CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Riley approached the police station in her rented car, she wondered …

Did I just make a serious mistake?

Shouldn’t she have just told Officer Jared Ruhl to stay off the case and to keep quiet about it? Instead, here she was about to partner up with an unfamiliar young cop.

In fact, she worried, how would she even recognize him among the various people she could see going in and out of the brick building?

But that didn’t turn out to be a problem. There he was—a slight, scrawny-looking guy in a police uniform, his hands in his pockets, obviously on the watch for her car.

Riley didn’t like the looks of him. It wasn’t so much his sharply sloping caveman-like brow or his underdeveloped chin. It didn’t matter to her whether he was pleasant to look at. But there was something off-putting in his body language—a palpable defensiveness in his hunched posture and his shuffling feet. She sensed at a glance that he didn’t exactly inspire most people’s confidence.

He had spotted her, so Riley ignored her urge to drive on by. She pulled up to the curb and Ruhl climbed into the car.

He huffed, “Boy, I’m sure glad to get out of that place for the day.”

Riley thought she understood why. On the phone just now, he’d said that his colleagues had laughed at his theory about Andrew Farrell’s murder. Now she had a hunch that ridicule was a pretty routine part of his professional life.

Jared said in a shrill, reedy voice, “So—you said on the phone that we’re driving to Birmingham. I guess we must be checking out the murder of that other rich guy there—Julian Morse, I think his name was.”

“That’s right,” Riley said, a little surprised that Ruhl already had some idea of what they were up to.

As if picking up on Riley’s curiosity, Ruhl said, “When you told me where we were going, I figured that must be the reason. Another rich guy brutally stabbed to death, just a week ago, and not all that far away—sounds like maybe some kind of pattern, huh? I’ve got to admit, it hadn’t occurred to me until I talked to you. But then, that’s why you’re the famous Agent Riley Paige, and I’m just a rookie nobody. You think of everything.”

Then with a delighted grunt he added, “Hey, do you think maybe we’re dealing with an actual serial killer? Wow, that would be great! I’d love that!”

Riley cringed a little. Of course she knew he was a rookie and anxious to prove himself, and naturally he was excited by the possibility of cracking a serial killer case. But hearing him say so aloud was rather grating.

“We’ll see,” she said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“So what’s the plan?” he asked. “Do we check in with the Birmingham police as soon as we get there?”

Riley realized she hadn’t taken the time to think through what she intended to do. But she figured that trying to bluff another police chief into thinking she was there on official FBI business might be pushing her luck.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

Ruhl let out a chirp of laughter.

“Oh, I think I’m starting to get it,” he said. “You’ve gone AWOL again, haven’t you? Yeah, you’re kind of famous for going off the reservation, pushing the envelope of FBI protocol and all. I’ll bet this isn’t even an official FBI case. I’ll bet you didn’t even tell Chief Stiles what you were really up to. I just love this!”

Riley was getting irritated now. She didn’t like Ruhl’s apparent glee about her rule-breaking. Still, she had to admit …

He guessed right.

He seemed to be pretty smart, and she wondered if maybe he’d turn out to be useful after all.

She said, “Jared—may I call you Jared?”

“Sure. May I call you Riley?”

Riley suppressed a growl of annoyance.

“No, Agent Paige will be fine,” she said. “Let me fill you in. I’d met Morgan Farrell back in February. When she called to tell me she’d killed her husband, I found it hard to believe. Then when you called me, it really piqued my curiosity, so I got myself down here to see what was going on. I talked to Morgan in her jail cell a little while ago, and now I’m all but sure that she’s innocent. The problem is, she doesn’t think so, and neither does the DA or even her own lawyer.”

Jared nodded and said, “So you want to find Andrew Farrell’s real killer. And you’re thinking whoever killed Farrell also killed Julian Morse. But … we can’t talk to the Birmingham cops about any of this, because this isn’t exactly a legit investigation, at least not yet. Which is kind of a handicap.”

“You’ve got it,” Riley said. “So—do you have any suggestions about how we should proceed?”

Jared thought for a moment.

Then he said, “Well, I suggest we just go straight to the crime scene, Morse’s mansion, and see what we can find out on our own. We might have to bluff whoever we happen to meet there. But that’s what you’re good at, right? And I’ll bet I can be pretty good at it too!”

Riley stifled another growl.

She was finding Jared more annoying by the minute.

And yet she couldn’t think of a better plan than the one he was suggesting.

She said, “You’ll find my laptop computer in the back seat just behind you. I want you to get online and find out everything you can about Morse’s murder—every single detail that’s been released to the media. We need to know as much as we can before we pay his house a visit.”

Jared dutifully followed her instructions and soon began to relate everything he could find out about Julian Morse’s death. The man’s body had been found by a servant late one night, brutally stabbed to death when he was reclining beside his pool. No one was yet in custody, but the Birmingham police seemed to suspect a number of people—family members, servants, business partners …

It doesn’t sound like he had any shortage of enemies, Riley thought as she listened to Ruhl.

The cops were strongly considering the possibility that the actual murder had been carried out by a hired killer.

Finally Ruhl managed to find the address for Morse’s home.

As they drove westward past the vast amusement park outside of Atlanta, Ruhl began to ask Riley questions about her own career. At first she gave him polite but sometimes evasive replies. But when he started making nosy queries about her unconventional methods and her problems with authority, her answers became terse.

She was worried that the two-and-a-half-hour drive between Atlanta and Birmingham could get combative. But by the time they crossed the border into the state of Alabama, they weren’t talking at all. This suited Riley just fine. Jared Ruhl wasn’t exactly growing on her. And she was enjoying the scenery—long stretches of woodland broken up by small towns and farms.

Ruhl was fast asleep by the time Riley drove into Birmingham. She decided it was time for him to start earning his way.

“Wake up,” she said sharply. “I could use some directions.”

Ruhl directed her through the city, which he seemed to know pretty well. Riley had never visited Birmingham before. As she drove near a huge iron statue staring down on the city from a tall pedestal, she wondered whether it might be of some Confederate soldier.

“That’s Vulcan,” Ruhl explained. “Roman god of the forge. Birmingham began as a big steel center.”

Riley remembered what Van Roff had said to her about Julian Morse—that he was the heir to a family steel fortune. So far, the two murder victims seemed to have at least one thing in common. They’d both been very rich.

Following the young cop’s directions, Riley eventually drove into a very high-end neighborhood, where huge houses nestled among trees. When they arrived at Julian Morse’s home, Riley saw that it was somewhat smaller than the Farrell mansion in Atlanta. When she’d visited Farrell the previous winter, she’d found the ostentation repulsive. This one didn’t seem to be trying quite as hard to look wealthy.

Like the Farrell house, this one wasn’t gated or guarded from outside. But both were in wealthy neighborhoods where an intruder would surely attract notice. A killer would have to blend into the community well or be very skillful at what he was doing.

She parked the car in front of the house, certain that security cameras were watching their arrival. When she and Jared approached the entrance and rang the bell, it was opened promptly by a tall, elderly man with a rather large belly. Clad as he was in an elegant black suit, at first Riley took him to be a butler.

Except for one detail. His spotted bow tie was slightly askew, as if to deliberately suggest a certain casualness.

The man looked them over carefully, especially scrutinizing Jared’s uniform.

“May I help you?” he asked in a slow southern accent.

Riley took out her badge and said, “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI. My colleague here is Officer Jared Ruhl of the Atlanta police. We’re here concerning the murder of Julian Morse.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “You’re not here to arrest me, I hope. I answered all the policemen’s questions last week, and I thought they’d accepted my alibi. You see, I was in my own home playing bridge when my brother was killed.”

“Your brother?” Riley asked.

“Yes,” the man said. “I’m Roderick Morse, Julian’s older brother.”

Then he squinted and added, “But I would have thought you’d know that.”

Riley squirmed a little inside and reminded herself …

Our plan is to bluff our way through this.

She just hoped that she and her new partner didn’t blow it somehow.

Roderick Morse was glancing back and forth between Riley and Jared.

“I must say, this is rather odd,” Morse said. “You, sir, are from Atlanta, and you, ma’am, must be based—where? The FBI is located in Virginia, I believe. Aren’t you both rather far from your regular stomping grounds?”

Before Riley could speak, Jared started talking. Riley couldn’t help holding her breath, worrying whether he might say something grossly inappropriate.

He said, “Maybe you heard that there was a similar murder in Atlanta—another rich guy by the name of Andrew Farrell.”

“Oh!” the man said with a slight gasp. “Well, I assure you that I had nothing to do with that murder either.”

Riley hastily said, “The killings were enough alike that we think they might be connected. That’s why we’re here. We’d like a look at the crime scene, if that’s all right.”

“Well, I don’t see why not,” Morse said. “Come with me.”

As Morse led them into the house, Riley saw that instead of the ridiculously dramatic staircase and pale carpets of the Farrell mansion, this one featured sparkling marble floors, huge arched windows, and huge crystal chandeliers. She found it all just as overwhelming.

How could anybody possibly live in these places?

Morse kept on talking as they continued on through the house.

“I’m sorry to say that my brother and I were estranged during the last few years. But since he didn’t leave an heir, it’s up to me to settle the estate, which is why I’m here. This whole place and everything in it will have to be sold.”

He let out a scornful chuckle and added, “I can’t say that I’m the least bit sad about it. My tastes and my brother’s were rather different. There’s a whiff of the postmodern in this conglomeration of styles that doesn’t agree with me. My own home reflects my own inclinations toward a good old-fashioned antebellum look.”

He looked at Jared and said in a supercilious tone, “Antebellum means ‘before the war,’ by the way. I hope, as a fellow Southerner, I don’t have to tell you which war I’m talking about.”

Riley could see Jared bristle at his condescension.

“Yeah, I know which war.” Jared grunted. “But weren’t your folks in the steel business back when this town got started? That wasn’t until after the Civil War, if I remember my history right—when the carpetbaggers moved in.”

Riley was alarmed to see Morse’s face redden with anger. She could tell that Jared had really hit a nerve. He was probably right that the Morse family hadn’t arrived in Alabama until the Reconstruction years after the Civil War. They’d never been hifalutin plantation owners, never lived like a family out of Gone With the Wind.

Jared was turning out to be a sharp observer, but even so …

Saying what he’s figured out isn’t helpful, she thought.

She wished she could just tell him to keep his mouth shut. Fortunately, their host seemed to be keeping his ire in check—at least for now.

Morse said, “I suppose you want me to show you the actual location of the crime.”

He led Riley and Jared through the house and out the back door into an outdoor recreation area with a swimming pool and an array of chairs and tables.

Riley felt a deep tingle as she walked toward a particular chair, where the cushions had been removed.

A familiar instinct was kicking in. It was a sense of the killer’s mind.

Then, without consciously willing it, she stopped in her tracks.

It happened right here, she thought.

This was where he killed Julian Morse.