atlanta, we’ll go our separate ways. You’ll investigate for the bureau and I’ll find a way to look into things on my own.”
She hesitated, apparently considering his offer.
“Fly with me and you’ll not only be more comfortable, but you’ll arrive in Atlanta much sooner,” Griff told her.
She released a heaving sigh. “Oh, all right.” When he smiled, she added, “But once we get to Atlanta—”
“You can take a taxi and go to headquarters alone, talk to the police and the SAC at the Atlanta office, while I check into a hotel and get a good night’s sleep.”
She eyed him skeptically.
Using his index finger, he drew an invisible X on his chest. “Cross my heart.”
She nodded agreement.
Suddenly Griff’s cell phone rang at the same moment his pilot, Jonathan Mills, emerged from the cockpit.
“We’ve been given clearance to take off,” Jonathan said.
“Hold off on that,” Griff told him as he glanced at the caller ID on his cell phone. “There’s been a change in plans. We’re going to Atlanta, not Knoxville.”
“Yes, sir.”
Griff answered on the fifth ring, his gut warning him who the caller was. “Powell here.”
“Hello, Griff.”
Apparently sensing the tension in Griff, Nic reached over and tapped his arm, then mouthed, “Is it him?”
Griff nodded to Nic, then spoke to the caller. “What can I do for you?”
A soft chuckle. “It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.”
“And just what would that be?”
“I can give you a new clue.”
“On one of the five past murders or one of the future murders?”
“Ah, you and Nic have been busy, haven’t you? I’m impressed that you’ve already discovered information about all five of them.”
Then there really had been only five. But that was five too many. Five innocent young women who had died at the hands of a monster. “Yeah, we know that there were five.”
“I’m going to capture Number Six day after tomorrow, so you see, I’m giving you thirty-six hours’ notice.”
Griff held his breath. Damn this arrogant, crazy son of a bitch.
“Did you hear me?” the caller asked.
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“That was the first part of your clue. Want the second part?”
“You’re going to give me the second part whether I want it or not, so why ask me?”
“Frustrated already?” Another nasty chuckle.
Griff didn’t respond.
“Debbie Glover,” the caller said, then hung up.
Griff lifted his phone away from his ear and clutched it in his hand as he repeated the name over and over in his mind. Who the hell was Debbie Glover? The intended victim? No, that would make it too easy.
“What did he say?” Nic asked.
“He’s abducting another victim day after tomorrow, in thirty-six hours, which means sometime early Wednesday.”
“Was that all he said?”
Before Griff could answer Nic, her cell phone rang. Their gazes met and locked.
“He’s calling me this time,” Nic said as she removed her phone from her pocket.
“He’s enjoying himself,” Griff told her.
Nic flipped open her phone. “Hello.”
“My darling Nicole, how lovely to hear your voice.”
“I can’t say the same. I hate hearing your voice.”
Laughter.
“I have two clues for you,” the caller told her. “Two for Griff and two for you.”
Nic waited.
“She’s a blonde,” he said. “I have a personal preference for brunettes, but I don’t want to discriminate against blondes and redheads, now do I?”
Nic swallowed hard.
“If you don’t say something and let me hear your sweet voice again, I won’t give you the other clue,” he told her.
“Give me a really good clue—tell me where you are,” Nic said.
“Ah, that’s my girl. Feisty as ever.”
Griff