Twenty-One
Hull Street
8:30 p.m.
Bobbie tossed her bag onto the bed in her room and stretched her back. She was beat. Not one person along the block where Cortland lived had seen anyone coming or going from the property. The home security system had been turned off. His private nurse, who had prepared his breakfast that morning, swore she had reset the alarm when she left around ten.
The security company confirmed the nurse’s statement. They also confirmed that the Cortlands had never installed video surveillance as part of their system. Bobbie would never understand why some wealthy people assumed they were untouchable. Just living in the prosperous neighborhood he lived in put Cortland at a higher risk for a home invasion. The lack of security as well as the decision not to hire a full-time nurse after his wife’s death had left him vulnerable. On the other hand, his wife had only just died. She imagined the man had still been reeling from the shock of her death as well as learning of his own impending death from terminal cancer.
Like the Sanderses, Cortland’s murder had nothing to do with a home invasion. Beyond the obvious search for his pain medication, nothing in his home had been touched.
There was no question in Bobbie’s mind that the three were targeted and eliminated for reasons related to the long-missing children. And somehow, those children were connected to Weller.
But what if they were wrong? What if this entire case was nothing more than a distraction to allow Weller more lead time in his disappearing act? He was a brilliant man. He would know exactly how to manipulate everyone involved to ensure all eyes were on the drama he had somehow set in motion.
No. Bobbie refused to believe all of this was nothing but smoke and mirrors. Lawrence Zacharias had wanted Amelia Potter to have a photo of Nick. Bobbie highly doubted the attorney had done this as part of a master plan to help Weller disappear. It was a warning of some sort or a clue. If Zacharias had been taking care of Weller he wouldn’t be lying in a morgue in pieces. Weller would only have murdered his old friend if he was no longer of use to him.
Zacharias had screwed up and Weller had taken him out. It was the only logical explanation.
The faster they put the pieces of this puzzle together, the more quickly the dying would stop.
With Dr. Mather’s help, she and Troy had recreated Cortland’s murder. He’d come down the stairs in search of his medication. The full bottle the nurse had left on his bedside table had somehow been emptied—presumably by the killer. His killer had been waiting for him downstairs. About two hundred pain capsules had been shoved down his throat and then his mouth had been duct taped shut. He’d still been wearing his pajama bottoms when he was dragged to the fountain and placed facedown in the water.
Mather felt confident the autopsy would confirm Cortland had been alive at the time his face was plunged into the cold water.
Bill and Nancy Sanders, Allison and Edward Cortland, all had died from the same cause—asphyxiation. Was the killer attempting to ensure his victims died the same way the children presumably did, from a lack of oxygen? But the Cortlands were parents of one of the children.
Did that mean the parents were somehow involved in what happened to those children thirty-two years ago? Was that the real intersection that tied the players together?
If that was the case, the one part of this puzzle that didn’t fit was Amelia Potter.
Ignoring the hour, Bobbie grabbed her bag and left. Downstairs, she exited the inn and crossed the street to where her Challenger waited. Her cell phone flashed a warning that it was dying. She started the engine, plugged the phone into the charger and pulled out onto the quiet street. She’d called Nick and left him a message about Cortland, but he hadn’t returned her call. He hadn’t returned her call about Kessler either.
If he didn’t call her back tonight, she was going to hunt him down. She lowered the window and allowed the cold air to blast her face. She wanted coffee and daylight. She wanted this damned night to be over. Recently nights seemed far longer...far lonelier.
Bobbie shook her head. All this time she hadn’t felt a damned thing except the agony of loss—until Nick came into her life. Now she wished she didn’t feel this new kind of emptiness that came from his pushing her away.
Keep your head in the case.
River Street was quiet. No traffic. Yet finding a spot to park in front of The Gentle Palm was not happening. She parked up the block and on the opposite side of the street. She locked her car and walked quickly back toward the shop. It was dark inside but upstairs there was still a light on. Hopefully there was a doorbell or something at the entrance that would alert Potter up on the second floor. When she reached the door she found what she was looking for and pressed the buzzer.
She took a breath and considered the possibility that Cortland’s murder could be related to a disgruntled employee at one of the many banks the family owned. Not likely. Cortland’s murder had been extremely personal in nature. His killer wanted him to suffer before he choked to death. If the murders were about the children and revenge, then all the players were at risk.
Troy had offered to provide a surveillance detail for each family and all had turned down the offer, including his parents. Bobbie hadn’t been surprised the Durhams had passed. Troy’s father was a retired cop. No cop liked to be told he needed help protecting himself. In fact, she had insisted Troy call off the detail watching her and use that resource elsewhere. To her surprise he had conceded.
The one decline of a security detail that really surprised Bobbie was Amelia Potter’s. She lived alone. She should have accepted protection. Maybe if Bobbie explained the threat in greater detail the woman would see reason.
A light came on in the shop and Amelia appeared beyond the glass door. She was dressed for bed in a white cotton gown and a well-loved blue knit shawl wrapping her shoulders. Bobbie wondered if she had some sort of camera to see who was at her door or if she was so foolishly trusting. Maybe even after the passage of thirty-two years, she still had little care for her own safety. Bobbie doubted she would ever feel that sort of fear again. She had fallen down on the most important job of her life—protecting her son. What else mattered? Maybe time didn’t heal that particular pain and regret.
Amelia unlocked the door and pulled it open wide. “Is there any news on who murdered Mr. Cortland?”
Bobbie stepped inside. “Not yet. We’re still investigating his death.”
The older woman’s face lined with pain. “I said a prayer for whatever family he has left.”
Bobbie searched her face, looking for any sign of fear. She found none. “I wanted to drop by to make sure you understood how much danger you could be in. We have reason to believe his murder is related to the Sanderses’ murders and most likely to the children.”
Amelia closed the door and locked it. “Would you like some tea?”
Bobbie almost said no. “Do you have coffee?” She would kill for a cup right now.
“I have one of those single-cup coffeemakers.” She indicated that Bobbie should follow her. “Not all my customers are tea drinkers.”
“Lucky for me.”
Amelia led the way beyond the counter and through the cased opening. The space behind the storefront provided storage for her shop as Bobbie had expected. There was a small kitchenette as well as a door marked Restroom. On the far side of the room was an exit. Besides the shelves of boxed goods, there was another small table and two chairs. A narrow staircase led to the second floor.
“Cream or sugar?” Amelia tucked a pod into the machine and closed the lid.
“No, thanks.” Within seconds the scent of fresh brewed coffee wafted in the air. Bobbie’s mouth watered.
“Please, sit.” The older woman indicated the table and chairs.
The more comfortable Amelia Potter was, the more likely she was to be receptive to Bobbie’s questions, so she pulled out one of the chairs and took a seat. Steaming mug of coffee in hand, Amelia joined her. She set the mug in front of Bobbie. “Here you go.”
As soon as the taste landed on her tongue Bobbie hummed her appreciation. “That hits the spot.”
“Did Randolph Weller kill him?”
Bobbie searched her face. “He’s a person of interest in the investigation.”
“You know him well?”
“I know enough. Randolph Weller is a monster. He’s murdered dozens of people, including the nurse who helped him escape custody. He mutilated their bodies in the most depraved ways.” She held the other woman’s gaze, urging her to listen up. “He’s extremely dangerous.”
“Why is he here? Why this case?” She shook her head, worry clouding her features. “Why now, after all these years?”
“I wish I knew the answers. The only connection we’ve found is that he evaluated Treat Bonner after the Foster girl was murdered. Whatever his reason, it’s significant enough that he’s willing to risk capture. As twisted as he is, the man is brilliant. He has an objective, we simply don’t see it yet. Bad for our team.”
Amelia rested her elbow on the table and rubbed at her temple. “I saw his picture in the newspaper. I’m certain I’ve never met him.”
“Thirty-two years is a long time,” Bobbie suggested. Like before, Potter didn’t look at Bobbie when she spoke of Weller.
“I don’t know him.”
Bobbie decided to go in a different direction. “You said before that you never experienced any sort of warning that Noah was in danger. Looking back, do you still feel the same way? Maybe you were busy and you ignored your instincts.”
Amelia closed her eyes for a moment and then said. “I’ve always been so sure of my feelings...of my knowing.” She shook her head. “Except that once. When it counted the most.” Her gaze rested on Bobbie’s. “The answer is no. I didn’t feel it coming.”
You couldn’t have saved him.
Bobbie took a breath and said what needed to be said. “You know that I lost my son, too.”
Amelia nodded. “I do. I also knew you were coming to Savannah. I didn’t know your name or why, but I saw you in my dreams.” She pulled the shawl closer around her. “After your visit to my shop, I went to the library and used one of their computers to learn what I could about you. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I only mention my personal experience,” Bobbie went on, her voice more unsteady than she would like, “because I understand how you might ignore your own safety. I urge you to take this threat very seriously.”
Amelia assessed her a moment. “The way you do?”
Bobbie decided not to take offense at her question. “I’m a trained cop. I know how to deal with him. You can’t possibly comprehend what you’re up against.”
Amelia smoothed a hand over her shawl. “I made this while I was pregnant. I wrapped my son in it when he was an infant.” She lifted her gaze to Bobbie’s. “I’ve kept it close every night since he was born.” She smiled. “And I pray, every night, that he’ll come back to me.”
Bobbie held her tongue. Why shatter her peace of mind by telling her that was in all probability not going to happen?
“I know it’s foolish, but it makes me feel better to imagine that he’s out there somewhere with a good life.” Her smile returned. “With a woman who loves him and maybe a child.”
Her words made Bobbie want to squirm at the need to get up and walk around the room. She shook off the discomfort and changed the subject. “Do you own a weapon?”
“No.” Amelia laughed softly. “I’ve never really had to worry about my safety. Most people think I’m a witch or something far worse. They aren’t likely to tempt fate by trying to harm me.”
“You really should rethink allowing a temporary security detail. Weller won’t be put off by who or what you are.”
She drew in a sharp breath and suddenly stiffened, her shoulders going back and her fingers tightening in her beloved shawl.
“Are you all right?” Bobbie lowered her coffee mug to the table and curled her fingers into a fist, resisting the impulse to reach out to the woman. Some people didn’t like to be touched under any circumstances.
As if she’d said as much out loud, Amelia abruptly reached across the table and took Bobbie’s hand. “You’re worried about everyone else,” she said, her voice urgent, “when it’s you he really wants.”
A few strained minutes later Bobbie left the shop and stepped into the cold night air. She drew in a big breath and let go the tension that had climbed deep into her muscles. From the moment she was briefed on the case all she wanted was to find the connection between Weller and the children. For reasons not completely clear to her yet, she suspected Amelia Potter was the key. Somehow she was far more deeply entrenched in this than merely being the parent of a victim.
Bobbie crossed the street and hurried toward her car. The music from a club somewhere nearby drifted in the night air. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms. She’d almost reached her car when she saw him.
Nick waited, leaning against the driver’s door as if there wasn’t a BOLO out on him, as if Weller wasn’t out there hoping to ruin him or worse.
She defied her initial reaction to seeing him and mustered the anger she’d felt last night. “I thought you wanted to be alone.”
He pushed off her car but stopped short of moving toward her. Instead he stood stone still and waited for her to come closer.
When she stopped in front of him, he said, “I owe you an apology.”
She hit the fob, unlocking the car. “Get in. In case you haven’t heard, there’s a BOLO for you.”
He rounded the hood and climbed into the passenger seat while she slid behind the wheel. For half a minute they sat in silence.
When he remained quiet, she said, “Kessler, that FBI agent from Atlanta, is certain these murders are your way of drawing your father here for some sort of showdown. She’s setting you up for a murder rap.”
“I’m aware.”
The words, spoken as if he’d just told her the weather forecast or the time of day, infuriated her. “You mentioned an apology.”
“I shouldn’t have left the way I did.”
She kept her gaze trained forward though she felt his burning into her profile. “That’s right, you shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t want you to be hurt anymore, Bobbie. You’ve been through enough.”
“I’m a big girl, Nick. I’m a trained officer of the law and I’ve worked as a homicide detective for seven years.” She drew in a big breath. “In case you’ve forgotten, I survived the Storyteller and I survived Steven Devine. Your protection isn’t what I need.”
If that wasn’t clear enough for him, then he wasn’t half as smart as she’d thought.
Another long stretch of silence elapsed.
“I am not what you need.”
“We’ve had this discussion.” She was not going to argue with him. “Thank you for the apology. I guess I’ll see you around.”
She started the engine and waited for him to get out.
“We should work together.” The words were spoken with heavy reluctance. “This once,” he added quickly. “As much as I want to focus solely on finding Weller, the children deserve justice. I’m beginning to think finding one will give me the other.”
Bobbie turned to him. “And after that?”
He held her gaze, his resolute. “There is no after that.”
“All right.” Hurt speared her. “How do you want to do this? It’s not like you can waltz into the police headquarters and sit in on any briefings.”
“You focus on the investigation and we’ll analyze what you learn whenever we can. I’ll be close.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
With one last fleeting look, he got out and disappeared into the night.