“She was shot.” Her tone was almost gentle. “Is there anything you can tell me about her? Did she tell you she was scared of anyone? Did she have any problems you can think of?”
But Bonnie was numb now. In a kind of shock.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. “I have to tell her dad.”
“We’ll take care of that,” Daltrey said, quickly.
She turned back to Harper. “Did you know the victim, too?”
“Only a little. I saw her at the bar tonight. She left an hour or so ago. She said she was going home.”
“She live on River Street?” Daltrey asked.
“I don’t think so.”
The detective snapped her notebook shut and glanced at her watch. “Okay. I need both of you to come down to the station and give me a statement.”
Harper’s heart sank.
“Could we come later?” she asked. “I’ve got to get my story in first. And there’s not much I can tell you…”
“I don’t care about your story.” Daltrey cut her off. “This is homicide, McClain. Either you get to the station under your own power immediately or I will have you both taken there under mine. Am I clear?”
There was no point in arguing.
“We’ll go straight to the station,” Harper agreed, glumly.
“I’ll meet you there,” Daltrey said.
She ducked under the crime tape and headed back to the body.
When she was gone, Harper turned to Miles.
“You heard all that?”
He nodded, concern in his eyes. “You want me to call Baxter?”
Harper let out a long breath. The last thing she wanted was for him to call the city editor and wake her up to tell her Harper wasn’t at the scene of a murder in the center of the tourist zone because it turned out she’d been talking to the victim an hour ago.
But that was exactly what he had to do.
“Yeah.” She rubbed her forehead. The tequila she’d drunk earlier was transforming into a nice little headache.
“She’s not going to like this,” he warned her. “She finds out you left, she’s going to be pissed.”
But Harper was already leading Bonnie away. She threw her answer back to him over her shoulder.
“What’s new?”
* * *
When they walked into the lobby of the Savannah police headquarters ten minutes later, the air-conditioning streamed an arctic breeze across Harper’s skin, sending a chill down her back.
The night desk officer, Dwayne Josephs, glanced from Bonnie to Harper and back again.
“Something wrong, Harper?” As he took in Bonnie’s red face and swollen eyes, he rose from his chair. “Is Bonnie hurt?”
Harper had known Dwayne since she was twelve. He’d been one of the cops who took her under his wing after her mother was murdered.
These days, he was one of only a handful of cops she still considered her friends.
The rest had shut her out. They believed she’d betrayed the force by exposing Smith’s crime.
She’d had a solid year of shrugs and turned backs. Of phone calls that began with her giving her name and ended a second later with the click of a phone being put down. Of getting pulled over for minor traffic offenses she knew she hadn’t committed. At times she’d felt as if she were clinging to her job with her nails. So she was grateful every time Dwayne greeted her kindly.
“She’s not hurt,” Harper assured him. “You heard what happened on River Street?”
“The shooting?”
She nodded. “She knows the victim. Daltrey asked us to come give statements.”
His expression grew somber. “I’m truly sorry to hear that.”
While Harper led Bonnie to a hard plastic chair, Dwayne disappeared behind his desk, reappearing a second later with a paper cup.
“Here’s some water,” he told Bonnie. “I’m sure you could use it.”
She accepted it numbly. “Thank you, Dwayne.”
“Detective Daltrey won’t be too long,” he said, squeezing her arm.
He was wrong about that, though.
Harper and Bonnie waited for more than half an hour in the arctic lobby.
Periodically, the buzz of Harper’s phone broke the silence as Miles sent her cryptic messages from the scene.
Cop source tells me purse untouched but phone missing.
Reading this, Harper’s brow furrowed. Surely no one had murdered Naomi over a phone?
She texted a quick reply:
What about wallet/money?
She stared at her phone, waiting impatiently for his response.
It killed her not to be out there with him. There was so much she could be doing right now, instead of sitting here.
When her phone buzzed again, though, it wasn’t with the answer she expected.
Told Baxter you knew the vic—she’s thrilled. Wants you in the office by nine.
Harper shoved her phone back in her pocket with more force than necessary.
When a police car pulled up out front, she craned her neck to see if it was Daltrey. Instead, a pair of uniformed officers got out, leading a handcuffed suspect to the back for processing.
By the time Daltrey finally walked through the bulletproof-glass door they were half asleep. Bonnie had curled up in the plastic chair, her head resting on Harper’s shoulder.
It was nearly four in the morning. The night had begun to feel endless.
“Sorry you had to wait,” the detective told them crisply. “Come with me.”
They stood up slowly, muscles aching from the hard seats.
Bonnie’s eyes were puffy; her skin was blotchy from crying. She was so out of place in this official world, with her turquoise hair and cowboy boots, it made Harper’s heart hurt.
At his desk, Dwayne pressed a button, unlocking the security door with a jarring buzz.
The long, back corridor was lined with offices—this was where the real work of the police department got done. During the day it would be teeming with detectives, 911 operators, and uniformed cops. At this hour, it was shadowy and still.
“This way.”
Daltrey’s voice echoed as she guided them to the right. They walked past several doors before reaching the room she wanted.
Flipping on the light, she set her bag down next to a metal folding chair.
“Have a seat, ladies,” she told them with a brief twist of a smile.
The room was small and windowless, holding only a scarred wooden table and four chairs. A narrow sliver of mirror glittered coldly on one wall.
Daltrey waited as they settled into place across from her. In the harsh fluorescent light, Harper could see that the long night was showing on her as well. There were shadows under her eyes, and the humidity had left a sheen on her skin.
“This won’t take long,” she said, pulling a notebook and a ballpoint from her bag. “I’d like you each to tell me in your own words about tonight. Your impressions of the victim.”
Harper knew she wouldn’t have much to say. All she knew was that three hours ago, Naomi had been alive—small and absorbed in her work, her heart-shaped face serious as she scrubbed the Library’s bar with a towel, her motions fast and angry. She’d barely looked at Harper when she sat down, and Harper hadn’t paid any attention to her. She was focused on her own problems. And on the margarita on the rocks Bonnie was setting in front of her.
Daltrey motioned at Bonnie. “You first, Miss Larson. I understand you knew her best.”
Bonnie glanced uncertainly at her.
“I don’t know what to say.…”
“Anything you noticed could be helpful,” Daltrey coaxed. “Start with the basics. How did she seem tonight? Happy? Unhappy? Frightened? Or did anything strange happen on her shift?”
Knotting her fingers on the tabletop, Bonnie thought it over.
“Well,” she said cautiously, “she seemed fine m
ost of the night. Like, normal.”
Daltrey cocked her head.
“You said ‘most of the night.’ What did you mean by that?”
“She got a call on her cell just before one o’clock,” Bonnie explained. “After that she seemed … I don’t know. Anxious, maybe? Upset. She asked if she could go early. We weren’t busy, so I told her she could. She cleaned her station and headed out right after Harper arrived.”
Daltrey made quick notes. “She didn’t say why?”
Bonnie shook her head. “I assumed it was something to do with her boyfriend or her dad.” She paused before explaining, “She and her dad are really close. Sometimes he picks her up after work.”
Daltrey’s eyes sharpened. “What’s her father’s name?”
“Jarrod Scott.”
“He pick her up tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Bonnie admitted. “I was working the bar alone by then. If he did, he didn’t come inside.”
“But you say she seemed anxious,” Daltrey said. “What made you think that?”
Bonnie paused.
“Earlier in the night she’d been joking about things, kind of chill. But after that call … It’s hard to explain. She seemed tense. Distracted. Like she’d gotten bad news.”
Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. “If I’d known she was in trouble, I’d have done something. Tried to help.”
Daltrey made notes while Bonnie pulled herself together.
She had a good technique, Harper thought, approvingly. Brisk but not unfeeling.
When Bonnie had recovered, the detective resumed the interview.
“I’m sorry to ask so many questions. I know it’s been a long night. But I am grateful for your help, Miss Larson.”
Bonnie gave a tremulous nod.
“Now…” The detective glanced at her notes. “You mentioned a boyfriend. Did you see him tonight?”
Bonnie shook her head. “I don’t think he was at the bar. If he came to get her, he’d usually come in for a drink and wait for her to finish.” She paused. “They’ve been taking a break lately, anyway.”
Harper noticed the interest flare in Daltrey’s eyes.
“What’s the boyfriend’s name?”
“Wilson,” Bonnie said. “Wilson Shepherd.”
She offered it willingly, thinking she was helping. Harper had a feeling she wouldn’t have been so eager if she suspected why the detective wanted it.
Daltrey made her spell it. When she’d finished, she said, “Remind me again—what time did Naomi Scott leave last night?”
“Just after one,” Bonnie said. “I’m not sure of the exact time.…”
“I can answer that,” Harper cut in.
Daltrey shot her a steely glance.
“Oh, yes?” she said. “And why is that?”
“I happened to look at the clock above the bar when she walked out,” Harper said. “I noticed it was one thirty, and I thought that was early for her to go. It isn’t normal for Bonnie to be left alone to close up.”
“There are always supposed to be two workers in the bar,” Bonnie explained, before Daltrey could ask. “For security. But since Harper was there, I figured it was fine.”
After noting this down, Daltrey said, “If you’re right, she left the bar on College Row at one thirty, and was shot to death thirty minutes later on River Street. Do either of you have any idea what she might have been doing down there?”
Her eyes welling, Bonnie shook her head, mutely.
“No idea,” Harper said.
“Meeting the boyfriend?” Daltrey suggested.
“Her boyfriend lives in Garden City.” Bonnie wiped a tear away with the side of her hand. “Naomi lives on Thirty-Second Street. Those are both miles away from downtown.”
Daltrey’s phone buzzed. She picked it up to look at the screen.
“All right. That’s it for now, ladies.” Pushing back her chair, she stood abruptly. “Leave your numbers with Dwayne, he’ll give you mine. Let me know if you think of anything you haven’t mentioned tonight. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.”
She directed them toward the lobby. Dazed, Bonnie headed down the hall, but Harper hung back with Daltrey, who was turning out the lights in the interview room.
“Was Naomi robbed? If she wasn’t, what happened to her phone? We know she had it at the bar.”
Daltrey fixed her with a cool look. “I don’t know why you’re still talking, McClain. I don’t give tips to turncoats.”
Harper flinched.
No matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. The detectives who’d invited her to their parties, drunk beer with her, showed her pictures of their kids, now treated her like a criminal.
“I’m only trying to help,” she said, stiffly, and left the room.
She didn’t wait to hear Daltrey’s response. It was always the same with all of them these days.
Traitor.
3
Five hours later, Harper walked into the newspaper’s offices, clutching a large black coffee and blinking in the sunlight flooding through the tall windows.
After leaving the police station, she’d grabbed a few hours’ rest in Bonnie’s insanely pink spare room. She’d crept out early to go home for a shower and change of clothes before heading to work, and she felt like she hadn’t slept at all.
The newsroom was busy and loud, with twelve writers and editors all typing and talking at once.
With its rabbit warren of corridors and narrow staircases, the sprawling, century-old building was better designed to be a boardinghouse than a newspaper, but despite its worn edges, there was something undeniably grand about the place. This was most true of the newsroom, with its sturdy white columns and tall windows overlooking the river.
The reporters’ desks were set in rows, overlooked by three editors’ desks at the far end of the room and, beyond them, the glassed-in office of the paper’s managing editor, Paul Dells.
Harper’s desk was midway down the row closest to the windows. She’d had this prime position since the last round of layoffs removed many of the paper’s senior writers two years ago and left the newsroom half empty.
As soon as she set her coffee down, DJ Gonzales spun his chair around to face her. His wavy, dark hair was even more unruly than usual.
“What are you doing here this early?” he asked, accusingly. “I thought you burned in daylight.”
“I’m not a vampire, DJ,” she told him, dropping into her seat. “I work nights. We’ve had this conversation.”
She switched on her computer with a move so automatic she couldn’t remember doing it two seconds later and took a sip of coffee.
“Christ, I’m tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
DJ rolled closer. “Were you up all night on this murder everyone’s talking about?”
Harper waved her coffee affirmation.
He didn’t try to disguise his envy. DJ worked the education beat. He found Harper’s work endlessly glamorous.
“Sounds like a juicy one. It was all over the TV this morning. You’re going to own tomorrow’s front page.” His tone was wistful. “I can’t believe some chick got capped right in the middle of River Street.”
“I can’t believe people still say ‘capped,’” she replied.
“Is it out of fashion?” DJ sounded surprised. “I thought it was cutting-edge.”
“Harper.”
At the sound of Emma Baxter’s sharp bark from the front of the room, DJ spun his chair back toward his desk with pinpoint precision, and ducked behind his computer screen as if it were a shield.
The city editor strode across the room, her blunt-cut dark hair swinging against the shoulders of her navy blazer. Dells was right behind her.
“Crap,” Harper whispered.
The managing editor usually didn’t get involved in day-to-day stories. But this one must be big enough to attract his attention.
“What’ve you got on River Street?” Baxte
r asked as she neared Harper’s desk. “Why does Miles say you know the victim?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw DJ’s head bob up.
“I don’t really know her. I just happened to be in the bar where she works last night,” Harper explained, glancing at Dells.
“Perfect,” Baxter snapped. “Do me a first-person, emotional account. ‘A Brush with Death.’ It can run alongside your main piece on the shooting.”
Dells stepped forward. As always, he was impeccably dressed, today in a dark blue suit, with a crisp white shirt that looked like it cost more than her car, and a pale blue silk tie. His dark hair was neatly styled.
“What do we know so far?” he asked. “The TV stations haven’t got much.”
“The dead woman is Naomi Scott—a second-year law student.” Harper flipped open her notebook. “Seemed to be your basic all-American girl. Left work at one thirty, died of two gunshot wounds. Found with her purse but not her phone. Cops aren’t saying if it was robbery. Nobody knows what the hell she was doing down by the river.”
“Do we know who her family is?” Dells asked. “Are they locals?”
“I think so,” Harper said. “Her father’s Jarrod Scott. I’m trying to track him down now.”
Baxter peered at the half-empty notebook. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Come on.” A defensive note entered Harper’s voice. “I was in the police station half the night.”
“We’re holding most of the front page for this,” Dells said. “The TV stations are going to be all over it.”
“I’ll start making calls,” Harper said.
“Good.” Baxter said briskly. “I want to know who this girl was. If she was so perfect how’d she end up dead in the street at two in the morning? Call the mayor’s office. Ask her what she’s going to do about people getting shot in the middle of the damned tourist district.”
The meeting was over. Dells was already heading back to his office. Baxter followed him, turning so fast her jacket flew off one bony shoulder.
Her last words floated behind her like a cluster bomb: “Do it fast. We need something for the website, now.”
When they were gone, DJ swung around to look at Harper, brown eyes wide behind smudged, wire-framed glasses.
“Dude. You drank in her bar and then she died?”
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 2
