The Morning After

by Lisa Jackson

  “Will do.”

  Reed clicked his pen as the conversation ended. He stared out the window as afternoon shadows darkened the city. Did someone kill Vince Lassiter? Was Bobbi Jean’s brother’s death connected to hers? Would he turn up in the next coffin, assuming, from the killer’s E-mail, that there would be more? Or had Lassiter disappeared on purpose? Was he somehow involved in the bizarre murders?

  Adding information on Lassiter to his computer notes on the case, he felt, rather than heard, someone approach. He glanced over his shoulder and found Cliff Siebert standing in the door frame. Tall, fit, with close-cropped hair and a perpetual frown, Siebert was a young buck who knew his stuff but always seemed to be preoccupied. Reed never noticed Siebert joking with the rest of the detectives and thought the kid should learn to lighten up. Humor, even black humor, helped relieve the tension of an oftentimes grisly job.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you?” Reed asked.

  “I was hoping you could give me your notes on the Grave Robber case.”

  “My notes?”

  “I’ve been assigned to help with it. I’ll be Morrisette’s partner.”

  “Is that so?” Reed felt a slow burn ride up the back of his neck.

  “Yeah.” At least the kid seemed uncomfortable asking.

  “Morrisette’s got everything I do.”

  “But you made notes to yourself. She doesn’t have those.”

  He felt the computer screen glowing with his own take on the killings.

  “She’s got everything she needs. All the facts.”

  “I’m talkin’ about your gut feelings. You know…your impressions.”

  “You think I wrote those down?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “I’ll send ’em to Morrisette,” Reed said, not wanting to give the younger detective an inch. There was just something about Cliff Siebert that rubbed Reed the wrong way, nothing he could put his finger on; Siebert had an impeccable record, still, Reed didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone with a clear record. “Via E-mail.”

  Siebert looked about to argue, then, under Reed’s glare, thought better of it. Serious expression unreadable, he said, “I’ll get ’em from her.”

  Like hell, Reed thought. He’d pass along all the pertinent facts, and his assessment of that data, but his gut impressions, conjectures and theories, he’d keep to himself. They wouldn’t do anyone else any good anyway. Quickly, he copied his notes to a disc, which he tucked into his briefcase. Then he edited the information on the hard drive and E-mailed it to Morrisette. When he was finished, he barely had time to meet Nikki, but he took a side journey to Katherine Okano’s office where Tonya Cassidy, Okano’s secretary, was cleaning up her desk for the day.

  “I need to see Kathy.”

  “She’s gone for the day.”

  Reed’s jaw tensed; he sent Tonya a look guaranteed to paralyze. In his estimation, Tonya was forever on an authority trip. “When will she be back?”

  “Monday.”

  Damn.

  “She said you’d probably stop by and she left you this.” Tonya reached into a top drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope. With a lift of her eyebrows that told him she already knew what was inside the sealed packet, she handed it to Reed.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was inside.

  Once in the hallway he ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single page.

  The lab report was definite. His B-negative blood indicated with great probability that he was the father of Bobbi Marx’s baby. There was a note that a DNA report was to follow as soon as all the tests were completed.

  He felt a new sense of despair.

  His kid.

  The bastard had killed his kid.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I can’t, not tonight,” Nikki said, cradling her desk telephone between her shoulder and ear and only half listening to the conversation. She was pressed for time and had just put the finishing touches on her next story about the Grave Robber.

  But her sister had problems of her own and from the sound of it, she was desperate. “Why not? Look, Nikki, it’s not as if I ask you to baby-sit all that often.”

  That much was true, Nikki thought. “Any other night, Lily, I swear. But the police are holding a press conference on the Grave Robber in less than an hour and after that I’ve got an important interview. Really important.”

  “Take her along.”

  “Take a two-year-old along? Are you crazy?” Nikki misspelled a word. “Damn.” She leaned back in her chair and gave up typing. “You take her along.”

  “But I have a date. I wouldn’t ask, but my sitter flaked on me at the last minute.”

  “Okay, okay, look…Take Phee over to Mom and Dad’s. I’ll pick her up after the interview…say around nine-thirty or ten, haul her back to your place and work on my laptop when she goes to bed.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “If it’s not good enough for you, find someone else. Call Kyle,” she suggested.

  “Kyle? Humph.” Lily snorted in disdain at the mention of their brother. “What does he know about kids?”

  “What do I know? Look, Lily, I’ve really got to run.”

  “Okay, I’ll drop her by the folks’, but it’s really an inconvenience. I’m supposed to meet Mel at seven.” Sighing, she added, “You know what your problem is, Nicole?”

  Uh-oh, here it comes. “Why do I feel like you’re determined to enlighten me?” Nikki dropped her cell phone into her bag.

  “You’re just like Andrew,” Lily said, ignoring the dig. “Self-centered and driven. As if the world revolves around you.” She hung up angrily and Nikki winced. As much from the insult as from the loud disconnect. Leave it to Lily to hang up after a barb. From the time she was a whiney child, Lily had always had to get in the last word. A pseudo-intellectual who embraced academia, liberal politics and high fashion, she spent her days caring for her daughter, smoking thin black cigarettes and discussing literature and philosophy. She worked part-time at a coffeehouse and played a flute or sang in a jazz band. Nikki had been in the audience twice and just didn’t get the music. The songs never seemed to end and had a melody that wove in and out of the general noise.

  Martyr-like, Lily had never named the father of little Ophelia; the baby’s paternity would probably be a secret Nikki’s older sister would take to her grave. Not that it mattered. Ophelia, fatherless and straight-on adorable, had stolen Nikki’s heart from the first time she’d laid eyes upon her niece in the hospital. Just thinking of the tangle-haired two-year-old brought a smile to Nikki’s face.

  Nikki finished the rough draft of her article, leaving room to make some changes in case she learned anything important at the press conference or her interview with Reed and had to do some revisions, then grabbed her coat and hurried outside. She nearly plowed into Norm Metzger at the door.

  “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Always the gentlemen, aren’t you?” she spouted, though the last thing she needed was a confrontation with Norm. Not now. Well, not ever.

  The angry look he sent her spoke volumes and she braced herself for the forthcoming verbal onslaught. “Where the hell do you get your information?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How can you be one jump ahead of the police?” He was blocking the door and she had no choice but to deal with him.

  “I’m not a jump ahead.”

  “You wrote that story about the serial killer before the police made a statement. I just heard that there’s going to be a press conference at six.” He checked his watch. “In twenty minutes. What do you bet that they’re going to paraphrase everything you already printed and bring up the possibility of a serial murderer?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Isn’t that a surprise.”

  “So, why aren’t you there, acing the competition.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said bitterly. “I think I’m staring at the competiti
on right now.”

  “Oh, Norm, give it up,” she shot back and eased past him.

  “You know, Gillette, you probably don’t even need to bother with the press conference. Your ‘source’ gives you the goods before the rest of us.”

  “It really bugs you that I have a source, doesn’t it?” she asked, bristling. She’d taken his guff long enough.

  “What bugs me is that you trade on your name. Being the daughter of Big Ron Gillette opens a lot of doors for you that are closed to the rest of us working stiffs.”

  “You think it’s my name?”

  “I know it is.” His smile, beneath his moustache, was as false as fool’s gold.

  “Well, you just go on thinking that way!” She somehow managed to bite back the hot retort that was on the tip of her tongue. “It’ll get you nowhere fast.” Then she was off, running across the street to the parking lot, her cheeks flaming, her ego bruised even though he hadn’t said anything she hadn’t heard before or even thought herself. She threw her purse and briefcase into the backseat and climbed behind the wheel of her hatchback. Don’t let him get to you, she told herself as she wheeled out of the parking lot. Don’t give him the satisfaction of winning. You know what’s true. Maybe that was the worst part. She wasn’t trading on her father’s name, but she was using her brother’s death and his friend’s guilt to get her story. She drove like a madwoman to the police station where she squeezed into a parking lot behind the WKAM television van. It was nearly dark as the press conference was about to begin at the station steps. Streetlights glowed and the air was cool, but dry. Reporters, cameramen, and curious onlookers were milling around, held in line by several uniformed policemen.

  Within minutes Norm Metzger and Jim Levitt arrived. Norm, now wearing a wool cap and trench coat, pushed his way to the front of the crowd while Jim adjusted a lens for his camera and followed in the wake Norm created. Like a damned lapdog, Nikki thought, content for once to be on the outer rim of the reporters. She thought about the E-mail she’d received from the Grave Robber and smiled to herself. That was her ace in the hole. Despite its chilling message. No matter what she heard from the police, it wouldn’t compare to the direct communication she’d received from the killer. Which she intended to share with the cops. When the moment was right. After she’d published it.

  The wind was cold and she adjusted her jacket as the press conference got started. A police spokeswoman named Abbey Marlow made a short statement about what was happening. She gave some broad facts about the killings, alluded to the fact that the killer would probably strike again, and could be in the Savannah area. She asked the press and public to help the police and if anyone had seen anything unusual or suspicious to report it to the police department and specifically the task force that was being assembled. She released the names of the victims and answered a few questions.

  “Are the victims related or connected in any way?” a dark-haired woman from a local channel asked.

  “Not that we can tell.”

  “Is it true two bodies are pushed into one coffin?” This time it was Norm.

  “We have found two coffins, each with the original occupant and another victim.”

  “And they were buried alive?” Norm again.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any leads?” Max O’Dell from WKAM got in his licks.

  “The investigation is progressing, but we do ask everyone for any information they may have to bring it forward.”

  Nikki thought guiltily of the note in her purse as she scribbled and recorded the rest of the questions and answers.

  “Does the killer have an M.O.?” O’Dell persisted. “I mean, aside from burying his victims alive?”

  A few sardonic chuckles erupted, then dissipated into the rising wind that pushed a lock of Abbey’s reddish hair over her eyes.

  “Of course, I can’t comment on that because I don’t want to jeopardize the investigation.”

  “Has the killer tried to contact you?” Nikki said and Abbey Marlow seemed to tense a bit. Her gaze drilled into Nikki’s. “Again, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “But isn’t it common for serial killers to try to taunt the police, to initiate a game with them, to try to communicate or mislead them?”

  “In some cases,” Abbey agreed, and the other reporters, on the scent of some hidden information, pelted her with a few more questions before, smiling, she announced that the department had nothing further to say.

  But from Abbey Marlowe’s reaction to her questions, Nikki confirmed what Cliff had inadvertently told her, that the Grave Robber had contacted the Savannah police, specifically Reed. As the killer had written to her. Singled her out. Probably because of her first article on him. From her research, she also realized that killers, pretending to be helpful citizens, often tried to work with the cops, that they sometimes tried to ingratiate themselves with the detectives, that they got off on feeling smarter and superior to the officers trained to capture them, that they liked to be in on the action…Fingers of ice seemed to touch the back of her neck. There was a good chance that the killer was here…near the steps of the station…watching…waiting…feeling superior…trying to blend in.

  She sensed his presence in the shift of the wind…No, she was imagining things. Still, she glanced around quickly, past the reporters wrapping up, the cameramen with their shoulder cams, the curious onlookers in dark coats and hats blending into the shadows. Why did she feel as if she were being studied? Being singled out? Remembering the man she’d seen in the foliage the other morning at the diner, her breath caught. Several tall men seemed to fade into the background, away from the crowd and the streetlights that were just beginning to glow. Was one of them watching her, and when she looked in his direction, did he turn quickly and disappear into the coming darkness?

  You really are getting jumpy, Gillette, she admonished as she clicked off her recorder.

  “Get what you wanted?” a male voice whispered in her ear and she visibly started. Her heart squeezed in panic as she turned.

  Norm Metzger was at her side.

  “I think so.” Remain calm. He’s a creep, a jealous coworker, but essentially harmless. “You?”

  “What was that question about the cops being contacted by the killer?”

  “It’s common enough. You know that. Or you should. After all, you’re the paper’s crime reporter.”

  “But Marlow nearly fell off the steps when you asked the question. Did your snitch tell you that the killer’s called or written to the police department?”

  “I just asked a normal question, that’s all.” She was stuffing her recorder, pen and paper into her purse. “Look, I’ve got to run.”

  His eyes, shadowed by the brim of his wool cap, narrowed. “You know something.”

  “Geez, Metzger, this may come as a shock to you, but I know a lot. It’s kind of you to finally realize it.” With that, she turned and made her way to her hatchback. She half expected him to follow, but no footsteps scuffed along behind her and as she slipped into her car, she spied Norm and Jim Levitt walking to Norm’s Impala. She didn’t like the fact that he’d picked up on her question and for once, thankfully, her little car started with one twist on the ignition.

  Back at the office, she finished her story, turned it in, then checked her watch and realized she was running late. Metzger was still at his desk as Nikki slipped out the back door. Once in her car, she kept an eye on her rearview mirror just to make certain that Metzger, or anyone else for that matter, didn’t follow her. Her interview with Pierce Reed had to be confidential. Completely confidential.

  Reed glanced at his watch. Already she was five minutes late. He’d wait fifteen more and if she didn’t show, it would be Nikki Gillette’s funeral. So to speak.

  Or his.

  Seated behind the wheel of his El Dorado in the dark parking lot, he second-guessed himself. What he had planned could cost him his badge. But he had to do something. Anything to find out who had thrown
Bobbi into that coffin.

  The windows were beginning to fog over but through the glass, he stared at Johnny B’s Low Country Barbecue—a restaurant of sorts which, according to the sizzling neon sign, offered up “world-renowned southern barbecue.” The claim seemed a tad farfetched, but the parking lot was littered with pickups, campers, battered wagons and sedans. The El Dorado fit right in. Reed watched customers come and go, shouldering their way through the double doors of the low-slung 1950s-era building with its big plate-glass windows, grimy once-white walls and barely peaked roof. He’d already been inside. A take-out order sat in two brown paper bags on the bench seat beside him. Even in the darkness he saw that grease was already making stains in the paper.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered, surprised at how suddenly it was imperative that he speak to Nikki Gillette. For years he’d ducked her and anyone else who was associated with the press. She was pretty, smart, sassy and brash. And she was the daughter of Judge Ronald Gillette. All reasons to avoid her like the plague.

  Headlights flashed as a car raced into the pock-marked lot. The small silver vehicle squealed to a stop. Nikki Gillette’s Subaru hatchback. Good. He didn’t like the shot of adrenaline that spiked in his blood at the thought of her, but told himself it was just the fact that he was about to do something he didn’t believe in, that he was contemplating putting his job on the line.

  He opened the Cadillac’s door and stepped into the wind that blew in from the Atlantic. Smelling of brine and rippling the marsh grass and sand dunes that surrounded the lot, the wind whipped his coat around his legs.

  Nikki parked in a spray of gravel and was opening the car door before the Subaru’s engine died. She was obviously in a hurry. As always. She’d dogged him throughout the Montgomery case last summer, getting in his way and under his skin. There was something about the pushy little woman that bothered the hell out of him. He’d lost more nights’ sleep thinking about her than he’d ever admit. He’d hate to think how many times she’d entered his dreams. Sometimes as a cheeky, irritating reporter, other times as a sexy Lolita, seducing him with her firm breasts, nipped-in waist, athletic legs and taut, evocative ass. Those were the dreams that bothered him the most, because she wasn’t a woman he admired, wasn’t a woman he felt any tenderness for, wasn’t a woman he wanted to get to know any better. Nope. She was the kind of woman to avoid. Period.