by Lisa Jackson
Here we go again. “You get to unload your conscience.”
“My conscience is clear.”
“Then, as you said, you get to blow off steam.”
“Maybe that’s not enough.”
“Okay, so what is it you want?”
His eyes darkened for a second and she braced herself, but whatever was on his mind didn’t make it to his lips. At times he was unreadable, as if he could erect a wall between them at will.
Dishes rattled on the other side of the door as she tasted her coffee. “What’s going on?”
He hesitated, but only a second. “Reed’s off the case.”
“What?” Surely she hadn’t heard right. “But I saw him this morning at the cemetery.”
Cliff lifted a shoulder. “Okano gave him the boot. He knew one of the victims.”
“Jesus. Who?”
“Bobbi Jean Marx.”
In her mind, she conjured up a mental image of the woman. “How did he know her?”
“Figure it out,” he said, and drained his drink.
Reed and Bobbi Jean? Lovers? And Bobbi Jean might have been pregnant? Nikki could barely remain seated. This was news. Big news. No wonder Reed had been avoiding her calls and had appeared distant, nearly haunted this morning at the cemetery.
The waitress, whose name tag indicated she was Toni, placed Cliff’s order in front of him. The French fries glistened and the steak couldn’t breathe because of the creamy gravy that spilled onto a bed of mixed vegetables. The peas and carrots looked suspiciously as if they’d come from a can. “Anything else?” Toni offered.
“This should do it.” Cliff looked over the platter at Nikki. “Sure you don’t want anything?”
“Nah, thanks. I’m fine,” Nikki said even though she was anything but fine. Bobbi Jean and Reed? What a story! Just the angle she was looking for. And yet…she felt a few qualms about going public with Reed’s private life and a part of her balked at the thought of Reed with the victim, of him being involved with a woman…a married woman. It didn’t seem his style. Or, that stupid, romantic part of her she tried so vainly to repress hoped it wasn’t. As the waitress left, Nikki leaned across the table. She kept her voice hushed and calm even though adrenaline was jetting through her bloodstream. This was it. Another page one story. Ignoring the twinge of guilt she felt that she was capitalizing on someone else’s pain, she said, “You think Reed was romantically involved with Bobbi Jean?” She conjured up a mental image of Barbara Jean Marx and Pierce Reed and felt an unlikely jab of jealousy. Which was ridiculous. She didn’t even know Reed, not really, though she’d been trying to get close to the reticent cop for years. “That’s it, that’s what’s bugging you about this case, isn’t it?”
Cliff squirted ketchup all over his fries. “There’s a lot that bugs me about the case.”
Nikki leaned closer and whispered, “Was she pregnant?”
His head snapped up and behind the tinted glasses his eyes narrowed. “You know about that?”
“I talked to a friend of hers who thought she might be.”
Cliff, as if stabbed by a sudden shaft of conscience, didn’t answer.
“The baby could be Reed’s.”
“It could be anyone’s,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “We don’t know for sure. Not yet.”
“Maybe even the husband’s.”
“Ex-husband, and unlikely.” Cliff began sawing at his meat with his knife. “They weren’t on the best of terms.”
“Some people don’t get along except in bed.”
“Speaking from experience?” He pronged a slice of steak and took a bite.
“Low blow, Siebert.”
“You’re right. I’m just pissed. Besides, Jerome Marx is sterile. Had himself a vasectomy years ago.”
“How do you know this?”
“Strangest thing. Marx called me up and told me. Didn’t want to share the information with Reed and you can understand that, so I double-checked. Gave the information to Okano. You can probably understand this, Nikki. I could use being on this investigation. If I catch this guy, it would be a real feather in my cap.”
“I suppose,” she said, feeling uneasy. Cliff? Ambitious? Enough to go behind Reed’s back. “Reed doesn’t know?”
“About the vasectomy?” Cliff raised his shoulders. “Don’t think so. Unless Okano told him.” Talking around the food, he added, “Whoever’s behind this Grave Robber case—your name, right?” When she nodded, he actually smiled. “Well, the name’s sticking. Anyway, whoever this creep is, he’s jerking us around. Making the department look foolish. He’s even sending Reed notes and toying with him. Practically laughing in our faces. We need to nail him, and quick.”
“Sending him notes?” she said, her insides turning to water.
Cliff’s head snapped up. “That’s off the record.”
Tonight.
It’s done.
She swallowed hard. Maybe it was nothing…or maybe somehow the killer had zeroed in on her. Heart hammering, she considered telling Cliff.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes…yes…just tired and rattled, you know, because of the tires being slashed.” By the same guy who broke into my house? “I’ve…I’ve had some trouble at my place. The other night someone broke in.”
“And you reported it. Right?” Cliff said.
“Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I…um…it’s stupid, but remember years ago, when I thought I had a stalker and I called the police and it turned out to be…nothing…just Corey Sellwood, the kid next door who was just hanging out in my backyard where he met his buddies to smoke weed or drink. Everyone got into trouble and…well…”
“You were a laughingstock.”
“Right. And the kid got into major trouble. I felt like a fool. I liked the boy and to this day he avoids me when we meet on the street.”
“He’s not a kid any longer.”
“But he was just smokin’ and jokin’ and tokin’ and he got into tons of trouble. He never forgave me.” She thought of Corey, a boy with long hair, disturbed blue eyes and a tattoo of barbed wire around one of his biceps. He’d been fourteen at the time, now was closer to twenty-six or twenty-seven. The incident had happened right around the time Andrew had died, when Nikki had been edgy. She’d never lived it down.
“Nonetheless, you report the break-in,” Cliff insisted. “And don’t forget to include the fact that your tires were slashed tonight. It could just tie together, Nikki.” He polished off a bite of steak. “You’re high profile, being the daughter of a judge and all. Now you’ve got your name splashed all over the front page of the Sentinel chasing down the Grave Robber.” He pointed his knife at her. “Take care of business. Report both incidents and anything else that doesn’t seem right.”
“I will.”
“I mean it. Don’t you believe in ‘Better safe than sorry’?”
“Of course. Okay. You’ve made your point,” she said, more nervous than ever. He was right. She knew it. And she knew exactly to whom she’d make the report. Tonight, however, she had to concentrate on the story she was writing.
Stealing a French fry, she asked, “So, how did the victims die?”
“Nu-uh, Nik.” He shook his head.
“Come on, Cliff.”
“You know the rules, some things are kept within the department.”
“But the cause of death—”
“—is off-limits to the public. End of story. You keep pushing me on this, Nikki, and we’ve got nothin’ else to talk about.”
“Okay, okay,” she agreed and ate the fry. Cliff was too valuable a source to tick off and risk never using again.
“So, the Grave Robber, you think he’s a serial killer?”
“He struck again, didn’t he? Two more bodies in one box. And that’s all I’m tellin’ you. That’s enough.”
“So it was the Grave Robber this morning.”
A serial killer! On the stre
ets of Savannah.
“Don’t know for sure, but I’d bet my mother’s life savings that it is.”
“Dear God.” Her mind was spinning. This was so much information. New information. Exclusive information. Page one again. She saw the headline: “Serial Killer Stalks The Streets Of Savannah.” And in smaller, yet bold type: “Grave Robber Strikes Again.” Tom Fink would run the story, she knew it. All she had to do was write it and it was already coming together in her head. Except that the pregnancy really bothered her. Barbara Jean Marx’s death was horrible enough, and to think that she’d been carrying a child. That was the worst. Nikki felt a moment’s regret that she would profit from the victims’ terror. She thought of Phee, her innocent little niece, Ophelia, and shuddered inside when she considered Bobbi Jean’s unborn baby. Maybe Reed’s child. Her stomach turned sour. Perhaps she shouldn’t write the story, not capitalize on another’s sorrow. But didn’t the public have a right to know, to be warned? Clearing her throat, she asked, “The victims, did they know each other?”
Cliff was eating, mopping the remains of his biscuit through his gravy. He ate the last piece and shook his head. “Can’t find a connection.” He swallowed. “Yet.”
“But you think there is one. These aren’t random?”
“He picked the victims and the already dead people…Random?” He dunked another piece of steak in the gravy and forked it into his mouth. “Nah, I don’t think so. I guess we’ll find out. Soon. The bastard won’t get away with this.”
“Are there any suspects? Persons of interest?” she asked.
“Nothing official,” he said, and she felt a trickle of dread drip down her spine. Her eyes met Cliff’s but he looked away quickly.
“Surely, Pierce Reed isn’t a suspect.”
Siebert stared out the window.
“Cliff?” she prompted, feeling a mixture of horror and excitement. Pierce Reed, having solved the Montgomery case last summer, had been nearly venerated by the public. He was a local hero here, though, she knew from her research, he wasn’t considered a saint in San Francisco. In fact, he’d been vilified by the press on the West Coast. Condemned for not being able to save the life of a woman he’d been staking out. “Is Reed a suspect?”
Siebert’s eyebrows slammed together as he focused on her again. He pointed his greasy knife at Nikki’s nose. “Be careful what you write, okay?”
“Always am,” she said and dropped a twenty onto the tabletop as she scooted out of the booth. She knew enough about the cop who had been her brother’s friend to understand that the conversation was over. She saw him pick up the money and begin to protest. “Don’t even argue with me. As you pointed out, it’s after midnight and I woke you up. Thanks, Cliff. I’ll be calling you.”
“Don’t. This is it. I’m out of it,” he hissed under his breath. The twenty in his fist, he scowled harshly at her through his lenses. Again, the wall was erected. “If this is gonna be my investigation, then you can damn well get someone else to be your snitch!”
CHAPTER 17
“You just can’t keep your name out of the papers, now, can ya?” Morrisette waltzed in and slapped a copy of the Savannah Sentinel onto his desk. Her face was red from the cold outside and she yanked off a pair of gloves. “It’s effin’ freezin’ in here. Don’t tell me the heat’s out again.”
Scanning the newspaper, Reed grimaced and felt a twinge of a headache when he saw his name in print. Page one headlines shrieked “Serial Killer Stalks Savannah.”
“Subtle, isn’t she?” Morrisette rubbed her hands together.
“None of ’em are.” He’d gotten the paper at home and read the article. Twice. Saw his name in print, along with the story that Barbara Jean Marx had been pregnant at the time of her death. Nikki Gillette’s article stated that he’d been “removed from the case due to personal involvement with one of the victims,” then surmised that a serial killer was on the loose. On his way out of his apartment, he’d dropped his copy of the newspaper into a Dumpster.
“Where the hell does that woman get her information?” Morrisette asked.
“Don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
“She won’t tell…won’t give up a source.”
“It comes from the department. Maybe we should figure it out here.”
“Could be more than one guy,” Morrisette thought aloud as she plopped into a side chair.
“Or woman.”
“I meant guy in the nonsexist manner. I meant it as officer or secretary or janitor, for Christ’s sake.” Both her eyebrows raised. “Touchy today, aren’t we?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I suppose.”
“And don’t forget about this.” He slid a printed copy of the E-mail he’d received at home across the desk, carefully avoiding his half-full coffee cup and a stack of files.
She glanced at the page and sighed. “I thought about that all last night.”
“Just a friendly little note from the killer,” he said sarcastically. “It loses something in hard copy, though, here…I’ve got it on the screen.”
“Grave Robber on a roll…Now we have number four. One third done, will there be more?” she read aloud, though she’d seen it herself. “So, have the nerds figured out who sent it?”
“Not yet. I tried to respond last night, but the answer kicked back at me. Not really a surprise. Bentley hopes he can go through the address and server or whatever the hell they are and find out where the E-mail came from, but I’m certain he won’t be able to. He’s forwarded it on to the FBI.”
“Man, you’ve been busy this morning.”
“Already talked to Okano, too. There’ll be a statement.”
“Did she warn you off the case again?” Morrisette cozied up to the radiator under the windowsill.
“Yeah, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that this Grave Robber, whoever the hell he is, is contacting me. Here ya go…take another look at this.”
Giving up the warmth of the heater, Morrisette leaned across the desk as Reed twisted the computer monitor so that she could view the original message from the killer and watch all the graphics, twisting pictures of the victims, their faces becoming skulls, their bodies morphing into skeletons before the bones disintegrated into rubble only to be resurrected into the original pictures again. “Who is this guy?”
“Don’t know. But we’d better find out fast.”
“I’ve cross-referenced the four victims—assuming that the already dead guys in the coffins are part of this thing…. Anyway, other than that they all lived in Savannah, there isn’t much that ties ’em together. Barbara Jean Marx and Roberta Peters are about as different as night and day in age, interests, style…The only link I can find so far is that they were both patrons of the arts. They both went to charity functions and gallery openings, that sort of thing. But whereas Roberta had a real interest in the arts, Barbara just tagged along after her husband. You know, trophy wife. Well, yeah, I guess you do know.”
Reed shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“So, now there’s gonna be more?”
“A total of twelve.”
“Isn’t that odd? To come up with a number of victims who are unconnected. I mean, if you’re a killer, you’re a killer, right? Why limit yourself?”
“Maybe he isn’t limiting himself. Maybe this is just the first wave. Twelve here and then he’ll move on. Or twelve just to tease us.” Reed was fiddling with his pencil, tapping an eraser on the desk. He popped a couple of ibuprofen he found in the top drawer, then washed them down with cold coffee.
“So, you think he’s trying to throw us off?”
“No, this is a clue to what he’s doing. He’s trying to engage us…or engage me.”
“Yeah, why you?”
“Because of Bobbi.”
“Nah. Doesn’t wash. Unless you were having a hot affair with Roberta Peters, too,” she said with the hint of a smile.
He snorted. “Too young for me.”
�
�A skirt’s a skirt.”
“Yeah, right.” Reed stared at the computer screen. “It could be someone I pissed off.”
“Let’s hope not. We’ll never find him. Talk about a needle in a haystack!”
Reed sent her a look meant to kill as her cell phone went off. “I’ll take the call and grab a cup of coffee and be back,” she said, glancing at Caller ID. “It’s Bart. Great. This can’t be good news.” She escaped down the hallway and Reed started thinking in terms of twelve. If Okano came in and saw him working on the case, he’d go toe to toe with her. Somehow, the creep was communicating with him, trying to get to him. He started a list of people who might want to harm him…starting with people who knew he had been involved with Bobbi. Jerome Marx was the only name he could come up with, though, he supposed Bobbi could have told a few people as could have Jerome. Reed didn’t know Roberta Peters, had never met her. Nor Thomas Massey or Pauline Alexander. Just Bobbi Jean.
The phone jangled. Still staring at the computer screen, he picked up. “Reed.”
“Yeah, glad I caught ya. It’s Jed Baldwin up ta Lumpkin County.”
“Sheriff,” Reed said, leaning back in his desk chair until it squeaked. He imagined the craggy face of Jedidiah Baldwin.
“Detective McFee told me you were off the Grave Robber case cuz you were involved with the victim and all, but me, well, I don’t put much stake in rules that just get in the way. I thought you’d like to know what’s happenin’ up here. Nothing new from all the forensic evidence, but early this mornin’ Merle Delacroix came in with his son. You remember Billy Dean, one of the kids up ta the holler that saw the guy. Anyway, Merle’s a single man whose got his hands full with that one. Kind of a hothead, but he and the boy, they brought in a ring, inscribed, probably belongs to the vic. The old man was proud of himself, but the boy, I don’t think he wanted to part with the ring.”
“Was it a gold band with one diamond and some rubies?” Reed asked in a flash of memory. Her hands had been white, with long fingers, manicured nails that knew how to draw down a man’s back. The ring finger of her right hand had been adorned with a ring that caught in the sunlight as they’d sailed. It had been autumn, the air crisp. The leaves on the trees near the shoreline fluttered green and gold as a salty breeze tore at Bobbi’s long hair and pressed a short white skirt against her tanned legs. She’d been barefoot, her toes painted the same color as her fingernails, a color not unlike the bloodred stones in the ring.
