‘Could you answer it?’ Harper looked at him pleadingly.
Smith shook his head.
‘Harper, no. Trust me – all those two crimes have in common is a girl coming home from school.’
His tone was firm – irrefutable. But she knew that wasn’t true at all.
She wasn’t sure how to play this. She couldn’t explain what she knew without revealing she’d seen the crime scene. And then he was going to want to know how exactly she’d managed that.
But she didn’t have much choice.
‘Are you sure? Whitney was found in the kitchen, right?’ She tried to sound confused but not challenging. ‘Naked and lying on the floor. Stabbed repeatedly. Lieutenant, that’s exactly like my mother.’
His eyes widened. She could sense him preparing an argument, so she launched into all the questions that had filled her mind in the last two hours.
‘What kind of knife did he use? Was it the same kind used on my mother? Have you compared the cases? If it’s the same guy, why—’
‘Harper stop.’ Smith’s big, craggy face reddened. ‘How the hell do you know where the body was found? None of those facts have been released to the press and I’ll be damned if Blazer told you. That man would sooner kiss a rattlesnake than talk to a reporter.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she argued. ‘What matters is whether the same person killed Marie Whitney as—’
‘Enough,’ he snapped, cutting her off again. ‘You don’t get to ask the questions. I do. Now, you have somehow accessed information you should not have about a murder case under investigation. As head of the homicide division I am ultimately responsible for that crime scene. And I will know who gave you those details, or I will be on the phone to your editor to get her over here to explain for you.’
Harper swallowed hard.
Now and then she got small glimpses of what it must be like to be a murder suspect interviewed by him. His narrow blue eyes were so steely and penetrating it hurt to look at them. It was as if he could see through her to her soul.
‘I saw the crime scene,’ she confessed.
Smith rubbed his forehead tiredly.
‘Oh, wonderful. And how, exactly, did you manage that?’
‘Through the window,’ she said. ‘I happened to get a quick glance. That’s it.’
‘Happened to get a quick glance?’ Smith cocked his head, eyeing her with open suspicion. ‘Which window?’
‘One of the back ones.’ She tilted one shoulder. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Hell, yes, it matters. Because the only way to see through those windows …’
With a silent apology to Miles, Harper said, ‘… is with a long-range camera lens from the backyard of a helpful neighbor. Yes. And that is not illegal, Lieutenant. As you well know.’
His mouth snapped shut.
There was a pause as they both sat staring each other down across the vast desk.
Finally, he blinked.
‘Harper, why did you do that? This isn’t like you.’ The anger had left his voice, replaced by weariness. ‘You know you’ve got no business spying on an active homicide investigation.’
This time Harper didn’t have to think up a good lie.
‘I saw Camille,’ she said. ‘I saw her standing next to you, and it was like looking at myself. I had to know if the crimes were the same. And they were.’
The lieutenant sagged in his seat.
‘It’s not the same,’ he insisted. ‘That girl isn’t you.’
‘Lieutenant, please.’ Harper leaned forward. ‘I have to know why this crime scene looked so much like my mother’s. I don’t want to fight with you. I need to understand what’s happening. This is for me, not the newspaper. For me.’ She pressed a hand hard against her chest. ‘Do you think the same person committed both murders? Is my mother’s killer back?’
Deep lines scored the skin above Smith’s eyes as he studied her with grave understanding.
‘I’m so sorry, Harper,’ he said gently. ‘The same person did not commit both murders.’
Some tiny strand of hope or fear that had wrapped itself around Harper’s heart from the moment she first saw Camille standing on the street hours earlier, let go. And she hated to see it leave.
She felt numb. She’d been so sure.
‘You’re certain?’ Her voice was airless.
‘I’m certain.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, look. I’m not denying there are striking similarities with your mother’s case. But there are differences, too, Harper. Significant differences.’
‘What differences?’
‘The type of weapon used, the angle of the wounds, the force used in the attack – it all indicates a different person committed this crime,’ he said. ‘This person is taller than your mother’s murderer. He’s heavier. The wounds were less efficient, more tentative – Whitney had more defensive wounds, so she had more of a chance to fight. This all points to a different killer.’
He spoke with confidence. Evidence was where he was comfortable. It’s where all detectives are most at home. Building a case from a hundred microscopic individual strands, like an architect designing a building one pencil-stroke at a time.
Harper couldn’t argue with evidence.
‘There are enough differences in this scene to reassure me that those superficial similarities are no more than coincidences,’ he continued. ‘Listen, if you stick around in this business long enough, you get to see the same kind of murder happen again. There are only so many ways to kill.’
Harper tried to think of something to say, but all the fight left her. She kept seeing Marie Whitney – her hand flung out, fingers curled. And her own mother, still and cold.
‘Oh,’ she said softly.
‘Harper,’ the lieutenant looked concerned. ‘Are you OK? You need something? Some water?’
‘No …’ she told him. ‘I mean … I’m fine.’
It wasn’t true. She wanted to ask him about what Blazer had said, about the killer being a professional, and what did that mean but, suddenly, she felt suffocated in this windowless room. She had to get out.
She stood abruptly, shoving the chair back so hard it skidded harshly on the floor. Smith looked startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, backing to the door. ‘I have to get to the newsroom. Deadlines.’
Smith nodded. ‘Of course.’
But he stood up behind his desk, as if deciding whether or not to follow her as she fumbled with the door.
In the open doorway she stopped and looked back at him. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were worried.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’ Remembering their agreed lunch plans, she added hurriedly, ‘I’ll see you Sunday, OK?’
Before he could reply, she yanked the door open and ran out into the hallway, rushing to the security doors and out into the warm summer night.
Chapter Twelve
Five hours later, just after midnight, Harper stood in front of a converted warehouse on a cobblestoned lane at the edge of the river squinting at the numbered buttons in the dark.
The light above the door had gone out two weeks ago and no one had fixed it yet. One of these days she was going to come down here with a screwdriver and replace that damn bulb herself.
Finding number twelve, she hit it hard and waited, staring at the camera above the door. Her right leg jittered with ill-concealed impatience.
Now that she was here, she wanted to get this over with.
‘Jackson.’ Through the tinny speaker, Miles’ voice sounded crisp and cautious.
‘It’s me,’ she told the camera. ‘Obviously.’
With a deep, mechanical clunk, the heavy steel door unlocked and swung silently inward.
Inside, she crossed a spacious, empty lobby, past over-sized pots holding glossy palms and ficus trees that seemed small in the cavernous space. The owners had kept the original pitted and worn stone floor, polishing it up to make it look a bit more like a home and less like what it had been for
more than a hundred years – a giant holding area for crates of cotton and tobacco, sweet potatoes and sugarcane.
Even now, despite all the developer’s efforts cleaning and glossing and polishing, she thought she could detect the faintest scent of ancient field dust in the artificially cooled air.
The elevator opened as soon as she pressed the call button. They’d gone for a post-industrial look here, with walls made of sheets of metal that looked like someone had punched it repeatedly until it behaved.
As the lift rose, she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. Her stomach grumbled loud enough to be heard above the elevator’s pulleys. She hadn’t eaten anything since her interrupted lunch at Eric’s. There’d been no time.
Once she’d returned from the police station, she’d spent hours putting together a complete news package about Marie Whitney for the final edition. DJ had stayed late to help.
The headline – Murder Shocks Peaceful Neighborhood – was mediocre, in Harper’s opinion. But it was, at least, accurate.
Miles hadn’t told anyone about Harper’s behavior at the crime scene. Now, she was here to give him the explanation she’d promised.
On the fourth floor, the doors swept open with a soft shushing sound, revealing a dimly lit, wide hallway with exposed brick walls. The door to number twelve stood ajar.
She walked in, shutting the door behind her. A husky blues singer’s voice streamed from speakers.
‘Hello?’
The loft apartment had soaring ceilings and a floor made of wide planks of reclaimed oak. Huge windows lined one wall, framing the glittering lights of downtown Savannah and the undulating dark swirl of the river.
The living room, dining room and kitchen were all one space. His furniture was modern – leather and chrome. Most of the lights were turned down low, except in the kitchen, where Miles sat at the table in the bright, clean glow of a pendulum light.
Glancing up at her, he tilted his head toward the fridge. The wire-framed glasses he wore for close-up work glittered in the light. If he was still angry at her, it didn’t show on his face.
‘Grab yourself a beer.’
He’d spread the internal parts of a camera out on clean, white paper and under a bright light was working with an array of complex tools, meticulously putting it back together.
He did this regularly; said it helped him think.
A police scanner on the counter next to the fridge buzzed and crackled loud enough to be heard above the music.
Harper pulled a bottle from the fridge.
‘I’m surprised to see you,’ Miles said, as she popped the lid with an opener he’d left on the counter. ‘Figured you’d be at Rosie’s.’
After the paper went to bed, everyone had headed down to Rosie Malone’s for a drink. It was a tradition after a big story. Harper knew Josh and Natalie would be there, too, but she couldn’t face the post-mortem chitchat tonight.
‘Didn’t feel like it.’ She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, resting her beer well away from all the neatly arrayed metal parts. ‘New camera?’
‘Got it on eBay,’ he said, with as much satisfaction as if he was announcing a lottery win. ‘Cost about a dollar more than nothing. They said the shutter wasn’t working properly and couldn’t be fixed.’ He gestured at the bits of black metal spread on the table. ‘I’m fixing it.’
Using a tiny tool, he chose a mysterious-looking part and placed it back in the hollowed-out camera body with deliberate precision.
‘So,’ he said, when it was where he wanted it. ‘What brings you here?’
He glanced up at her, his gaze as steady as his hands.
Harper swallowed a long drink of cold courage.
‘I owe you an explanation,’ she said after a beat. ‘And I’m here to give it to you.’
‘Shoot,’ he said.
Harper cleared her throat, bracing herself.
‘You wanted to know about the fifteen-year-old murder. The one the Whitney scene reminded me of.’
He nodded at his camera, adjusting something inside it.
‘Yes, I did. Seemed like you didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘I don’t. But I will.’ Harper worried the label on her beer bottle. ‘The crime scene today – it looked exactly the same as the scene where my mother was murdered.’
He dropped the screwdriver, which clattered to the table.
‘Your mother was murdered?’
He stared at her with open shock.
‘Yes.’ Harper’s voice was calm. ‘She was stabbed to death in our kitchen when I was twelve.’
Setting down the camera, Miles reached for the remote control at the edge of the table and turned the stereo down. The blues faded.
Shifting in his seat, he studied her, his brow furrowed.
‘You saw that crime scene?’
‘I found her body,’ she told him. ‘Like Camille found her mother today. In the kitchen. Stabbed to death. Naked.’
Miles took off his glasses and set them on the table. He looked bewildered.
‘Harper, you never told me a word of this before. We’ve been working together nearly six years.’
There was a question buried in the confusion in his voice. And there was no way for Harper to pretend she didn’t notice it.
‘I’m sorry I’ve never told you. But I don’t talk about it,’ she said. ‘Ever.’
She turned the beer bottle around. The label, with its foreign name, appeared and disappeared.
‘They never caught the guy?’ he guessed.
Harper shook her head.
‘Nope.’
‘And you think the same guy might have killed Marie Whitney?’
‘I did,’ she admitted. ‘Until I talked to Smith tonight. He told me flat out he thought I was wrong.’
‘Damn.’ Miles leaned back in his chair and took a swig of his beer.
‘Yeah,’ Harper said. ‘But I’ve been thinking about it and I’m not sure he’s right.’
Miles gave her a look.
‘I saw both crime scenes, Miles,’ she said, setting her bottle down with a thud. ‘They looked identical. The location of the body in the house. The time of day. The type of weapon used.’ She ticked the similarities off on her fingers. ‘The specifics of my mother’s murder scene were never published and yet the two crime scenes were precisely the same in every obvious way. How could that be a coincidence?’
It was a genuine question. Because she’d had time to think it over and, whatever Smith thought, this couldn’t be explained away by knife angles.
‘Now, wait a minute. Let’s think this through,’ Miles said. ‘What did Smith say, exactly? Did he tell you how the crime scene was different?’
Harper told him what Smith had said about the size of the weapon and the angle. The way the Whitney killer must be taller and heavier.
He listened carefully, a frown gradually creasing his forehead.
‘That’s not a hell of a difference,’ he conceded, when she finished.
‘Yeah, and the more I think about it, the weaker it gets,’ Harper said. ‘He says this killer’s heavier? It’s been fifteen years since the last murder. People get heavier. And as for the angle of the stab wounds …’ She shrugged. ‘What if Marie Whitney was shorter than my mom? That would affect the angle, wouldn’t it?’
‘Seems to me it would,’ he murmured.
‘I think,’ Harper continued, ‘Smith believes it’s just too unlikely. All these years have passed and the killer comes back now? Even I don’t understand how that works. It doesn’t make sense that it’s the same killer. But then, it doesn’t make sense that it isn’t. Do you see what I mean?’
She glanced at Miles hopefully.
‘It’s a strange one,’ he said after a long pause. ‘But time doesn’t always stop a killer.’
He reached for his own beer and, finding it empty, headed to the fridge for another.
‘Smith tell you anything else?’ he asked from across the ki
tchen. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Not Smith,’ Harper said. ‘Blazer. Apparently he’s telling everyone the killer’s a professional. What does that mean?’
Miles walked back with two bottles and handed her one.
‘You got me,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘I sure don’t see this being a hit. Who takes out a hit on a single mother who works in fundraising at a small college?’
‘Exactly.’ Harper leaned toward him eagerly. ‘And yet, if Dwayne heard Blazer right, there were no fingerprints, no footprints, no DNA.’
Miles let out a low whistle.
‘Well, that’s something,’ he said. ‘In that case, it wasn’t a crime of passion. Because if you’re caught up in it and you’re killing without thinking, you make mistakes.’ He picked up his camera again, twisting it around to let the light inside. ‘We’re talking about an educated man. A trained man.’
‘And if it is the same man, why come back now?’ Harper asked. ‘Where has he been all these years? Was he in prison for another crime? Or is he a roamer, who came here once and ended up back here again?’
‘Good questions all,’ Miles agreed.
By now, Harper’s earlier exhaustion was gone. Her brain was firing on all cylinders. Miles was a cautious man with an encyclopedic knowledge of crime. If he didn’t think her theories were crazy, then she really might be on to something.
‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ she told him, as he reached for the camera again. ‘First, I need to research my mother’s murder. See if there’s anything I can find to tie it to the Whitney case. Then I need to find out more about today’s murder. Put all the pieces together.’
Miles’ hand, reaching for a tool, paused.
‘Be careful,’ he cautioned. ‘This is sensitive territory. If the detectives find out you’re running an independent investigation, they won’t like it. Blazer’s a hardass. He’d love to find something to use to hang you out to dry.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
Harper’s tone was blithe. The last thing she cared about was Blazer complaining about her to Smith.
In fact, it was hard to care about anything except getting started. For the first time in her life there was a chance – just a chance – she might find the man who killed her mother. If Smith was wrong, and she believed he was, Marie Whitney could lead her to him.
The Echo Killing Page 9
