"Smart, just like his daddy, but every bit as beautiful as his mama. Too bad the good Lord wasted so much beauty on such a selfish, uncaring woman."

She led them down the hallway, talking nonstop all the way, and then paused and pointed to an arched open doorway. "Straight through there."

"Thank you," Derek said.

"Would either of you care for tea?" Ramona asked.

Maleah and Derek replied simultaneously, "No, thank you."

They found Ransom Owens sitting in an ornate white wicker chair, his eyes closed and a look of serenity on his long, narrow face. His brown hair, thinning on top, was neatly combed and he was cleanly shaved. He wore brown slacks, a beige shirt, and a tan sweater, the garments fitting loosely on his reed-thin body. When he heard them approach, he opened his tepid gray eyes, picked up the notepad in his lap, and laid it on the side table to his right. Maleah's first thought was that this man certainly didn't look like her idea of a killer. No, Ransom Owens looked like a well-to-do gentleman of leisure, a man most definitely born in the wrong century.

"Do come in and sit down." His deep baritone voice seemed at odds with his soft, scholarly appearance.

"We appreciate your agreeing to talk to us," Derek said as he slipped his hand beneath Maleah's elbow and guided her toward the wicker settee flanked by two ma.s.sive, billowing ferns. Her initial reaction was immediate withdrawal, but she managed to stop herself from jerking away.

"I thought it best to clear up a few matters," Ransom said, watching them closely as they sat side by side on the settee. "I a.s.sume my son had nothing good to say about me. I did my best with him, but it was difficult raising a high-strung boy without a mother...a mother who shamed us both. We'd have been better off by far if Terri had died years ago."

Before either Maleah or Derek had a chance to respond, Ransom continued quickly. "And before you ask, no, I have no intention of murdering my ex-wife or any of the vulgar, uncouth people she a.s.sociated with in the past. I know Tyler believes I may be this person the police are looking for, the Midnight Killer. I a.s.sure you, I am not. This is simply my son's way of tormenting me."

"Why would your son want to torment you?" Derek asked.

Ransom focused his weak, watery pale eyes on Derek. "A man does not like to admit such a shameful truth, but...My son hates me. Perhaps with just cause. I never understood him. I tried, but he was too much like Terri. He was willful and disobedient and never appreciated the way of life I offered him."

"We would like to take you at your word, Mr. Owens," Maleah said. "But we want you to know that the Powell Agency will be investigating further, so if you could tell us where you were and what you were doing on specific dates-the dates the four victims were killed-we could rule you out as a suspect."

"I am alone here in my home a great deal of the time," Ransom told them. "There are days when I see no one. Ramona comes in once or twice a week now, mostly to prepare and freeze meals for me to warm up later. She's too old to do much cleaning, although she runs the vacuum and stirs up a little dust with the feather duster. I have someone from a housekeeping agency come in every other week. Ramona pretends not to know."

Derek reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a list of dates. "We would greatly appreciate it if you'd take a look and see if you can account for your whereabouts on each date."

Ransom held out his hand and grasped the paper with long, bony fingers. He glanced at the dates, closed his eyes as if concentrating, and then handed the list back to Derek. "I'm not certain. I travel occasionally. I give lectures on Virginia history. I also do research. And I have friends who live out of state. I believe I was at home on all those dates. I know I was on the most recent date, when Shontee Thomas was killed in Atlanta."

"Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?" Maleah asked.

"I'm afraid not. I live alone, eat alone, and sleep alone. And I seldom answer the telephone. I don't like being disturbed when I'm working."

"Then you don't have an alibi?" Derek studied Ransom as if trying to decide whether the man was lying.

"No, I'm afraid I don't, but naturally, you'll dig around to see if you can find out if perhaps I was not here as I say I was. I understand. That's your job." Ransom glanced from Derek to Maleah. "Might I suggest that you check into my son's whereabouts on those dates. It's far more likely that he will turn out to be your killer."

Maleah and Derek exchanged a questioning glance. She knew he was thinking exactly what she was-that just as Tyler had accused his father, now Ransom was accusing his son. Talk about a dysfunctional family.

"Would you care to explain why you think your son is a murderer?" Derek asked.

"I thought I'd done that," Ransom said. "I sincerely hope my suspicions are unjustified. They probably are. I simply wanted to point out that between the two of us, Tyler is far more likely to be a killer than I am."

"Then you're not accusing your son of murder. You're simply saying that he's more likely to be a killer than you are. Is that right?" Maleah wanted Ransom Owens to clarify his comments.

"That's correct."

Maleah questioned Ransom for the next ten minutes and received replies that revealed very little new information. If this man was a killer, she would be surprised. He seemed like a gentle soul, wounded and lonely. But it was possible that beneath that melancholy exterior, another man existed, a man capable of murder.

As she and Derek walked down the sidewalk toward their parked rental car, she paused and said, "So, what do you think?"

"I think Tyler Owens hates his father," Derek told her. "And I think there's more to Ransom Owens than meets the eye."

"Do you think either of them could be the Midnight Killer?"

"Sure. Either of them could be. But at this point, the way I see it is that each is pointing the finger elsewhere to take suspicion off himself."

"Great father-son relationship, huh? Makes me feel sorry for Tyler. Most fathers would do anything to protect their son, but Ransom Owens would be willing to sacrifice his son to save himself."

Doing her level best to keep her hand steady, Lorie gave Jack the letter she had received in today's mail. Another threat. The wording was identical to the other two messages she had received, and this envelope was postmarked Atlanta, Georgia. The son of a b.i.t.c.h had mailed the letter after he'd killed Shontee. Had the others-Jean, Terri, Charlene, and Sonny-also received another letter? In her phone call last night, Maleah had told Lorie about interviewing Terri's son and their plans to interview her ex-husband.

"Tyler Owens thinks his father is the Midnight Killer," Maleah had said.

"What do you think?"

"Derek and I are both reserving judgment until we meet with Ransom Owens in the morning. After that, we're set to fly to Louisville in the afternoon and interview the Reverend Grant Leroy."

Lorie had laughed at the thought of Grant Leroy being a born-again Christian evangelist. The Grant she remembered had been a hard-drinking, womanizing, foul-mouthed SOB. On occasion, he had been charming, but only when he thought it would get him something he wanted.

"What about Sonny and Charlene?" Lorie had asked. "Has Powell's been able to track them down?"

"Sonny's in Europe somewhere, but that's all we know right now. As for Charlene Strickland, she seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. But eventually, we'll find them. The one good thing is that if we're having this much difficulty finding them, then so is the killer. If his letters aren't reaching them, he'd have no way to know since there's no return address."

Lorie watched as Jack scanned the letter and then carefully placed it in a plastic bag. Even though there was little chance the killer's fingerprints were on the envelope or letter, Jack followed the proper procedure.

"How many letters did Shontee receive before he killed her?" Lorie looked to Sh.e.l.ley for an answer. "And what about Hilary and Charlie?"

"The number of letters received before each was killed has varied," Sh.e.l.ley replied. "If each had received the exact number, then we could connect the dots and figure out who's next. We believe that's the reason the number of letters varies. He wants to warn the intended victims, frighten each of you, torment each of you, but not actually let you know for sure that you're next. It's all a part of the satisfaction he acquires from forewarning his victims."

Jack placed his hand on Lorie's shoulder. "I know it's rough staying cooped up here. The offer for you and Ms. Gilbert to stay with Cathy and me is an open invitation. You'd still be confined to quarters, but you'd be with friends. It might be good for you to be with Cathy, and if you were with us, she'd worry a little less about you."

"I'll consider it," Lorie said. "But for now, I'm staying put, here in my own home. And if that newspaper article hadn't come out and those flyers hadn't been circulated around town, I'd be going to work today."

"It's a good idea to keep a low profile a little while longer."

Lorie nodded. "By the way, did Mike tell you about Hannah and M.J. coming here to see me yesterday?"

"He mentioned it."

"Did he tell you that M.J. socked another kid because he said something ugly about me?"

"Yeah, Mike mentioned that, too."

"This crazy business with the Midnight Killer is affecting not only my life, but the lives of people I care about. You and Cathy and Seth. And Mike...and Mike's children. Maybe I should leave town, go somewhere-"

Jack grasped her by the shoulders. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying put right here where the people who care about you can look after you. If you left town, my wife would go with you."

When Jack offered her a comforting smile, she smiled back at him.

"Speaking of your wife-did she open Treasures today?"

Jack's smile faded. "No. We thought it best to keep the shop closed this week."

"That's certainly going to affect our bottom line."

Lorie's income came from her half of the profits from Treasures. Over the years, she had managed to buy a house and a car and open a savings account. But with the shop closed for a week-possibly longer-she would have no choice but to dip into her small savings, and it wouldn't take long to deplete every penny.

"Don't worry about money," Jack told her. "Cathy and I will-"

"No, you will not! I'm not taking money from y'all. I've got some savings. If necessary, I'll use it to tide me over."

Jack grimaced. "You're as stubborn as Cathy. I'll let you two hash it out." He gave Lorie's shoulder a tight squeeze. "I'm just a phone call away."

"I know. I appreciate everything you and Mike are doing."

As Lorie walked Jack to the door, Sh.e.l.ley's phone rang. They both paused and waited while she took the call. Her end of the conversation was limited to mostly listening and saying very little. The moment she hung up, she turned and looked directly at them.

"That was Maleah. She wanted us to know that Powell's found Charlene Strickland. She's dead."

Lorie gasped. "Dead? But how's that possible? He's been killing only one person each month."

"The Midnight Killer didn't murder her," Sh.e.l.ley said. "She died over a year ago from a drug overdose. She was working as a prost.i.tute and had pretty much fallen off the radar. She wasn't using her real name, wasn't staying in contact with anyone she had known, not family or friends."

"I didn't know her all that well. She was an odd sort of girl and even back when we made Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade, she was into the drug scene big-time."

"With Charlene Strickland already dead, that leaves only four actors from the movie left alive," Sh.e.l.ley said. "Jean Misner, Sonny Deguzman, Terri Owens, and-"

"And me," Lorie said. "The only thing we don't know is if he plans for me to be the May, June, July, or August victim of the month."

During the past six years, Reverend Grant Leroy, with the a.s.sistance of his wife and son, had built up a rather impressive congregation in Louisville, Kentucky. His followers had donated generously, allowing the reverend to build a huge church that seated a thousand people and a six-thousand-square-foot parsonage where he and his family lived. When Powell's had contacted the man who had directed numerous p.o.r.no films in the past three decades, including Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade, his wife hadn't hesitated, even for a second, to set up an appointment.

"We have no secrets from our congregation," she'd told them. "They know all about Grant's past. They understand how the devil can tempt all of us to do evil things."

Renee Leroy had gone on to suggest the time and place for the meeting. "Grant teaches a young people's group on Tuesday evening. Have your agents come by the church office around eight o'clock and he'll meet with them then."

So, here they were at the Redeemer Church.

Maleah hadn't attended a church service in years. Her stepfather had insisted on the family attending services every time the church doors opened and had said a prayer of thanks before every meal. To outside observers, Nolan Reaves had appeared to be a good Christian. In truth, the man had been a s.a.d.i.s.tic monster who had made life a living h.e.l.l for her mother, her brother, and her. Since leaving home for college at eighteen, Maleah hadn't been inside a church except for weddings, christenings, and funerals.

"Quite a place," Derek said. "An auditorium that seats a thousand. Can you imagine the cash they rake in from their parishioners?"

"Enough to allow Grant Leroy and his family to live the good life."

They entered through one set of five double front doors that led to the expansive vestibule. Dozens of young people, who appeared to range in age from thirteen to twenty, exited the sanctuary, many staying and milling around, everyone smiling and laughing. A tall, slender blonde wearing a fuchsia silk pantsuit and a string of black pearls approached Maleah and Derek.

"You must be the private detectives from the Powell Agency," she said as she held out her hand. "I'm Renee Leroy."

"Maleah Perdue."

She shook Maleah's hand first and offered her a warm, nice-to-meet-you smile; then she turned to Derek and her friendly smile suddenly came alive with feminine interest.

"I'm Derek Lawrence."

When he took the lady's hand, their gazes locked, and Maleah wanted to kick Derek and remind him that Renee Leroy, although at least twenty years her husband's junior, was most definitely a married woman. He should save all his charm for single women. Surely there were enough of those around to feed his monumental ego with their blubbering adoration.

"Come with me, please." Renee slipped her arm through Derek's. "Grant will meet us in the office."

When Renee led them down a long corridor, Maleah kept in step and gave Derek a scowling glance. He shrugged as if to ask, "Can I help it if women find me irresistible?"

Maleah hardened her frown. Derek smiled and winked at her.

Renee released Derek and punched the Up b.u.t.ton on the elevator. When the doors opened instantly, Maleah and Derek entered the elevator behind her, and on the quick ride to the second floor, they didn't have time for conversation.

"This way," Renee said when they exited the elevator.

After seeing the size and grandeur of the Redeemer Church, Maleah wasn't the least surprised by the huge and expensively decorated office area housed on the second level. Renee led them through two outer offices and into her husband's private domain. Decorated in sleek, black, white, chrome and gla.s.s, the 30' x 30' room all but screamed interior designer, which led to Maleah's question.

"Did you decorate the office, Mrs. Leroy?"

Renee beamed with pride. "Why yes, I did. How ever did you know that?" She giggled. "Silly me. You're an investigator. You probably did some background research on me as well as on Grant."

"As a matter of fact, we did." But Maleah did not recall any info about Renee Leroy ever having been an interior designer. She had been a waitress, a bartender, a restaurant hostess, and even a salesclerk in a paint and wallpaper store.

A robust man with impeccably styled salt-and-pepper hair and sparkling brown eyes came out from behind the enormous chrome and gla.s.s desk, walked across the room, and came right up to Maleah. Not handsome by any means, Grant Leroy did project an image of wealth and success with his neatly tailored pinstriped suit, his Italian leather loafers, and the gold and diamond jewelry that adored his wrists and fingers.

"Ms. Perdue, I presume," he said as he grabbed her hand and gave it a st.u.r.dy shake before turning to Derek and doing the same. "And Mr. Lawrence. I understand you have a few questions for me about some of my old cronies from the days when I was trapped in that quagmire of sin and d.a.m.nation, the adult movie business."

It was all Maleah could to do not to laugh in the man's face. Quagmire of sin and d.a.m.nation? Give me a break. Quagmire of sin and d.a.m.nation? Give me a break.

Derek jumped in with the first question. Apparently he was not on the verge of laughing. "You're aware, of course, that four former stars that you directed in Midnight Masquerade Midnight Masquerade have been murdered, one each in the past four months." have been murdered, one each in the past four months."

Dramatically laying his hand over his chest, Grant heaved a deep sigh. "I was saddened to hear of their deaths, but not surprised. The evil that we do lives on, and if we don't repent of our sins and beg our merciful Lord to cleanse us, body and soul, then there is no hope for us."

Someone cleared their throat. Maleah looked over her shoulder and saw a young man in his twenties standing in the open doorway. He was Grant Leroy's image, only many years younger, with dark hair and eyes and a somber expression on his face.

"Come on in, son." Grant motioned with a come-here gesture. "This is my son, Heath. He's our youth minister and I'm proud to say my right-hand man helping me do the Lord's work."

Unsmiling, Heath moved his wary gaze slowly from Maleah to Derek and then to his father. "I'm not sure you should be speaking to these people without a lawyer."