by Lisa Jackson
Maybe he should just go home. Get a fresh start on everything in the morning. He reached for his jacket as his phone rang. He snagged the receiver before it could jingle again. “Detective Reed,” he said automatically.
“You’re still there. Thought I’d probably get your voice mail this late.”
Reed recognized the voice as belonging to Gerard St. Claire, the ME. “Look, I’ve got a preliminary report on the case up north. I’ve been on the horn with the examiner in Atlanta.”
“Already?” Reed’s exhaustion dissipated.
“As I said, preliminary. Very preliminary, but we were told to put a rush on it. We already called Lumpkin County. But I thought you’d like to hear what we’ve got.”
“What is it?”
“We don’t know too much. Yet. The unidentified woman looks like she had a heart attack. We haven’t come up with anything that suggests homicide, although if she was originally stuffed in that box and buried alive, she could have had a coronary. We’re still checking but decomposition has set in and from the state of it, we’re thinking she’s been dead close to ten weeks.”
Reed was taking notes. Listening.
“The other woman is easier.”
Reed’s gut tightened.
“Cause of death for the more recent victim, the one identified as Barbara Jean Marx, was probably asphyxiation, but we’re still checking her blood and body for other wounds. Nothing’s come up as yet. She probably just suffocated in that box. Rigor indicates she was dead less than twenty-four hours. The body wasn’t moved, which is consistent with her dying in the coffin. No visible wounds, no blood aside from scrapes on her fingers from trying to claw her way out. One tattoo of a rose climbing up her spine.”
Reed remembered. Had traced the body art with his fingers. Jesus.
“She has a few bruises as well—we’re checking those out. It’s still too early to tell if there was a struggle. We’re looking at what she had under her fingernails, but as I said, no visible wounds.” The ME hesitated, but Reed sensed there was something more.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. There’s something I thought you should know about the Marx woman.”
“I’m listening.” Reed sensed bad news was coming. Real bad. His skin tightened over his muscles and his fingers clenched around the receiver.
“She was pregnant.”
Reed sucked in a breath. “Pregnant?” No!
“Eleven, maybe twelve weeks along.”
Reed didn’t move. His breath stopped for a heartbeat.
“Could give you a motive.”
“Uh-huh,” he forced out, his pulse pounding in his brain. Bobbi? Pregnant? Three months pregnant? All the spit dried in his mouth. He remembered her in the hotel room on the island. Gauzy curtains fluttering on a breeze that smelled of the ocean. Her tousled dark hair, upturned nose, eyes smoldering with desire. “Was it good for you,” she’d cooed, her body still glistening with sweat. “Cuz, honey, if it wasn’t, we can try again.” She’d nibbled at his ear. Ever playful and blatantly sexual. She’d gotten to him. It had been early September…Labor Day weekend. He’d been able to look through the open window to the bay where sailboats skimmed the smooth water, their sails brilliant against an incredibly blue sky.
“We’ll x-ray the bodies and open ’em up while the lab work’s being done,” St. Claire was saying, cutting into the memory. “And we’ll try to get an ID on the other body.”
“Good.” Reed was barely listening. “Send me the report.”
“Will do.” St. Claire hung up and Reed dropped the receiver in its cradle. He swung his head around to look out the window where a street lamp glowed eerily and he noticed rain had begun to fall. The street glistened as a dark figure—little more than a shadow—darted across the street.
He ran a hand over his eyes and the shadow was gone. Maybe it had been his imagination. Or just someone outrunning the rain that was beginning to fall in fat drops. Damn it all, there was a good chance that Bobbi Marx’s unborn baby was his. Some sick son of a bitch had not only killed Bobbi, but the fetus as well.
Why?
Who?
Was she dead because of the pregnancy, or was that an accident?
Two in one, one and two.
Two in one—Holy Jesus, is that what the killer meant? He’d killed two in one? The baby and Bobbi. Had the bastard known she was pregnant? Reed’s jaw clamped so hard it ached.
He glanced at the digital display on his watch. Red numbers glowed on his wrist.
Tick tock, on goes the clock.
A clue. It had to be. They were racing against time…and the rest…
One, two, the first few. Hear them cry, listen to them die.
The sick bastard had to be indicating the victims. That these two were only the first…the few…how many more? Would he know them?
Sick inside, he realized that this was a taunt, probably written while Bobbi was alive. The murderer had been proud, cocky. Wanted to show off. Reed wondered if there had been time to rescue Bobbi from that hellish death if Reed had only been smarter.
There was no way…he’d received the letter and she’d already been buried alive. His fists clenched impotently. The letter had been addressed to him. Whatever was happening, it was personal. Between the killer and him.
Suddenly, Reed needed a drink. A stiff one.
Two in one, one and two.
What the hell did that mean?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
CHAPTER 5
Reed hadn’t answered her calls.
Nikki had left three voice mail messages in the span of four days at the police station. Detective Pierce Reed hadn’t seen fit to call her back. She’d gotten nothing. She’d even E-mailed, to no avail. The man was avoiding her, she decided as she finished her coffee and threw the dregs down her kitchen sink.
Things weren’t much better in Dahlonega. She’d driven back there, snooped around, talked to a sheriff who just plain stonewalled her and returned to Savannah with not much more than she’d started with. She’d figured that there was something important up by Blood Mountain, that Reed’s roots were the reason he’d been called up there to the killing ground…but so far, she’d been disappointed.
Her only consolation was that Norm Metzger, who had been rapid to be up in Lumpkin County, had come back pretty much empty-handed as well.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she’d confided to Jennings as she dressed. The cat was curled in the folds of her duvet while the seldom-used heater rumbled noisily, vainly attempting to warm the cold morning air that had seeped through the old windows of her apartment. Shivering, Nikki pulled on a black skirt and khaki sweater, then stepped into suede boots. She topped the outfit off with a suede jacket and decided she looked as good as she was going to. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain,” she said to the cat, “then the mountain will come…I guess I’m using every one of the old adages today. Booorrring, right?”
Jennings didn’t seem to notice or care. He leapt off the four-poster and trotted, tail high, to his food dish in the kitchen.
“You know, a compliment or two wouldn’t hurt,” she admonished as she added some dry kiblets and a forkful of bargain brand canned food into his dish. The concoction smelled as bad as it looked but Jennings, verging on obese, relished it and ate noisily.
Nikki packed her laptop and purse, then wrapped a scarf around her neck. “No time to waste,” she muttered to the cat. “Opportunity knocks once at one man’s, or woman’s, door.” Hiking the strap of her computer over her shoulder, she said, “That’s another little pearl of wisdom my dad used to say all the time.”
The cat ignored her.
“Well, I believe it. Tom Fink isn’t known for his patience. If I can nail this story, then watch out. I’ll be up for a raise and you and I will tell old Fink to shove it. We’ll be moving to a big city with a major market.” She reached down and patted Jennings’s tawny head. “How would you like
to move to New York? No? Dallas? Hmmm, what about L.A.? You know, I can see you on Sunset Boulevard. We’ll get a convertible and expensive shades and…” She glanced at her watch and realized she was stalling. “…and I gotta go.”
She was out the door and stepping into the wet morning before she could second-guess what she was about to do. It was still dark outside, but the moon, thankfully, was obscured, so she didn’t have to rearrange her body clock and remind herself it really was morning. The steps were slippery as she hurried down two flights to the fenced yard. No other windows in the apartment house showed any hint of illumination through their pulled shades. The other tenants seemed to realize that five-thirty in the morning was really the dead of night.
But then, the other tenants weren’t chasing Pierce Reed.
Probably because they’re sane.
She was tired, had been up half the night searching for information on Reed, including checking all public records. She’d discovered that he wasn’t married and never had been, and she knew about his trouble during his tenure at the SFPD. He’d had a steady girlfriend, but she’d ended up marrying someone else after the botched case.
Reed had returned to Savannah, the city where he’d started with the police force nearly fifteen years earlier.
Nikki hadn’t learned much more, but she’d only started scratching the surface. Sooner or later she’d figure out what made the elusive detective tick. She unlocked her hatchback and slid inside.
Her little car coughed and rattled before starting, but finally fired. Nikki sped out of the parking lot and drove the few blocks to Reed’s apartment building, another ancient home cut into smaller living units.
His El Dorado, a Cadillac nearly old enough to be considered a classic and beat up enough to ensure it never would be, was sitting in its usual space. Good. Nikki had been by before. During the Montgomery case when she was chasing the story, she’d cruised by. She’d even gone so far as to figure out which unit was Reed’s, though she’d never had the guts to knock on his door. Until today.
Sure enough, there was a light glowing through what she’d surmised was Reed’s frosted-glass bathroom window. Either he slept with a nightlight, or the detective was up and about, soon to start his day.
Circling the block, she found a parking space across an alley and pulled in. Her heart hammered at her own boldness—she’d never accosted a police officer in his home before. She had little doubt of Reed’s reaction—he’d be furious, probably. So what good would that do? Her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as she waited, listening to the radio and the police band, her ears pricked for any information about the grave found in northern Georgia. She didn’t want to piss Reed off; she just needed information. A few other lights snapped on in the apartment building and within twenty minutes Reed appeared, his dark hair wet and pushed away from his face, a white shirt crisp beneath a sport coat as he crossed the small parking lot. Tall and lanky, with a jaw square enough to befit a Hollywood stunt man, he tossed a briefcase into the backseat of his boat of a car, slipped behind the wheel and eased the El Dorado out of its spot.
Nikki didn’t even start her hatchback’s engine until his big car passed and turned the corner two blocks down. Then she followed. As she wheeled around the turn she saw his car make a left a quarter of a mile up the street. She felt a moment’s satisfaction. He was headed to his favorite morning haunt, a deli not far from the I-16 entrance.
She’d give him time to sit down and order, then show up while he was trapped waiting for his meal. If he didn’t want to be interrupted he’d let her know.
Pulling into the lot of a nearby bank, she gave him five minutes. That should be plenty. With her notepad and recorder tucked into her purse, she dashed across the wet pavement and thought she saw something move in the thicket of live oaks near the back door. She paused, looked again, but saw nothing. Yet the smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Her gaze searched the shadows, then she told herself she was being silly. So a cook from the diner stepped outside for a smoke. So what? She hurried toward the entrance. Two men already leaving held the door for her and she slipped quietly inside.
The diner was warm. At six in the morning, a gaggle of locals were already huddled around the counter that surrounded the kitchen. Farmers, delivery men, truckers and the like swapped stories and jokes, sipped java and plowed into massive breakfasts of ham, grits, fried eggs and toast. Paddle fans pushed the smoke-laden air around while bacon sizzled on a grill, and pies, freshly baked and already on display, rotated slowly in a refrigerated case.
She glanced around the tables.
Reed was in a back booth, nursing a cup of coffee and eyeing a newspaper.
It’s now or never, she thought, girding herself for the inevitable brush-off. Anytime she had tried to get information out of him, he’d become an impenetrable granite wall, offering little, his responses oftentimes bordering on rude. Well, at least, tough.
She had to write this story. Especially now that Tom Fink had given her his blessing. Who knew when that would change?
Ignoring the Please Wait To Be Seated sign, she walked up to Reed’s booth and slid across from him. He didn’t even look up. “Detective Reed?”
His gaze climbed from the open newspaper to her face. His expression didn’t change. Light brown eyes assessed her. “I don’t remember asking you to sit down.”
“I know. I tried to reach you at the station and you didn’t call me back.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Of course. But I just want to ask you some questions.” She was reaching into her purse, fumbling for her recorder and notepad. She pushed the record button half expecting him to reach across the table and click the machine off.
He raised a dark eyebrow. “You always want to ask questions.”
She ignored the remark and plowed on. “You went up to Dahlonega.”
“So did you.”
So, he’d seen her. She’d thought so. “Yes, I’m working on the story.”
“Is that so?” He voice was steady, without a trace of amusement.
“Yes, and—”
The waitress, a tall, slim twenty-some-year-old with Nicole Kidman curls and a name tag that read Jo came by to take their orders. “Have you decided?” she asked, smiling widely as she held a steaming carafe in each hand.
Quickly, Nikki grabbed a menu from its hiding spot between a plastic ketchup container and a metal syrup carousel.
“Regular or decaf?”
“Regular,” Nikki said automatically.
Jo turned over a cup on the table and filled it.
“The usual,” Reed said, lines of irritation etching his forehead. “Number Four. Ham, eggs over easy, wheat toast and grits. Hot sauce.”
“Got it. You?” Jo turned doe-brown eyes on Nikki.
“Just coffee, oh, and a slice of pie. Pecan.”
“That’s all?”
“Right.”
“Ice cream? It comes with it.”
“None, thanks. Just the pie.” Nikki wasn’t really hungry, didn’t want anything but high-octane coffee, but she needed a reason to stick around. Otherwise she was certain Reed would give her the boot. Fast. That he hadn’t rebuffed her in the first thirty seconds of their conversation was a record.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” Jo promised without jotting anything down, then bustled off to the next table.
“So.” Nikki set her recorder on the table.
Reed glanced at it derisively. “I’m not going to tell you anything about the case in Lumpkin County or any other ongoing investigation, for that matter.” He picked up his cup and stared at her over the rim. “You may as well get your pie for the road.”
“I just want some background information.”
“Don’t have any.”
“But—”
“The department issues statements to the press. So does the Lumpkin County Sheriff’s Department and the FBI. You can wait for them like everyone else.”
“The FBI has been called in?” she asked, her pulse jumping. If that were the case—
“Not yet.” He drank a long swallow of coffee.
“But they will be.”
“I was just giving you an example.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Maybe you were trying to give me a tip.”
He laughed and the corners of his eyes crinkled sarcastically, not softening his harsh features in the least. “Oh, yeah, that’s what I was trying to do.” He stared straight at her. “But not just one. I think I want to be the leak in the department, you know, give you every bit of evidence that comes down the pipe. That way it’ll be in the papers and the murderer will know exactly what we’ve got on him. And so will every nutcase who wants to make his own splash and take credit for a crime he didn’t commit. You’d be surprised how many yahoos want that kind of attention. Sifting through them all would cost the department a lot of time and money. It’s a waste of manpower and really muddies the water, which allows the real killer to go about his business.” He took another sip of coffee, then set his near-empty cup on the table. “Just call me Deep Throat.” Mockery flared in his eyes as he added, “Maybe you’re too young to recall the Watergate insider who confided to Woodward and Bernstein.”
“My dad’s a judge. I grew up hearing about that Deep Throat as well as about the X-rated movie he was named for.”
“Really?” Reed reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet. “The way I heard it, your old man wasn’t talking to you, either. Not since you compromised his case.”
Her throat tightened. Heat washed up the back of her neck. But she stared him down. “That was a long time ago, Reed. He got over it.”
“I wouldn’t. Not if you crucified me the way you did your own father. Believe me, I’d never forgive you,” he said as the waitress returned carrying a variety of platters. Reed pulled his gaze from Nikki’s and offered Jo a humorless smile. “I think Miss Gillette neglected to tell you she wanted her pie ‘to go.’”
“Oh.” The girl was suddenly flustered. No doubt she’d heard the tail end of the conversation. “I’m sorry, let me wrap your order up.” Quickly, as if she couldn’t make tracks fast enough, she slid Reed’s platters onto the table and swept the slice of pie back to the kitchen.
