First, she called a locksmith and made an urgent appointment to replace the cheap locks on Bonnie’s doors and windows.
Then she extended the lease on the anonymous Ford.
Until she knew who broke into her apartment, she had to stay out of the Camaro. Too many people would know that car from a mile away.
A low-simmering sense of panic still told her she’d made a mistake coming here – that she was putting Bonnie in danger. But nobody knew where she was.
It should be fine. So, why didn’t it feel fine?
Not for the first time she thought longingly about calling Luke. Begging him to come back.
But he’d told her once, during those long nights of confessions, that when he worked undercover he couldn’t keep his phone with him.
‘The most identifying thing you’ve got on you is your phone,’ he’d said. ‘I could track you across the country, find out everything about you, know your job, your family, your friends – all by looking at your phone.’
Because of this, he always left his phone at a safe drop, miles from wherever he was working. He tried to check it every couple of days, he said. But sometimes that wasn’t possible.
If everything he told her was true, then his phone wasn’t with him now. If she did break down and call him, who knew when he’d get the message? And even then, why would he care what happened to her now?
She had to sort this out herself.
That afternoon, she sat on the sofa in Bonnie’s living room, which, with colorful fabrics draped everywhere, Bonnie’s vivid paintings on the wall and candles filling the fireplace, had the appearance of an artistic harem, and stared at her phone.
Slowly – her fingers moving unwillingly – she scrolled to Smith’s cell phone number.
Maybe he wasn’t as angry as she feared. Maybe he would listen to her.
The phone rang five times. She was about to hang up when he finally answered.
‘Smith.’
The word was a terse growl.
It wasn’t a promising start.
‘Lieutenant,’ Harper’s voice was small. ‘It’s me.’
There was a pause.
‘What do you want, Harper?’
She’d never heard him sound so distant.
‘I … I wanted to apologize for what happened. The archive room. I shouldn’t have gone in there.’
‘No, you shouldn’t have.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel terrible. And I want you to know it wasn’t Dwayne’s fault. I lied to him. And that was wrong, too.’
She couldn’t hear anything on the line. The silence lasted so long she wondered if he’d hung up.
‘Hello?’ she said, tentatively.
‘Dwayne was written up for what happened,’ Smith told her. ‘He offered to resign but I refused. He will receive no pay increase this year, thanks to you.’
Harper dropped her head into her hands.
‘Don’t punish Dwayne,’ she pleaded, her voice muffled. ‘You know it wasn’t his fault.’
‘No, it wasn’t his fault. I’ve made it clear to him that he has you to thank for this situation.’
Harper tried to stay calm. She had to fix this.
‘I know you’re angry with me, and I hope you will find a way to forgive me,’ she said.
But when he spoke again, his tone was, if anything, more forbidding.
‘What you did, Harper, was unforgivable. Your behavior has been outrageous. And now two of my officers have suffered because of it.’
Two.
‘Luke had nothing to do with any of it,’ Harper told him.
‘Didn’t he?’ His voice was ice. ‘You got him tangled up in this obsession of yours, and now you’ve left him in a position where he can’t properly function as a detective. You’ve put both him and Dwayne in terrible positions with your childish behavior. And me, too, actually. The deputy chief is aware of our friendship. And I’ve been put on notice that I may be investigated by internal affairs. Which could ruin my career.’
Harper let out a long breath.
‘I am truly sorry,’ she said again, her voice trembling. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’
‘Sorry doesn’t cut it this time,’ he said. ‘This is bigger than sorry.’
Harper pressed her fingertips against her forehead. All she wanted to do was to end this painful call, but she had to talk to him about the burglary. She had nobody else left.
‘Lieutenant – did you know my house was broken into?’
There was a pause.
‘I heard something about that.’
‘It wasn’t a normal break-in,’ she told him. ‘They slashed Bonnie’s painting – you know the one. They slashed my face. They didn’t take much of anything. Lieutenant … Please tell me your guys didn’t do it.’
An arctic pause followed.
‘Harper, there’s something I want you to know.’ He spoke slowly. Enunciating every syllable. ‘You have violated my trust, and the trust of everyone here who considered you their friend. And now you dare suggest to me that sworn public servants broke into your house and stole your television. Do you have any idea how unstable you sound?’
Harper went numb.
‘I understand that you have been suspended from the newspaper,’ he said. ‘Please, use this time to get the help you need.’
The phone dropped from Harper’s fingers, hitting the floor with a thud.
Smith knew all her pressure points, but he’d never used them like that before. He’d always been willing to forgive her. This time, she’d gone too far, even for him.
She really was on her own now.
That evening, Harper drove back to her apartment.
She didn’t want to go – didn’t want to see it in its damaged state again.
But she had to find Zuzu.
The sun was beginning to set when she reached Jones Street. The sky above the tall old townhouses flamed red and amber.
Finding a parking space half a block away, she pulled in and cut the engine.
Everything looked the same. The Camaro was still under the oak tree, right where she’d left it. Anyone looking at the apartment from outside might think she was in there already.
She had to force herself to get out of the car.
The short walk down the block seemed endless. Her hands were clammy as she slid the key into the lock.
When the door swung open the apartment was swathed in shadows.
Plywood still covered the back window – Billy hadn’t had a chance to fix it yet.
Gingerly closing the door behind her, she stepped inside, reaching instinctively for the light switch, before pulling back her hand.
All her nerves were alert.
It was hot – Billy must have turned off the air conditioning – and uncannily quiet.
Her cautious footsteps seemed too loud, her breathing amplified, as she tiptoed down the hall.
When she reached the living room, she stopped mid-step.
Everything had been moved.
The damaged sofas had been righted, and left in different places than they’d been before. Someone had removed the broken pieces of the scanner and the television. Wires no longer trailed from the stereo speakers.
It took her a second to process. The cleaning service – they must have come today.
The vinegar smell of spilled food was gone – replaced by the astringent chemical scent of cleaning products.
Someone had scrubbed at the threat painted on the wall but failed to remove it. The word was fainter now, but still there, stark and threatening.
RUN.
Wrenching her gaze away, she moved through the apartment that now felt as if it belonged to someone else. She had to step carefully to avoid running into things.
She was nearly to the kitchen when she heard a soft shuffling sound.
Harper froze.
The sound seemed to come from the bedroom.
Looking for anything that could be used as a weapon, sh
e pivoted hard in that direction.
Everything was quiet again.
It’s nothing, she assured herself, although her pounding heart didn’t believe. It’s someone walking upstairs.
Then, she heard a distinct, soft thud.
There was no question that sound had come from inside this apartment.
Someone else was here.
Her chest tightened around her lungs.
She took a stumbling, panicked step back. She had to get out now.
She was scrambling for the door when a small shadow shot into the hallway from the bedroom.
‘Oh, holy shit, Zuzu,’ Harper gasped, doubling over. ‘I think you killed me.’
Her voice echoed off the empty walls.
The tabby rubbed against Harper’s ankle.
Scooping her up, Harper buried her face in her warm, soft fur, feeling the rumble of her purr.
‘I’m so glad you’re alive,’ she whispered.
When her heart returned to normal, she carried her to the kitchen. Someone had washed the cat’s food and water bowls and left them in the dish drainer.
She filled them both and set them on the floor.
For a while, she stood quietly, staring at the wood covering the window.
Then, slowly, as if losing her balance, she slid down to the floor.
Pressing her back against Billy’s hand-made cabinet, she stared down the shadowy hallway at her ruined apartment.
She had no Luke. No Smith. No home. No job.
And yet. Whoever did this didn’t understand her at all.
They were trying to scare her away but they’d invaded her home. The only safe place she knew.
Now, she couldn’t ever give up.
One way or another, she had to get to the truth.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The next morning Harper was up early. She’d hardly slept, and yet she felt wide awake.
She’d spent much of the night going through her notes, over and over again, looking for anything she might have missed. Going through Sterling’s list of Whitney’s lovers – crossing out those who had alibis, running basic checks on everyone else.
It had been late when she came across words she’d scrawled that day with DJ at the college. Something she’d thought then, but had forgotten amid all the chaos that followed.
Find out more about that picture of Whitney.
The glossy black-and-white picture on the wall in the Development Office.
She’d meant to go back and see it again – ask Rosanna if there were more.
Everyone had told her she needed proof of who Whitney was dating. Well, there was a picture of her with a man. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
As she brushed the tangles from her hair, she studied her face in the mirror. Her cheekbones looked too sharp. Her eyes looked harder than she remembered. These last weeks had changed her.
Good. She’d thought she was tough before. She was tougher now.
Bonnie was still asleep when she slipped down the stairs, her rubber-soled shoes nearly silent on the wood floors.
Clutching the shiny new keys the locksmith had given her the day before, she headed for the door. It had rained in the night, and the morning was damp, so she borrowed one of Bonnie’s less flamboyant jackets from the hall closet.
Then she climbed into the anonymous Ford and drove out towards the suburbs.
The college was very different at this hour than it had been at her last visit. The guest parking lot was packed, and she drove around for ten minutes before finding a free space.
The last time she’d been here, DJ had led the way, but it was easy enough to retrace their steps. Past the administration building with its columns and marble halls, down the sidewalk beyond the modern library and coffee kiosk, until she saw the glass-and-steel building she remembered from her previous visit.
It was shortly after nine o’clock when she stepped inside the fundraising office. Rosanna was once again at the front desk, but this time she was not alone – the room bustled with activity. All the desks behind her were full, phones were ringing, staff hard at work raising money.
Busy talking to a woman in a suit, Rosanna at first didn’t notice Harper. When she did, her brow furrowed.
Harper hung back, her focus on the black-and-white image of Marie Whitney. There was no sign of a country girl from Vidalia in that picture of an elegant woman in a sleeveless silk dress, a glittering necklace around her long, slim throat. She was laughing at something the man next to her had said, her head thrown back.
Pulling her phone out, she took a quick photo of the picture. She wanted to look at it more closely on her own.
When she turned back, the woman in the suit was gone. Rosanna was watching her anxiously.
Harper kept her expression reassuring.
‘Hi,’ she said casually. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘You work with David.’
Rosanna glanced over her shoulder, as if she feared they might be overheard. But everyone was too busy to notice.
‘Is there something you need?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you again,’ Harper said, keeping her voice low. ‘I only have one quick question.’
‘I don’t know if I can help you.’ Rosanna’s hands toyed nervously with a pen. ‘I told David everything I know.’
‘It’s about that picture of Marie Whitney.’ She pointed at the image on the wall. ‘When was it taken?’
‘It was the spring fundraiser, in May, at City Hall,’ Rosanna said, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. ‘I remember because the governor was there. It was a big deal.’
‘Do you know who took it?’
‘There’s a local photographer who does all these things. What’s his name again?’ Rosanna’s face screwed up with thought. ‘Hold on a second. I’ll have it here somewhere.’
She typed something into her computer. A second later, she looked up brightly.
‘Yes, here it is. His name is Jackson. Miles Jackson.’
All the blood drained from Harper’s face.
She was sure she hadn’t heard her right.
‘Are you … Did you say, Jackson?’
Rosanna nodded, a puzzled frown shadowing her face.
‘Yes. He shoots most of our events. I’m sorry – is something wrong?’
Of course, now that Harper thought about it, it made perfect sense – Miles was often hired to shoot events like this. It was his bread and butter.
So why had he never mentioned that he’d met and photographed Marie Whitney? How had this never come up in all of their conversations?
Why would he hide that?
‘Miss McClain?’
Gradually Harper became aware that Rosanna was talking to her.
‘I … I’m fine. Thank you,’ she said, backing away. ‘That’s all.’
She rushed from the building, pushing the door so hard it thumped against the wall.
In a daze, she half-ran for the car.
Her mind was racing.
Miles made a terrible suspect. He had been unaware of her mother’s murder until she told him. There was no reason to think he was covering anything up.
But still. Why hadn’t he said anything?
She had to understand how this was possible.
When she reached the car, she realized she was still clutching her phone in her hand. Numbly, she scrolled to his number and dialed.
Miles answered on the third ring.
‘Hello?’ He sounded rough. It was early for him – he must still be in bed.
‘It’s Harper,’ she said. ‘We need to talk. Can I come over?’
‘What’s happened?’ He sounded suddenly awake.
‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Her voice was so taut, he had to notice.
There was a long pause.
‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ he said.
When Harper buzzed Miles’ loft apartment, the front door clicked open instantly.
; All the way over she’d been trying to think of an obvious explanation for that photo, and coming up blank.
The photo was a close-up – he’d zoomed in on her face. He would have had to ask her permission for that. He and Whitney would have had a conversation – however brief.
And he never thought, in all these weeks, to mention that?
As the faux-industrial elevator rose soundlessly, she grew increasingly angry.
She kept thinking about all the times he’d warned her off the case, told her she was wrong, implied that she was being irrational – and all the while he was hiding this from her.
When she reached the fourth floor, his door was propped open. She strode down the hallway, fighting the urge to punch the wall.
In his apartment, watery gray light filtered in through the huge, warehouse windows.
Miles was in the kitchen making coffee.
Everything she was feeling must have shown on her face because, when his dark brown eyes met hers, his brow creased.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew Marie Whitney?’
Her voice was strident, filled with the frustration and fury of the last few awful days.
‘What?’ He looked stunned. ‘Because I don’t.’
She held up her phone, open to the picture she’d taken twenty minutes earlier.
‘Did you or did you not take this picture, Miles?’
Setting his coffee down carefully, he walked over and took the phone from her hand.
Puzzlement flickered across his face.
‘I don’t remember this,’ he said, but he sounded uncertain.
‘According to the Development Office at the university,’ she said, ‘you took it. And it looks exactly like your style. Open aperture. No flash.’
‘I shoot a lot of events. You know that, Harper. Maybe I took that. Maybe I didn’t.’
Harper stared at him in disbelief.
‘I have spent the last few weeks of my life – and lost everything I have – investigating this woman.’ Her voice was low and ominous. ‘And you don’t remember?’
‘Now, hold on.’ Miles held up his hands. ‘Let’s do this one step at a time. When was that taken?’
The Echo Killing Page 33
