Debra Webb - A Deeper Grave

I knew you’d come.

He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. “You couldn’t hope to stop me.”

Bobbie stared out the windshield at nothing at all. “Weller could be manipulating us.” She’d come to a number of conclusions last night and that was one of them. Anything was better than the idea that a group of serial killers working together had decided to take Nick out. “He’s desperate to be a part of your life.”

“You give him too much credit,” Nick argued. “He’s far too cold and controlled to feel desperation.”

“Maybe.” Could a psychopathic serial killer love anyone but himself enough to feel desperation? Bobbie wasn’t sure.

“I’ll look into it.”

“You’ll look into it?” She wanted to shake him. “There are people out there plotting your death and all you can say is that you’ll look into it?” Frustration and no small amount of exhaustion made her voice sharper than she’d intended.

His glare turned fierce. “This has nothing to do with you, Bobbie. It would be best if you stayed out of it.”

She opened her mouth to set him straight when her cell phone interrupted. She snapped it free of her belt. “Gentry.”

“We have a serious lead,” Devine said, his tone eager. He hesitated, then asked, “You okay?”

“What lead?” she demanded, ignoring his question. She glowered at the man next to her. Who the hell did he think he was?

“I just picked up the coroner’s preliminary report,” Devine explained.

Bobbie started to demand why the hell she hadn’t been informed that the report was ready when Devine went on. “The knife used on the vics is consistent with a double-edged blade six to ten inches long. Judging by the striation marks, the blade has a distinct pattern Dr. Carroll is trying to track down.”

Bobbie reached for calm. “I’ll meet you at the office in half an hour.”

“Ah...you might want to come now,” Devine argued. “I have the name and address of one of Parker’s enemies—one he cheated out of a couple million bucks.”

Bobbie was about to remind him there were several of those when he added, “This guy collects rare Japanese swords and daggers. And he’s suddenly planning a trip out of the country, as in he’s booked on a flight out of Birmingham this afternoon.”

Anticipation shoved the frustration and exhaustion aside. “I’ll be right there.”

Six

Greystone Place

9:00 a.m.

Bobbie surveyed the spacious den that was actually a gallery. Three of the four walls were lined with glass cases containing hundreds of knives and swords. Some of the instruments were longer than others, some sported ornate handles and sheaths. Each was labeled with the era and style of weapon.

If Mark Hanover wanted to conceal his proclivity for instruments of death potentially similar to the one used in the Parker murders, his housekeeper hadn’t gotten the memo. She’d answered the door, listened carefully through Bobbie’s introduction and then led them directly to this room to wait. Strange, to say the least.

Speaking of strange, Bobbie had wanted to ask Nick how he’d found out she visited Weller. Someone at the prison was likely keeping him informed. Nick avoided her question about whether he was in Montgomery for a few days or only passing through. She wanted the opportunity to tell him how much she appreciated what he’d done for her. What he did for so many others. When he was here before there hadn’t been time and she hadn’t been in the right place emotionally to adequately convey her appreciation.

“I’ve never seen a collection this extensive, not even in a museum.”

Bobbie turned to her partner. There was a lot she didn’t know about him, particularly when it came to personal tastes. She knew he wasn’t married, wasn’t in a serious relationship and had no desire for kids. His family was from old money and, according to Holt, he was the sole heir to his elderly aunt’s estate. Her husband, the Colonel, had died when Devine was just a kid. He was named after the man. All of which explained his expensive suits and the pricey Porsche Panamera he drove.

Bobbie grunted a noncommittal sound to his remark about the collection. It wasn’t that she had anything against people with money. Her husband’s family had been quite wealthy. Having wealth flaunted like this was something she could live without. She supposed a man of means had a right to whatever hobby he could afford. Her shrink reminded her every other week that she needed a hobby.

That was another thing about her choice to return to the land of the living. In order to keep her job, the chief—her godfather and pseudo uncle—had insisted she agree to counseling for however long the department psychologist deemed necessary. The last few weeks she had decided maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing since, much to her surprise, the doctor offered a decent number of valid points she hadn’t wanted to see before. She was trying harder these days to be honest with herself and to keep an open mind. Her new attitude was paying off. Recently, the shrink had lengthened the time between her appointments to two weeks instead of one.

She was stronger, physically and mentally, which was a good thing. Better to nail the bad guys.

On cue, the towering mahogany pocket doors slid open and Mark Hanover entered the room. The slim-fitting suit was no doubt made from the finest fabrics available, the shoes were certainly hand-tooled leather. He was younger than she’d expected, early to midfifties maybe. His dark hair was peppered with just enough gray to look distinguished. His face, on the other hand, was as smooth as the day he was born. Good genes or Botox? Her money was on the latter.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he announced as he looked from Bobbie to Devine and back. “I’m Mark Hanover.” He thrust his hand toward Bobbie first.

“Detective Bobbie Gentry,” she said as she placed her hand in his. His shake was firm and quick, his palm cool and dry. Bobbie gestured to her partner. “Detective Steven Devine.”

The two men shook hands next. Hanover seemed to hang on to Devine’s hand a beat longer than necessary. Devine flinched and drew away. Bobbie considered what little she knew about Hanover. His marriage to one of the city’s socialites had ended last year. Considering the way he watched Devine, maybe his sexual interests ran to something more than his wife was willing to tolerate.

“Please—” Hanover indicated the pair of leather sofas that faced each other in the center of the room “—make yourselves comfortable. How may I be of service to the MPD this morning?”

The two men waited for Bobbie to be seated first. When they had settled, she began, “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Parker murders.”

Hanover gave a somber nod. “Tragic. Simply tragic. Especially the girl. Who would take a child?” He shuddered visibly. “As unfair as it is the sins of the father can at times carry over to the children.”

Bobbie wondered what sins this man kept hidden. If her father had said it once he’d said it a thousand times: people don’t get that rich and stay that way without a few skeletons in the closet. “We’re hoping Fern is still alive.”

“Of course,” Hanover agreed. “I’m more than happy to help. I support numerous fund-raisers and activities for children. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. Perhaps a larger reward?”

“Thank you. I’ll let the department’s liaison know you’d like to help.” Bobbie explained, “We’re interviewing all who had business dealings gone wrong with Mr. Parker. Your name is on the list.”

Hanover’s eyebrows reared up his forehead in an unflattering expression and then he pursed his lips and shrugged. “Since I lost more than most of his other clients, I suppose it’s reasonable that I would be a suspect. Perhaps your top suspect,” he suggested.