by Lisa Jackson
“Is there a good one?”
“My, my, look who’s full of herself today.” Trina laughed and winked as her phone rang and she rolled her desk chair into her cubicle.
Nikki called her landlord and had the locks of her apartment changed. Fortunately, the man who owned the building loved doing handyman tasks and he promised that he’d change the dead bolt, tumblers, and have the entire project done by the time she got home. She could pick up her new set of keys at his apartment on the main floor this evening. When he asked why she wanted them changed, she told him about an ex-boyfriend who was bothering her and there were no further questions. She spent the rest of the day avoiding Metzger, putting together her story on Dr. Francis and the school board, while doing research on the Grave Robber case. The sheriff’s department in Lumpkin County offered up a few more details, the hospital in Atlanta wouldn’t let her talk to the kid in the accident and the other kid was off-limits, his old man insisting on payment for any interview with Billy Dean Delacroix. Frustrated, Nikki put a call into Cliff again, then tried to locate any information she could on the two women in the grave. Barbara Jean Marx’s husband wouldn’t speak to her and the employees at Hexler’s Jewelry Store were closemouthed as well.
But Nikki wasn’t about to give up.
Nor did she forget about the two notes she’d received.
TONIGHT.
And
IT’S DONE.
Whatever happened last night was now a fait accompli.
The headline was worth the trouble.
“Grave Robber Strikes, Baffles Police.”
Oh, yeah!
Though he was tired, The Survivor tingled inside as he smoothed page one of the Savannah Sentinel on his table. Carefully, making certain that he was cutting in a perfectly straight line, he sliced the article from the rest of the page and discarded the remainder of the paper. The clipping would go in his scrapbook with the pictures. His televisions were all glowing bright, anchormen and-women mouthing words in hushed voices since he kept the sound down until he heard something he wanted, then he’d up the volume. His tape players were recording every segment of the news, cable stations from all over the country. Later, after a few hours of sorely needed sleep, he would edit out all the unwanted pieces before adding to his personal tape library.
The Grave Robber.
Nikki Gillette had come up with a name for him, as if she’d anticipated that he would strike again. If only she knew how close she was to the truth, to him. Humming softly to himself, he walked to one amplifier on the long wall and upped the volume…nothing…she must’ve already gone to work. No matter. He had last night’s tape. He pushed the play button, heard the mini tape rewind and then Nikki Gillette’s voice, clear over the sound of the talk-radio program. He’d marked the part he liked, the precise moment when she’d read the note.
“What? What’s done?” her voice screeched.
Again, The Survivor tingled, felt an erotic heat warming his blood, but pressed the pause button. He walked to the bureau and reached into the second drawer. There, he withdrew a pair of lacy black panties, barely more than a thong. Oh, Nikki was a naughty girl. He smiled and rubbed the sheer scrap of fabric against his cheek, hearing his beard stubble catch on the fine silk. She didn’t even know they were missing. He’d purloined them far too early, he supposed. Taking them wasn’t part of his usual ritual; she was, after all, still very much alive, not yet locked in a coffin with a corpse. Nonetheless, he couldn’t resist stealing her personal, sexy piece of lingerie.
He clicked on the recorder again. It began to play. A gentle hiss of the tape, then, as he fondled Nikki’s panties, she began to talk to him directly, not knowing that he’d planted a tiny microphone in her bedroom, that anything she said or did in that room would be recorded…just for him…. He waited, heard her moving through her apartment, felt her fear as she reentered the bedroom. Licking his lips in anticipation, he listened as the antique four-poster bed creaked under her weight. He imagined she was climbing into her bed, stretching upon the silky blue sheets and thick duvet. The spit dried in his mouth as he called up the image. Oh, yes…he remembered running the tips of his fingers over the smooth fabrics that smelled faintly of her. It had been erotic then and was doubly so now. He imagined her flesh. Hot. Wanting. Feeling like silk beneath his fingertips.
His blood pounded in his ears, his cock rock-hard in anticipation as he listened hard, hearing her change of movement as she second-guessed herself, her footsteps retreating. “That’s it, baby, talk to me,” he said, unzipping his pants and seeing his disjointed reflection in the splintered mirror.
Soon, Nikki would speak to him. Directly. In an angry hiss. He held his breath for a second, the flimsy lace touching his erection as lightly as a moth’s wings, toying and teasing with his dick as he waited. “Come on, Nikki, talk to me. Come on.” He could barely hold back. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering, pumping blood through his veins.
Finally, just when he thought he might explode, her voice filled the room.
“Bastard!” she hissed from the recording.
He let go.
Filled her panties with that special part of him.
CHAPTER 9
“Call the caretaker for Heritage Cemetery. See if there’ve been any disturbances.” Reed was already reaching for his jacket. “If so, send a unit to secure the scene.”
“You’re off the case, remember?” Morrisette reminded him as he yanked open the door and started through the cubicles and desks where computers hummed, phones rang and prisoners in handcuffs sat insolently in chairs at desks while officers took statements and filled out reports.
“How could I forget?” But he didn’t break stride and hurried down the stairs. Morrisette was at his heels. “I’ll drive.” He shouldered open a side door and they stepped into a gray day. The rain that had been threatening all morning was falling in thick drops that puddled on the pavement and ran from the gutters.
Before Morrisette could put up any kind of protest, Reed claimed the steering wheel. As he pulled out of the lot, Morrisette was on the phone to the dispatcher then the caretaker of the cemetery. She managed to light a cigarette and juggle the receiver as he turned on the lights and sped through the town, turning onto Victory Drive, passing palm trees and shivering azaleas as they headed toward the old graveyard situated on the outskirts of the city.
The police band crackled, traffic hummed, the wipers slapped raindrops off the windshield and Morrisette worked the phone. “…that’s right,” she was saying. “Okay, have the officer secure the scene. We’ll be there in ten, maybe fifteen.” She hung up and glanced at Reed through a cloud of smoke. Her face was set. “You’re right. Someone messed with a grave last night. Visitors saw it this morning. Alerted the city, which found the caretaker who called in the situation just before we did. A unit was only two blocks away and should be on the scene by now.”
Reed’s jaw clenched. “Damn it all to hell.”
“Looks like ‘the Grave Robber’—or whoever you want to call him—is back in action. Serial?” She lifted an eyebrow and drew hard on her Marlboro Light.
“Could be.”
“Jesus, we’ll have to call the Feds.”
“Okano probably already has.”
The contents of the note echoed through his brain.
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…
SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?
Reed hated to think.
“So, why has this guy singled you out? Why the messages to you?” she asked, flicking ash out the window she’d cracked.
“I knew Bobbi.”
“So, you think you’re gonna know the next one?”
Reed’s gut churned. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Christ, he couldn’t imagine that all of the victims were people he’d known. Oh, Jesus, no. “I hope not,” he said fervently. Would some nutcase, someone he’d made an enemy of, hate him enough to kill the people he cared about, people he knew?
Who would hate
him so much?
Someone he’d offended?
Some criminal he’d sent up the river?
Hell. He turned onto the county road and followed it to the cemetery where not one, but two patrol cars were parked. The gates had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape and a few gawkers had stopped to stand in the rain and peer past the ancient headstones, hoping for a peek of the tragedy.
A white van with WKAM emblazoned upon its sides in deep blue letters was parked near the curb. The press had arrived.
“Damned three-ring circus already.” Reed opened the car door as Morrisette squashed her cigarette and left the smoldering butt in the ashtray. “Let’s go.”
Before the reporters could get to them, they flashed their badges at a uniformed cop, then slid beneath the yellow tape. The grass was wet, the wind cold with the rain as they made their way to the back of the cemetery where a crowd had gathered. Pictures were being taken. Soil samples already being bagged. Debris collected. Impressions in the ground studied. The crime scene team, headed by Diane Moses, was already at work. Reed noticed a gate in the wrought-iron fence line that bordered the cemetery. It was wide enough for a vehicle to pass through and opened to an access road running behind the graveyard. Probably used for hearses and the digging equipment needed to excavate graves. Through the trees, far enough away from the gate so as not to disturb any evidence that might have been left, the crime scene team’s van, back doors open, was parked.
“How long will it be before we can start digging?” one of the officers asked. He was wearing rain gear, and along with several of the other uniforms, was equipped with shovels and picks.
“Until we’re done,” Diane snapped. “Ask him.” She hitched her chin in Reed’s direction.
“We’ll wait,” he said.
“Damned straight you will,” Diane grumbled as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up her clipboard. “At least we’ve already got permission to dig it up, but you just wait until I give the word.”
“Man, did you get up on the wrong side of the bed, or what?” the officer taking pictures asked.
Diane didn’t answer. But her mouth compressed into a thin line of irritation as she made a quick note, then walked closer to the grave site to converse with a man taking soil samples.
The rain seemed colder as Reed stared at the freshly turned earth. The gravestone had weathered and read: Thomas Alfred Massey, beloved husband and father. Thomas’s dates of birth and death had been etched beneath his name. From the looks of it, Massey had been eighty when he’d been buried seven years earlier.
If he was in the coffin.
Until they dug it up, no one knew for certain.
Reed didn’t know the man, but the name rang a far-off bell. He thought hard as raindrops ran down his nose, but couldn’t conjure up an image of the guy or even put his finger on where he’d heard the name before.
At least he wasn’t someone he knew.
Reed only hoped that if there was another victim, he or she was a stranger as well. He reached into his pocket for his roll of antacids. His stomach was churning from bad coffee and not much else.
Mud oozed around his shoes as Diane Moses conferred with members of her staff and the wind kicked up. He glanced at a nearby gravestone, read the name and simple message cut into the granite:
Rest In Peace.
Fat chance.
Not with the Grave Robber on the loose.
“…so you, like, won’t use my name, will you?” From across the table in the little coffee shop, the waif-like girl beseeched Nikki. Lindsay Newell was twenty-seven, but didn’t look a day older than eighteen. “You know Mr. Hexler; he doesn’t want any trouble or hint of a scandal at the store. He thinks it’s bad for business.”
“I’ll be discreet and of course, if you don’t want me to, I won’t quote you directly,” Nikki assured the jewelry clerk who had worked with Bobbi Jean Marx.
Nikki had dressed down this morning, wearing her weathered jeans and a sweater in order to help the jewelry clerk relax and feel more likely to share secrets. Like they were best girlfriends or something. Nikki had bought her the coffee and a croissant, but Lindsay had only picked at the pastry. While spoons clinked in cups and conversation buzzed around them, Nikki tried to make Bobbi Jean’s coworker feel at ease. None of her ploys worked. Lindsay was edgy. Customers of the Caffeine Bean came and went, the bell over the door tinkling as they entered. Each time the door opened, Lindsay visibly jumped, as if she were certain her boss would walk into the shop and spy her spilling her guts to a reporter.
“Please don’t quote me. I can’t afford to lose my job.” The girl bit at the corner of her glossed lips nervously and checked her watch for the third time as soft jazz emanated from the speakers and the aproned cashiers behind the counter called out orders. Lindsay was on her morning coffee break and already jumpy. The triple shot of espresso in her nonfat latte wouldn’t help calm her down. She’d refused to open up to a tape recorder but had allowed Nikki to take notes.
“Okay, I won’t. No names. I promise. So, tell me about Bobbi Jean. When did you last see her?”
“Two mornings before I found out that she…” Lindsay gulped. “…that she was dead…God, that’s so horrible. I mean, to be buried alive…with some decaying corpse, trapped in a coffin.” She shuddered and reached for her coffee with a trembling hand. “I already talked to the police, you know, and I told them everything I know about her, which isn’t a whole lot.” Anxiously, she licked the foam from her lips. “Except…”
“Except what?” Nikki saw the hesitation in the girl’s eyes. As if she had a secret she wanted to unburden.
“Oh…God…I…I caught her throwing up one morning just after we opened. It was just about a week ago. I had to run the store by myself for about half an hour. When she came out of the bathroom she was so pale. White as a ghost.” Lindsay leaned closer, across the table, and whispered, “I mean, like, I was sure she had the flu or something and that she should go home, but when I suggested she call someone in to cover for her, she wouldn’t hear of it. She said a day in bed wouldn’t help her at all, in fact, that’s what had started the problem. I didn’t get it…not really, but I suspected…I’d seen an opened pregnancy test package in the garbage a few weeks ago, but didn’t know who it belonged to. We have a lot of girls working there, so it could have been anyone’s. But now…” She lifted a slim shoulder. “I, um, I think it was Bobbi’s.”
“But she was separated from her husband,” Nikki said, adrenaline shooting through her blood. The victim had been pregnant at the time of her death? This was news that hadn’t come out of the police department, something they were holding back. If it was true.
“Yeah, I know, but sometimes people get back together.”
“Had they?”
Lindsay cast a look through the window to the sidewalk outside. Pedestrians were walking quickly, umbrellas open, coats pulled tight to their collars. “Not that I know of, and Bobbi…well, she dated other guys.”
Nikki nearly came out of her chair. She scribbled quickly. “Do you know their names?”
“Uh-uh. I don’t think anyone did because Bobbi was in the middle of her divorce and didn’t want to screw up her chances of getting money from her ex—well, her husband, well, you know, Jerome.”
“But surely the men would call her at the store.”
Blank eyes blinked. Twirled a finger in her dark ringlets. “I guess.”
“You didn’t take any of the calls?”
“Not that I know of. Guys called all the time, you know, to shop for their wives or girlfriends.” Lindsay pursed her lips and her eyebrows drew together as if she were really thinking hard. Meanwhile, the loudspeaker called out, “Double fudge mocha nonfat with whipped cream.”
“No one special?”
“No…but…you know, I just had this feeling that one of the guys was a cop.”
“Why?” A cop? Who?
“Little remarks, I guess. She teas
ed about handcuffs and being frisked and guys with big nightsticks and…all that double entendre stuff.” She really twisted on the curl now. “Oh, maybe I was just imagining things. I shouldn’t have said anything. What does it matter? She’s dead. But that’s why I couldn’t talk to the police—I didn’t know who he was, didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. It was just too fucked up, y’know?” Lindsay chewed on her lower lip for a second, forsook the lock of hair to pick up her paper coffee cup and said, “Look, I really have to go. My break is over and I don’t know anything else.” She scooted out her chair as quickly as if she expected an angry god to hurl a lightning bolt through the table if she stayed a second longer.
“Call me if you think of anything else,” Nikki called, catching up with her at the door and handing her the business card she’d tucked into the pocket of her jeans.
Lindsay stared at the card as if Satan’s name and phone number were engraved beneath Savannah Sentinel. “No, I don’t know anything else. Really.” She was backing toward the door and nearly ran into a guy trying to fold his umbrella. Raindrops littered the floor. “Oh! Sorry,” Lindsay mumbled quickly and was out the door. She jaywalked toward the square opposite the jewelry store.
Nikki didn’t waste any time. She grabbed her cup and walked into the gloom. Though it was late morning, the winter day was dark. Somber. Rain pouring off the awning. She splashed her way to her car, climbed inside and tried to start it. The engine didn’t catch. “Oh, no, ya don’t,” she said under her breath, but the hatchback only coughed twice. “Come on, come on…no need to be temperamental.” Lord, she had to take the little car into the shop. It was in severe need of regular maintenance.
The police band crackled, but she didn’t catch the call.
On the third try the old engine fired and Nikki checked her side view mirror before pulling away from the curb. Her cell phone jangled at the next stoplight and she fumbled in her purse before finding the damned thing and catching it on the third chirp. “This is Nikki,” she said, negotiating the turn while juggling her coffee.
