Harper, who had never seen her smoke before, watched, fascinated as she blew out a long stream of smoke as pale as the fine knit of her top.
“She’s not dealing,” Hunter said, “and that makes it harder for us. It’s time we quit babying her.” He paused, glancing at Harper. “She’s not a bad person. She’s just young. And she’s hung up on Xavier.”
Cara suddenly remembered who they were talking to. “Don’t write any of this,” she ordered, abruptly. “This is all off the record, agreed?”
“Absolutely,” Harper held up her hands. “I’m not taking notes.”
Cara took another drag and considered her with new curiosity. “I hope I don’t seem unfriendly,” she said, after a second. “I don’t like journalists.”
“I don’t blame you. There are bad reporters out there,” Harper said. “But there are good reporters, too. I’m just a crime reporter. I stick to the facts.”
“Do that,” Cara said crisply, “and we’ll be fine.”
“She’s helping us, Cara,” Hunter reminded her.
She waved the cigarette at him, dismissively. But the tension passed.
As the two of them began to talk again, Harper decided to take advantage of their distraction. Maybe Baxter wanted her to make friends, but she couldn’t be here and not investigate.
Looking at Hunter apologetically, she said, “Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I had a lot of coffee.”
“Oh, sure.” He pointed down the long hallway. “It’s the door near the dining room.”
Neither of them got up to follow as she walked down the long hallway to the foot of the curved staircase.
She paused there, glancing around to make sure Allegra wasn’t anywhere near. Then she hurried up the stairs, the rubber soles of her shoes soft against the wood.
At the top, the stairs gave onto a long, bright hallway—a mirror image of the one below. At the far end, a glass door led onto the wraparound balcony. Through it, she could see the dark blue sea.
Before that, a series of heavy oak doors opened off it, three on each side. Most were open.
Holding her breath, Harper tiptoed to the first one. It was a large room, dominated by a bed with a modern, black frame. It was unmade—blankets thrown to one side as if the person had kicked them off. A keyboard on a stand stood nearby, with sheet music piled on the floor beneath it. A guitar leaned against the wall, propped against two Converse sneakers.
It was obviously Hunter’s room.
The door across from his was closed, and Harper crept past, in case Allegra was in there.
Conscious that she didn’t have much time, she hurried to the next open door. She stepped into a spacious room flooded with light.
The walls were clean white. The floors, bare boards. There was no bed—just a mattress on the floor, covered in bright fabrics. A framed black-and-white poster of Jimi Hendrix leaned against one wall. A large mirror was propped against another.
Aside from a pair of worn leather shoes left incongruously at the foot of the bed, there was nothing else in the room. It was a simple, almost ascetic space. The scent of incense she’d noticed downstairs was heavier here. It clung to the air. Sandalwood. Patchouli.
There were no instruments. No stereo or speakers. No computers. It was a room from another time.
“This is Zay’s room.”
Harper spun around to see Allegra standing in the doorway behind her, dark eyes somber.
She held up her hands. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s fine.” Allegra didn’t seem angry. In fact, she looked almost pleased. “You should see it.”
Harper turned back to the clean, mostly empty room.
“There are no guitars.” Her voice echoed off the bare walls.
“There’s a practice room across the hall with all his equipment in it,” Allegra explained. “This is his private space. He meditates a lot here.”
She gestured at an incense burner on the windowsill. Next to it sat a small matchbox and an ashtray that held four used matches.
“He needs a clear space to empty his mind.” Allegra looked out the window at the beach in the distance. “I wish he’d come home.”
The simple phrase was so melancholy and heartfelt—the look of worry on her face so raw—Harper turned away.
Over the years, she’d trained herself to feel nothing for victims of crime and those who loved them. It was necessary if she was going to do her job. For some reason, though, her heart twisted for Allegra—for all of them. Their pain was so near the surface.
“I’m really sorry this is happening,” she told her. “It must be torture for you.” She paused before asking, “How did you meet him?”
The girl brightened. “I grew up in a small town outside Spartanburg,” she explained. “I moved to Savannah the day I turned seventeen. Packed everything I could fit in the car and drove straight down here. Got a job waiting tables.” She leaned against the wall. “I had no money but I loved music and I thought I could find a band to join in a town like this. I saw a notice at a coffee shop one day for a backup singer, so I went and auditioned.” She smiled at the memory. “I was scared to death—it was my first real audition. But when I walked in Xavier was sitting at the piano playing a song and Hunter was there, messing around on the guitar. They were so nice I forgot to stay scared. And, well. We started singing and we never stopped.”
“What’s going on?” Hunter’s voice made them both jump. They hadn’t heard him walking up the stairs. But now he stood in the hallway, watching the two of them through the open door.
Allegra stiffened. “We’re just talking.” She sounded defensive.
Hunter’s accusing gaze swung to Harper, who felt instantly guilty.
“She was showing me around,” she explained, heat rising to her face.
He walked into the room, his eyes dark with grief and anger. “I suppose if you’re going to write about him, you might as well see it all,” he said, with some bitterness. “The police have already stomped all over it. You might as well do the same.”
She’d pushed things too far. She’d lost them. She retreated to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come up here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Hunter let out a long breath and looked around Xavier’s room, as if ensuring nothing had moved.
“It’s so hard,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “We’re so tired. We keep answering questions from the police. The same questions over and over. And they don’t have any answers for us. All we want to know is where he is and what happened. We tell them everything and they tell us nothing.”
Pivoting, he pounded one fist hard against the wall with a sound like a piece of meat hitting the floor.
Caught completely by surprise, Harper and Allegra stared at him, openmouthed.
He raised his fist as if to punch it again.
“Stop it, Hunter!” Allegra ran to his side, grabbing his wrist in both her hands. “Stop hurting yourself.”
All his muscles tensed as he tried to free his arm. He looked so angry and lost, for a split second Harper thought he might punch her.
“Allegra?” Cara’s voice rose from downstairs. “What’s going on?”
All the fight left him. Dazed, he cradled his hand. His knuckles were torn and bleeding.
“You idiot,” Allegra said, still holding his wrist gently. “Look what you’ve done.”
Cara raced into the room, her face white. “What happened? Hunter?”
“It’s nothing,” he told her, calming down. “I decided the wall was my enemy.”
Cara glanced from the blood on his hand to the faint, red mark he’d left on the pristine wall. She gave him a long searching look, but all she said was, “We should put ice on this.”
Hunter didn’t argue. They trooped down the stairs, Cara and Allegra both talking at the same time about whether he should go to the doctor, or wait and see if it started to swell. The scene was, in its own way, a glimpse of what life had been
like in this house before Xavier walked out to the beach on Wednesday night.
Harper trailed behind. She was conscious she shouldn’t stay much longer. She wanted them to see her as someone they could call on when they needed her. Not someone who hung around and got in the way.
As the three of them made their way into the kitchen, she stopped in the doorway.
“Look, I should probably go,” she said. “You need your space.”
They looked up at her with surprise, and something like disappointment.
“Could you come back with more food?” Allegra asked.
“Allegra…” Cara chided.
She didn’t back down. “We’re out of food. I’m starving.”
Harper pulled three business cards from her pocket and set them on the table by the door. “I’ll come back later if you want,” she promised. “I don’t mind bringing you anything you need. Give me a call.”
Hunter walked over to her, his wounded hand wrapped in a towel. The scattering of freckles on his nose gave him a boyish look that was nothing like the angry man she’d glimpsed a few seconds ago.
“I’m sorry about this.” He held up his hand. “I’m just tired and frustrated. You’re the only person telling us what’s really going on. Thank you for coming over.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m glad I could help.” She looked past him to the other two. “I can show myself out.”
Leaving the three of them in the kitchen, she walked down the grand hallway. She was nearly to the door when someone knocked on it, hard.
“Who is it?” Allegra called from the kitchen.
“I don’t know,” she called back.
The knocking came again, harder this time.
“Hunter, are you in there?” an angry male voice demanded. “Cara? Wake up.”
Bang, bang, bang.
Hunter appeared behind her. “Oh crap. It’s Stu.”
It took Harper a second to figure out who he was talking about. Stuart Dillon—the band’s manager, who’d flown back from Paris.
Hunter moved past her to the door, letting out a breath before grasping the handle with his good hand and opening it.
“Stuart,” he said, without enthusiasm. “You’re back.”
On the porch stood a tall, athletic man, with a tanned face and suspicious eyes. The sun gleamed on his smooth head. He wore jeans with glossy, expensive-looking boots, and a dark cashmere sweater. “I came straight from the airport,” he said, pushing his way in without waiting for an invitation. “Tell me he’s back.”
“He’s not,” Hunter said.
“Well, where the hell is he? He’s supposed to be on tour tomorrow. The record company’s asking questions I can’t answer.” Stuart’s eyes skimmed the hallway, stopping on Harper. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m—” she began to explain, but Cara stepped between them before she could get the words out.
“Stuart,” she exclaimed, holding out her arms. “Thank God. We’ve been desperate for you to get here.”
Harper had a feeling every word was a lie. But Stuart didn’t appear to have the same sense as he gave her a tight, emotionless hug. “Cara, how are you holding up? You must be losing your mind.”
While Cara distracted him, Hunter motioned urgently for Harper to go out the open door. Clearly, none of them wanted the manager to figure out that they’d invited a reporter into their house.
“We don’t know what to do,” Cara was saying as Harper slipped outside. “The police are useless.”
“Don’t worry,” Stuart assured her, something threatening in his tone. “I’m here now. I’ll get their asses in gear.”
It was the last thing Harper heard before Hunter closed the door.
8
When Harper walked into the Savannah police headquarters later that afternoon, the first thing she noticed was that it was colder inside than it was outside. Darlene, the daytime desk officer, wore a coat over her dark blue uniform.
“What’s going on?” Harper asked, looking up at the air vents. “It’s freezing.”
Darlene gave her a gloomy look. “The air conditioner’s blowing instead of the heating and nobody can get it to turn off. Thank God it’s Friday, is all I can say. I can’t wait to get out of this crazy place.”
Without waiting to be asked, she slid a binder containing the day’s crime reports across the desk. “Supposed to work in a snowstorm, I guess,” she grumbled.
Harper, her mind still on the Xavier Rayne story, flipped disinterestedly through the pages. Burglary, burglary, burglary, larceny, assault, burglary. Nothing newsworthy except a minor stabbing.
Finishing in record time, she handed the binder back across. “I wanted to grab the lieutenant for a second. Is he in?”
Instead of answering, Darlene leaned one elbow on the counter. “You and the lieutenant are getting to be regular friends now.” She lifted one eyebrow suggestively.
“Oh, come on. The man hates me like a burning sensation in his nether regions,” Harper said, horrified. “I just need to consult with him about a story.”
“Maybe.” Darlene, who loved gossip more than air, didn’t reach for the phone. “Seems to me y’all are getting along better than you used to at least. It’s nice. That’s all.”
“Darlene.” Harper gave her a stern look.
“I’m calling him.” Smiling, the desk officer picked up the receiver and dialed three numbers. When Blazer answered, she used her sweetest voice. “Lieutenant, Harper McClain would like to speak with you. Can I send her back? Thank you.” As she hung up, she gave Harper a pleased look. “He says come on back. Didn’t even ask what you wanted.”
Ignoring the insinuation, Harper crossed to the security door leading to the back offices. Darlene hit the button that unlocked the door with a shrill warning buzz.
Beyond the door the narrow hallway was busy with officers, detectives, dispatchers, and support staff. Harper weaved through them, nodding to familiar faces. She knew this building even better than the newspaper offices. In some ways she’d grown up here.
After her mother was murdered, when Harper was twelve, the detective on the case had taken her under his wing. Somehow he’d known there was no one else to pick up the pieces of her life and he’d stepped into that role as if it were a perfectly natural thing for a homicide detective to do.
She’d stayed close with Lieutenant Robert Smith all her life—even after she became a reporter and found herself at odds with him from time to time. They’d made it work.
But that all fell apart eighteen months ago when Smith murdered a woman he’d been having an affair with. He was now serving life in prison. For months after his arrest, she’d found these halls unwelcoming and foreign. Gradually, though, she was beginning to feel at home again in the long corridors and small, windowless offices. The faint smell of dust and bleach that seemed to permeate the brick comforted her the way baking cookies might make an ordinary person feel happy.
Lieutenant Larry Blazer, though, had never been part of that feeling for her. He hadn’t approved of Smith’s decision to become so close to her, and he’d never trusted her as a reporter. They grated on each other’s nerves. Still, Darlene wasn’t wrong. Lately, Harper was figuring out how to work with him now that he was head of the homicide unit. And he was learning to trust her, just a little bit.
His office was the last on the hallway. Harper tapped her knuckles against the frosted window where his name was painted in glossy black.
“Enter.” He fired the word like a gunshot.
When she walked in, the lieutenant sat at the blond-wood table that acted as his desk, a laptop open in front of him. He was not a bad-looking man, if you liked the chilly, Nordic type. Tall and thin, he had high cheekbones, graying blond hair, and narrow blue eyes that missed nothing.
The office, which she would always think of as Smith’s, was large and sparsely furnished. Two chrome-and-black leather chairs faced his desk, above which a poster-sized street map
of Savannah had been fixed to the wall. Red pins marked the site of every murder in the last twelve months. Harper knew without counting that there would be around forty of them. It had been a bad year.
Blazer peered at her over the top of a pair of reading glasses. “You can have five minutes. I’ve got a budget meeting this afternoon and God himself couldn’t get me out of it.”
Harper got straight to the point. “I’m covering this missing-person case out at Tybee. Are you guys working on it yet? He’s been gone a day and a half and I’m not sure the local cops have it under control.”
“The Tybee Police Department is professional and highly rated,” Blazer said, coolly.
“They found his guitar on the beach and gave it back to his housemates without printing it,” she told him.
There was a pause before he said, “Get out your notebook.”
Smiling, Harper pulled out a pen.
“I received a call this morning from the island’s chief of police. He asked us to take the lead. A Savannah detective team has been assigned to the case as of today.”
Harper looked up at him in surprise. Nobody at Tybee PD had whispered a word about that. “Does that mean you’re treating this as a potential homicide?”
“We’re treating it like a missing-person investigation, McClain,” he said. “We don’t know where he is. We intend to find him. There’s not much else I can tell you.”
“Tybee PD thinks he went swimming and got caught in a riptide,” she said. “But it seems strange to me that he’d swim in February. The water’s freezing.”
“Nothing musicians do surprise me.” His tone was dry.
“I wouldn’t put my toe in that water,” she said.
“That is irrelevant to my case.”
He obviously wasn’t going to give her any more to work with. Harper slid her pen back into her pocket as she asked, “Who’s lead detective?”
Only she would have noticed the infinitesimal hesitation before he replied. “Julie Daltrey and Luke Walker have this one.”
She didn’t react. Still, he fixed her with a look. “Don’t you go bothering Luke for information.”
Revolver Road Page 6
