“I won’t bug them any more than I bug you,” she said.
“In that case, God help them.” With a glance at his watch, he stood up. “I’ve got to get going or they’ll decide we can live without heat all winter.” He headed for the door, motioning for her to follow him into the crowded hallway. “Look, McClain, go slow on this. Don’t write a murder where there isn’t one. Give us time to do our jobs.”
Leaving that as his good-bye, he ran up the stairs, back stiff, laptop clutched firmly in one hand.
After he’d gone, Harper lingered in the hallway, pretending to check her cell phone. Really, she was watching the clock on the screen. She waited four minutes, until she was certain Blazer must be in his meeting; then she ran up the same stairs he’d taken and down a long hallway at the top.
The detectives’ office was a few doors from the end. When she reached the unmarked door, she stopped, steeling herself. There is nothing on the planet more intimidating than walking into a room full of detectives.
She knocked on the door briskly, opening it without waiting for a response.
The room was crowded and badly in need of a paint job. The chilly air had a permanent smell of sweat and stale coffee. Eight desks were arranged along scuffed walls that had once been white. Only three were occupied.
Detective Roy Davenport gawked at her from the nearest desk. Detective Shumaker, the most senior detective in the room, sat a few seats away. Next to him was Luke Walker.
“Well, hell. I didn’t know we were due a visit from the fourth estate,” Shumaker drawled. His voice sounded amused but his eyes were alert.
“Sorry to intrude,” Harper said. “I was hoping to find Julie Daltrey.” She glanced fleetingly at Luke, who watched her with a guarded expression.
“She’s out,” Davenport offered. Tall and angular, with a heavy country accent, he was the newest detective on the team. “Won’t be back for an hour at least.”
“Damn.” Harper sighed. “I don’t suppose any of you know anything about that missing-musician case out at Tybee?” She let her gaze fall again on Luke, but he was looking away.
“Nobody here knows anything about anything,” Shumaker assured her. “We are the dumbest people in this building. I’d have thought you’d have gathered that by now, McClain.”
He was a bearlike man with a beer belly that peeked through the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt. The fluorescent lighting glinted over the pale pate visible beneath his comb-over.
Harper didn’t like him at all, but she forced an easy tone. “Well, I’m sorry to intrude. If you see Daltrey, would you tell her I came by? I’m just looking to touch base.”
“Ooh, now, I don’t need to know anything about what you’ve been touching.” Shumaker wrinkled his nose. “What you ladies get up to is no business of mine.”
Swallowing a sarcastic response, she left hurriedly, closing the door behind her. As she did, she heard Shumaker say something quietly and give a mean laugh.
Harper couldn’t care less what Shumaker thought. As she walked downstairs her thoughts were about Luke. And whether the rumors she’d been hearing were true and he had a new girlfriend.
The thought was an empty chasm she didn’t want to walk into.
The two of them had known each other since they were twenty. They’d been friends first, and then lovers. Now, she didn’t know what they were. For months, they’d hardly spoken—ever since he’d told her he wanted to get back together, and she’d declined. She didn’t like life without him but the on-again, off-again roller coaster they’d been on was too painful. She couldn’t see a way for them to keep trying and not damage each other.
Reporters and cops were oil and water. Police were forbidden from dating journalists, and vice versa. It all made sense to her. And yet she still thought about kissing him every time she saw him.
Downstairs, she stopped to say good-bye to Darlene before heading out to her car. She was nearly to the Camaro when someone called her name.
Luke was loping across the parking lot toward her.
He was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders and sandy-brown hair that tended to get too long. He had eyes the color of the midnight sky. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at him without feeling like someone just punched her in the chest.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I’m working on that missing-musician case.” He stopped next to her car, hands in his pockets. “I couldn’t say anything in front of Shumaker. What’d you want to talk to Julie about?”
“Oh, nothing much. I wondered if there was anything new.” She kept her tone as casual as his. “Tybee Police don’t know much. Are the boats still out? Have they found anything?”
“We haven’t really had a chance to get to work on it yet,” he said, not answering her question. “We only picked the case up this morning.”
“What’re you thinking?” she asked. “Was he just drunk and stupid? Or did something else happen? Drug deal gone wrong?”
He paused as if he wanted to tell her something, but all he said in the end was, “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
She didn’t hide her exasperation. “Come on, Luke. I got more out of Blazer. Give me a break.”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “I’m sorry. When Julie comes back I’ll find out more. If there’s anything to talk about, I promise I’ll give you a call.”
He leaned against the car, watching her with those eyes. “So how’s it going, anyway? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah.” Suddenly awkward, she glanced down at her dusty boots. “Oh, you know. The usual.”
Have you got a girlfriend now? She imagined asking him. But she couldn’t. Because, what if he said yes?
“You still out on Tybee?” he asked.
“For now. I’ve got to move in a few weeks. The landlady needs the house.”
“Where’re you going to go?”
She shrugged. “No idea. It’s just weird, you know? I don’t know if it’s safe to have my life back. Or if I should stay scared forever.”
His phone beeped and he glanced at the screen.
“We should talk about this before you do anything,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “I’ve got to get back right now—I’m working on about five cases. Can I call you later?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”
As he headed back toward the station, she called after him, “And let me know about that musician.” He lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning around.
She got into the car and ordered herself not to watch him go. She hated how happy his offer to call her made her. It was stupid to be happy. Nothing would ever work between them. They’d tried twice and all that came of it was pain and confusion. She knew she’d hurt him when she’d refused to get back together. And she knew she didn’t have the right to miss him.
But she missed him all the same.
With a sigh, she shifted into gear, pulling out of the parking space. She was almost to the exit when her phone buzzed in the dashboard holder. The message was from an unrecognized number. She stopped the car so she could read it.
Dig into the Southern Mafia. Look back seventeen years for the name Martin Dowell. His lawyer might be of interest.
Harper’s brow creased. What the hell was that about?
She turned the phone over as if it might reveal answers.
Maybe it was a wrong number. But she didn’t think so. That phrase “dig into.” That was for a reporter. That was for her.
She quickly typed, Who is this?
She waited for several minutes, but no one replied. It was probably nothing. Her number was on the newspaper website and she often received tips. Most of them were bogus.
If she had the time, she’d look into it later. Seventeen years ago made this an old story.
Still, as she pulled out onto Habersham Street, something about the text bothered her. It was so specific. But there wasn’t any time to
think about it. Right now, she had a missing musician to find.
9
Back in the newsroom, she wrote quickly, but with the cops refusing to give her more than a few skimpy quotes, she didn’t have enough information for a front-page story good enough for Baxter.
She was digging through old articles about Rayne, looking for anything she could use, when her phone rang. She grabbed it impatiently.
“McClain,”
“Harper?” The voice was male. It sounded tentative and familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Hunter. From this morning?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Hey, Hunter. What’s going on?”
“Yeah…” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry to bug you. This’ll sound weird but, would you mind coming back out here?” There was a nervous edge to his voice. “Things are getting kind of crazy—there are TV vans all over the street. People keep knocking on the door. Cara’s about to lose her shit, and the cops won’t tell us what’s going on.”
This was just what she needed.
Harper stood and glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven o’clock. She had time.
She swept her jacket off the back of the chair and pulled it on one-handed.
“I’m on my way,” she told him, as she headed across the newsroom. “Don’t open the door to anyone.”
When she reached Admiral’s Row twenty minutes later, the narrow tree-shaded street was lit up like a film set. Television satellite vans the size of RVs were parked bumper-to-bumper in the dirt at the side of the short lane and around the corner on the adjacent street.
Harper parked behind a nursing home a couple of blocks away. As she climbed out of the car, she pulled a heavy tote bag from the back seat and swung it over her shoulder. She’d made a stop on the way, gambling that food and cigarettes would seal the deal between her and Rayne’s housemates. The bag thumped against her hip as she jogged toward the house.
The reporters gathered in small clusters looked out of place on the quiet lane in sharply tailored suits or pencil skirts tight enough to make breathing unfeasible. Most of their faces were unfamiliar—the out-of-town media had arrived.
“Harper!”
Catching her eye, Natalie Swanson, the reporter from Channel 12, motioned for her. She stood in the bright glow of TV lights—her blond hair and makeup mystifyingly perfect despite the damp ocean breeze, a white wool coat wrapped tightly around her narrow waist. A camera mounted on a tripod stood next to her. A microphone with ten feet of black cabling was looped loosely around the van’s side mirror.
“I can’t believe you’re only just getting here,” Natalie chided. “I figured you’d be out here all day.”
“I was here this morning.” Harper glanced past her to number 6, which was still and shuttered against the glare of the spotlight. “Has anyone talked to them?”
“Only neighbors. And they’re not what I’d call welcoming. No one in the house will come out. We keep asking the cops if they’ll give a statement but they aren’t talking either. My editor’s screaming.” She gave Harper a curious look. “How did you get so much out of them yesterday?”
“Oh, you know.” Harper made a vague gesture. “Right place; right time.”
Natalie barked a laugh. “Please don’t tell my boss that.” Her eyes fell on Harper’s bag. “What’s that? Supplies? You planning to be out here all night?”
Shifting her posture so the bag hung out of view, Harper took a step away. “It’s just a few things Miles asked me to pick up.” She glanced around. “Speaking of him, I better go track him down.”
Miles was still in Savannah, but Natalie couldn’t know that.
“Hey, do me a favor,” Natalie called, as she hurried away. “Don’t make me look bad.”
Harper laughed. “You always look good, Natalie.”
She waited until she was out of earshot before slipping her phone from her pocket and dialing Hunter’s number. “I’m here,” she told him quietly.
“Come around to the side gate. The lock code is 0924.” She could hear the relief in his voice.
Out of the blinding circle of TV lights, it was easy to fade into the darkness. The backs of the houses on the row were shielded by high hedges and tall, locked gates. Privacy was obviously important to the residents—small, tasteful signs warned of CCTV cameras and alarms.
Slowing her steps, Harper glanced over her shoulder. Natalie was deep in conversation with Josh Leonard from Channel 5. No one was watching.
Unobserved, she slipped down the walkway between number 5 and number 6. The path was dark and narrow, hemmed in by oleander bushes. Harper was looking for the gate when a small, wiry man rounded the corner ahead of her.
She couldn’t make out his features in the shadows, but she didn’t think she’d seen him before. For a second, his presence made her uneasy. Then she noticed the camera in his hand.
He had to be part of the out-of-town press.
For some reason the realization made her bristle. What the hell was he doing, trespassing?
She avoided his eyes as they neared each other, but he spoke as he passed.
“Don’t bother. It’s all fenced in. There’s a gate, but it’s locked. I’ve been all the way around.”
How he knew she was a journalist she had no idea. She didn’t like being so obvious.
“Thanks,” she muttered, keeping her head turned away.
The gate he’d mentioned was an arched door, artfully tucked into the greenery. A lighted electronic combination lock glowed blue. The sound of the ocean was closer here—the footpath must continue on to the beach.
She typed in the number Hunter had given her, and the lock released. She slipped through, latching the gate behind her.
In the sheltered garden, the night felt different, somehow. More peaceful. Overhead, the clouds were dissipating. Stars glittered silver against a velvet sky. From where she stood she could see the white, columned house in all its glory. Out front, the curtains were all closed. Back here they were open, the windows ablaze with light.
Sliding the tote-bag strap back up her shoulder, she crossed the lawn. As she neared the raised veranda, she could hear the faint hum of voices, then music. Someone was playing a guitar with real skill. It sounded like they were outside.
“Hello?” she called, as she reached the foot of the wide wooden back steps.
The music stopped.
“Harper!” Allegra’s voice came from the porch above. “Come up.”
When she reached the top, the three housemates were sitting on white wicker chairs arranged around a low table. Hunter, cupping a wineglass in one hand. Cara, her beautiful face watchful. Allegra, curled up like a kitten with her feet tucked under her—dark eyes gleaming in the porch light.
Harper held out the shopping bag to Hunter, who had invited her. “I thought you might need supplies.”
“You star.” He pulled out two cartons of cigarettes, relief suffusing his features. “We can live without food but not without smokes.”
“Please tell me there’s food in there.” Jumping from her seat, Allegra ran over to kneel next to him to root through the supplies.
Cara watched the other two with faint disapproval. “We could just order online.”
“I tried, but they can’t come until tomorrow,” Hunter told her. “Anyway, I don’t know how they’ll get past the circus in the front yard.”
“Pasta!” Allegra held up the bag delightedly.
“It’s not fair to make her bring us things,” Cara chided.
“She doesn’t mind.” Allegra looked at Harper. “Do you?”
“I don’t mind.” Far from minding, Harper was grateful for this excuse to win them over.
She hovered near the seats, trying to gauge their mood. Hunter had sounded desperate on the phone, but they seemed almost relaxed. Cara in particular seemed less suspicious of her, as she motioned for her to sit. “Have a seat. Someone give her wine.”
&n
bsp; Harper perched on a soft cushion that smelled of salt air and shook her head. “No wine, thanks. I’ve got to go back to work soon. Has there been any news?”
The actress gave her a wan smile. “We’re right where we were before—sitting around knowing absolutely nothing. We hoped you could help.”
“Haven’t you heard from the Savannah police?” Harper asked, surprised.
Hunter, who’d been tearing the cellophane from a pack of cigarettes, looked up sharply. “No. Why?”
“They’ve assigned detectives to the case,” she told him. “It’s not just the local cops anymore.”
“Why would do they do that?” Cara kept her voice neutral, but her fingers tightened around her glass.
“The Tybee force is very small,” Harper explained. “They could use the extra hands on this case.”
“But why do they need a detective?” Hunter seemed to have forgotten the pack of cigarettes in his hand. “What do they think’s happened to him?”
“Nothing’s happened to him. He’s fine.” Allegra raised her voice.
“He’s not fine,” Cara snapped. “He’s been gone for days. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. Something happened. And you need to accept that, Legs. We all do.”
“Cara.” Hunter’s voice was soft but meaningful.
She let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, with instant regret. “I keep yelling at you.”
But Allegra, her face red and wounded, kept her eyes on the package of spaghetti in her hands.
They’d clearly spent all day working themselves up until their tempers were at the breaking point. Harper needed to calm them down.
“I know this is hard,” she said, “but you have to be patient. They’re looking everywhere.”
Hunter blinked at her through his glasses. “You still think there’s hope? That he might be out there?”
In truth, Harper did not believe there was much hope, but the three of them were looking at her with so much need she couldn’t say that.
“Of course there’s hope,” she assured them.
Taking this as evidence that she’d been right all along, Allegra leaped up from the floor. “That’s all I’ve been saying. We don’t know for sure that anything bad has happened.” She picked up the grocery bag. “I’m going to make food.” Pointing at Harper, she said, “And you’re having wine whether you like it or not.” She turned to Hunter. “Make her drink wine.”
Revolver Road Page 7
