His approval made her skin crawl.
“I just wrote what I was told by the police and the coroner.” Motioning for Bonnie to follow, she shoved past him, trying to get away, but he trotted beside them.
“Stuart must have blown a gasket when he read the front page,” he said.
Harper wheeled on him. “None of this is any of your business. Why don’t you just go back to LA and leave us in peace?”
Bonnie looked back and forth between them, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead as Graff stepped closer. His worn gray jacket looked rumpled, and he didn’t smell all that clean. “You think you’re so pure,” he said, a jagged edge of malice in his voice. “You think you’re a real journalist and I’m a hack. But you’re wrong. We’re the same. We’re both reporters. It’s just that you’re old journalism. I’m the new wave.”
Harper glared at him. “God help us, then.”
He didn’t back down. “I’ve been doing my research. Your newspaper’s in trouble. Been laying people off. Newspapers like yours don’t stand a chance. The world is changing.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “People want their news fast and they want it exciting. Paper’s what they read in school. They want news on their phone. And they want it updated all the time. You can’t do that. Not with your big office building downtown. Your bloated staff. Advertising department. Sports department. You look down on me but someday you’ll be coming to me for a job,” he told her, with satisfaction. “I guarantee it.”
“Not as long as any other job in the world exists.” Harper said it through gritted teeth.
He wasn’t convinced. “You’ll wipe tables for a living when you could write?”
“I won’t ever work with con artists like you.” Motioning for Bonnie to follow, she turned on her heel and strode away. She could hear him laughing but she didn’t look back.
“Who was that guy?” Bonnie sputtered. “He’s repellent.”
“Some tabloid reporter,” Harper said, contemptuously. “Nobody.”
But Graff’s words stung more than she cared to admit. He wasn’t wrong about the piece she’d written. It was completely legal but it wasn’t fair. There wasn’t any real evidence that Cara had anything to do with a murder. She’d written it because she had the information, and because Baxter needed a compelling front page to keep the newspaper’s owner happy.
She didn’t like what this case was doing to her. Why didn’t the police just solve the damn thing?
Then she could focus on finding the man who killed her mother.
* * *
Bonnie went home a short while later to prepare for the classes she would teach the next day. Harper had the day off, and spent most of it looking for more information about Martin Dowell. Still, she could find nothing in any newspaper about him being released from prison. And little that she didn’t know already about his long list of crimes.
Late that afternoon, Luke texted:
SP tell me they’re monitoring Dowell. Ankle bracelet; limited freedom.
Harper knew “SP” would be the state police. This information should have made her feel better, but for some reason, the worried feeling in her chest didn’t lift.
After a second, she texted back:
Is he in Atlanta?
His response was instant:
Don’t know. No one’s talking.
She frowned, turning the phone over in her hand. There were very few circumstances in which police would protect an ex-con in that way. None of them made sense in this case, except one.
She typed:
Is he cooperating with them? Is he a witness?
There was a long pause before he replied:
Can’t be. He’s too dirty. He’s tainted.
Normally, she’d have agreed with him. But she’d been thinking about this all day and nothing else made sense.
I hope you’re right,
she wrote back.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
His reply came shortly:
Yeah. I don’t feel too good about it either.
She wanted to ask more. To find out what he thought, based on his old days working undercover. For a brief moment she considered calling him, but then put the phone down again. After all, he hadn’t called her. That might mean he was with his girlfriend right now.
The thought was a needle jab to her chest.
She didn’t have any right to be jealous. After all, she was the one who’d told him she didn’t want to try a relationship again.
So why did she feel left behind?
In an attempt to distract herself, she made food she couldn’t eat. Poured a glass of wine and didn’t drink it. Through it all, her mind kept going back to Martin Dowell, and wondering what he’d offered the police in return for his freedom.
Just after eleven o’clock, her phone finally rang, but it wasn’t Luke, calling to throw ideas around.
It was her father.
“I got your message.” His voice was clipped, distant. “That was a surprise.”
“Yeah, well.” Harper lowered herself onto the sofa and made her tone as cold as his. “Sorry to bother you. I won’t keep you long. There’s just something I need to ask you.”
“This rarely goes well,” he said dryly.
“I want to ask you about a man named Martin Dowell.”
Her father was two thousand miles away but Harper could swear she felt him stop breathing.
All he said, though, was, “I’m not sure I know that name.”
How could she have reached this age without knowing what a good liar her father was?
“That’s funny, because you were his lawyer for years.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “I would have thought you’d remember. You look so cozy in the pictures.”
After an infinitesimal pause, he said, “Harper, what is this about? Get to the point. My family needs me.”
Harper flinched. When she spoke again, her voice was ablaze with fury. “This is about whether or not you lied to the police when they interviewed you after Mom died. This is about whether or not you are complicit in her murder. There is no statute of limitations on conspiracy to commit murder in the state of Georgia, as I imagine you know. Or on obstruction of justice in a homicide case. That’s what this is about. Now tell me about Martin Dowell. Did he kill my mother?”
“Don’t go down this rabbit hole, Harper,” her father began, but she cut him off.
“Don’t you dare give me advice. You give me answers, or there’ll be police knocking on your door with a warrant within forty-eight hours—and you know I can make that happen. Worse, I can make sure everyone knows it happened. So, I suggest you answer my questions right now. After all, your family needs you.”
In the silence that followed, she could hear his uneven breathing.
“What do you want to know?” His tone had changed. He sounded tired now. Tired and scared.
Harper opened her notebook. “Several months before Mom was murdered, you lost a murder case. It was the first case of his you ever lost. Until then, you were his golden boy. You fought like hell to keep him out of jail, and then you let him get a twenty-year sentence. Did you lose that case on purpose?”
“Your faith in me is heartwarming,” he said. “But sometimes even the best lawyers lose.”
“Stop lying,” she snapped, before he’d even finished speaking. “I read up on the case. There was a witness who was going to provide Dowell with an alibi. The witness didn’t show up in court and Dowell was finished. The victim was a known member of his operation. They’d had a falling-out and Dowell had left him a threatening message, saying he’d blow his head off. Then he blew his head off. He didn’t know the man had been cooperating with the FBI and his calls were being recorded. Dowell’s only hope was an alibi, and for some reason that didn’t happen.”
“I’m not the one who decides whether or not witnesses show up,” her father growled.
“Like hell you’re not.” Harper said. “Don’t underestimate me,
Dad. This is what I do. That man, the one who didn’t show up, he was never seen again. His family never reported him missing. In fact, his wife and kids are also MIA, which undoubtedly means he’s in the federal Witness Protection Program. Now why would that be?”
There was a long silence.
“You just don’t give up, do you?” The way her father said it, it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“No, I don’t,” she replied. “So you might as well cooperate.”
There was a long silence before he exhaled, audibly.
“You’re mostly there, anyway. Dowell was a killer. He’d killed far more people than I ever knew. During the trial, an FBI agent laid it all out for me—everything they had on him. I knew Dowell would come after me if I didn’t get him off but I did the right thing. I told the FBI who the witness was, where they could find him. I told them what they’d need to offer him so he wouldn’t perjure himself.”
Harper wasn’t buying his hero act. “It would be nice to think you did it for the right reasons but I’d imagine it had more to do with the FBI laying out all the laws you’d broken. And telling you what their next steps would be if you didn’t cooperate.”
“Is that everything now, Harper?” Her father’s voice had a razor’s edge. A warning that he’d hang up and walk away.
“Oh, no. We’re nowhere near done yet.” She propped her elbows on her knees. “Tell me about Dowell and my mother. Tell me everything you know.”
“You were always a stubborn child,” he said. “It didn’t suit you. As a grown-up it suits you even less. It’s made you sour.”
Anger flared hot in Harper’s chest. “Tell me. Or I swear to God I will ruin you.”
“Promises, promises.” He sounded almost amused. “Look, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Martin figured out what had happened. I told the FBI he would. I said there would be consequences. They told me they’d keep me safe. What a joke. They just wanted him in jail.”
“Dowell threatened her,” Harper guessed.
“He didn’t have to.” He gave a ragged laugh. “I knew there would be blowback. I assumed it would be me he went for. I waited every day for the bomb to blow when I started the car. For the motorcycle to pull up alongside me and fire through the window. For the truck to come up behind me and push me off the road. I knew I’d die. But Martin knew me better than I thought.”
Harper frowned. “What do you mean? Why was killing Mom worse than killing you? You were cheating on her. You didn’t love her.”
“Come on, Harper,” he scoffed. “You’re supposed to be the reporter. Figure it out. He set me up. He wanted me to go to prison, just like him. That was his revenge. I’d lose my family, my reputation, my freedom, and I’d end up in a cell next to his. Then he could torture me forever.”
Harper froze, as the pieces all fell into place.
“He knew you’d be with your girlfriend that afternoon,” she breathed. “She was your only alibi. And he knew the police would suspect you. They always suspect the husband.”
“Exactly. That’s why he used a knife,” he said. “The knife is the weapon of a domestic homicide. A gangster uses a gun.” He paused. “Did you know he used one of our kitchen knives? Another clue that it was me.”
Harper had known that, but she didn’t say anything. She waited for the rest.
“When I was arrested, Martin had a basket of flowers sent to my … girlfriend.” He’d nearly said wife. “The note said, ‘Our condolences on Peter’s impending life sentence.’ It was unsigned, but I knew who it was from. That was Martin’s style.” His tone was bitter. “He liked a colorful flourish.”
Harper cut in. “So, you knew it was him, but you never told the police. You never told the FBI. You never told me. You let me spend my life trying to figure this out alone.”
“You’re alone because you want to be alone.” He said it almost casually.
Harper swallowed hard. How could this man be her father? He was so cruel.
She didn’t want to talk to him anymore. But she had one piece left to play in this game.
“Did you know Martin Dowell got out of prison three weeks ago?” she asked.
There was a long silence. And then her father began to laugh.
“Oh hell,” he said, and it sounded like a sob. “We really are screwed.”
“I need to know if you know what he’s likely to do now,” Harper said.
Instead of an answer, she heard the distinctive sound of liquid pouring into a glass. Her father swallowed before speaking.
“If Martin’s out,” he said finally, his voice thick, “then he’ll come to kill me. Or maybe you. He may want to wipe out the whole family.” He took another drink. “He never did like to leave a job unfinished.”
It was chilling to hear her father say that in such hopeless tones.
Harper ordered herself to stay focused. She needed to know everything he knew.
“Who will he go after first?” she demanded. “Will he come for me?”
“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “If Martin’s out, it doesn’t matter who he goes for first. He’ll come for both of us. Either way, my sons are about to lose their father. So, take everything you know to The New York Times if you want to. I don’t think it matters anymore.”
It was clear he was done sharing information. She’d gotten all she could out of him.
“Tell your sons they have all my sympathy,” she said. “I know what it feels like to lose a dad.”
19
The next day, Harper pulled into Savannah just after noon, driving fast.
She hadn’t slept at all last night. As she idled at a long red light, she finished her coffee and threw the empty cup in the back seat. Caffeine was the only thing keeping her going right now.
She wished she didn’t have this lunch scheduled with Paul Dells. She was in no mood to talk to her old boss. There was too much happening. Only curiosity stopped her from canceling. She needed to know why he’d been in touch after so many months of silence.
After finding a parking spot not far from the restaurant, she fed the meter all her change, and headed down Liberty Street on foot. But she didn’t go straight to the restaurant. Instead, she stopped in front of a grimy building where thick metal bars secured the doors and windows. A sign out front promised cash for gold.
When she opened the door, an alarm gave a shrill warning. In a seat near the register, a burly man with buzz-cut hair glanced up from his newspaper.
The room had a stale scent of sweat and dust. A long counter traced the edges of the small room. Behind it, the walls were covered in guitars, long guns, and tools—anything that could be sold and resold. Under the glass-topped counter were more guns—mostly semiautomatic handguns—and jewelry.
Gold and guns—the merchandise of pawnshops.
“What can I do you for?” the man asked with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I need a gun.” It felt strange to say it aloud. But in the long sleepless night, she’d made a few decisions, and this was one of them.
His expression didn’t change. “Hunting gun?” he asked.
“Handgun,” she said. “Something small, light, and accurate.”
He didn’t move. “You got a Georgia carry license?”
She shook her head. “It’s for home protection.”
He nodded as if that simple, four-word sentence answered every reasonable question, and rose to his feet. “We keep our ladies’ guns in this cabinet over here.” He motioned to his left.
Pulling a jangle of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the back of the display case. Harper approached cautiously.
Fifteen guns were set out in the long cabinet against a grubby suede base. They came in all shapes and sizes, from long, sleek automatics to short, rounded revolvers, and tiny, snub-nosed pistols no bigger than the palm of her hand. One was garish pink. The rest were silver or coal black, oiled to a glossy sheen.
He stood back, letting her look. “Which one takes your fancy?
”
Harper didn’t like any of them. For as long as she could remember, the cops had been after her to get a gun. She’d always refused. “I’d shoot my foot off,” she explained whenever the subject came up.
The truth was, she didn’t like guns. She spent her nights walking through the aftermath of people underestimating the power of a bullet, trying not to get the residue of their mistakes on her shoes.
She’d never wanted one because she knew all too well what a pistol could do. Which was precisely why she needed one now.
“What’s most accurate—a nine-millimeter?” she asked, bending over the cabinet, the astringent smell of gun oil cutting the dust that tickled her nose.
“They’re all fine at close range.” He pointed at a revolver. “Nothing wrong with a snub-nose, but they’re heavy as a brick and hard little suckers to aim.” Holding up his fist with his index finger extended, he explained, “You move when you breathe. With a short little barrel like that a fraction of an inch is enough to screw up your shot if the guy ain’t right in your face. You end up blowing a branch off a tree, instead of whatever you were aimin’ for.” Warming to the topic, he gestured at the longer-barreled automatics. “Nine-millimeter’s lighter and the aim’s good, but there’s more to remember before you shoot and they’re bulky as hell. Some people don’t think they stop a shooter as well as a revolver, although I’m not in that camp.” He stepped back, hands behind his back. “Depends on what you need it for.”
This was not Harper’s area of expertise. All the guns looked equally deadly to her.
She glanced up at him. “If someone was threatening your girlfriend—someone well armed, who’d killed before—which one would you choose for her?”
He gave her such a long assessing look that for a second, she thought he’d refuse to answer. But then he leaned over and slid the back of the cabinet open. He pulled out a black weapon with a squared-off muzzle, tilting his hand so she could see it better. “I’d get her this Glock, no question.”
He twisted and turned it in the light as if it were a diamond necklace. “Lighter to hold, got a small grip. Great accuracy. Soft trigger.” He flipped it over with the practiced ease of a gunslinger and held it out to her. “Take it for a spin.”
Revolver Road Page 15
