by Lisa Jackson
As if he’d read her thoughts, he walked by and said, “Nikki. Come into my office when you get a minute.”
Trina melted into her cubicle.
Great, Nikki thought, her headache returning with a vengeance. She grabbed her purse and followed Fink, who walked with the easy ambling gait of an ex-jock. He was still neat and trim, his once-dark hair now shot with silver, his wardrobe leaning toward khakis and polo shirts, as if he’d just come from the golf course. He opened the door to his glass-paneled room and waited for her to enter. Ever the gentleman, she thought sarcastically as he motioned her into one of the side chairs and took his position at the desk, one leg hoisted over the corner, hands clasped over his knee. “I heard you were up at Dahlonega the last couple of days.”
It hadn’t taken Metzger long to break the news. “Actually, just a little over twenty-four hours, but, yeah, I was there, right,” she admitted, watching Fink’s foot swing.
“Any particular reason?” He was stone-cold serious, his eyes steady, his lips a thin line.
“I wanted to know what was going on with the grave the police found.”
“I gave that story to Norm.”
She nodded. “And he didn’t like it that I went up there.”
“Let’s just say he was concerned.”
“Why?”
“He thinks you’re trying to beat him to the punch.”
“So, he’s threatened?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Nikki was tired and angry. Her tongue got away from her. “You implied it. Look, I don’t see what it hurts that I drove up there. My work hasn’t suffered. Metzger still has his story. What’s the problem?”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” Fink said, though his expression didn’t change. “I didn’t call you in here to tell you to back off or to remind you to be careful of stepping on someone’s toes. Not at all. In fact, I think a little competition is good as long as you remember that you and Norm are on the same team. What I want from you as well as him is the best story possible.”
“So, you’re not telling me to leave it alone.”
“It’s Norm’s piece. You know that. Respect it. But, no, you don’t have to leave it alone. As long as you don’t ignore your own work.”
“That’s it?” she asked, dumbstruck.
“That’s it.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “What? You thought I was going to ream you out?”
“At least.”
He snorted as he eased off the desk. “For pushing Metzger?” he asked and shook his head. “Nah. As I said, a little good old competition doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“So, I’ve got the green light to investigate the story?”
“As long as you don’t get in Metzger’s way.” Fink was nodding, his head keeping time with his moving foot.
“What about him getting in my way?”
“Now, you’re pushing it, Gillette.”
She held up both hands beside her head as if in surrender. “Just checkin’ the boundaries.”
“Now, you know them.” He stood and she took it as her cue to do the same.
She was nearly at the door when he said, “And play this one straight, okay? Nothing that would get the paper into any trouble, legal or otherwise.”
Reflexively her spine straightened. She knew what he was talking about. The Chevalier case. Long dead, but one that would haunt her for the rest of her life. She’d been young and green at the time and had compromised nearly everyone she knew, including her father, all for the sake of a story. She’d learned her lesson. A long time ago. Turning to face him again, she inched her chin up and said icily, “Trust me, everything I get will be on the up-and-up. You and the Sentinel will be able to bank on my story.”
Fink offered his almost-a-smile. “That’s all I need to know.”
Amen, she thought, but didn’t say it. No reason to tick him off. Not when he’d finally agreed to let her do something with more meat to it than school board agendas and interviews with the historic preservation committee. It crossed her mind as she zigzagged through the cubicles that she shouldn’t trust him, but she put the feeling aside. She could access her suspicions later. For now, she was finally able to prove herself. With Fink’s blessing. Things were looking up. She’d spend a few hours here, catching up on some of the stories she had in the works, then she’d pick up where she left off. That meant tracking down Detective Pierce Reed.
Finding him wouldn’t be tough but getting him to open up would be something else altogether. She’d tried to interview him before and he’d always responded to her as if she were a pariah. His attitude toward the press and the people’s right to know needed a serious adjustment and Nikki figured she knew just how to do that.
No doubt Reed had a skeleton or two in his closet—a dirty little secret that he’d rather not have anyone know about.
This is close to blackmail, Nikki, that damned voice in her head chided, but she wasn’t listening. Not today. She’d be careful with whatever information she dug up. She just needed a little firepower, something to get him to confide in her. Her conscience pricked again. How would you like Reed digging into your past?
Ignoring the question, she made her way to her cubicle and before she called Dr. Francis back or finished her story on the school board, she connected to the Internet and her favorite search engine where she typed in Detective Pierce Reed. As she waited for the links about Reed to appear, she made a mental note to check on his marital status and any more information about what had happened to him in San Francisco. And what about the fact that he’d spent the first few years of his life in Northern Georgia, up near Blood Mountain and the site of the graves before his parents had split and his mother had hauled him to Chicago before eventually landing on the West Coast. Despite all that Reed kept returning to Savannah, once about fifteen years or so ago and then again recently. Why? She made a note to herself to dig deeper in Lumpkin County, to talk to the sheriff, the kid who was hurt, his cousin, and anyone else who knew Reed growing up. There had to be a reason that Reed went all the way up there.
The computer screen flickered and she smiled. Detective Pierce Reed had dozens of links of information about him. There was a veritable wealth of data, much of it tagged to the Savannah Sentinel. But there were other bits of info, including a series of articles in San Francisco and Oakland, California newspapers.
With a click of the mouse, Nikki Gillette got a glimpse inside the personal and professional life of Detective Pierce Reed. She saw pictures of him as a much younger man and decided that as handsome as he’d been back then, he looked better now. At least, he was more appealing to her. He’d filled out, his hair was dusted with a bit of gray, but his bold features and hawkish eyes seemed to fit better into a craggy face where squint lines and beard shadow dared appear. The disappointment and suspicion that guarded his gaze these days only added to his allure.
You’re a sick woman, she told herself. And always get involved with the wrong type. Sean Hawke is a case in point. As attractive as Reed may be, remember that any interest you have in him is singularly and totally professional. You have a story to write, a career to bolster, and what you don’t need by any stretch of the imagination is a romantic entanglement.
She nearly laughed out loud. Romance? With Pierce Reed? The quintessential hater of the fourth estate?
What a joke!
“I want to find out who was the last person to see Bobbi Jean alive,” Reed growled at Morrisette and McFee as they drove away from Marx’s office. It was dark, nearly nine o’clock, the streetlights keeping the night at bay and Morrisette, driving with her usual lead foot, was at the wheel. Reed was riding shotgun and McFee was in the backseat of the cruiser. They’d spent the day driving to Atlanta and observing as an ashen-faced Jerome Marx had identified his estranged wife. He’d never broken down, hadn’t allowed one solitary tear to track from his eyes and hadn’t seemed overly grief-stricken, but he had appeared shocked to learn of her death and that trauma hadn’t wo
rn off when he’d viewed the body. He’d watched as the sheet was lifted, every muscle in his body stiffening. “It’s her,” he’d whispered and turned away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her.
Reed hadn’t determined if his revulsion was because she was dead, or because he’d been divorcing her. Whatever the reason, if Jerome Marx had thrown her alive and screaming into that coffin, he was doing a damned fine job of hiding his guilt. He’d talked freely to them and agreed to a polygraph test. He’d asked where her ring was, the one he’d given her for an anniversary, then said she’d probably taken it off because of the divorce proceedings that had been pending. When asked if they could search his premises, he’d not even batted an eye, nor asked to speak to his attorney. For all practical purposes, Marx was acting as if he had nothing to hide. But Reed wasn’t buying it.
“And I want all her phone records and—”
“Yeah, yeah, the usual, I know,” Morrisette said as she drove. “Friends. Relatives.”
“Bobbi’s got a brother somewhere around New Orleans, I think, but her parents are deceased.”
“Kids?” Morrisette asked as she reached for a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights. She managed to shake out the last cigarette and negotiate a turn near the river.
“None that I know of.” Reed’s mind was working overtime and he was barking orders. “We’ll work backward from there. We’ll check with her job, her landlady, her friends. Someone must know something. I’ve had her house watched, just to see if anyone shows up.” When Morrisette cast a glance in his direction, he added, “Until the body was positively ID’d we couldn’t get a search warrant.”
“You ID’d the body,” she said.
“It wasn’t as official as her husband’s.”
“So now you’re going by the book?” she asked.
“Strictly by the book.”
“Yeah, right. Not you, Reed.”
“Let’s stop by her house. See if the crime scene team is there yet.” He rattled off Bobbi’s address and Morrisette managed a police U-turn at the next alley. Then they were speeding south through the historic district, past refurbished homes with high porches, wide windows and gleaming shutters, around the park-like squares with their benches, statues and lush vegetation.
“There might be a little problem with you being on the case,” Morrisette pointed out as she lit up and cracked the window. The smell of Old Savannah wafted into the cruiser as it drew out the smoke.
“I worked it out with the sheriff.”
“That’s right,” McFee chimed in. The “silent one” finally spoke as Morrisette turned onto a side street.
“Yeah, in Lumpkin County. Okano might see it differently. She’s a stickler for details.” Morrisette held her cigarette in her teeth as she negotiated a tight corner.
Reed scowled into the night.
“That’s the trouble with lawyers.” Morrisette checked the rearview mirror as the police band crackled. “Always on the lookout for a lawsuit.”
“No, the trouble with lawyers is that they’re paranoid,” Reed grumbled, but he knew he was walking on thin ice. Katherine Okano, the D.A., was usually on his side and had been known to bend the rules a bit, but when she found out that he and Bobbi had been involved, she would likely pull the plug on his participation in the case. Morrisette hung a left at the next corner and drove up to Bobbi’s driveway. Several cruisers were parked on the street and crime-scene tape was being stretched across the yard. A K9 unit was included. Morrisette parked in the driveway and squashed her cigarette in the tray. All three detectives made their way through a team collecting evidence and into the house.
Aside from the buzz of activity, the place looked the same as it had the last time Reed stepped through the door. He made his way outside, ensured that his footprints, should there be casts made, were accounted for. “What have you found?” he asked Diane Moses, who was in charge of the crime scene team in Savannah. An African-American who had fought her way through the trenches, Diane was smart and tough. The running joke in the department was that if she wanted to, she could not only part the Red Sea, but divide it into a grid.
“Not much. Still collecting. The big news is no forced entry. But then, her car is missing. She must have met the killer somewhere, either by accident or intent.”
“Not an accident. This murder was planned.”
“If you say so.”
“No one goes to the trouble of digging up a coffin just on the off chance he runs across a victim.” Nor does he address a note specifically to a cop.
“Well, it looks like our gal was into sex and God. Fun and religion. All sorts of sex toys in the bedroom, but her reading material was spiritual. Go figure.”
The place was being photographed and videotaped, though there was no evidence of a crime. Every part of Barbara Jean Marx’s life was about to be opened up to the public. Including questions about her relationships. His name was bound to come up.
“Did you check her computer? E-mail? Her phone?”
“We’re taking the hard drive with us and there were no messages left on her phone. No trace of Caller ID for the numbers coming in.”
“You’re certain?” he asked, glancing at the phone. “No messages?”
Diane looked up from her clipboard. “That’s what I said, no messages.”
“What about hang ups?”
Frown lines pulled her eyebrows together. “Nothing. Nada. The tape on the machine was empty. If she had a cell phone or a purse, we haven’t found either. Anything else?” she asked. “Because if not, I’ve got work to do.” At that moment, the photographer asked her a question and Reed backed off. He walked to the telephone and looked at it. The message light was not blinking. So someone else had been here, after his evening visit.
They left after another ten minutes and Morrisette took the wheel again as they headed back to the station. The night seemed darker, headlights bright as they flashed by, street lamps giving off a false blue sheen. A few Christmas lights adorned houses lining the streets, and every once in a while he caught a glimpse of a decorated tree, festively aglow in a large window.
He’d forgotten it was the yule season.
Not that it mattered.
Morrisette gunned the engine as they whipped by Colonial Cemetery. The graveyard looked barren and bleak with its ancient headstones and dry grass. And this was the return address for the missive he’d received yesterday morning. As if whoever had penned the note had been here. “We need to check with all the local cemeteries,” he said, eyeing the few leafless trees planted between the old grave markers. “See if any of the graves have been disturbed.”
“You think whoever planted the coffin up in the mountains got it from down here?” McFee asked.
“It’s possible,” he thought aloud, but then, anything was. Glancing through the back window he wondered if he was being followed. Had Bobbi’s killer been watching him? Seen him walk familiarly through the house? Or had he been hiding in the shadows, in a tiny nook or cranny, and Reed had walked right by him? Or was it someone else who had the key to Bobbi’s place and had come looking for her? What about her husband? Jerome Marx had still been paying her bills. As far as Reed knew, Bobbi’s part-time job wouldn’t pay her Visa bill.
Morrisette wheeled into the parking lot at the station. “I’ll start calling around, checking with everyone who knew Barbara Jean.” She stood on the brakes and the cruiser slid into its spot. McFee was staying on another couple of days, sending his reports by fax and E-mail to the Lumpkin County Sheriff’s Department and, in Reed’s opinion, generally getting in the way. He wanted to take the bull by the proverbial horns and run the investigation, but he couldn’t. Morrisette was right. He had to watch his step.
Outside, the night was cold and damp, the air thick with the feel of rain about to fall.
“Christ, it’s cold,” Morrisette muttered as she jabbed the rest of her cigarette into a canister of sand near the door.
“It’s winter,” McFee said.
“Yeah, but doesn’t Mother Nature know this is the South?”
Reed shouldered opened the door, held it for her and McFee, then walked with them up the stairs, their boots ringing on the steps as they made their way to the second floor. McFee peeled off at the temporary desk he’d been assigned while Morrisette followed Reed into his office. “I’ve got to get home,” she said, almost apologizing. “I haven’t seen much of the kids lately.”
Reed glanced at his watch. “Aren’t they in bed?”
“I forgot, you don’t have children. Lucky you…or maybe, lucky them.”
“Very funny,” he countered, taking off his jacket. The inside of the station was warm, over seventy, even though it was night and the offices were relatively deserted. Only a few diehards like himself, mostly those without families, were at their desks. He felt a sense of melancholy about his solitary state, but it was fleeting. He wasn’t the kind to settle down. All his relationships had failed, including the one that had mattered in San Francisco. Helen had been a schoolteacher and professed to love him, but it hadn’t been enough to keep him in the city after the tragedy. Nothing could have. So he’d returned to Savannah and the few relationships, if you could call them that, had been fleeting, including his short-lived affair with Bobbi Marx. “Go home to your kids.”
“I will,” she said, and walked out the door just as her pager went off. “See. The sitter’s tracking me down as we speak. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
“Right,” he replied, but she’d already disappeared beyond the desks and down the stairs. He was left alone in his office. He skimmed his E-mail, didn’t see anything of interest and figured he could read through the messages in the morning. He was bone tired and the thought of his recliner, a hot shower and a cold beer was inviting.
