by Lisa Jackson
“Yeah. It is. I’ll see ya later.” She hung up and felt a nagging sense of guilt. She’d known Cliff had been interested in her for years. It had been his running gag while growing up. All too vividly she remembered a hot summer day when she’d come in from playing tennis. She’d been wearing shorts and a sweat-drenched T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail, a visor shading her eyes. Cliff and Andrew had returned to her parents’ home early from squirrel hunting. As she’d arrived she’d found them sitting at a patio table in the shade of a wide blue umbrella, happily guzzling Big Ron’s stash of beer.
“You’re savin’ yourself for me, ain’t ya, Nikki-gal?” Cliff had teased, all piss and vinegar in his early twenties, that long-ago summer before Andrew had died. Cliff’s eyes had sparkled, his grin sliding from one side of his jaw to the other with easy, country-boy charm.
“In your dreams, Siebert,” she’d joked back, laughing and wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“So you know about those dreams, do you?” He’d winked slowly. “Kinda X-rated, aren’t they?”
“You’re sick.” She’d walked past them as Andrew had opened long-necked bottles and sent the caps whizzing into the thickets of magnolia, pine and jasmine.
“Oh, honey, if you only knew…” Cliff had admitted, the sound of his voice trailing after her. It hadn’t been the first time she’d realized that he’d only been half kidding when he’d flirted with her.
It was sad, she thought now, as she wheeled into a parking lot not far from the newspaper’s offices, how that boyish bravado and her innocence had both been destroyed with Andrew’s death. So many things had changed.
None for the better.
Roberta Peters’s home looked more like a museum than a house. Constructed of apricot-colored stucco and flanked by a wrought-iron fence drowning in ivy, the house looked like something from the Italian countryside. It boasted porches front and back complete with balconies, floor-to-ceiling windows that were accented by gleaming black shutters, and gardens thick with lush shrubbery, even in early December. Two Christmas wreaths hung on the double front doors.
An officer had been posted at the gate, but Diane’s team was already inside and Reed and Morrisette, careful not to disturb anything, walked cautiously through rooms filled with historical artifacts, furniture, and in Reed’s estimation, just plain clutter.
“Shit, I wonder who her cleaning lady is,” Morrisette remarked as she eyed shiny knickknacks arranged on glass shelves. “I could use her number.”
“Probably a full-time maid. We need to talk to her.”
“And the gardener and the guy who fixes the plumbing.”
“And the people at the library.”
“No rest for the weary, is there?”
“Never,” Reed muttered.
So far, no one from the press had arrived. But that wouldn’t be for long. Meanwhile, members of the crime scene unit were photographing, dusting, vacuuming. The trash had been collected and the old house was being searched for any kind of evidence. No blood trail or spatter was detected, but then, Roberta Peters hadn’t had any visible wounds other than the bump on her head, probably from trying to sit up in the coffin, and the raw tips of her fingers. She’d been moved to the morgue, and they were waiting for an autopsy report, which could take days. Not that it mattered all that much. Reed figured because of the condition of her hands, that Roberta Peters had suffered the same fate as Bobbi Jean.
Except it’s an odds-on shot that she wasn’t pregnant.
He’d suspected that the killer had been targeting him and feared that Bobbi had met her fate because of her relationship with him. Had some creep he’d sent up the river been released and decided to get back at him? He’d already started going through records of those prisoners who had been released or escaped, but now…he was rethinking the crimes. He’d never met Roberta Peters in his life. At least, not that he could remember.
But the killer’s still contacting you.
There has to be a reason.
Unless Reed had been chosen randomly, perhaps because he’d gotten so much press last summer. He’d been a target for nutcases ever since.
Disturbing nothing, carefully walking around crime scene investigators, Reed and Morrisette walked through the refurbished home with its carved wood banisters polished to a high gloss and faded rugs that, he suspected, had been handmade in the Middle East. Upstairs were four bedrooms, the largest obviously belonging to Roberta Peters. Framed, fading pictures of the woman and a man, presumably her husband, were set on tables and mounted over the fireplace. Her clothes were in the bureau and closets, her pills and toiletries tucked away in her private bath. The second and third rooms were obviously for show and guests. Antique beds appeared never to have been slept in, the bureaus empty. The fourth and smallest bedroom was filled with personal items, clothes in the closet and bureau, bottles of face and body creams, makeup and other toiletries on the bedside table. But the owner was absent. Reed made a mental note, then took a second set of steps, the servants’ stairs, down to the kitchen where Diane Moses was once again keeping a log of what was done and found at the crime scene.
“Send me all the reports ASAP,” Reed said.
“I was told you were off the case.” Diane, gloved, had been ordering the photographer to take more shots of the kitchen where a teapot sat on the stove and dishes for an animal were sitting on a small rug near the pantry. Reed felt all eyes turned in his direction. Diane wasn’t being her usual razor-sharp cynical self as she collected evidence and made notes in the crime scene log. She was just telling it like it was.
“Send the reports to Morrisette,” Reed said as the photographer snapped some more photos with a .35 millimeter camera as well as a state-of-the-art digital cam. Morrisette walked over to the bowls on the floor. “So, where’s the dog or cat?”
“Haven’t found it yet,” Moses replied.
“Looks like the bowl was just filled.”
“So, maybe the cat’s on a diet,” the dour-faced photographer muttered.
“Yeah, and she was making tea.” The porcelain cup and saucer still sat on the marble counter. Empty and clean. A tea bag was still steeping into now-cold water tinted a deep, impenetrable brown. Two shortbread cookies sat uneaten on a tiny glass plate. “Stove was off. Kitchen lights were on, stairs, back porch and main bedroom lights were on, all others off. All the doors and windows except this one”—she pointed a gloved finger at the back door—“were locked. This one was left ajar.”
“Forced?” Reed eyed the door, lock and jamb.
“Nu-uh. And no signs of a struggle. We’ve already gone over this room, the porch and backyard. Looks like she was turning in and didn’t make it. We’ll check the tea and water in the pot for possible toxins, but I doubt she even had a sip.”
“Any messages?”
“No phone machine, pager or computer, nor voice mail,” Diane said. “Lots of books. Tons of books, only one TV, tuned to a local channel that broadcasts religious stuff twenty-four seven.”
“What about who she called?”
“The last number dialed is a Phoenix area code.”
“She didn’t live alone, though,” Reed said.
“No. Someone’s MIA.”
Footsteps sounded on the back steps. Reed looked up and found a uniformed rookie named Willie Armstrong crossing the porch. “Found the cat,” he announced. A long red scratch showed on his cheek. “Hiding under the porch. Won’t come out.”
“But he got a piece of you,” Morrisette said.
The young cop blushed to the tips of his large ears. “Yeah. He’s really freaked out. Either scared shitless or wounded. I’ve called animal control.”
“Animal control?” Morrisette repeated. “Jesus Christ, Willie, are you a policeman or a pussy? Can’t you get the damned cat out yourself?”
“Hey, I tried. The damned thing nearly took my face off!” Armstrong seemed offended by Morrisette’s remarks, but then, he hadn’t been with the department very long. He’d
get used to it.
He was still explaining and rubbing a finger on his cheek. “The stupid thing wants to claw the hell out of me. And I didn’t want to disturb the scene. Something else might be under there.”
“You’re right,” Diane said.
“I can get the cat.” Morrisette eyed Armstrong as if he were either stupid, a wimp or both. “It’s not brain surgery and you don’t have to be a bear wrassler.” She rolled her eyes at his expense. “You don’t even have to use tear gas, Willie. It’s a cat, for God’s sake.”
“Leave it. Armstrong’s right.” Diane was reaching for her collection kit. “And you know it, Morrisette. Give the guy a break.”
“Why should he be any different than the rest?” another cop muttered and Morrisette shot him a look guaranteed to castrate.
Young and green, Armstrong made a hasty exit down the stairs to a backyard that was fenced, private and lush with thick shrubs.
“As soon as we get something, we’ll get it to you, Morrisette,” Moses said pointedly. But she glanced at Reed from the corner of her eye and gave a curt nod, then went about her work.
“So everyone knows you’ve been booted from the case.”
“I guess.”
“Looks like you’re gaining yourself a reputation,” Morrisette remarked as they walked along a brick path to the cruiser.
Reed opened the door and slid inside. “Already had one.”
CHAPTER 12
“So, you think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?” Katherine Okano asked as she studied the note Reed had received through her bifocals. Her gray wool suit reflected her mood. Her demeanor was stern, her mouth set it an uncompromising line.
“Looks like.” Reed was seated in one of the side chairs, Morrisette standing near the window.
“Just what we need.” She settled into her chair. “Okay, what have you got.”
They’d brought the D.A. up to speed on the events at Heritage Cemetery and Roberta Peters’s home. They’d interviewed neighbors, one of whom had remembered they’d heard Roberta calling for her cat around ten, another who informed them that the woman who lived with Roberta was a maid named Angelina Something-Or-Other who lived in with the elderly lady and had one night off a week.
“You haven’t talked to the maid yet?”
“Haven’t located her.”
Okano’s frown deepened.
“And the press hasn’t got wind of this?”
“We’ve had a few inquiries,” Reed admitted, thinking of the phone calls and E-mail he’d received—two voice mail messages and one E-mail message from Nikki Gillette alone. She hadn’t been the only one, just the most determined. And she’d made it a point to try to reach Reed. While Morrisette and Cliff Siebert and Red Demarco had gotten calls from other reporters, Gillette had zeroed in on Reed. “The press is putting it together.”
Okano frowned and sat back in her chair. Her lips rolled in on themselves; behind her wire-rimmed glasses her greenish eyes had darkened. She wasn’t pleased. “We’ll have to make a statement, but I need more facts first.”
“We’re waiting for the reports from the crime scene team and the ME,” Reed said, and when Okano shot him a dark look he added, “Look, you and I both know I’m not officially on the case, but the killer keeps dragging me into it by sending me letters.”
“I’m in charge,” Morrisette insisted. “I’ve already started interviewing Roberta Peters’s neighbors and friends. It’s a long list. She not only was active volunteering in the library, but played bridge with the same women every week, was on the board of the garden club and was a dues paying member at two country clubs. Pretty high profile.”
“So the press will be all over us ASAP.” Okano’s eyes narrowed. “And you knew her?” she asked Morrisette.
“I knew of her. I probably said ten words to her last summer, most of which were ‘Hi,’ or ‘How’re ya’ll doin’.’ I don’t know anything about her other than she helped out with story time.”
Okano picked up a glass of some coffee concoction that was sweating on a corner of her desk. “Okay, you can stay, but Reed, you’re off. Officially and unofficially. If the killer contacts you again, let Morrisette know, and you”—she hitched her chin to the policewoman—“you keep me up on the investigation.” She tapped a long finger beside the note from the killer. “Send this to the lab, have it compared to the other letters you got, and keep me posted. Meanwhile, I’ll contact the FBI.”
Reed nodded but didn’t make any comments about the Feds. Usually a pain in the butt, they nonetheless knew their stuff and had access to resources that were otherwise unavailable to the Savannah police. The Feds could help, and right now, the department needed all the help it could get.
“We’ll have to make a statement, warn the public,” Okano thought aloud. “Without causing a panic.” She glanced at both of them before her gaze settled on Morrisette. “Nail this bastard, and quick.”
Reed and Morrisette left the D.A.’s office together, dropped the note off at the lab, then headed back to Homicide where things were still geared up. Detectives sat at computer screens, hung onto the phone or worked on the mounds of paperwork that accompanied each case.
“I’ve got some phone calls to make. I’ll catch up with you later,” Morrisette said and peeled off to her desk.
Reed settled into his desk chair as the ancient heating system blasted him with air hot enough to bring a sweat to his brow. Outside the temperature was hovering around fifty, inside, closer to ninety. Sweltering. Like the dog days of summer. He yanked on his tie and turned toward his computer monitor. He had other cases to consider, but the Grave Robber or whatever they were going to call it was top priority. God, he hated that name—the Grave Robber. Leave it to Nikki Gillette to come up with something like that. He ignored Okano’s directive that he remove himself from the investigation. He was in it knee-deep whether he liked it or not. The killer saw to that.
Why?
What was his connection to the psychotic monster who was out ripping up cemeteries and dumping live women into occupied coffins? Not just that, but why move one coffin three hundred miles north? What sense did that make? Was it some kind of statement? A clue he was missing? He clicked on his computer screen, pulled up the Grave Robber case and brought pictures of the victims to the fore. His insides clenched as he looked at Bobbi Jean…. She’d been so beautiful and now she’d been reduced to an ashen-skinned corpse.
He looked at the other bodies, two of which were decomposing. What did these people have in common? How were they linked to him? Were they? Or was that all just smoke and mirrors? Had the Grave Robber known him…or had the creep picked Reed’s name out of the paper due to all the press he’d gotten last summer? Who knew? He was still fiddling around with the information when there was a tap at the door. Swiveling in his chair Reed spied Detective McFee filling the doorway.
“Just wanted to say bye,” the big man said.
“Goin’ home?”
“For a while. I went over all the information on the new one this morning.” His high forehead wrinkled. “Looks like we got ourselves a real nutcase on the loose. I’d like to stay, but there’s not much reason. The sheriff wants me to report in.”
“But you’ll be back?”
“I reckon. Until this case is solved, we’re all in it together.”
Reed nodded. “Need a ride to the airport?”
McFee shook his head. “Got one.” He crossed the short span of linoleum and shoved a hand across Reed’s desk. They shook. “Be seein’ ya. Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
“I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”
“I appreciate it.”
With a nod, McFee turned and headed toward the exit. Through the open door Reed watched him leave and wasn’t too surprised to see Sylvie Morrisette catch up with him. The big man visibly brightened at the sight of her and for once Morrisette had abandoned her dark visage. She actually smiled up at McFee, flirted
with him, appeared incredibly feminine. The big detective glanced over his shoulder, met Reed’s gaze, and one side of his mouth lifted almost smugly. As if to say, This happens all the time, Reed. Take notes. The quiet country-boy charm can get you into a woman’s pants faster than a bottle of Chablis.
They disappeared down the stairs and Reed picked up the phone. Cradling the receiver on his shoulder, he found the number he’d written down earlier, then punched out the digits. It had been the last call Roberta Peters had made…no, it had been the last call made from Roberta Peters’s telephone. Either she had called Phoenix, or someone else had used her phone.
After three rings, a sweet-voiced woman answered. “Hello, this is Glenda of Faith Gospel Mission. May God be with you. How can I direct your call?”
Reed identified himself, stated his business and was redirected to several different voices, none of which deigned to give him any information. All soon gave up any sign of friendliness and the “May God be with you” greeting was dropped the minute he mentioned that he was with the police. His final connection was to “Reverend Joe,” who flatly told him that they didn’t give out any information about members of the mission’s flock, then summarily hung up. Reed checked with the Better Business Bureau and the Phoenix Police Department, making inquiries about Faith Gospel Mission and specifically about Reverend Joe. According to all sources, the good preacher and his institution were clean as a whistle. Reverend Joe hadn’t been charged with so much as a traffic citation. Almost too clean. Reed didn’t trust the man right from the get-go. Didn’t like the fact that he didn’t use a surname. Maybe old Joe was enough of a celebrity with the God-fearing crowd that he didn’t need one. Like Cher or Madonna or Liberace. Just Reverend Joe.
Despite his feelings, the call was a waste and brought him to another dead end. Strike one.
He took the time to grab a Coke out of the vending machine down the hall, then put in a call to the New Orleans Police Department. He was hoping to catch up with Detective Reuben Montoya, a young buck of a detective who had worked with him last summer on the Montgomery case, but was informed by a secretary that Montoya had left the department a few months earlier. Reed was referred to a detective named Rick Bentz, whose voice mail answered and Reed remembered having worked with Bentz in the past. He would have to do. Reed left a brief message inquiring about Bobbi Jean’s brother, Vince Lassiter, then left his number and hung up.
