“Tell me about it.” Harper grimaced. “Boss says work.”
The room, which had been freezing last week, was stifling.
“They finally fixed the heater?” she guessed.
“Soon as the weather got warm again.” Darlene’s tone was condemning. “You couldn’t make this stuff up.” She leaned her elbows on the counter. “What do you need?”
“Is Luke Walker in? I’ve got some questions about that Tybee floater.”
“I saw him earlier. You want me to check?”
“Yes. Oh, and if he’s there, would you ask him to come down?” Harper couldn’t face a roomful of detectives right now.
“Sure thing.” Darlene picked up the phone and dialed quickly. As she waited for someone to answer, she confided, “Sometimes detectives don’t pick up. They think they’re too impor—Oh hello, Detective.” Her tone grew abruptly sweeter and she gave Harper a comic look. “Is Luke Walker around? Would you tell him he’s got a visitor in the lobby? Thank you.”
Harper waited by the door. She knew if she was purely doing what she’d promised Baxter, she would have gone upstairs looking for Daltrey. But there was more going on in her world right now than Xavier Rayne, and that was why she’d sought out Luke instead, right after her lunch with Dells.
That, at least, was what she was telling herself when the security door opened a few minutes later and Luke strode through it.
“I thought it might be you,” he said, when he reached her, his voice low. “What do you need?”
“Do you have a second to talk?” Harper shot a meaningful glance at Darlene, who was hanging on every word. “Somewhere quiet?”
“My car’s outside,” he said. He led the way, guiding her across the lot to a small two-door sports car.
Luke started the engine and shifted into gear, motioning for her to talk.
“First I have to ask about Rayne or my editor will kill me,” she said.
“There’s nothing new,” he said, steering into city traffic. “Off the record, we’re still looking at the people in that house. But we’ve got no murder weapon, and they are sticking to their story that he walked out alive, and that’s all they know. We’ve widened our investigation to take in the manager, a couple of enthusiastic fans. But everything points at the people he lived with. Particularly, the girlfriend.”
“But you’re no closer to an arrest?” she guessed.
He shook his head.
The traffic slowed to a crawl, and he glanced at her, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “So, tell me. Why are we really here?”
“I talked to my dad,” she told him. “It’s worse than we thought.”
“How much worse?”
“It’s all true. He worked for Martin Dowell. He thinks he’s going to try to kill us both. But he’s mostly worried about himself.” She tried to strip all the emotion from her voice the way a cop would, but a slight tremor betrayed her at the end.
Luke gave a disgusted headshake, and signaled a right turn. “How close was he to Dowell?”
“He said Dowell owned him.”
Silently, Luke swung the car into an anonymous parking lot behind a downtown office building, and backed into a shady corner. He killed the engine and removed his sunglasses. His dark blue eyes held hers.
“You better tell me everything.”
Quickly, she described the phone call. Saying it all aloud made it clear how bad the situation really was. At the end, she told him the one thing she hadn’t admitted to anyone else, “Luke, I’m scared I’m going to die like my mom. Today I bought a gun.”
He swore softly. Reaching across the central console, he found her hand and pressed her fingers. “You’re not going to die. We’ll figure something out.”
He’d always been able to convince her of almost anything. This time, though, she wasn’t sure she believed him.
“I saw the man—the one who called me,” she told him. “Out at Tybee. Near my house.”
He looked stunned. “How the hell did he find you?”
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing he thinks Dowell’s going to find me, and he wants to be close when it happens. Either to save me or kill him. I don’t know which, anymore.” A headache had begun to throb behind her eyes, and she rubbed her forehead. “I keep dreaming…”
She looked out across the long rows of cars. There were no people around. Just rows of cars glittering black and red and silver in the winter sunlight like jewels.
“I keep dreaming I’m being chased. Every night I dream it. Every time I die.”
He studied her face, his hands resting on the wheel. “I think we need to take this to the lieutenant.”
“Blazer?” She didn’t hide her surprise. “Why?”
“I had a talk with him after I found out Dowell got out of prison. I hinted that he might have had something to do with your mother’s murder. At the time, he said he’d need more proof before he could do anything. But if your father’s basically admitted he’s always known it was Dowell…”
Harper swallowed hard. “You think he’s really coming for me.”
His face had taken on the look it got when things were going badly wrong—his brow creasing, his dark eyes focused on some undefined point in the distance.
“I think it’s possible,” he said, starting the car. “And if he is, we’re going to need help.”
* * *
Lieutenant Blazer listened in silence as Harper and Luke filled him in.
When they finished, he fixed Harper with an icy look. “We should contact the Connecticut State Police right now and request a warrant for your father’s arrest—you know that, right?”
“I know.” Her voice was measured. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that. He’s not the one trying to kill me.”
The three of them were alone in Blazer’s office. Harper and Luke sat in the chairs facing the lieutenant’s desk as Blazer turned his attention to Luke. “You say you were undercover with what’s left of Dowell’s group?”
Luke nodded.
“You still got contacts there?”
“It’s been nearly three years,” Luke said. “Two of the guys I worked with are still in prison. There’s one, though.” He rubbed his jaw, thinking. “I’ll make some calls.”
“Do that,” Blazer ordered. “See if you can get anyone to tell you where Dowell is. I’ll reach out to some contacts in the Atlanta office. Let them know what we’re dealing with here.”
He turned his glacial eyes on Harper. “No one from Martin Dowell’s group has contacted you directly? You’ve received no threats?”
“None,” she said. “Just this guy, whoever he is.”
“We need to find out who your anonymous advisor is,” he decided. “I’ve had just about enough of playing hide-and-seek with him.”
“I’ve always wondered if he was a cop,” Harper said. “Ex-cop, maybe.”
“Same here.” Luke looked at Blazer. “His methods remind me of the feds.”
Blazer didn’t disagree. “The FBI might have an idea who he is, given Dowell’s been on their books for so long. Either way, we’ve got to put an end to this situation. I don’t like having this on my beat.” He pointed at Harper. “You need to be careful. How are you protecting yourself?”
“She’s bought a gun,” Luke said before Harper could reply.
Blazer didn’t look surprised. “Is it on you?” he asked Harper.
She nodded. “I just got it today.”
He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
Reaching into her bag, Harper retrieved the Glock. Turning it so the barrel pointed down, she held it out to him gingerly.
He took it, angling his body away from them as he pulled back the bolt and peered into the chamber. “Where’d you get it?”
“Pawnshop on Liberty.”
He nodded as if this was what he’d expected. “You got a clip?”
Harper fumbled in her bag for the metal bullet clip, nearly dropping it as she handed it over.
He snapped it into place, and pulled the bolt, peering inside. Then he flipped the gun over and held it out to her. “Keep it locked and loaded from now on,” the lieutenant ordered. “If you’re going to have one keep it close.” He gestured at her bag with disapproval. “Purses are a terrible place for a gun. By the time you dig it out of there you’re dead.”
Harper reached inside and pulled out the mesh strap. “I got this shoulder holster,” she said.
“Use it.” Assuming the lesson was over, Harper went to tuck the gun back in her bag.
Blazer gave her a withering look. “Use it now, McClain.”
“Oh.” Harper studied the holster doubtfully. There were no instructions.
The two men watched as she took off her jacket, and stuck her arms through the straps.
“That’s backwards,” Luke told her quietly.
Harper’s face flamed. She shrugged the holster off without a word and flipped it over, shoved her arms back through the straps, and snapped it together across her chest. It felt uncomfortable under her arm, but she set her jaw and picked up the gun, carefully inserting it into the holder.
Blazer watched all of this impassively. “How’s it feel?”
She glared at him. “Like I’ve got an explosive rock under my arm.”
“You do.” He didn’t look happy. “And you need to practice with it. Practice pulling it out. Practice shooting.” He turned to Luke. “Talk to Darlene. Arrange for her to have a session at the firing range. Today, if possible. Tell them it’s on my authority.”
“You got it,” Luke said.
Blazer turned back to Harper. “I’ll pull some strings—get you a permit. I want you ready in case you need to use it.” He gave her a hard look. “And do me a favor, McClain. Don’t get yourself killed.”
21
Harper left the police station with the gun strapped in place. She was halfway to the newspaper before she realized with a sudden sense of horror that everyone in the newsroom would see it as soon as she took her jacket off.
Whatever Blazer thought, however dangerous things were, she couldn’t wear a gun at work.
On impulse, she parked the car in Chippewa Square and ran into the Pangaea coffee shop, dashing straight into the small, one-seater bathroom at the back. In the harsh fluorescent light, she slipped off her jacket and looked at herself in the chipped mirror. The black straps holding the gun made her look like a character in a TV crime drama.
Carefully, she unsnapped the strap that held the pistol in place and pulled it out. She held it for a second, feeling the grip, before stuffing it into her bag. The she stopped and rested her hands on the cool porcelain sink, letting her head drop.
Blazer’s reaction had scared her. Nothing ever got to him. But he’d seemed genuinely disturbed about Martin Dowell.
How was she going to fight someone like Dowell? She didn’t even know how to shoot. Taking a deep breath, she straightened.
“You’ll figure it out,” she told herself.
But even as she said it, she didn’t believe it.
* * *
DJ arrived at the paper at the same time she did, and the two of them walked in the building’s back door together, Harper clutching an extra-large, black coffee.
“This is good timing. I’ve just been down to Forsyth Park to talk to some people organizing a vigil for Xavier Rayne,” he told her.
Harper glanced at him as they turned in to the stairs. “What are they like?”
“Really earnest art students.” He paused. “Actually, a couple of them are super hot. I’m going back later to hold a candle and look as sad as possible.”
Despite everything, Harper laughed. “That is disgusting.”
He gave a rakish grin. “Hey, I liked Xavier Rayne, too. It’s not all fake.”
When they reached the newsroom, he paused in the doorway, glancing at her face. “You okay? You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Just feeling a bit like a hamster on a wheel, you know?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the first line of my job description,” he said.
As soon as they walked into the busy room, Baxter appeared in the doorway of her glass office and motioned for them to join her. “About time you got here, McClain,” she said. “What have you got?”
“Basically nothing,” Harper admitted. “The cops aren’t talking but I don’t think they’re getting anywhere with the case.”
“Well, great,” Baxter grumbled. “We’ll just change the front page to ‘Nothing New Today, Folks!’” She turned to DJ. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
“Rayne’s fans are unified in believing the evil girlfriend is a jealous murderess who should be hanged,” he reported.
Baxter gave Harper a look. “We should try to get a comment from her. See if she wants to say more.”
Talking to Cara was the last thing Harper wanted to do right now, but she didn’t argue.
“I’ll call her,” she said. “But, I don’t think she’ll talk. Not now.”
“I don’t want you to think. I want you to call her and humiliate yourself if that’s what it takes to get the best quote.” Baxter looked at her watch. “I need as much as you can get me by seven for the website.”
Standing, DJ headed for his desk. When Harper didn’t move, he glanced back at her. “You coming?”
“Two minutes,” she told him.
Harper had already decided not to tell Baxter what was going on with Martin Dowell. It would muddy the water at work, and she had enough problems right now. But there was something else she had to confess.
After DJ closed the glass door, Harper turned to Baxter.
“I had lunch with Paul Dells today.”
“Oh, really.” Baxter’s expression grew guarded. “I heard he was back in town.”
“He’s going to be head of news at Channel Five.” Harper paused. “He offered me a job.”
Baxter dropped the silver Cross pen she was holding. “I suppose he offered you more money?”
“Twenty-five percent.”
“And?” Baxter’s tone was frosty.
Harper held up her hands. “And … I’m thinking about it.”
“Are you now.” The editor’s tone was dry, but her eyes searched Harper’s face with real worry.
“It’s a lot of money,” Harper pointed out. “I’ve got to move in three weeks. I’ll have to come up with a deposit. And I haven’t had a raise in three years.”
“No one has,” Baxter snapped.
“Look,” Harper said. “I don’t want to be on TV. But I’ve got to live. And life isn’t cheap.”
They held each other’s eyes. Baxter looked away first. “I know you’re overdue for a raise,” she conceded, an edge of frustration in her voice. “It’s Charlton that stops anybody making a living here. She squeezes every damn penny to try and get a little more for herself.” She picked up her pen again. “I’ll do what I can. I’ve got a little space in the budget to work with. It won’t be twenty-five percent. But it’ll be something.”
Harper shifted in her seat. “You know I hate to ask, right?”
Baxter pointed the pen at her, fiercely. “Don’t apologize. A man wouldn’t apologize. And you deserve more. This paper lives or dies by your work.” She waved her hand. “Now, go write that story.”
Harper headed for her desk.
As she left the glass-walled office, Baxter called after her, “And you should get some sleep. You look terrible.”
* * *
Harper delayed the call to Cara for as long as she could, finding other things to do to fill the time. By six o’clock, though, Baxter was getting impatient.
When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she finally picked up her phone. She didn’t have Cara’s direct number—she was the only person in the house who had never called her. So, after turning on the app that would record the conversation, she dialed Hunter’s number.
It rang for so long, she was expecting voice mail by the time he fi
nally answered.
“I can’t believe you’re calling me.” He sounded livid.
“I’m sorry to—” she began, but he didn’t let her finish.
“You fucking destroyed us, Harper. Do you know that? That article was the vilest piece of attack journalism I’ve ever read. You must have balls the size of your head to call me now.”
Harper knew better than to defend herself. Instead, she said, “You’re right. I went too far.”
“Damn straight you did.” She could hear his ragged breathing. “Do you understand the damage you caused? You destroyed Cara’s life. She’s been harassed for the last twenty-four hours by the tabloid dickheads. Her career’s in the toilet—she’s been suspended from the TV series she was supposed to start shooting next month. I mean, my God, Harper. What is wrong with you?”
Harper’s throat tightened. She’d secretly hoped a story in the Savannah paper wouldn’t reach Cara’s bosses in California.
“I am truly sorry if she’s suffered because of what I wrote,” she said, honestly. “I didn’t intend to hurt her.”
A moment of frozen silence passed before he asked, “What do you want? Absolution? Because you won’t find it here.”
She hesitated, bracing herself. “I need to talk to Cara.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’d understand completely if she refused.” She kept her voice even. “I’m working on a follow-up story and I wanted to give her the chance to comment. She can say my last story was all lies. She can tell the world I’m the worst writer she’s ever known. And I’ll put it in the paper.”
“Why on earth would she trust you after everything you’ve done?” His tone was dubious.
“I wouldn’t blame her if she told me to go to hell and hung up,” Harper said, frankly. “But I am giving her the chance to say whatever she wants.” When he didn’t respond, she pleaded, “Please, Hunter. Just let her know I’m calling.”
“I’ll tell her,” he said, finally. “But she won’t like it.”
She heard the sound of movement, and imagined him going down the wide hallway, with its faint smell of spice. Past the elegant dining room. His feet scuffing on the steps as he ran up the sweeping staircase to the airy second floor. Faintly she heard him knocking on a door. The muffled sound of voices. Finally, more footsteps. A door shutting.
Revolver Road Page 17
