The Dying Game by Beverly Barton Page B

Williamstown police were handling Gale Ann’s case, he would sleep better tonight.
    Pinkie removed a key from his pocket, bent over, and unlocked the bottom desk drawer where he kept a supply of disposable paid-in-advance phones. He slipped one of the phones into his jacket, locked the drawer, and pocketed the key.
    He would take the Bentley out this afternoon and go for a nice long drive. Maybe a few counties over. He’d contact the Williamstown police, the newspaper, and TV station and inquire about Gale Ann’s murder. If he couldn’t find out anything, he’d have no choice but to rent a car, using an assumed name and fake ID and drive to Williamstown to personally check on the situation.
    “I’m a distant cousin and haven’t been able to reach anyone in the family.” That’s what he’d say. Now, what was Gale Ann’s maiden name? He always did research on his victims, learning as much as possible about them before he made his meticulous plans.
    Hughes! That was Gale Ann’s maiden name. Her parents were dead. She had one sister—never married—named Barbara Jean. She had no children, and she’d been divorced for over six years.
    Pinkie had learned at an early age—when he was enduring his father’s cruel temper tantrums—to listen to his gut instincts. Those unerring instincts had saved him from more than one beating by the old man, and had allowed him to rack up a whopping score of two hundred and fifteen points in the marvelously macabre game he referred to as “Picking the Pretty Flowers.”
    He should listen to his instincts now.
    Something was off about this latest kill. There was a problem. He didn’t know what it was, but he intended to find out.
     
     
    When Griff, Nic, and Barbara Jean arrived back at the ICU waiting area, they were whisked into the inner sanctum. A nurse whose name badge read Huff stopped Nic and Griff, while another wheeled Barbara Jean down a row of cubicles and directly to the one in which her sister lay fighting for her life.
    “What’s going on?” Nic asked.
    “Excuse me, are you a relative?” Nurse Huff asked.
    “Neither of us are relatives,” Nic replied as she whipped out her FBI badge and ID. “I’m Special Agent Nicole Baxter with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with the local police department on this case. I need to question Ms. Cain as soon as possible. I spoke to your supervisor, Ms. Canton, less than an hour ago and—”
    Frowning, Nurse Huff nodded. “Ms. Canton is involved in an emergency with another patient, but I’ll speak to Dr. Clark. However, I don’t think it will matter.”
    “What do you mean?” Griff asked. “Why won’t it matter?”
    Nurse Huff cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She nodded toward the closed door leading to the waiting area. “You two need to go back outside, please. We’ve been instructed to contact Police Chief Mahoney. If you have any further questions, please direct them to him.”
    Griff sensed Nic’s heels digging in, and suspected she didn’t appreciate the local law not instructing the hospital staff that the bureau—meaning Special Agent Baxter—was in charge of this case.
    Griff grasped Nic’s arm gently and urged her into movement, effectively leading her back through the waiting room and into the hallway. When they were out of earshot of the ICU families, she yanked free and faced him.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” Nic glowered at him.
    “Saving you from throwing a very unbecoming hissy fit,” Griff said. “You know you really should work on trying to control that hair-trigger temper of yours. It’s a bad habit, especially in a federal agent.”
    Nic huffed. Her nostrils flared. For a minute there, Griff halfway expected her to snort and bellow and for steam to shoot out of her ears. Instead, she breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and blew out an aggravated breath.
    “First of all, you are not my keeper,” she told him. “And