Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [68]
“So do you. Whatever happened with that old boyfriend? Did you two get back together? I figured you were married by now and had a couple of kids.”
“It didn’t happen,” Lorie said. “I’m still single.”
“What about the guy?”
“He married someone else.”
“Ah, that’s too bad.”
“Shontee, be careful, will you? The letter writer has killed three people already. The FBI will probably become involved. They’re looking at this guy as a serial killer.”
“I will, and you take care, too, you hear me? And when this is all over and they’ve put him behind bars, you’ll get an invite to my wedding. We’re based in Atlanta, so we’re not that far from you there in Alabama, a five-hour drive at most.”
“I’ll be there,” Lorie said. “Nothing will keep me away.”
After her conversation with Shontee ended, she turned to Shelley. “Have you heard anything from Maleah and Derek? Maleah promised to keep me updated, but I haven’t heard from her yet.”
“I haven’t heard from her personally. But then they wouldn’t call me directly with any information they uncover. They would contact the agency and probably speak to Mr. or Mrs. Powell.”
“Did you know that the agency is getting in touch with everyone connected to Midnight Masquerade? That was Shontee Thomas. She got a call this morning.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Shelley said. “Yes, I knew Powell’s intended to try to contact everyone involved with the movie. I believe they’re starting with the actors, since so far the ones killed were actors.”
“So they think all the actors may have received letters and are in danger?”
“That’s what we need to know.”
“Why would the killer warn us? It doesn’t make sense.”
“The killer warning his victims in advance shows a great deal of either stupidity or monumental ego or possibly both.”
Suddenly a thought occurred to Lorie, a reason why the killer might forewarn them. “He wants to frighten us, doesn’t he?”
“Most definitely. He probably derives a great deal of satisfaction from knowing everyone will now take his threats seriously.”
“He’s killed one person each month this year, in January, February, and March. It’s April now, so that means he’ll kill again, doesn’t it?”
“Unless he’s found and stopped, yes, he’ll kill again.”
Maleah and Derek crossed the border into Mexico a little after noon that Wednesday. They had flown into Laredo, grabbed a quick bite of lunch, and rented a Jeep. An hour later, they entered the town of San Pedro, little more than a large village rich in colonial character. The town square consisted of a fountain and a statue of what appeared to be a Catholic priest wearing a hooded robe. A block off the main street that ran through town east to west, they saw men hawking hats and trinkets and boys offering to shine shoes.
“In a town this size, finding the hotel where Kyle Richey works shouldn’t be a problem,” Maleah said as she maneuvered their rental onto a back street.
“You’re right. That’s it up ahead. The yellow building on the right.”
A large, faded sign hanging over the entrance read HOTEL GARCIA. The colonial era structure, painted a cheerful sunshine yellow, possessed a welcoming façade. A couple of young boys, probably no older than twelve, rushed toward the Jeep the moment Maleah parked in front of the hotel. Both began jabbering quickly, too quickly for Maleah to understand much of what they said. Her Spanish was so-so at best, and local dialects left her baffled.
Derek got out of the Jeep, pulled two five-dollar bills from his pocket, and handed one to each of the boys. Maleah understood that he had paid them to keep an eye on the Jeep and figured that had been his way of getting the pesky kids to leave them alone.
The interior of Hotel Garcia surprised her. The lobby floors were a colorful terra-cotta tile and the wooden staircase boasted an elaborately carved balustrade. The very pregnant clerk behind the check-in desk rose from the chair where she was sitting and flipping through a magazine. She looked up and offered them a wide,