by Lisa Jackson
The Survivor’s mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn’t pull up any spit as he stared at the televisions and remembered plunging the needle into her arm…. She’d collapsed, crying out as she lost consciousness and…A series of beeps brought him out of his reverie. He snapped back to the moment and realized he was running out of time. Quickly he clicked off the alarm on his watch, slid out of the room and, as the recorders taped every moment of the news, walked quietly through the dark corridors that were little more than tunnels. He braced himself to face the cold winter morning and the new day.
Finally, his time had come.
CHAPTER 4
Quietly he stole through the shadows. It was just twilight and he was dead tired and if he were caught, he’d probably lose his job, but Reed slipped through the back gate and, finding a spare key where Bobbi had always kept one behind the hose bib, he let himself into the garage, stepped out of his shoes and walked into her kitchen. The shades were pulled down and the light over the stove was burning softly, just as always. He hadn’t been in the cottage in months and yet it was familiar. The only reason he’d risked visiting her house was that he was certain he’d be thrown off the case. The second the D.A. caught wind that he’d been intimate with a victim, Reed would be diverted to other cases and all the information on Bobbi’s death would be off-limits to him. Which galled the hell out of him.
He walked in stockinged feet across the worn hardwood, through a small eating space to the living room, arranged just as he remembered, with overstuffed furniture, colorful throws and plants growing in every corner. Newspaper sections were scattered on the coffee table. He didn’t disturb them, but noted that it was the morning edition of the Savannah Sentinel, dated two days earlier. Bobbi, or whoever had been in the cottage, had been reading about the local news. The boldest headline was about a reconstruction project in the historic district and the byline was Nikki Gillette. One of the most irritating women he’d ever met, one of those dogged, do-anything-for-a-story reporters who was ever trying to get ahead. She had the looks for it. Curly red-blond hair, bright eyes, tight ass, but she was trouble. Not only an aggressive reporter, but the daughter of the Honorable Judge Ronald Gillette.
Reed carefully swung his penlight past the paper to a plate with a nearly burned, half-eaten piece of toast. Jelly congealed in one corner of the plate, and a cup of coffee, again half drunk, showed lipstick stains on its rim. Breakfast. Two days earlier.
He walked into the master bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, half off the bed, a pillow on the floor, but he knew from experience that it wasn’t a sign of a struggle. Bobbi always left her bed in disarray. “I think it’s sexy that way, don’t you?” she’d asked him once as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed the bend of his neck. “That way the bedroom always looks like you’ve just made love and are ready to go at it again.”
She’d never seen his military-sharp bed or austere room with a single dresser, thirteen-inch TV, half-mirror and rowing machine.
The closet door was open. He swept the penlight through the interior. Dirty clothes were falling out of a basket on the floor, dresses hung neatly above. Using a cloth he opened the dresser drawers and found underclothes, sachets, T-shirts and shorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. Her nightstand gave up a vibrator, creams, Kleenex, a broken picture of her dressed as a bride and a worn copy of the Bible. Nothing unusual. Nothing incriminating.
The bath was as untidy and smelled of a perfume he recognized. Bottles of makeup, hair products, aspirin and lotion littered the small counter. A hairbrush, filled with dark hair, was pushed against one of those magnifying mirrors that lit up. In the medicine chest were the usual ointments, creams, feminine products, fingernail polishes and medications: Vicodin, Percoset and a full month’s supply of birth control pills.
Obviously not used for quite a while.
The claw-footed tub with its recently added showerhead needed to be scrubbed.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary.
The second bedroom, used as a study and general catchall, was a mess, but not out of the ordinary for Barbara Jean Marx. This cottage was “temporary” she’d told Reed on the last morning he’d seen her. They were lying in the bed, tangled in sheets, with the smell of sex hanging heavy in the air. “Just a stepping-stone to something bigger once the divorce is final.”
“I thought it was,” he’d said.
“We’re hung up on a technicality. I want more money. He doesn’t want to pay it.”
“You told me it was over.”
“It is.”
“I mean legally.” He’d been pissed. Really pissed and had thrown off the bedsheets. While she was trying to explain, he’d pulled on his clothes and left. He remembered walking outside into the middle of a September downpour, the rain heavy, steamy and hot.
Now, he walked through the rooms one last time, taking note of the scene. He’d come back, of course, with McFee and Morrisette. If he was allowed. But he’d needed to see for himself what Bobbi’s last day had been like. He walked into the kitchen and saw the answering machine. The light was blinking. It was the kind of machine with a tape and he knew how it worked. A simple machine with a great “keep as new” feature. He could play the tape and no one would be the wiser. Using a cloth, he hit the button. The machine hissed and chortled as the tape rewound. There were two hang ups before a woman’s voice blasted through the kitchen.
“Hi, there. Just me.” It was Bobbi herself.
Reed nearly jumped out of his skin. “Bet you didn’t expect this, did you?” Christ, what was she talking about? “I’m off to meet him but I forgot to pick up deodorant and the dry-cleaning, and I wanted to test this new cell phone out, so this is just a reminder. Cool, huh?” She laughed, amused with herself, and Reed’s skin crawled as he remembered that husky giggle. It was as if she were still alive.
Had she been calling someone who was staying here, or was she leaving the message for herself? And who was the him she was talking about? Jerome Marx? A new boyfriend?
There were no other messages.
Reed reset the machine so that the hang ups and Bobbi’s call were “new,” then he let himself out. Just as he had a dozen times before.
Pierce Reed was the key.
Nikki knew it and reminded herself of the fact as her clock radio blasted the next morning. She’d spent a useless day and night in Dahlonega, digging into Reed’s past, trying to find a link between him and the grave discovered up at Blood Mountain, and had come up empty handed before finally giving up last night. What a waste of time and energy. She slapped the damned alarm quiet and groaned as she rolled out of bed. She’d tumbled between the sheets barely three hours earlier after driving for hours. Her eyes felt as if they had sand in them, her head ached and she twisted her neck only to hear it pop. Not a good sign. Reaching for the remote, she clicked on the local news just as Jennings, her yellow tabby, and the laziest creature on earth, raised his head. From the pillow next to hers, he stretched and yawned, showing off needle-sharp teeth and his pink scratchy tongue. Nikki petted his fluffy head without thinking about it as she stared at the television.
The grave with two unidentified bodies still topped the news. On every channel.
So, why was Reed involved?
A Savannah cop wasn’t helicoptered over three hundred miles to the north Georgian woods just because he’d had his name splashed all over the newspapers during the Montgomery case. No. There had to be a reason, had to be more to Reed’s involvement than met the eye. Nikki just had to figure out what it was. She slogged her way to the kitchen, measured Italian roast and water into the coffeemaker, then headed for the bathroom where she twisted on the shower spray. As the pipes in the old house creaked and the water heated, she edged back to the bedroom and checked with the national news. CNN had picked up the story but it was buried beneath trouble in the Middle East and the President’s holiday travel schedule. She tried the local news again and determined no more information had been released by the Lumpkin County Sheriff�
��s Department.
Good.
She wanted this story.
So bad she could taste it.
With a sense of urgency, she hurried through the shower, hoping the hot spray would wash away the cobwebs in her head and the aches in her muscles. But the water pressure on the top floor of this old house was less than invigorating. She spent less than ten minutes with her makeup and hair, moussing her wild strawberry blond curls into no particular style and inwardly groaning when she noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes that no amount of cover-up could conceal.
No big deal.
“Who cares?” she said to Jennings, who’d managed to hop onto the edge of the pedestal sink and was watching her perform her morning routine. “Hungry?”
He jumped off the rim of the sink and ambled toward the kitchen.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Be there in a sec.”
She stepped into black slacks, pulled on a long-sleeved tee and threw on a jacket. As she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she was already considering the right angle for her story and figuring out how she’d get to Reed. Of course, she’d try the direct approach, not that it had worked in the past. Her small bedroom was only steps from the kitchen/living area of her apartment, which itself was the turret of a once-grand Victorian home. Now, the hardwood floors needed refinishing, the walls and molding could use a fresh coat of paint and the countertops needed to be replaced. But it was home. Her home. And she loved it.
In the kitchen, she quickly fed the cat, then poured a cup of coffee and sipped it as she watched more of the news on her ancient twelve-inch set, the one she’d splurged on in college. The televison and Jennings were roughly the same age, acquired her senior year when Nikki had decided she could make some decisions for herself. Decisions that had included a string of all the wrong boys to get involved with.
“It’s only natural,” her shrink had advised. “You’ve suffered a major loss. Not only you but your whole family. You’re searching for someone to fill that void.”
Nikki had thought the guy was a quack and had only endured one uncomfortable session. Sure, she missed her older brother. And yeah, Mom and Dad and her other brother and sister were all in mourning. But she doubted that because Andrew had died, she’d felt some need to date every loser she’d encountered at the University of Georgia. In retrospect, the television and Jennings had been two of her better decisions.
Images flashed on the screen and she turned her attention, again, to the news.
No more reports from Dahlonega.
Nor did she see any interviews with Pierce Reed—not even on the local channels. All the better.
It made things easier for her, she thought, pouring herself a second cup of coffee in a travel mug. The way she figured it, all she had to do was keep track of Reed, follow him, check with her contact on the force, find out why he went charging up north and she’d be able to piece together the mystery of the dead bodies. One way or another, she’d get her exclusive.
She was already punching out Cliff Siebert’s cell number as she walked outside and paused on the upper landing. From this vantage point, she could look down the street and see over the rooftops and treetops of Forsyth Park. The city was already awake, traffic rolling down the old streets of the historic district. Not far away was the police department.
Cliff didn’t pick up.
“Big surprise,” Nikki muttered and figured he was still dodging her. She left a message as she hurried down the steps and felt a cool winter breeze against her wet hair. Her car was parked in her small spot and she tossed her notebook, computer and bag into the backseat and wedged her coffee cup into the holder. She slid her key into the ignition and heard the hatchback’s old engine grind. “Yeah, yeah, come on, I’m tired, too,” she muttered, and on the fifth try, the engine fired and caught. “See, I knew you could do it,” she said as she backed up, then eased into the alley where vine-covered garages and old carriage houses lined the narrow street.
On her way to the office, she passed the police station, considered stopping and thought better of it. She needed to make an appearance at the office and get her act together before she nailed Reed.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Jerome Marx asked, standing as his secretary led the three detectives into his office. He’d been “out of town on business” until this morning. He had the decency to stand but there was hostility in his dark eyes, a tightness to the lips hidden in his goatee and the edge of irritation beneath the outright sarcasm in his words. He was dressed in a crisp navy blue suit, white shirt, wide burgundy tie and gold cuff links. His office, decorated in leather and mahogany, oozed the same genteel breeding that his wardrobe tried so desperately to convey.
It was all a front.
Reed knew that Marx was about as far from old money and southern gentility as he was. The son of a dressmaker and a used-car salesman Marx had scraped his way through college on a football scholarship to a junior college, then walked on at a small four year university where he’d earned a degree in finance. From there he’d joined the ranks of corporate America, working for car rental companies, banks and mortgage brokers until he decided to become an entrepreneur using capital he’d inherited from his wife’s father. He and Barbara Jean hadn’t had any children.
Considering the way things had turned out, it was just as well.
McFee introduced himself as well as Morrisette and Reed. The skin over Marx’s cheekbones stretched even tighter when he met Reed’s eyes.
“I’m afraid we’re here with bad news,” McFee said.
“What kind of bad news?” Marx was instantly on edge.
“We think we’ve found your wife’s body.”
“What?” His face drained of color. “My wife? Barbara?”
“Yes. If you’ve watched the news, you know about the grave we discovered up near Blood Mountain in Lumpkin County—”
“My God, you mean…” His gaze flew from one detective to the next. “You mean that Bobbi was…in that…in there…” He swallowed, then dropped into a wing-back chair positioned near his desk. “No…I mean, that’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is, sir. We’d like you to come down and identify the body. It’s in Atlanta.”
“Oh, my God…oh, my God.” He buried his face in his hands. Clean hands. Manicured fingernails from the looks of them. He seemed genuinely shocked, though, of course, his response could be faked. “No. I don’t believe it.” He looked up and the grim faces must’ve convinced him. “Of course I’ll go with you. Atlanta?”
“Where they’ll do the autopsy.”
“Oh, Christ! Autopsy?”
“It looks like a homicide.”
“But who? Who would want to…” His voice trailed off. So he was finally getting it. “You think I did something to Bobbi?” He was aghast. “I would never.” His eyes met Reed’s again and some of the starch left him. “Sure we had our ups and downs and we were going through a divorce, but I swear, I had nothing to do with this. If you want me to identify the body, then let’s do it. Now.”
Trina pounced on Nikki the minute she dropped her purse into a desk drawer and clicked on her computer. “You’re in big trouble.” Trina peered over the top of the cubicle wall as piped-in music played instrumental renditions of Christmas carols over the clatter of computer keys and muted voices.
“I figured. Metzger probably smoked into Fink’s office at the crack of dawn yesterday.”
“That, too, I suppose.”
“You suppose.”
“I was talking about our date the other night. Since you bagged out you left me to play shrink to Dana and Aimee.” Trina rolled her expressive eyes. “I spent the night swiveling my head, congratulating Dana and telling her how much fun marriage was going to be, that Todd was a great guy, a fabulous catch, then pulling a one-eighty and telling Aimee how lucky she was to be rid of her cheatin’, lyin’, bastard of a husband.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“I could have used backup.”
“Sorry, I was—”
“I know, I know, chasing down the story that will send your career through the stratosphere. By the way, Dr. Francis called you. Wants to nail down an interview time as the school board is meeting next week and then won’t meet again until after Christmas. She just wants to make sure you understand her position on the upcoming bond issue.”
Nikki groaned. “And you know this—how?”
“Celeste routed your voice mail to me again.”
Nikki forced a fake smile. “Nice,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Anything else?”
Tina’s grin took on Cheshire-like proportions. “Just a message from Sean…”
“Sean?” Nikki’s heart squeezed and she felt that old, familiar unwanted pain. “What did he say?”
“That he’d be in town and wanted to, let me see…what was the exact phrase? ‘Hook up.’”
“Fat chance.” Nikki wasn’t going down that road again.
“Why not, Nik? It’s been what? Ten, twelve years?”
“Almost, and I say, ‘once a liar and a cheat, always a liar and a cheat.’”
“Maybe he’s grown up.”
What were the chances of that? “Anything else?” Nikki asked, refusing to think about Sean Hawke with his devil-may-care attitude, bad-boy smile and chiseled body. It was over. Period. She didn’t believe in redemption, wouldn’t take the time. Didn’t want to be “friends” even if it were possible. Which it wasn’t. “Any other messages?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” This wasn’t much of a surprise as most people called her on her cell, which was just as well, considering Celeste’s state of incompetence. She was twenty-four and, in Nikki’s opinion, completely brainless. Why else would she be involved with Fink who had a daughter from his first marriage about Celeste’s age? The fact that he was currently married to wife number two and had two kids in elementary school didn’t seem to permeate Celeste’s brain, either, and her continued remarks that Fink’s marriage was “dead” and that he and the wife were “living separate lives” and “only staying together for the kids” turned Nikki’s stomach. But then, nearly everything about Fink did.
