After all, a voice in her head reminded her, she’s an actress.
On the front steps, the lieutenant was wrapping things up. “That’s all I have at the moment. Call the press office in the morning for updates.”
With the reporters shouting questions at them, the detectives trooped back to the house. Luke got there first, holding the door open for the others. For a brief moment, in the glow of the chandelier, Harper glimpsed Allegra at the foot of the stairs, looking tiny and trapped.
Then the door closed, shutting them all inside.
As soon as the detectives were gone, the TV reporters raced back to their vans. Miles walked up to Harper, his camera in one hand. “I’m going to get a few shots of the house. I’ll meet you in the newsroom.”
“Baxter wants us there faster than physically possible,” she told him. He just nodded and kept going.
She headed toward the Camaro. She was just passing the last TV vans when the small wiry reporter suddenly appeared at her side.
“You’re Harper McClain, aren’t you?” In the dark, his eyes glinted. “I’m told you’re the one who knows everything when it comes to Savannah cops.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said.
“I would.” He held up his phone. It displayed the story she’d filed earlier. “If the time on this is right, you wrote this before the press conference. Is that where you were going when I passed you earlier? Who tipped you off?”
Harper stopped walking. “Look, who are you and what do you want? No offense, but I’m on deadline.”
“No offense taken.” He had a predatory smile. “I’m Jon Graff. I work for the blog, L.A. Beat—maybe you’ve heard of it?”
For a second Harper drew a blank. Then she remembered the tabloid that had covered Cara’s love life with obsessive interest.
“I’m looking for juice on this case,” he continued. “Anything you’ve got on Cara Brand. We pay good money for tips. I know reporters in cities like these don’t make much.” He paused, still smiling. “No offense.”
She fixed him with a withering glare. “No thanks.” She resumed the walk toward her car, but Graff stuck to her heels. He seemed amused.
“Hey, wait. I thought Southerners were supposed to be friendly. How’d you get the story before everyone else, Harper? I saw you come out of the house. You pretty friendly with the Xavier disciples in there? What’d they tell you?”
Gritting her teeth, she kept moving, but it was like trying to ignore a wasp buzzing around her head.
When they neared the Camaro, he gave a low whistle. “Nice car.”
She wheeled on him. “Look, Graff, why don’t you try doing your own reporting for a change? It’s easier than begging for scraps.”
Her tone was scalding, but his unpleasant smile only broadened. “I like you, Harper McClain. I can see why people talk about you like they do. You want to get a drink later?”
She gave him a look of pure disbelief. “You must be out of your mind.”
Without waiting for him to reply, she climbed into the Camaro and slammed the door. She started the engine with a roar, and backed out, tires spinning.
There wasn’t time to think much about Jon Graff.
Baxter was waiting when she got back to the newsroom, already redesigning the front page to leave a huge space for Harper’s story.
In the end, the whole spread was electric: Above the fold, a large picture of Xavier standing onstage, a guitar loose in one hand. The glow of the lights brought out the amber in his soulful eyes. Beneath that, a shot of dark-clad detectives standing in front of the white beachfront mansion.
The headline read:
Musician’s Body Found—Foul Play Suspected
Inside were pictures of Cara, Allegra, and Hunter, and explanations of their relationships with Xavier, but Harper wrote nothing about Cara being a suspect. She told herself her reasons were strategic. Everyone inside that house trusted her. If she wrote about that, she’d lose them all as sources.
And friends, a small voice in her head warned.
She did tell the editor about Graff. Baxter checked the blog and found that he had already posted an article about Xavier that night. It was more or less Harper’s first article, without attribution, including lines he’d taken word-for-word.
Guess he decided he didn’t need to pay me for it after all, Harper thought.
“Plagiarism,” the editor groused. “If this paper could still afford a lawyer, we’d sue.” Closing the browser in disgust, she headed back to check the final layout with the copy desk.
Miles had gone home some time ago and, alone in the newsroom, Harper stared out the window at the river. A small boat—visible only by the red light in its bow—churned against the current to heaven knew where.
It was nearing midnight. She didn’t want to think any more about dead musicians and their friends. She wanted a drink and some conversation with someone she trusted. She called Bonnie, hoping she’d be working at the bar. But when she answered, there was no sound of music or the usual Library hubbub.
“Hey, hon. Hang on a minute.” There was the sound of muffled talking and then a door opening. “Sorry about that,” Bonnie said. “What’s up?”
“You’re not working.” Harper rocked back in her seat, planting her feet on the desk. “You want to go get a drink?”
“Can’t. I’m on a date.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s new. An installation artist. Very intense.” Bonnie yawned. “Too intense, actually. He’s been explaining his work to me for hours.”
Bemused, Harper asked, “Can he hear you saying this?”
“He’s in the bathroom. I’m not that cruel.” Bonnie’s tone changed. “Hey, tomorrow’s Saturday and I’ve got the weekend off for once. I was thinking of coming out to your beach house for some sun and fun. Would I cramp your style?”
“Never,” Harper said. “But I’m working on a big story at the moment. You probably haven’t seen the news … Xavier Rayne was murdered.”
“Oh, hell.” Bonnie sounded somber but not surprised. “Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet. And I’m going to be covering that story all weekend. If you don’t mind having the house to yourself most of the time, you’re more than welcome.”
“Perfect!” Bonnie said, serenely. “It’s supposed to be sunny. I’ll be there tomorrow with my bikini.”
“It’s February, Bonnie,” Harper said. “Bring a sweater.”
“It’s February in Georgia,” Bonnie corrected her. “I’m bringing SPF thirty.”
A male voice rumbled in the background.
Bonnie whispered. “I’ve got to go. Loverboy’s back and getting offended. See you tomorrow.”
In the quiet that followed the call, Harper scrolled through her contacts, looking for someone else to go out for a drink with. She was about to give up and go home when she suddenly remembered the text she’d received that afternoon.
She read it again.
Dig into the Southern Mafia. Look back seventeen years for the name Martin Dowell. His lawyer might be of interest.
In the rush of work, she’d forgotten all about it. On a whim, she pulled the keyboard closer and typed “Southern Mafia” “Martin Dowell” into LexisNexis, tapping her fingers on the desk as the system churned.
Anonymous tips were often dubious—people settling old scores, looking for trouble. So she expected nothing much. When the system spit out two hundred hits, her eyebrows shot up.
She leaned forward, scanning the long list of articles. It was old stuff—the most recent piece had been written thirteen years ago in the Atlanta paper.
It was a straightforward article about a man named Martin Dowell who had lost an appeal of his conviction for murder and racketeering. By that point, he’d already been in jail for several years.
There was, it seemed to her, nothing special in the piece. She read it again, looking for anything she might have missed. Any connection to her work, or even
to Savannah.
But there was nothing. Dowell was based in Atlanta. All his crimes had been committed there.
She almost closed the window at that point. Only her innate curiosity stopped her. After all, the message had specifically told her to read articles from seventeen years ago.
She changed the search terms, adding the specific year.
This time, fifty articles came back.
The first one she opened had run in the Atlanta paper seventeen years ago.
Alleged Boss of the Southern Mafia Charged with Murder
By Christina Steel
Martin Dowell, 55, who the state police allege is head of the so-called Southern Mafia—a loose alliance of drug gangs and organized criminals based outside Atlanta—was arrested last night at his Marietta home, and charged with murder and racketeering in the death of Paul Johnson, a convicted drug dealer.
Johnson’s body was found in February, inside an oil barrel at the Halerson Refinery outside Atlanta. The gagged and bound corpse had been shot twenty-seven times. By then, Johnson, who had a long record of arrests and convictions related to robbery and drug crimes, had been missing for six weeks.
Police sources say they believe the murder was revenge over a drug deal gone wrong. Dowell and Johnson were known associates, and Dowell had been a suspect since Johnson disappeared.
Police declined to reveal the evidence behind the arrest. And Dowell’s attorney said this showed the arrest was groundless.
“This is a fishing expedition,” attorney Peter McClain said, outside the courthouse where Dowell was arraigned. “The police have wanted to bring my client down for years. They’d do anything to get a conviction. We will fight this all the way.”
As soon as she saw her father’s name, Harper stopped breathing.
Her mind scrambled for excuses. It couldn’t be her dad. It had to be another Peter McClain. After all, her dad had done most of his work in Savannah. His office had been a few blocks from where she was sitting right now.
She scrambled to close the article and bring back the list of news stories from that year. But she was moving too fast in her panic, fingers gripping the mouse too tightly, and she managed to close the entire list by mistake.
Swearing under her breath, she typed in the search words again, fumbling with the keys. And then waiting impatiently for the articles to reappear.
Finally, the list was in front of her again, and she clicked on article after article, scrutinizing the images at the top of each story. It took a few minutes to find what she was looking for.
The caption read, “Accused murderer Martin Dowell, leaving the courthouse with his lawyer, Peter McClain.”
The two men stood side by side in front of the cold, stone edifice of the Fulton County Courthouse. Both of them stared straight at the camera. Dowell’s blunt nose and round, pugnacious face were instantly recognizable. He looked at the photographer like he’d enjoy punching him.
Next to him was a young version of Harper’s father. No salt-and-pepper hair yet, just that straight dark hair her mother was always complaining needed a trim. His face was unlined; his eyes clear and youthful. And he stood with one hand on the shoulder of a murdering drug kingpin.
Harper stared at her father, barely breathing.
One year after this was taken, his wife would be stabbed to death in the kitchen of their modest home in Savannah. His twelve-year-old daughter would find the body when she returned from school.
The murder would never be solved.
“Are you still here?” Baxter walked back into the newsroom, her low-heeled shoes tapping against the floor. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
With effort, Harper forced herself to look up. “I’m going in a second.” Her voice sounded small and far away.
Distracted, Baxter didn’t notice. She typed something into her computer, mumbled to herself, and left the room again. The whole time, Harper sat frozen, trying to process exactly what she was learning.
Her father had never once mentioned his connection to Dowell. Not when her mother was newly dead and the police were using words like “professional” to describe the killing. And not years later when the case grew cold.
With his record, Dowell would have made an obvious suspect if police had been aware of his connections to her father. But there was little chance they’d have discovered it on their own. Her father was a busy criminal lawyer. They would never have the time to go through every case he’d represented. This case hadn’t even been reported in the Savannah paper.
Besides, her father had been the suspect, not his clients. Until his mistress provided his alibi.
At that point, the police had moved on, looking for drifters, or ex-cons living nearby. Someone her mother might have had the bad luck to run into that afternoon, sixteen years ago.
Besides, if these articles were right, Dowell was already in prison when the killing happened.
The ultimate alibi.
Still, her father’s entanglement with organized crime mattered. He must have known that. But he’d never once brought it up. Why would that be?
Grabbing a writing pad, she began taking notes. Clicking through article after article, she pieced together a story of murder.
A month after that photo was taken on the front steps of the courthouse in Atlanta, Martin Dowell was found guilty by a jury, whose identities were zealously protected for fear of reprisals, and sentenced to twenty years for murder and racketeering.
Dowell appealed but the conviction held.
Harper’s father didn’t represent him on appeal. By then, he was living in Connecticut with his new wife.
At some point as she worked, Baxter went home, complaining that Harper was crazy to still be there. In the quiet that followed, she went back through older articles, discovering that her father had been Dowell’s attorney for several years before the trial that sent him to prison, representing him on drug cases and assault allegations. He’d fought for Dowell like a pit bull—countersuing prosecutors, making allegations in the Atlanta press about personal vendettas and police failings.
“A victim of the system,” he called Dowell once in an interview. “A businessman under attack by a government gone mad.”
When she’d finally had enough, she closed the notepad and leaned back in her chair, her head throbbing.
She wasn’t sure what to think. Dowell was a killer, she had no doubt of that. But he’d been locked up when her mother died. How could it have been him? Besides, what would his motive have been? Her father had kept him out of jail for years.
It was one in the morning but still she didn’t go home. Snatching her phone up off the desk, she scrolled to the text that had tipped her off. No name. The number had an area code she didn’t recognize. She knew if she asked a cop to trace it, it would be a cheap burner phone.
But she thought she knew who’d sent it.
There was only one person who knew enough to connect the dots of her life like this. And his anonymous phone call had sent her into hiding six months ago when he’d warned her that her mother’s killer was coming for her.
She shivered. Was that killer Martin Dowell?
Typing fast, she sent a short message back:
Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?
This time, a reply came almost instantly. It was even briefer than her own:
I’m telling you now.
She stared at the phone for a long time before replying again:
Is Dowell still in prison?
The reply was succinct:
No.
Harper swallowed hard before typing the next question:
Did he kill my mother?
The long pause that followed was excruciating. Finally, her phone buzzed. A message filled the screen:
You already know the answer to that.
Harper drew in a sharp breath. Her hands had started to shake and she squeezed the phone to hold it steady as she typed the next question:
How? He was in jail.
There was no response. She waited five minutes before sending the message again.
Still, nothing.
Desperate, she dialed the number. As she’d known it would, it rang out without going to voice mail.
Swearing, she threw the phone down so hard it bounced.
It was always like this. The man appeared when she didn’t expect him. He always gave her just enough information to string her along. But not enough to do any good.
Why should she trust him? Every word he said could be a lie. He could be one of Dowell’s goons. For all she knew, he could be the one hunting her.
And yet, her instincts told her to believe him.
Something had happened between Martin Dowell and her father. Something about the case that sent Dowell to prison. It was all connected to her mother’s murder. She could sense it. Smell it in the air like blood.
Whatever happened—whatever the man on the phone told her or didn’t tell her—she was going to get to the truth. She was going to investigate this case right down to the bone.
12
When she finally left the paper it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Only a few hours had passed since she’d sat on the veranda at Xavier Rayne’s house—it felt like days.
The air was warm and humid but Harper found herself shivering as she unlocked the Camaro. She barely noticed that the security guard had followed her out. “Safe night,” he called.
She made a U-turn on the empty street. Her hands navigated the car while her mind worked through all the questions she needed answers to.
Why hadn’t her father told the police about Martin Dowell after his wife was murdered? Why would he have kept that information secret when it might have helped find a murderer?
Harper had investigated criminals all her adult life and she knew there was only one logical reason. Her father was protecting Dowell.
Her heart felt like a stone in her chest.
Sixteen years of pain. Sixteen years of not understanding why anyone would kill her mother—a free spirit with strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes, who loved being barefoot on sunny days, who hummed while she painted. Who never in her life hurt a soul. Who was stabbed to death, stripped of her clothes, and left on the cold kitchen floor like a piece of meat.
Revolver Road Page 9
