Cooper Vengeance Page 3

  J.D. was running out of time to fix things with his kids.

  “Alicia’s down in Millbridge this week, tying up some loose ends,” Gabe said when J.D. didn’t answer. “I’ll get her to talk to her friend Tony about arranging for you to visit Dyson.”

  “That’s the cop ex-boyfriend?”

  “Yeah,” Gabe said wryly. “He’s not happy about her leaving Millbridge to be with me, but he’s a decent guy. He’ll help you out if he can.”

  “Thanks, Gabe. I owe you.”

  “Not in a million years.” Emotion tinted Gabe’s voice, and J.D. knew he was thinking about how he’d let Brenda down. J.D. didn’t bother trying to talk him out of his guilt. He’d told his brother that he didn’t blame him. He’d said what needed saying. Now it was up to Gabe to work through his own guilt whatever way he needed to.

  J.D. knew a lot about dealing with guilt.

  He said goodbye to Gabe and hung up, his mind already fast-forwarding to what he’d say when he finally saw Marlon Dyson face-to-face. He’d wanted to visit Dyson in jail as soon as Gabe had told him the whole story behind the man’s involvement with the alpha killer.

  Dyson had slipped up once and called him Alex to Alicia’s face before clamming up. J.D. wanted to see if he could use that small chink in the armor to get Dyson to open up some more. But to this point, the Millbridge Police had been stingy with Dyson, refusing to let J.D. visit the man in jail.

  Dyson had been the alpha’s partner, apparently tasked with hunting and culling victims for the man he called Alex to stalk and kill. He’d been caught last month, attempting to go rogue by stalking and killing his own choice of victim—Alicia, with whom Dyson had worked as lab instructors at Mill Valley University.

  So far, he hadn’t admitted to anything but the attempt on Alicia’s life, although police and prosecutors were gathering circumstantial evidence to build a case against him for the three coed murders committed in Millbridge over the last six months.

  But J.D. hadn’t had a crack at him yet.

  For now, however, it was dinnertime and he was starving. He’d seen a little hole-in-the-wall diner down the road that had looked like a good bet for some home cooking.

  At the diner, he ordered a barbecue-pork sandwich and beer-battered onion rings from a woman he quickly learned was the diner’s owner, Margo, a bottle-blonde in her late forties. She’d pegged J.D. as new to town immediately and, like a lot of Southerners when strangers came to their small towns, Margo was friendly but wary—until she heard J.D.’s slow, Southern drawl and realized he was Alabama born-and-bred. She quickly warmed to him, sitting with him at his solitary table while he ate and telling him everything she knew about everyone in the diner.

  By the time he polished off a bowl of peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream, he felt as if he knew the business of everyone in town.

  He turned the discussion to Carrie Gray’s murder, certain Margo probably knew more about what was going on in Terrebonne, Alabama, than even the cops knew. “I ran into her sister—Natalie, I think her name is.”

  Margo’s eyes lit up at the mention of the name. “Oh, lord, that girl sure knows how to stir up a mess. When she decided not to go into the family business, you could hear old Darden Becker whoopin’ and hollerin’ all the way to Mobile.”

  “He didn’t think she should be a deputy sheriff?”

  “Good grief, no. The girl went to Yale, for pity’s sake. Can you imagine sending your girl to a place like that for four years, only to see her up and join the sheriff’s department after all that schooling? I’m surprised he didn’t ask for his money back!” Margo laughed with delight. “Oh, Natalie’s a fine enough deputy. She was promoted to investigator just this past spring. Don’t reckon old Roy Tatum would’ve done so if she wasn’t pulling her weight around there.”

  “Is she married?” J.D. asked, though he wasn’t sure why. It didn’t really matter, did it? He hadn’t even thought to ask about her marital status earlier, when he’d been asking people in Millie’s Pub about her.

  But that was before you got an up-close look at those big green eyes, Cooper.

  Margo’s gaze fell to the wedding band on his left hand, then snapped up to look him in the eyes. “Why do you ask?” Her voice was suddenly wary.

  He felt a flush warm his face, as if she’d caught him at something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He forced himself not to cover the ring with his other hand. He wasn’t pumping Margo for information about Natalie Becker so he could ask her out on a date, after all. He had nothing to feel guilty about. “No reason, really. Just wondered if her daddy disapproved of her choice in men, too.”

  “Suppose it would depend on the man.”

  “What did they think of Carrie’s husband?”

  “That she was lucky to catch him. Hamilton Gray’s slipped the noose more than once since he was a boy, though God knows every girl in town’s been after him at some point.”

  “Even Natalie?”

  “No, not Natalie. She never has liked him much.” Margo lowered her voice. “I hear she thinks he had something to do with her sister’s murder.”

  “What do you think?” J.D. asked.

  “I can’t see the motive. He wouldn’t get her money—old Darden Becker made sure there was an airtight prenup. And I don’t reckon he’d have tired of a pretty little thing like Carrie so soon after the wedding. Besides, I heard he had an alibi.”

  Alibis could be deceiving. “Say, do you know anyone around town named Alex?”

  Margo’s forehead bunched with thought. “I think Ruby Stiller over on Beacon Road has a grandson named Alex. Why?”

  He couldn’t tell her the truth, so he improvised. “I ran into a guy at the gas station yesterday. Said his name was Alex. We got to talking about fishing and he said he could show me some good spots, but I forgot to get his phone number.”

  “That’s definitely not Ruby’s grandson—that kid’s in kindergarten.”

  “Maybe I’m remembering the name wrong.”

  “Well, if it’s fishing you’re after, you should hunt down Rudy Lawler. He lives up the road a ways—just out past Annabelle’s, in fact, maybe a mile or so.”

  “Annabelle’s—that’s the place where Carrie Gray was murdered?” he asked, even though he knew very well it was.

  “That’s right. Carrie bought the restaurant a few months ago and was trying to get it ready to reopen.” Margo pointed right, toward the west. “It’s about a half mile up the road.”

  J.D. gently pushed his plate away. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Margo. I’ll be back, I’m sure.”

  Margo smiled brightly at him. “You just tell your friends about Margo’s, okay?”

  She walked him out, waiting in the door while he slid behind the steering wheel. J.D. waved goodbye, then pulled out on the highway. But he didn’t head back to the motel.

  He headed up the road to Annabelle’s.

  AT 6:00 P.M., THE SUN was only just reaching the horizon, still hot enough to make Natalie wish she’d left her jacket in the Lexus. But she’d stopped off at her house to get her spare weapon, and she didn’t like walking around with her holster showing, not even at a place as secluded as Annabelle’s.

  The restaurant had once been a favorite among Terrebonne locals, one of the few nice restaurants in the sleepy little bayside town. Then Annabelle Saveau and her husband, Marcel, had moved back to New Orleans to take care of Marcel’s aging parents after Hurricane Katrina, selling the property to a real estate speculator who’d thought the restaurant and surrounding acres of scenic woods would be an easy sell.

  Years later, it was still for sale when Carrie decided she was tired of running the Human Resources Department at Bayside Oil and wanted a different career. Natalie’s sister had bought the place a couple of months ago.

  It had become the place of her death.

  “Oh, Carrie, why were you so fearless?” she murmured, walking around the low-slung building until she could see the back door. Ca
rrie’s body had been found in the kitchen, laid out supine, as if she were merely asleep. Of course, the slashing stab wounds in her abdomen, and the blood pooling around her body gave the real story away.

  The sound of tires crunching on the asphalt parking lot in front of the restaurant set Natalie’s nerves humming. Unsheathing her Glock 19, she eased her way back to the front and flattened her body against the side of the building to avoid being seen as long as possible.

  The engine cut off and she heard a car door open. She darted a quick look around the corner of the building.

  There was no mistaking the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man walking to the front of the building. J. D. Cooper stopped in front of the door and tested the lock. The handle rattled in his hand but didn’t open.

  Trespassing son of a—

  Natalie eased away from the building, edging into the darkening woods behind her. She’d left her car down the road, not wanting to be seen snooping around what was, technically, still a crime scene, since she was on administrative leave.

  But if she didn’t get to look around, she’d be damned if J. D. Cooper got to, either.

  When she reached her car, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. “I’m calling from Sedge Road, near Annabelle’s. I just saw a man trying to break into the restaurant.”

  Chapter Three

  “Look, if you’ll just call the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Department and ask for Aaron Cooper, he’ll vouch for me.” J.D. winced as the handcuffs around his wrists bit into his flesh, glad Gabe couldn’t see him now. Although he might have need of the bail Gabe had mentioned any minute now.

  “We tried. He wasn’t in the office.” Deputy Doyle Massey, one of the department’s investigators, had taken custody of him once he reached the station. Massey was a broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties, with sandy brown hair and eyes the color of tree moss. He looked impatient, making J.D. wonder just how much work an investigator got in a department this size.

  “Then ask for Riley Patterson. Or call the Gossamer Ridge Police Department and ask for Kristen Cooper.”

  Massey glanced at J.D. “How many cops are you related to?”

  “Do auxiliary deputies count, too?”

  Massey grinned. “You must be the black sheep of the family.”

  “Funny.”

  “What were you doing snooping around there, anyway?” Massey unlocked the cuffs behind his back.

  J.D. rubbed his sore wrists. “Am I under arrest?” Nobody had read him his rights, but clearly he wasn’t free to go.

  Massey led him to a small interview room. “Take a seat.”

  J.D. sat across from the deputy, wondering how much he should say about his real reason for being at Annabelle’s. His own family was sympathetic to his quest for justice, but he’d found over the years that the local cops would prefer he just butt out.

  “At the scene, you said you were just curious about the place because it had been a murder scene. How did you know that, you being a newcomer to town and all?”

  Oh, what the hell. If he lied, he’d just look as though he was hiding things. “Twelve years ago, my wife was murdered in Gossamer Ridge, in a secluded area, late at night. She was raped and stabbed to death. The killer left no evidence behind.”

  The deputy’s eyes gave a small flicker. “Go on.”

  “There’ve been similar murders. In Mississippi five or six years ago. Up in Millbridge, Alabama, in the last six months—”

  “Are you talking about the murders that college kid committed? He was already in jail when Carrie Gray was killed.”

  This must be how Alicia felt, J.D. thought, trying to explain her theory about the serial killer pair to Gabe the first time. “There are two people involved. Marlon Dyson—the college student—was only one of the two killers. The other one is the guy who actually does the stabbings.”

  Massey frowned. “So the kid was just along for the ride?”

  “The theory is, he procured the victims. Followed them, scouted out their schedules, getting to know them so that he and the alpha killer could get the drop on them more easily—”

  “Alpha killer?”

  “That’s the theory. The alpha killer wields the knife. The beta does the legwork beforehand.”

  “Whose theory?”

  Here we go, J.D. thought. “A criminal psychology doctoral student figured it out.”

  “A student?” Massey sounded skeptical.

  J.D. pressed his lips together tightly, growing annoyed. “A doctoral student. An instructor, really. And she’s a hell of a lot smarter than—”

  “She?”

  “Yes, she.”

  “Let me guess—new girlfriend? Got you a pretty little young thing who comes up with this fancy idea, so you thought you’d snoop around to impress her by handing her a new case to ponder?”

  J.D. stared at Massey, repulsed. “The girl’s barely six years older than my daughter.”

  “And you’re listening to her theories?” Massey snapped back.

  This interview clearly wasn’t getting J.D. anywhere. Maybe he should play the apology card and see if he could get them to just let him go without any further trouble.

  “Fine—you don’t buy the serial killer pair theory. But do you at least get that I wasn’t there to cause any trouble or do anything illegal?” he asked Deputy Massey.

  “You were already doing something illegal—trespassing.”

  “How did you know?” J.D. asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That I was trespassing.”

  Massey’s eyes narrowed. “A 911 call.”

  J.D. tried to hide his surprise. Who would have called 911? The place was in the middle of nowhere, on a road that had seen absolutely no traffic in the short time J.D. was there looking around, at least until the deputies rolled up, sirens blaring.

  Unless—

  “Don’t suppose you know who called it in?”

  Massey looked suspicious. “What does it matter? Was she wrong—?” He stopped, flushing as he realized he had just spilled more than he’d intended.

  So a woman had called it in. A woman who’d apparently been sneaking around the restaurant herself, if she’d been in position to see J.D. looking around the property.

  Now, who did he know who had a reason to be at the restaurant—and who’d probably be more than happy to call in a prowler report just to get J.D. out of her way?

  “Doesn’t matter,” he told Massey aloud. “You’re right, she saw what she saw.”

  “Why do you carry a gun?” Massey asked.

  J.D. was surprised the deputy hadn’t asked that question first. “I have a permit for concealed carry.”

  “I know. We looked it up. But why the CCW permit?”

  “Last November, some drug enforcers came gunning for my brother. They were sent by a drug lord named Eladio Cordero—”

  Massey spat out a profanity. “Luke Cooper’s your brother?”

  “Yeah,” J.D. said with a nod. “I carry the SIG for my own protection.”

  “Way I heard it, your family took out most of the bad guys by yourselves before the law arrived.” Massey’s smile was grim but satisfied. “I’d have liked to have a piece of that.”

  “Am I free to go now?” J.D. asked. “You won’t catch me trespassing again.”

  “Leaving town?”

  “Not right away,” J.D. answered honestly. “I have to wait until my kid’s finished visiting his grandparents.”

  “They live in the area?” Massey asked.

  “Yeah,” J.D. answered, realizing he should have dropped his in-laws’ names from the beginning. “George and Lois Teague. Do you know them?”

  Massey’s eyes lit up. “Why sure, everybody around here knows Doc Teague. He’s been treating most of the town since we were kids. You’re Doc Teague’s—” The deputy’s voice faltered as he put the clues together. “You’re Brenda’s husband. The sailor.”

  “Yes.”

  The deputy�
��s expression grew grim. “I went to school a few years behind Brenda, but I knew her. Nicest person you’d ever want to know.”

  J.D.’s heart contracted. “Yeah, she was.”

  “I guess I can’t blame you for going to extremes to find the bastard who killed her,” Massey said, his demeanor completely changed. “But I can’t really have you out there interfering with an ongoing murder investigation, Mr. Cooper. You understand?”

  J.D. nodded. “I understand.” He hadn’t really figured the local lawmen would buy into Alicia Solano’s two-killer theory without a lot more evidence. He’d just wanted to make the deputy understand he wasn’t a threat to law and order in Terrebonne.

  “I’m going to let you go now, but you can’t just be going around trespassing on private property, you hear? Let us handle it. I promise you, if there’s any chance at all the perp we’re looking for was behind Brenda’s murder, I’ll personally bring the son of a bitch down. All right?”

  The tight sensation in J.D.’s chest spread to his gut. Everybody really had loved Brenda. She was one of those people who just made life better. She should have died in her nineties, after a long, full and happy life, not at the painfully young age of twenty-eight in the parking lot of an Alabama trucking company.

  “All right,” he said aloud.

  Massey walked J.D. out to his truck, which another deputy had brought to the station. He returned J.D.’s weapon and holster to him. “Take care, Mr. Cooper. No offense, but I’d rather not see you in here again.”

  Same here, J.D. thought as he climbed into the truck.

  He’d just be a lot more careful next time.

  His cell phone rang before he reached the motel. He thumbed it on and answered.

  It was Gabe. “You’re set to talk to Dyson tomorrow morning at ten. You’ll have to set out early—it’s a three-hour drive.”

  J.D.’s stomach dropped. He’d been pushing for a face-to-face with Dyson for a month, but now that the time was imminent, he wasn’t sure he knew what to ask. “I’ll be there,” he told Gabe and hung up, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

  The Millbridge police had already checked Dyson’s background, on Alicia’s request. Dyson had been a teenager, living with his mother in North Carolina, at the time of Brenda’s murder. He didn’t have any long, unexplained absences in his history. The kid wasn’t in on Brenda’s murder.