All the reporters raised their hands at once.
Blazer pointed at Josh Leonard from Channel 5.
Josh held a gray fabric-covered microphone in his hand. “Can you tell us whether you have any suspects at this time?”
Blazer’s reply was immediate. “None that I’m willing to talk about.” He pointed to an out-of-town reporter nearby. “You in the blue.”
“Thank you, Detective. What kind of gun was used in the shooting?”
“We’re looking for a twenty-two-caliber handgun,” Blazer said.
For ten minutes, he went around the room answering questions, revealing nothing much more than Harper knew already, avoiding every opportunity to identify suspects. She made a few notes—the gun size was new, if nothing else. But she needed to get one of the detectives alone and ask about the fight on the night he’d died.
When the press conference ended, she pushed through the crowd to the door, hoping to grab Blazer or Daltrey before they disappeared in their offices, but Jon Graff stepped in front of her, blocking the way.
“That was interesting, wasn’t it?”
Harper gave him an incredulous look. “Why are you talking to me?”
“There’s no need to be rude,” he chided. “I’m just trying to make pleasant conversation with the locals.”
She didn’t have time for this. “You know what?” she said. “You need to learn how to write a story without stealing other people’s work. Then they might talk to you.”
“That’s a serious accusation. I hope you can back it up.” His smile had a vicious edge.
Her patience snapped. She took an aggressive step toward him, hands balling into fists. “Oh I can back it up, you little piece of—”
“Harper.” It was Julie Daltrey’s voice. She and Luke walked up together. “You got trouble?”
Before Harper could answer, Luke rounded on Graff, shouldering in front of him. “You need to back off.”
“Who is this man?” Daltrey demanded.
Ignoring Luke, Graff turned to her and held out his hand. “I’m Jon Graff from L.A.B.”
Daltrey looked at his hand like it was trying to bite her. With a shrug, he dropped it back to his side.
“I do not know what L.A.B. is,” she told him. “And I don’t want to.”
Luke towered over him. “You need to be in the meeting room with the rest of the press or out of this building. Now.”
Graff didn’t budge. He seemed to find the whole scene amusing. “Here you are again, Detective, with Miss McClain. First I see you together in a bar late at night, looking cozy. And now here, where you work. Does your boss approve of all this togetherness?”
Harper shot a sideways glance at Daltrey. The detective’s expression didn’t flicker. Without a word to Graff, she turned to a uniformed patrol officer who was standing nearby. “Officer, could you escort this member of the press from the building? Please make sure Dwayne knows not to let him in again. His credentials are withdrawn.”
“You got it.” The tall, heavyset cop stepped next to Luke. The two of them hemmed Graff in.
“Come with me, sir.” He made “sir” sound like an insult.
“What are you going to do?” Graff asked Daltrey. “Have me taken to the city limits? You can’t stop me reporting.”
“You can do whatever you want within the law,” Daltrey said. “But come back in this building and I will put you in jail.”
Giving in to the inevitable, Graff allowed himself to be guided down the hallway. “This is ridiculous,” Harper heard him complain. “I’ll want your badge number.”
“You can have it outside.” The cop pushed open the security door leading to the lobby.
When they were gone, Harper turned to Luke and Daltrey. “Thank you. I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault the little creep has a thing for you.” Glancing at Daltrey, Luke explained, “He’s been harassing Harper since he got to town. I ran him through the system last night. He’s got quite a history. Arrests and convictions for trespassing, drunk and disorderly, stalking…”
“Let the watch commander know this guy’s making a nuisance of himself,” Daltrey told him. “Tell him to bring Graff in if he does anything we might construe as illegal.” She turned to Harper. “He shows up anywhere he shouldn’t be, call my cell.”
Harper gave her a grateful look. She didn’t like that anyone had to protect her. But it was good having detectives on her side.
Daltrey glanced at her watch. “Well, we better roll. Someone’s got to fight all the crime.”
“Hey, wait, before you go, I wanted to ask you guys something.” Harper followed the two of them as they headed down the hallway. “Do you know anything about Cara and Xavier fighting the night he died? A neighbor told me she heard them.”
“Yeah, we know something about that.” Daltrey kept it vague, but a slight smile told Harper there was more she wasn’t saying.
The other reporters were pouring from the room now, and Harper lowered her voice. “What do you think? I don’t think Cara’s capable of it. She doesn’t seem the type.”
Daltrey and Luke exchanged a look. Neither of them replied.
“What?” Harper looked back and forth between them. “What am I missing?”
“The clue’s in the bullets,” Daltrey explained. “A twenty-two’s a woman’s gun. Small and light. Easy to shoot.”
That’s the thing about detectives. They don’t care what you do for a living or how pretty you are. They care which gun fits in your hand.
“Doesn’t mean she did it,” Luke cautioned. “Just means it could have been her. Could have been anyone. A child can hold a twenty-two.”
“Yeah but, is Cara your main suspect?” Harper pressed. “And if not, who else are you looking at?”
“Now see, this is why I’m always saying you should become a cop,” Daltrey told her, amiably. “Because then we could tell you these things. But for now, no comment.”
With that, she turned to walk away. Luke followed her a few steps and said something Harper couldn’t hear. Daltrey kept going as he turned back.
When he reached Harper, he spoke quietly. “I was going to text you but I thought it would be better to tell you in person.”
His expression was serious.
“I made some calls this morning. Martin Dowell got out of prison three weeks ago.”
16
Luke’s words sent ice through Harper’s veins.
“Where is he?” she asked, trying not to panic. “Is he in Atlanta? On parole?”
“I don’t know,” Luke said. “All they would tell me was he’s out. Everyone’s tight-lipped about where he’s gone.” His face was dark. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“I don’t like how secretive everyone’s being about this one,” he said. “Cops share this stuff with other cops. Always. But nobody will tell me a thing.”
Someone called his name from the end of the hall. He lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
Turning back to Harper, he said, “Look, I’ve got to get going. Hang tight. Let me see if I can find out more. And don’t worry too much. The state police will be keeping him close. They know what he’s capable of. He’ll be monitored.”
She mumbled her thanks.
After he’d gone, though, she stood lost in thought. Dowell was out. No one knew where he was. And he wanted to kill her.
Someone jostled her, and she turned to see Josh Leonard from Channel 5 pushing past, a microphone cable draped over his arm.
He shot her a quizzical look. “You just staying here, McClain? Must be nice to have leisurely newspaper deadlines.” When she didn’t reply, he frowned. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she told him, curtly, and turned away.
It was nearly six. She didn’t have time for any of this. She had work to do.
* * *
It took everything Harper had to put her conversation with Luke out of her
mind and write the piece on the Xavier Rayne case.
Still, the distraction of knowing Dowell was out there somewhere, of trying to work through everything she didn’t know, slowed her down. Baxter grumbled about deadlines and getting her head in the game.
Finally, though, she pulled herself together, and wrote a story that hung Cara Brand out to dry.
Police Investigation Looks at Those Close to Dead Musician
By Harper McClain
Police investigating the murder of Savannah singer-songwriter Xavier Rayne are narrowing their search, focusing on those closest to him, and on his last days alive.
Everyone who lived with Rayne—singer Allegra Hanson, keyboardist Hunter Carlson, and actress Cara Brand—has been questioned.
The large mansion where Rayne lived on Tybee Island was searched by a team of forensics experts late into Friday night. Police declined to state on the record if any evidence was found.
Much attention was clearly focused on Brand, Rayne’s girlfriend. Witnesses claimed to hear the two fighting regularly. One described a loud argument on the night Rayne was killed—a fight so loud it woke up neighbors on the quiet lane.
When questioned, Brand admitted the two broke up hours before Rayne’s death.
“I was sad to lose him, but it was over,” she said. “I was going to leave the next morning but then he disappeared.”
Brand swore she never hurt Rayne.
“I would never harm him,” she said. “I loved him.”
Police confirmed they were aware of these reports, but declined to comment further on the ongoing investigation.
Also Saturday, the coroner issued her autopsy report, which found that Rayne was killed by two gunshots, and was dead before he either fell or was placed in the ocean.
The shots had been fired from a .22 caliber revolver, according to authorities. The gun has not yet been located.
When she’d added more details and polished the article, she sent it to Baxter, who read the first paragraphs with a low admiring whistle. “I guess you’re not trying to make friends anymore.”
“I guess not.” Harper’s voice was tense.
She liked Cara. She liked all three of them. And she knew this article would explode in the beautiful, bohemian house like a roadside bomb.
The final spread featured a photo of Xavier and Cara, taken at a party in Los Angeles months before he died. In it, his brown skin and dark hair contrasted strikingly with her pale coloring. His expression was brooding, but she was smiling at the camera, her face so perfect it could have been carved from marble.
The beautiful and the damned.
Harper managed to focus on her work for several hours, but as soon as she was done, Martin Dowell crept back into her mind.
As the hours passed, her mood began to change. By the time she drove back across the marshes to Tybee, her fear had been replaced by a simmering rage.
If she was right, Dowell was responsible for her mother’s murder. He might have spent seventeen years in prison for killing someone else, but he hadn’t served a single minute for taking her mother’s life.
Now, he was out there somewhere. Free.
She’d spent months living in fear. She’d endured years of grief.
Because of him.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. It was Saturday night and the road to Tybee wasn’t quiet, even this late. Several sets of headlights followed her. More came the other way. With so many cars, it was impossible to know if she was being followed.
She almost hoped she was. Right now, if she could get her hands on Dowell she’d tear him to pieces.
When she pulled up in front of the cottage fifteen minutes later, she found lights blazing through the small windows. She stayed in the car long enough to calm herself down. She couldn’t unload all of this on Bonnie out of the blue.
When she climbed out of the Camaro, she could hear music. She unlocked the front door and walked in to find the radio blasting. The house smelled so strongly of garlic and oregano it made her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
It was easy enough to locate Bonnie. She was in the kitchen, singing loudly along with Kelly Clarkson.
Her footsteps lost beneath the music, Harper crossed the living room to the kitchen, where Bonnie stood with her back to her, stirring pasta sauce.
“What are you making?” Harper asked.
Bonnie screamed. The wooden spoon she’d been using flew from her hand, leaving a bloodred mark on the ceiling before sailing to the floor by way of the wall. “Jesus Christ on a unicycle, Harper.” She clutched her chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Despite everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Harper found herself laughing. “Your face…”
“My face?” Bonnie glared at her. “How did you get in so quietly? What are you, a cat?”
Wiping tears from her eyes, Harper reached for the radio to turn Clarkson down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed until she cried. It seemed to loosen something tight in her chest, if only for now. She gestured at the pots on the stove. “What is all this?”
“Dinner.” Bonnie beamed. “I’ll bet you five dollars you haven’t eaten anything since you left the house today.”
Bonnie collected the wooden spoon and dropped it in the sink before opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle, which she waggled at Harper enticingly. “Wine, for madam?”
“Oh, yeah, madam will have wine.” Harper squeezed past her to get across the tiny kitchen to the cupboard holding glasses. She poured them each a healthy slug and carried it through to the living room.
There was no room for a table in the cottage; they ate with plates resting on their knees.
Harper hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She ate steadily and nearly silently, her mind on Martin Dowell. She’d nearly cleared her plate when she remembered she wasn’t alone. “God, this is delicious,” she said. “Please move in with me.”
“I will, if you tell me the truth.”
Harper stopped eating. “What?”
Bonnie was holding a glass of wine and watching her. “I want to know what’s really going on. I’ve hardly seen you in weeks and, when I do see you, you’re miles away. Something’s wrong. Tell me what’s up.”
Harper didn’t want to tell her the truth. She knew she’d take it badly. But she couldn’t lie to her. Bonnie knew her better than anyone. She’d see through it.
“It’s worse than you can imagine,” she said, after a long second.
“I can imagine pretty bad things,” Bonnie said.
Harper didn’t reply.
Bonnie gathered their empty plates and ferried them to the kitchen. She returned with the wine bottle. “Just tell me,” she said, when she’d sat down again.
Harper searched for the right words. “That man,” she said, slowly. “The one who called last year. He got in touch again. He told me to look up something called the Southern Mafia. He specifically told me to notice who their lawyer was seventeen years ago.” Just saying the words made her head throb with tension.
“What the hell is the Southern Mafia?” Bonnie sounded bewildered.
“An organized-crime gang based outside Atlanta.” Harper drew a breath. “And their lawyer, as it turns out, was my dad. He forgot to mention this to me for, oh … all of my life. The head of this group has killed people—lots of them. And my dad lost a big case for him. Right before my mother was murdered.”
Bonnie stared at her, her lips parted in shock.
“And you think…” Bonnie’s voice trailed off.
“I think he killed my mom,” Harper said. “I think my dad knew that from day one and didn’t say a word. And now I think that man is coming for me.”
There was a long silence as Bonnie absorbed this. Then, she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “You have to get out of here, Harper. Tybee’s not far enough. You should leave the state.�
��
“I’m not running again.” Harper’s rage had returned, in spades. “I’m going to stay right here.” She stomped her foot on the wood floor. “And I’m going to kill the man who killed my mother. I’ll do it with my bare hands, if I have to.”
“You just told me this man killed many people,” Bonnie pointed out. “That he’s a professional. How would you kill him?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Harper said, stubbornly. “He killed my mother with a knife. Maybe I should kill him the same way. That would be poetic justice.”
“Yes, it would,” Bonnie agreed. “Except he’d shoot you while you were reaching for the blade and then you’d be dead. So maybe not so much justice in the end.”
Her cool disapproving tone hit Harper like cold water.
“I understand that you’re angry.” Bonnie’s voice was measured. “And I wish I thought you could kill him. If you’re right about him, he deserves to die.” She took a breath. “But I don’t believe you can. Not if you want to survive.”
This only made Harper feel worse. Because if she couldn’t kill him, what could she do? After all these years, she finally knew who to blame, and she couldn’t do anything about it.
She was going to fail her mother.
She dropped her head into her hands, grief crashing over her like a wave pulling her under.
The sofa shifted. Bonnie moved to sit next to her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, taking her hand.
“All my life I believed if I just knew the truth about who killed my mother, I’d feel better.” Harper lifted her head to look at her. “But I feel so much worse.”
“I know.” Bonnie smoothed her hair out of her face with cool fingers. “I get it, I really do. But I don’t want to lose you. And for the first time, I think I might.” Her eyes were bright with tears.
Harper shook her head. “You won’t lose me.”
“I will,” Bonnie said, “if you go out there swinging blind after some gangster. You can’t do it, Harper. You’re not bulletproof.”
“Then tell me what to do,” she said, her voice rising. “Because I sure as hell don’t know.”
Revolver Road Page 13
