“That’s him.” Scott nodded. “He’s the one Naomi was scared of.”
Harper couldn’t think of anything to say.
Randall Anderson had been district attorney for twelve years before stepping down a year ago to join a private practice.
His family was part of the city’s old guard—with a patrician legacy and a palatial mansion near Forsyth Park. The Andersons were everywhere in Savannah—they were part of every major organization that ran the city.
The idea that his son could have somehow threatened Naomi Scott seemed bizarre.
“You don’t know what happened between them?” she asked, after a long pause.
He shook his head. “All I know is they were in law school together, they sometimes studied together in her first year. Then, something happened—he did something, I think—and after that she tried to avoid him. I know she complained to the school.”
Harper kept nodding politely, but she could see exactly what was happening here. Scott was grasping at straws. He wanted the facts to change. He wanted Wilson to be the good boyfriend who loved his daughter. And he wanted a man he’d never met to be the killer.
Neither she nor the police could give him that.
“Well,” she said, closing her notebook, “I think I’ve got all I need. There’s plenty here for me to work with.” She stood up. “I can’t thank you enough for coming in to talk to me about all this.”
He unfolded his long legs, and stood, a disappointed look in his eyes.
“You think Wilson did it,” he said, sadly. “You’re going to tell people they have the right man.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head.
“It’s fine. The police didn’t believe me either.” He pushed the chair carefully back into place. “I guess no one wants to believe.”
Not without evidence they don’t, Harper thought. But she couldn’t say that to him. He looked so defeated.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll dig around a little. See what I can find out. Just in case there’s anything there.”
Scott accepted this with quiet dignity.
“Thing is, Miss McClain, whether you believe me or not, I know Wilson didn’t do this. And I intend to fight to see justice done. For my daughter’s sake.”
9
The conversation with Jerrod Scott stayed with Harper, but it didn’t change her mind. Wilson Shepherd was almost certainly the killer of Naomi Scott. Everything pointed to him.
She’d seen enough disbelieving family members faced with overwhelming evidence that their loved ones were killers to know that the process of untangling a relationship gone wrong was never easy.
Still, his mention of Peyton Anderson was intriguing.
The blue-collar daughter of a taxi driver falling into and out of friendship with the scion of one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Savannah and then ending up dead?
Maybe there was more than friendship between Naomi and Peyton. After all, she was a beautiful, intelligent girl. What if Wilson found out Naomi and Peyton were an item and he was driven mad with jealousy?
That would be one hell of a story.
But when she wrote the article about Jerrod Scott, she left Anderson out completely. And she didn’t mention anything about it to Baxter. Too early.
She’d nose around a little first—see what she could find out.
With this in mind, she drove to police headquarters that afternoon, intent on speaking with Detective Daltrey, and finding out if Shepherd had begun to talk.
They’d held him for the better part of a day. Plenty of time to get something out of him.
She reached the station at the four o’clock shift change. The evening crew was heading out to get in their patrol cars. The day shift was going home.
The lobby was unusually crowded.
Harper made her way through the throng toward the front desk to ask Dwayne if Daltrey was in. She was halfway there when Daltrey stepped in front of her, heading the other way.
The detective wore her usual work outfit of dark pants with a matching jacket and a high-necked, white blouse. Her short, dark hair was combed back, giving her an androgynous edge.
“Detective, do you have a minute?” Harper said.
As the crowd jostled past them, Daltrey assessed her coolly.
“God, McClain,” she said. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not very often,” Harper responded. “Look, I wanted to ask you something about the Naomi Scott case.”
Daltrey’s face closed.
“Public Information Office is on the second floor.” She strode away, pushing open the glass door and heading out into the August heat.
When Harper hurried after her, Daltrey shot her an irritated glance.
“I heard Kowalski put you in a headlock last night because you wouldn’t leave the crime scene. You’re not learning much, are you?”
“Kowalski is an asshat,” Harper said.
Daltrey snorted a laugh. “For once we agree.”
Taking this as an opening, Harper launched into her questions.
“How are things going with Wilson Shepherd? Is he talking?”
“No comment,” Daltrey said.
“Was the gun he had last night the murder weapon?”
“No comment.”
“Have you charged him yet?”
“No comment.”
Daltrey seemed to be enjoying this. But Harper refused to give up.
“I had a long talk with Jerrod Scott today,” she said. “He told me Naomi was friends with Peyton Anderson. Did you know about that?”
Daltrey stopped so abruptly Harper nearly ran into her.
“What are you doing, McClain? Are you getting involved in my case? You should know better by now than to meddle.”
“I’m only telling you what Jerrod Scott said.” Harper’s voice was even. “That’s not getting involved. That’s me doing my job.”
Daltrey took a step closer, pushing into Harper’s space. She was small in stature but no less intimidating for it.
“Well, I’m not going to defend my case to you. And I’m not giving you any juicy tidbits for your rag. Those days are over. They ended the day you testified against Smith.” Daltrey moved so close, Harper could see the faint smear of mascara against her left eyelid, smell the mint on her breath. “You can’t come to me expecting help. And something else. If you come harassing your ex-boyfriend for bits of information I will see to it that he’s busted back to the night shift. Am I clear?”
The reference to Luke sent anger flaring in Harper’s chest. Daltrey was out of line dragging him into this and she must have known it.
But arguing with her would only make things worse.
“Fine.” She held up her hands, stepping back. “I won’t ask you any more questions. I get the picture. No help for the traitor. You have a great day, Detective.”
She didn’t hide her sarcasm.
“Get out of my face, McClain,” Daltrey said. “I have work to do.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Harper muttered, turning away.
The tall brick rectangle of the old police building towered over her. Its even rows of arched windows gazed down at her dispassionately as she trudged back along the steamy street to the front entrance.
But when she reached it, she didn’t go inside. Instead, she turned and walked back to the sidewalk again, pacing in the summer heat as she thought things through.
She barely noticed the long green branches of the ancient oaks overhead, or the tour bus crawling by a few feet away. She was too angry.
Normally, she’d brush off Daltrey’s attitude and get on with her job. But after last night, she felt like this had all gone too far.
She hadn’t told Baxter about Kowalski, yet. She’d been too busy last night, and distracted by running into Luke. She’d wanted to give the incident time to settle before making her next move. But she knew she couldn’t let it pass.
The tension with the police
was ratcheting up. If something didn’t change, she could find herself in the position of not being able to do her job. Or worse. Idiots like Kowalski were dangerous. If the brass gave every patrol officer carte blanche to punish her, she could get hurt.
If she filed a complaint, though, it would start an almighty war between the police and the newspaper. Manhandling a reporter doing her job at a crime scene on a public street was grounds for one hell of a lawsuit.
There was no question that would give her satisfaction. But it would make headlines. She really didn’t want to be the news story again.
Instead, she had a different idea. And the more she thought about it, the more she liked it.
It was entirely possible Bob Kowalski and Detective Daltrey had given her the ammunition she needed to put a stop to this.
When she walked back into the police lobby a few minutes later, things had quieted down. Dwayne was at the front desk, eyes on the pile of paperwork in front of him. He was so caught up in his work she was all the way to the desk before he noticed her.
“Hi Harper,” he said, distracted. “Man, things have been crazy today.”
Without waiting for her to ask, he slid the day’s police reports across to her.
After the heat outside, the air-conditioning felt Siberian. The sweat on her back didn’t so much dry as freeze. Harper shivered as she looked through the paperwork absently—a dozen burglaries, car break-ins, domestics—the usual thing. She didn’t write anything down.
There was only one news story today unless someone else died—and that was Wilson Shepherd.
Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening, Harper whispered, “Dwayne.”
His head jerked up.
“Is there any word on Shepherd? Is he talking?”
He looked around furtively before leaning toward her.
“He’s talking,” he said, quietly. “He’s just not saying what they want to hear. All he says is it wasn’t him. Keeps saying it over and over.”
No wonder Daltrey was in such a foul mood. She must have been hoping for a full confession after they brought Shepherd in. Without that, they’d need evidence of guilt before they could charge him and, from the looks of things, they didn’t have it.
Closing the folder, she pushed it back across to him.
“Is the lieutenant in?” she asked.
It had been a long time since she’d asked to talk to Blazer about anything—she saw the surprise register on Dwayne’s face.
“He is.…” His voice trailed off, doubtfully.
“I’d like to speak with him,” Harper said.
Still, he didn’t move. “He’s in a bad mood today.”
She didn’t take the hint. “When is he not?”
“If that’s what you want…”
Still looking doubtful, Dwayne picked up the phone and pushed a few buttons.
“Lieutenant? Harper McClain is here. She’d like to talk to you about that River Street case.”
A long pause followed then, and Harper could hear the faint rumble of Blazer complaining vociferously. Dwayne’s expression didn’t change as he listened patiently.
When Blazer finally stopped, he said, “Great, then. Should I send her in?”
Blazer barked a one-syllable command. Dwayne set the phone down and looked up at her, worry visible in his eyes.
“He says come on back.”
Harper rested a hand on his desk. “Thank you.”
“You may not say that after you talk to him.”
Harper crossed the room to the security door leading into the back offices. Dwayne pressed a button on his desk, and the door unlocked with a loud buzz.
She pulled it open and walked through.
When she and Bonnie had been here two nights ago, it had been silent and dark. Now it was teeming with police. Harper joined the flow heading down the long corridor.
Blazer worked out of an office that she still thought of as Smith’s, at the end of the hallway. Smith’s name had been removed from the door more than a year ago, but Blazer’s didn’t look right to her, painted on the wood in funereal black.
Without giving herself more time to think it over, she raised her fist and knocked with as much confidence as she could muster.
“Enter,” a voice ordered gruffly.
Lieutenant Larry Blazer sat at his desk in front of a laptop. He wore a charcoal-gray suit. When he looked up at her, his pale blue tie perfectly matched his cold eyes.
Even she had to admit he was a handsome man—lean and athletic, with a lush head of hair going silver in an artful way. But he wasn’t her type. At all.
The feeling, she knew, was mutual.
“This better be important, McClain,” he grumbled, gesturing at the chairs in front of his desk.
As she crossed the room and sat where he indicated, Harper’s eyes were drawn to all the things he’d changed. Smith’s ostentatious mahogany desk had been replaced with a modern table made of some light-colored Scandinavian wood. Gone were the photos of Smith with local dignitaries and the golf ball paperweight. The desktop was empty save for the sleek, silver laptop and a few files.
The only thing on the wall was a poster-sized street map of Savannah, dotted with about forty crimson pins.
A quick glance at the streets marked told Harper it was a map of murders.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, turning her attention back to Blazer. “I think we need to talk.”
“Talk about what, exactly?” His tone was chilly.
Harper braced herself. If he was going to throw her out, it would happen in the next sixty seconds.
She cleared her throat. “Lieutenant, it’s been over a year since Smith was arrested and I’m still being punished by your department. The constant harassment is making it impossible for me to do my job. It needs to stop.”
Blazer shot her an incredulous look.
“Did you really come to my office to complain that my hardworking officers are being mean to you?”
“This isn’t about being mean,” she said evenly. “It’s about unprofessional behavior by public servants toward a member of the press. Last night, one of your officers assaulted me at a crime scene.”
Any remnants of humor left Blazer’s face.
“That’s a serious allegation. You better be able to back that up.”
“It happened during the arrest of Wilson Shepherd,” Harper said. “Numerous officers were present and witnessed the incident. Bob Kowalski shoved me against a patrol car and said he was going to arrest me for disorderly conduct because I didn’t move quickly enough when he asked me to leave the scene.”
Blazer made a dismissive gesture. “Is that all? Perhaps you should have moved faster. My officers need to work unimpeded. That situation was dangerous. It’s Kowalski’s job to keep you safe.”
Swallowing her indignation, Harper kept her tone cool.
“Come on, Lieutenant. Last night the only thing threatening my safety was Bob Kowalski. He went too far. He manhandled me. And I think he did it because you encourage that kind of behavior.” Seeing his face darken, she raised one hand. “Please hear me out. I’m not here to hurl allegations. I’m here to ask you to stop this. You wanted to punish me?” She held up her hands. “Congratulations. I’ve been punished. You succeeded. I got the message. Now I need you to call them off. Before someone gets hurt.”
Blazer leaned forward, a thin smile twisting his lips.
“Aren’t you up to the job, anymore, McClain? Maybe you should consider another beat if this one is too hard for you.”
This time, Harper couldn’t control her temper. She’d kept this all bottled up for too long.
“Too hard for me?” Her voice rose. “One of your detectives shot me in the shoulder, Lieutenant. And I kept coming to work. Every single night I go out on the same streets as your officers, only I do it without a vest or a gun. And they humiliate me. They ignore my questions and they ridicule me. They tell sources not to speak to me. I ha
ve to get my photographer to ask questions for me because your officers are so unprofessional and childish. Too hard?”
She stood up, gripping her notebook with such force it bent. She hadn’t known until this moment how furious she was. How painful this had been. How much it had hurt.
“I am not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for basic respect and professionalism. For God’s sake, Lieutenant. One of your detectives murdered a woman, but I’m the one being punished for exposing what you should have found.”
The lieutenant tried to interject, but she refused to let him talk over her.
“If this is the way you want to play this, be very careful,” she said. “Because I am not going anywhere. And if you want war, you should know my editors would love for me to demolish your department. Nobody could do that better than me. Your case-resolution rates are shit. Your incident-response times are worse. Murder rates are up and you know it.” She pointed an accusing finger at the map behind his desk. “Things have gotten worse since Smith left, and I could be asking you about that. If we’re going to talk about who’s up to the job they’re in, we could start with you. Instead, I’m giving you the chance to fix this.”
Finally running out of fury, she drew a breath. “You should thank me.”
Blazer held up his hands.
“All right, McClain. Jesus. I get your point. Now, please. Sit down. Let’s talk this through.”
Harper stayed where she was. She was breathing heavily; her face was still hot with anger. She’d held all of that in for so long, now that it had finally been said she felt unfinished.
“Look,” Blazer said, “you’ve been around here long enough to understand the rules. You go after one of ours, we all go after you. That’s the deal. You knew that going in. Didn’t you?”
All the ridicule was gone from his tone. It was the first time she could remember him speaking to her like an equal.
Some of her fury ebbed away.
“Yes, but…”
He held up one hand.
“But nothing, McClain. You can’t play by the rules you know are there and then ask for those rules to be changed when it suits you. The system is what it is. Cops don’t forgive easily. You have always known that. They look after their own.”
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 7
