Smoothly, she pulled into her usual parking place under the oak, her eyes sweeping the sidewalk for anyone else who might be looking for her. But the street was empty.
Cutting the engine, she sat still, watching the Mercedes. It slowed as it passed – like it wanted to be seen.
The windows were darkly tinted. All she could see was the shadowy outline of a driver, staring straight ahead.
When it passed, she noticed the light above its license plate was out – the only part of it she could get in the darkness looked like 90K.
Her eyes still on the car, she dug in her bag for a pen and scribbled the partial plate on the back of her hand. Then she watched as it reached the corner, signaled left, and disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-nine
When the Mercedes was gone, Harper hurriedly opened the car door and vaulted out into the street, slamming the door behind her. Breathless, she ran into the middle of the road and stared into the shadows where the car had been, as if it might leave some trace behind. But there was nothing.
After a minute, she climbed the stairs to her apartment and unlocked the door, securing it behind her.
Leaving the lights off, she went to the window and peered out – but the street remained empty.
Harper didn’t know what to make of this. Had the car really been following her? Maybe it was nothing more than a coincidence. The car happened to be going her way. Or maybe it wasn’t the same Mercedes that had been behind her earlier.
Or maybe someone who knew what she was working on was trying to intimidate her.
Either way, she was going to have to keep a good eye out from now on. If someone was going so far as to actually follow her, things were getting serious.
Zuzu bounded into the room, her tail in the air, miaowing insistently.
‘What about you?’ she asked, stroking her hand across the soft fur. ‘Did you see anything unusual today?’
She purred and rubbed against her ankle.
‘Some guard cat you are.’
They walked together to the kitchen and she put some food out for her. As the cat ate, she opened the fridge looking for something for herself.
Only then did it strike her, she’d forgotten her groceries in the car.
With a sigh, she grabbed her keys and headed back across the dark apartment, right as someone knocked on the door.
Her heart kicked.
It was Luke’s distinctive knock – three light taps.
Still, Harper checked through the peephole first. He stood in the glow of the porch light – his dark blue eyes watching the door as if he could see her through it.
She opened the door and reached for his hand, pulling him inside and checking the street behind him – empty again. No sign of the Mercedes.
‘What’s going on?’ Luke asked, instantly alert. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ she said, closing and locking the door. ‘But it might be something.’
They’d been seeing each other most nights, lately. Sometimes he texted first, sometimes he simply showed up. He always hid his car a few blocks away, usually on a quiet side street.
For Harper, it was almost scary how quickly this had become normal.
Trying not to sound like she was over-reacting, she told him about the Mercedes.
‘I know it could have been a coincidence,’ she said. ‘But it made me jittery.’
‘Coincidence or not, I don’t like it.’ There was real concern in his eyes. ‘Give me those numbers and I’ll see if I can run the plate tomorrow. A partial might be enough.’
Harper turned her hand over, letting him see what she’d written. Pulling out his phone, he tapped them in, and saved them.
‘If it wasn’t a coincidence,’ he said, ‘who do you think it could be?’
‘I’m investigating at least three men, all of whom probably believe I’m going to ruin their lives,’ she said. ‘If one of them killed Whitney, now would be the time to get rid of me. Before I find out more.’ She let out a long breath. ‘Or it could have been someone who lives around the corner going home late. I don’t know.’
For a second they looked at each other. Then Luke reached for her hand, pulling her close.
‘I’ll run those plates tomorrow, see if we can narrow it down,’ he promised. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
Some jittery, still buzzing part of Harper wanted to pace the room, analyzing all the possibilities. But she fought that urge and let herself lean into him.
She didn’t want to rely on this – it was too easy having someone there for her. Someone who could fix things. Someone who cared.
But she couldn’t help it. When Luke was with her, every punch life threw at her was easier to take.
Wrapping her wrists behind his neck, she raised her lips to his.
‘You’re so sexy when you offer to run plates for me,’ she said.
He smiled, his eyes crinkling.
‘You are very easy to please,’ he said, running his hands down her spine.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to prove that,’ Harper told him.
For a while after that, there was no more talking.
Much later, as they lay in her bed, she told him about the email from Robinson, and what her research had found.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, lazily running his fingers through her hair.
‘I think Robinson just became a very interesting possibility,’ she said.
‘More interesting than Blazer?’ His eyes held hers.
‘At least as interesting,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe more.’
His fingers moved to the bare skin of her shoulder, where he traced soft figure eights.
‘So, what are you going to do now? He doesn’t sound willing to talk.’
Warm and comfortable, Harper burrowed closer to him.
‘I’ll dig deeper into his history,’ she said, suppressing a yawn. ‘See what I can find. Also, I think I need to find a way to talk to Camille Whitney.’
‘Who’s that?’ he asked, his brow creasing.
‘Marie Whitney’s daughter,’ she said.
There was a pause. ‘Didn’t you say she was twelve?’ he asked.
Harper nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s going to be tricky.’
His hand dropped to the bed. ‘You can’t be serious.’
He stared at her. The look on his face told her she’d missed something.
‘What?’ she asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘Come on, Harper.’ His jaw jutted out. ‘You cannot talk to a twelve-year-old girl whose mother was murdered. Have you lost your mind?’
‘Hold on a minute.’ Clutching the sheet tighter, Harper sat up. ‘I’m not going to hurt her, Luke. I only want to see what she knows.’
‘You can’t.’ He seemed genuinely horrified. ‘She’s a child, Harper. Wherever she is, the state is protecting her. The last thing she needs is some reporter digging around in her brain.’
Stung, Harper pulled back.
‘I’m not some reporter,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m very good at what I do. I’m not going to dig in her brain.’ Seeing the doubt on his face she said, ‘I went through this same thing, remember? I have been Camille Whitney.’
He was treating her like a suspect, and suddenly Harper couldn’t bear that. She had to make him understand.
‘Luke, listen,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to do anything bad to that girl. I’m only going to talk to her. I know what not to ask her, and if she gets upset I’ll stop.’
‘If she gets upset.’ Luke pressed his fingers against his temples.
‘I’ve talked to traumatized kids before, you know,’ she reminded him heatedly. ‘I’m a crime reporter. I’ve talked to kids who’ve been shot. Who’ve seen people shot. I know how to talk to them.’
Luke sat up, too, the sheet falling to his waist. They stared each other down across the narrow expanse of white bedding.
‘How will you even find her?’ he asked. ‘Her locat
ion hasn’t been released.’
Harper opened her mouth to tell him, then closed it again.
Luke cared about her – she knew that. She’d seen the concern in his face tonight. But he was a cop. And what she had to do in order to find Camille wasn’t legal.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’m going to figure it out.’
It was the first lie she could remember telling him.
There was a long silence while he studied her.
When he spoke, his voice was serious.
‘Harper, I want you to promise not to do anything illegal.’
She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up his hand, stopping her.
‘I know what you’re going to say. But can you at least promise me you won’t break any laws, or do anything stupid before you talk to me or Smith first? Is that too much to ask?’
A long icy silence fell. Harper was the one to break it.
‘I won’t break any laws,’ she said, reluctantly.
Something changed in his eyes. He’d gone very still.
‘Why don’t I believe you?’ His tone was chilly.
‘Luke, this is ridiculous,’ she said, wondering how this night had gone so wrong. ‘I don’t tell you how to do your job, and you shouldn’t tell me how to do mine.’
‘It’s not work if you’re doing something stupid to try and get at this child,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘You’ve got people following you already. Do you have to keep pushing every button until someone kills you?’
‘I’m not doing anything stupid,’ she said, too angry to care that she wasn’t certain this was true. ‘For God’s sake, Luke. Let it go.’
Neither of them slept much that night. Through the long dark hours, Harper lay still, listening to Luke’s shallow breaths, wishing she could think of the words to fix this. And finding none.
The next morning, he left early, saying something about work.
Unable to sleep after he was gone, Harper got up and made a strong pot of coffee. Alone in the kitchen in the unfamiliar early morning light, she went over their argument in her mind.
Tracking down the girl would be on the edge, yes, but it wasn’t completely insane.
The worst part, she decided, had been lying to him.
He knew she’d lied – of course he did. He was trained to detect deception. But he’d backed her into a corner.
Letting out a long, tired breath, she stared into the black heart of her mug of coffee.
Maybe this was crazy, after all. But over and over she came back to the same wistful question.
What if Camille knew something?
For weeks, Harper had been running in circles chasing Whitney’s ex-lovers, putting herself in danger, to find any proof, any connection.
What if five minutes with that girl could lead her straight to the killer?
Anyway. She wouldn’t hurt her. She’d be careful.
She was always careful.
When she drove to work that afternoon, she kept her eyes on her rearview mirror, but saw no sign of the Mercedes.
She heard nothing from Luke until after six that evening, when he sent her a terse, one-line text:
Plate fragment too short.
He didn’t ask how she was – didn’t ask if she was still being followed. Didn’t mention seeing her tonight, or ever.
Despite herself, a thought entered her mind: what if she texted back that she wasn’t going to track down Camille? Would he show up at her door at midnight, smiling and sexy? You did as I said, now all is forgiven?
Her remorse slipped away, replaced by cool determination. No one was going to control her. Not Luke. Not anyone.
She needed Camille’s address, and she would get it. Tonight.
When she walked into the police station at ten o’clock that evening, Dwayne was sitting at the desk, heavy-lidded eyes focused on the TV in front of him.
He glanced up sleepily as she approached.
‘Hey, Harper,’ he said. ‘How’re you keeping?’
Harper could hear the sound of some sort of game coming from the TV – the mumble of announcers, the cheering of the crowds.
‘I’m good, Dwayne,’ she said. ‘How about yourself?’
Her tone was relaxed. No hurry, no rush.
It was easier this time.
‘It’s the most boring night, if I’m honest,’ he confided, leaning his head on his hand. ‘I don’t mind working when it’s busy. But when it’s quiet, every minute’s got a whole day packed in it.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it slow.’
‘Me neither,’ she agreed. ‘I was kind of hoping there’d be something happening here I could write about.’
‘I wish that was the case, Harper. I truly do.’
‘Oh well.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She prepared to leave, and then stopped, as if a thought had just occurred to her.
Her heart began to thud in her chest.
‘Oh, hey, Dwayne,’ she said, turning back. ‘I think I left my umbrella in the back on Friday. Would you buzz me through so I can see if it’s still there? The lieutenant told me he’d leave it outside his door.’
Dwayne frowned.
‘I was back there a few minutes ago and I didn’t see any umbrella.’
Harper forced a careless laugh.
‘Oh, he probably forgot, knowing him.’ She took a step away. ‘Never mind. I’ll ask him tomorrow.’
‘No – you might as well go on back and check,’ he said, with a loose shrug. ‘I might have missed it. Ask the girls in dispatch if they know where he put it.’
Harper had a flash image of herself at sixteen, sitting next to Dwayne at the front desk as she waited for Smith to drive her home.
Her algebra homework was open in front of her, but she and Dwayne were talking while she handcuffed herself to the chair. She could viscerally remember the satisfying crunch of the lock as the cuffs closed.
‘And Bonnie says I should go out with a boy named Larry,’ she remembered saying, tightening the handcuff further.
‘Never go out with a boy named Larry,’ Dwayne had advised sternly.
He would only have been twenty-one then, barely out of his teens. But he’d seemed so old to her.
‘Why not?’ Harper reached for the tiny set of silver keys, which had been on the desk but had suddenly disappeared.
‘Because boys named Larry cannot be trusted,’ Dwayne informed her.
‘Bonnie says he’s nice.’
‘Bonnie thinks every boy is nice.’ His tone was dry.
‘True.’
Harper frowned, leaning over as far as she could with her wrist chained to the chair back.
‘Dwayne, I can’t find the keys.’
Dwayne’s lips twitched. He never could keep a secret.
He tapped her algebra book, open to some incomprehensible equation.
‘Finish this, and I’ll find those keys for you.’
She’d glowered at him.
‘Dwayne! You can’t force me to do homework.’
Grinning broadly, he’d leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach.
‘The sergeant gave me permission. He said to make you finish your math by any means necessary. This is any means.’
She’d begged and complained, but Dwayne held firm.
In the end, she’d had to solve all six equations before he unlocked her wrist. When she’d told Smith about it later in tones of outrage, he’d roared with laughter.
‘Remind me to give Dwayne a raise.’
A needle-prick of guilt pierced Harper’s conscience. If Dwayne were blamed for what she was about to do, she’d hate herself.
But she had to do it.
By any means necessary.
‘Thanks,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll be right back.’
The buzzer sounded shrill in the empty lobby as Harper crossed through to the other side.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind her with a prison clang.
The back corridor was empty.
Instead of heading down the hallway to the lieutenant’s office, she turned down the shadowy stairs, taking the steps fast.
Her chest felt tight. Her heart fluttered a staccato beat.
When she reached the basement corridor, she made a quick right, half-running between concrete walls lined with posters in blue and green, urging officers to Be safe out there, and promising, Your union is here to protect you.
Breathless, she sped past the locker rooms. No showers ran at this hour. Shift-change was four hours away.
There were people upstairs – in the dispatch room, in the detectives’ offices – but the building had a hollowed-out feel. She could hear only the muffled sound of her rubber-soled shoes against the concrete floor, and the too-loud rasp of her nervous breathing as she reached the archive room door.
The big storage room was cold and dark.
Harper felt blindly along the wall until she found the plastic light switches, flipping all three at once. The fluorescent strips buzzed, faltered and then sprang to life, flooding the room with harsh, clinical light.
Without hesitation, Harper dashed across the room to the computer. Switching it on without sitting down, she stood next to the desk, drumming her fingers impatiently on the metal top as the monitor churned and beeped.
The old computer took several minutes to wake up. The whole time, she barely breathed.
She’d gone over this in her mind again and again. She had to do this fast.
No mistakes.
At last, the login screen appeared. Relief flooded Harper’s chest like oxygen.
Leaning over, she typed rapidly: 815NL52K1
The message welcoming Craig Johnson appeared as it had before.
Her heart thudding hard against her ribs, Harper navigated to the search box. She typed: ‘Marie Whitney’.
The computer churned, before spitting out two file numbers. One from a few weeks ago. One from six months earlier.
Frowning, Harper made a note of the latter before clicking on the more recent file.
A series of files appeared.
Muttering, ‘Hurry, hurry …’ under her breath, Harper clicked on each one quickly, opening and closing them until she found the main investigation report.
The Echo Killing Page 25
