‘How old?’
‘Fifteen years.’
His eyes left hers, sweeping down to the house in the distance.
‘Now why,’ he wondered aloud, ‘would someone kill and then not kill again for fifteen years?’
Harper didn’t reply. But it was a good question.
Why would her mother’s killer be back now? Where had he been for all these years?
Police had investigated her murder for months. Harper’s family had protected her as much as they could from what was happening but she’d known.
The investigation had torn her family to shreds. Leaving her with nothing.
And in the end, after all that, the killer got away.
‘Tell me about this old murder,’ Miles said. ‘Who was it? You would have been a child fifteen years ago.’
‘Not now.’ Harper’s reply was sharper than she intended.
When he shot her an exasperated look, she gestured at the crowds around them.
‘There’s too much going on, Miles. I promise I’ll explain. But let me do it later, OK?’
‘Fine with me.’ His tone was curt, but he seemed more perplexed than angry.
Suddenly, he straightened, hands reaching for his camera.
‘Looks like we’re about to find out something.’ He gestured with his chin.
A cluster of police had left the house and was heading for the crime tape.
Detective Blazer strode ahead of the others, his sharply structured face somber. Two less senior detectives walked behind him, along with a few uniformed cops.
Miles was already shooting pictures as the group ducked under the crime tape. The TV crews hustled to shift camera tripods into place. Josh and Natalie held out fur-covered microphones, like gigantic caterpillars, to catch his words.
Pulling a notebook from her pocket, Harper limped past the neighbors crowding around to eavesdrop, until she stood next to Natalie.
When everyone was still, Blazer spoke in a cool flat tone.
‘This afternoon at 3:30 p.m., the body of a deceased person was discovered at 3691 Constance Street. The body has been identified as that of one Marie Whitney, thirty-four years old, resident of said address. Cause of death is still being investigated by forensic units, but the weapon used appears to be a bladed instrument. The case is being treated as a homicide.’
The crowd of neighbors gave a collective gasp and drew closer together – shutting the reporters out. Harper heard someone say, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
Glancing up, Blazer frowned.
‘The time of death is estimated between eleven hundred and fourteen hundred hours. We would like anyone in the area who saw or heard anything suspicious at that time to contact the Savannah Police.’
He put his notebook away. It was a remarkably short statement, under the circumstances.
‘That’s it?’ Josh looked around the team of detectives.
Blazer’s brow lowered. ‘Print it the way I said it.’
‘I don’t print anything,’ Josh reminded him tartly. ‘I put it on television.’
Blazer glowered at him.
‘May I remind you a woman was murdered today?’ he said. ‘Can’t you behave with decorum for five minutes?’
‘Detective Blazer, please forgive my colleague from Channel 5.’ Natalie deployed her most winsome look. ‘Could you, perhaps, tell us about the girl we saw earlier? Is she related to the victim?’
Nobody could resist Natalie when she was on her game, not even Blazer. His expression softened infinitesimally.
‘All I can tell you is that she is the daughter of the victim,’ he said. ‘And she’s safe and unharmed.’
‘Could you tell us her name?’ Natalie asked hopefully.
Blazer had clearly anticipated this. ‘Her name is Camille Whitney.’
Josh leaned forward, jutting his microphone out. ‘Did she discover the body?’
Blazer fixed him with an icy stare.
‘I can’t tell you any more than that at this time.’ His gaze swung back to Natalie. ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate this is a delicate situation and we want to keep everyone – particularly children – as safe as possible.’
‘Detective.’ Harper angled herself forward. ‘Have you got any suspects?’
He glanced at her without interest. ‘We’re not yet ready to divulge that information.’
‘Could you tell us more about the crime?’ Harper tried again. ‘Were there signs of a struggle? Do you suspect a relative?’
Blazer’s jaw tightened. ‘It’s too early for this. Give us some time to do our jobs here, would you?’
‘We’re trying to do our jobs, too, Detective,’ Josh reminded him.
By then, though, Blazer had had enough.
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ he said pointedly.
Ducking under the crime tape, he stalked back towards the yellow house, the other detectives following a short distance behind.
‘Thanks so much, Sergeant,’ Natalie called after him.
As he rolled the microphone cable around his arm, Josh shot her a withering look.
‘Kiss ass.’
Natalie smiled beatifically.
‘Of course you can kiss my ass if you’d like, Josh. All of Channel 5 can.’
‘Seriously, though.’ Josh tilted his head at the retreating backs of the police officials. ‘What was that about? He didn’t give us anything.’
Miles appeared at Harper’s side, his phone in one hand. The puzzled look he’d worn since she’d insisted on seeing the crime scene was still there.
‘That’s all we’re going to get out here, today, I reckon. I’m heading back to the newsroom,’ he said, distance in his voice. ‘Baxter wants you in, too. Says you need the story before six for the website.’
She nodded. ‘On my way.’
He paused, staring down at the yellow house. ‘That was a short statement, wasn’t it? He didn’t say much.’
Grabbing her keys, Harper turned to limp to her car.
‘He said plenty.’
Back at the newsroom, she wrote up a quick article for the early edition. Miles sat a few desks away from her, pointedly not looking at her as he edited his photos. Harper knew she’d have to give him some sort of explanation for what had transpired out on Constance Street, but there wasn’t time now.
Still, the practical work of putting together the scant facts the police had been willing to share steadied her. When she finished writing, though, the article was far too short. She needed to know more.
Pushing other papers out of the way, Harper flipped through her notes from the crime scene. Hadn’t the neighbors said Whitney worked at a university?
Savannah had two colleges – the Savannah College of Art and Design and Savannah State University. The art school was downtown, not far from where Harper lived. It was funky and modern, populated mostly by tattooed kids from wealthy northern families.
The university was out in the suburbs. It attracted working-class Georgia kids looking for a smaller school closer to home than UGA in Athens.
Harper wasn’t immediately certain which one the neighbors meant.
With quick sure movements, she typed Whitney’s name and the name of the local college into the computer. The search brought up a page on the Savannah State University website with an image of a slim, polished woman. Her shoulder-length hair was honey blonde, forming a striking contrast with her warm, brown eyes. She had a wide, Miss America smile.
Under her picture the caption read: ‘Marie Whitney, Vice Chair for Development and Enrichment’.
Leaning closer, Harper stared at the image. It was hard to believe this was the same woman she’d seen earlier that day.
Death takes away everything that makes you distinctive. Everything that makes you who you are.
Dead, Whitney had been anonymous. Pale skin on the cold floor – a hand reaching out imploringly.
Alive, she’d looked electric. She was almost hypnotically beautiful – cinnamon eyes a
nd flawless golden skin warm and glowing with life.
If Harper was looking for parallels between Whitney and her mother, she wasn’t going to find any in their appearance.
Her mother had been beautiful, yes. But Harper could hardly remember a time when she wore makeup. Her long red hair had usually been twisted up and held haphazardly in place with a paintbrush or pencil. She’d favored faded jeans with torn knees and was usually barefoot when she worked.
There was nothing to connect her, physically at least, to this polished woman.
Still, there were obvious elements linking the two. They were both in their thirties. Both were mothers. Both were about the same age when they were killed. Both were stabbed multiple times in their homes in daylight crimes. Both were found naked, on the kitchen floor. Both were discovered by their twelve-year-old daughters after school.
It wasn’t enough to go on and Harper knew it. But it wasn’t nothing, either.
‘Is that her?’
Baxter’s sharp voice made Harper jump. The editor had walked up without her noticing. She peered over her shoulder at the image on the screen.
‘Uh … Yeah. That’s her,’ Harper said, clearing her throat. ‘I’m trying to figure out what Development and Enrichment means.’
‘Money,’ Baxter said. ‘It’s a long-winded way of saying “fund-raising”.’ She straightened. ‘Find DJ and get him to call the university and ask permission for us to use that.’ The editor tapped her fingertip against Marie Whitney’s face. ‘Tell him to get a high-res version for print. I’ll let art know.’
She hustled off, her low heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.
When she was gone, Harper didn’t immediately search for DJ. Instead, she searched for more information on Whitney.
She was mentioned in a few articles about the college, mostly as a minor player. There was only one piece of any length – an over-excited article in the university newspaper, The Caller. It had been written two years earlier and was headlined: Whitney Brings in Big Bucks.
Fundraiser extraordinaire, Marie Whitney, 32, is being credited with organizing a campaign that has so far brought a whopping $4.3 million to the school’s coffers.
Whitney has arranged gala balls, celebrity concerts and art sales, together with an online campaign. Thanks in large part to her efforts, the school has exceeded its annual fundraising goal of $3.8 million by over half a million dollars.
Ever cheerful, Whitney is popular with other workers in the Development Office, for her bubbly personality as well as her can-do attitude.
‘Everyone loves Marie,’ her boss Ellen Janeworth said, when interviewed. ‘She’s a dream to work with. There’s nothing she won’t do for the university.’
Whitney told us she was delighted by her recent success.
‘I loved my time at college,’ she said, smiling. ‘It was the high point of my life. I want to make sure future students – including my own daughter – have the chances I had.’
The article was illustrated with a candid picture of Marie, standing on the portico of the university’s administration building. She wore a white pencil skirt and a blue, snug-fitting top. Her skin was unlined. Her lipstick was a conservative, delicate pink. She was smiling that same perfect smile.
Harper stared at that picture for a long time.
There was so much that didn’t make sense. What connected Whitney to her mother? Who would have wanted to kill both of them?
And, if the same person killed them both, what had made him come back now?
Chapter Eleven
Two hours later, Harper walked out of the darkening city through the heavy glass door into the police station. The entrance hall was empty at this hour and her footsteps echoed in the hollow quiet. Her ankle still ached from her fall earlier, but she was no longer limping. The air conditioning felt like ice against her skin.
Dwayne Josephs looked up from the screen of the small TV that sat underneath the top of the broad modern reception desk. Seeing her, his face brightened.
‘Harper! I heard y’all got y’allselves a live one,’ he said, his tone meaningful. ‘Got everyone here in an uproar. Like someone killed the president.’
Dwayne was dark-skinned and as skinny as daytime receptionist Darlene was curvy. He was six feet tall but his arms and legs still seemed too long for his body, a fact that imbued him with the endearing gawkiness of a teenager, although Harper reckoned he had to be at least thirty-five.
She’d known him for years and she knew how much he loved to gossip. At the moment, she needed information, and she was hoping he’d have something she could use. But she had to play this carefully. As much as Dwayne loved gossip, he also hated breaking the rules. So the trick was to get him to talk without realizing he was saying anything he shouldn’t.
Harper tried to strike a note somewhere between interested and not too interested.
‘Really? Why are they in an uproar?’
Leaning against the counter, Dwayne lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘Well. Blazer went through here a while ago cussin’ a bluestreak,’ he confided with breathless reproach. ‘F-this and F-that.’
Aware that Dwayne had a close and fervent relationship with his church, Harper shook her head disapprovingly.
‘Did he now? My goodness, that’s not like him.’ It was like Blazer actually, but she also knew Dwayne liked to think the best of everyone. ‘What was he so upset about?’
‘Said the TV reporters were vipers crawlin’ all over his crime scene and talkin’ the b-word.’
It took Harper a second to figure out that ‘talking the b-word’ probably meant ‘talking bullshit’. She could readily imagine Blazer coming up with that one.
‘Really?’ She tried to look aghast.
‘Said they were tryin’ to trip him up.’ Dwayne warmed to his topic. ‘Make him say something wrong. Get him in trouble. Said there’s a killer out there who’s a professional and they ought to be worried about that instead of wastin’ his time.’
Harper’s heart jumped. She had to look away so he wouldn’t see the excitement in her face.
‘A professional?’ She pretended to dig in her bag for something. ‘In Savannah? Is he crazy?’
Dwayne didn’t notice the tight edge to her voice.
‘He ain’t crazy,’ he assured her. ‘Everyone’s sayin’ it. No fingerprints. No footprints. No DNA.’
Harper pulled out her lip balm as if that was what she’d been looking for all along. Her eyes glanced off of his.
‘So they don’t have any suspects at all?’
It was a step too far. Dwayne paused, biting his lower lip.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, suddenly cagey. ‘You’d best ask Detective Blazer.’
His brow lowering, he took a step back from the counter.
‘Yeah, I really should.’ She kept her tone easy, meticulously applying the lip balm and then dropping it in her bag. ‘Is he in?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s at the morgue.’
This was fine with Harper. There was no point in talking to Blazer. He’d give her nothing. But someone else might help.
‘What about the lieutenant?’ she asked.
Relief suffused Dwayne’s features. He hated to tell her no.
‘He’s in his office,’ he said. ‘I’ll buzz you through.’
She headed for the security door. ‘Thanks a lot, Dwayne.’
It was after seven and the long, narrow hallway, busy during the day with uniformed police carrying files, dispatchers heading off to get coffee, and detectives strolling to interview rooms, was quiet.
As she walked, Harper worked through the information Dwayne had unknowingly revealed.
A professional killer? What did that mean? A hitman? Or just someone who’d killed before?
And if it was the latter, why couldn’t it be the same person who killed her mother fifteen years ago?
Smith’s door was near the end of the hallway. The lights glowed sof
tly through the frosted-glass window as Harper approached.
He wasn’t usually in this late. The Whitney case must be keeping him busy.
She knocked once.
‘Enter,’ he called gruffly.
When she stepped in, she saw surprise on his face. Closing the folder on his desk, he set a paperweight – a heavy bronze golf ball – on top of it.
‘Harper.’ He didn’t sound thrilled. ‘I figured you’d be busy writing up that homicide.’
‘I am. That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to you.’
He gave her a warning look.
‘Now, listen, you know I can’t help you with an active investigation …’
She held up her hands. ‘I know. But still. There’s something I need to ask you.’
Without waiting for an invitation, she closed the door and sat in one of the chairs facing his desk and leaned toward him.
‘The girl I saw you with today – Camille Whitney – is she OK?’
Some of the sternness left his expression.
‘She’s fine, Harper. You know we’ll look after her.’
She did know. She knew exactly what would happen to Camille now. How police would try to keep her distracted, plying her with soft drinks she didn’t want and coloring books she was too old for, until social workers and family could spirit her away to some inadequate kind of safety.
‘Is that all you wanted?’ Smith asked, when she didn’t speak again.
‘I just …’ she paused, looking down at the notebook in her hand. ‘Seeing her today. With you. It was so similar to what happened. Back then.’
Smith shifted the golf-ball paperweight across the folder.
‘I thought the same thing when I saw her,’ he said gruffly. ‘My first thought was it was too much like you.’
‘Lieutenant, do you think …’ Harper paused, gathering her courage. ‘Did it look to you like the same person who killed my mother, killed Marie Whitney?’
An odd look crossed Smith’s face then. A kind of visceral shock – as if she’d slapped him.
‘What the hell kind of question is that?’
His deep baritone voice was the low, ominous rumble of thunder in the distance.
The Echo Killing Page 8
