Page 28 of Zero Divergence
“She either left the bath prematurely with intent to return, or she ran the bath and lit the candles and was killed before she had a chance to enjoy them,” Royce said.
“This could be staging, but to what point?” Sawyer asked. Turning to look at Royce, he held up a finger. “No sign the victim cooked dinner for her assailant. Christi, Tara, Abby, and Harper had all prepared a meal for their guest.” They’d never had the opportunity to eat the food, but they had gone to the trouble of cooking, which explained why there was no forced entry. They had invited their killer into their homes. Sawyer held up two fingers. “Signs of a struggle and DNA beneath the nails.” Three fingers. “Ms. Gross wasn’t expecting her killer.” Four fingers. “She’s still partially dressed where the others were nude.” Five fingers. “Different restraints.” Sawyer could’ve voiced a few more points, but it wasn’t necessary. They both knew this crime wasn’t committed by the same person who’d killed Tara, Christi, Harper, and Abby.
Royce’s mouth tipped up slightly at the corners when he saw Sawyer had borrowed his method of ticking off facts. “And Humphries is in Mexico with his wife.”
“So, are we dealing with a copycat killer? If so, are they trying to impress Humphries?” Sawyer asked.
“By killing the lawyer who engineered his release from jail? That doesn’t make much sense,” Royce countered. “What if they only want us to believe it’s a tribute killing? Vivian Gross has represented some of the vilest people in the state of Georgia, and as successful as she was in the courtroom, she couldn’t win them all. What if someone took advantage of Humphries’s release to get revenge against her and frame him?”
Sawyer nodded as he considered it. “Makes a lot of sense. The person was loosely familiar with the Savannah Strangler’s MO but didn’t know the details you’d deliberately kept from the press, such as the set tables with untouched dishes of food and unopened bottles of wine. They took what they knew and set the scene to frame Humphries. It’s believable.”
“They just didn’t know he was on vacation in Mexico,” Mendoza said, joining them. “That will not prevent the media from going crazy, and I see this playing out only one way.”
Sawyer’s stomach dropped. “It will add more fuel to Humphries’s claims that the police set him up.”
Mendoza nodded. “That’s my biggest concern. For us to dispute his allegations, we’d have to reveal the details we kept out of the press during the initial investigations. I’m not prepared to do that at this time, and I want you both to keep that in mind when the media starts dragging your names through the mud.”
“His,” Sawyer countered, pointing to Royce. “I’m the golden one.”
“Most people would think I’m insane for assigning this case to you, Locke, especially considering the way Gross has been hammering you and Wilkes in her recent interviews. Don’t make me regret my decision.”
Royce nodded curtly. “You got it, sir.”
“Who found Ms. Gross?” Sawyer asked.
“Her personal assistant,” the chief replied. “His name is Kendall Blakemore.”
Sawyer’s brow rose. It was a bit early in the day for a personal assistant to show up at her house. What the hell did theyassisther with? “Where is Mr. Blakemore?”
“In the spare bedroom waiting for you to interview him,” Mendoza said.
With the crime scene techs and Dr. Fawkes doing their thing, the wisest course of action was to interview the assistant, then notify the next of kin and interview coworkers until they found a person of interest to zero-in on.
They exited the bedroom and stopped at the closed door on the opposite side of the hallway. Sawyer lightly rapped his knuckles against the wood, and a female patrol officer opened the door. When she stepped aside for them to enter, Sawyer caught sight of a slender, young man with white-blond hair sitting on the side of the bed. He’d propped up his bare feet on the side rails and hunched forward as if he were trying to curl into a ball. One arm hugged his stomach, and the other lifted a tissue to his mouth, muffling the sobs escaping him as he rocked back and forth. A shock of blond bangs fell forward, acting as a curtain to shield the young man’s face.
“I’ll just step out into the hallway,” the officer said, offering them a grim smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Officer Calhoun,” Royce said.
The man on the bed must not have heard Sawyer knock or them enter the room because he let out a startled gasp, jerking his head up when he heard Royce’s voice. He rose swiftly off the bed and crossed the room, giving them a closer look at his face. Maybe it was the puffy eyes or blotchy red face, but Kendall Blakemore barely looked old enough to drive. Though, his troubled, pale blue eyes belonged to someone far older than the man standing in front of him. Sawyer considered himself a good judge of character and wasn’t fooled often, not even by the best charlatans. He prided himself on not having a cynical heart, even though he’d seen the very worst humanity was capable of inflicting on one another. Something about this guy with the sad eyes triggered his protective instincts, and he had to work hard to keep his objectivity in place.
“Do you know who killed Vivian? Was it that scumbag she helped walk from jail? Isn’t that the kind of thing he did to those girls?” Blakemore’s rapid-fire questions came one after the other. He didn’t pause to breathe or allow them to answer before moving on to the next. Kendall’s shoulders started shaking violently, and he began sobbing again. He turned his back on them and walked a few feet away in what Sawyer assumed was an effort to gather his composure. Royce and Sawyer exchanged a quick glance before stepping farther into the room.
“I’m Detective Key, and this is my partner, Sergeant Locke,” Sawyer said. “I know this is a very upsetting time, but we need to ask you some questions.”
The man took several calming breaths while keeping his back turned toward Sawyer and Royce. Sawyer used the time to glance around the room, which was drastically different from the rest of the house. Vibrant impressionist paintings in bold hues hung on the wall, a scarlet comforter covered the bed, and the furniture, while still modern, was black instead of white. Clothes were strewn over a chair, an open dresser drawer, and the foot of the bed. This room was lived in, but by whom? Sawyer’s eyes locked on a large photo hanging on the wall next to the bed. It was a close-up image of a gorgeous young man with white-blond hair, seductive blue eyes, and pouty, glossy lips. The model wore an intricately designed masquerade mask, but Sawyer had no problem recognizing Kendall Blakemore.
Beside him, Royce cleared his throat. Sawyer turned to meet his gaze and was met with a quirked brow. It seemed like Royce also recognized the man in the photo and mistook Sawyer’s interest. Sawyer rolled his eyes and continued looking around the room. He noticed a backpack next to the bedside table and a couple of textbooks,Practical Contract Law for ParalegalsandWills, Trusts, and Administration,lying on top of the bed, as well as a laptop, notebooks, highlighters, and pens.
“Do you reside here, Mr. Blakemore?” Sawyer asked.
The man sniffled a few more times, then turned to face them. If his grief was an act, he was one of the finest actors Sawyer had ever met. “Vivian let me move in when she found out my parents kicked me out for my queer ways. I was living out of my car at the time. I’d gone into work early one morning to wash up in the sink so no one would know I was homeless, but Vivian caught me as I was exiting the restroom.”
“She just let you move in?” Royce asked. It didn’t match what he knew about the hardnosed woman.
Blakemore lifted his chin higher. Anger and resentment temporarily eclipsed the sadness in his glacial gaze. “I wasn’t her boy toy if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Not at all,” Royce said calmly. “I’m sorry if it’s the impression I gave you, Mr. Blakemore. How long have you lived here?”