Luke met her eyes.
“We’ll figure this out. Keep digging. At least we have this.”
He held up the note.
“If he left prints I’ll find them.”
* * *
When Harper walked up to her desk fifteen minutes later, DJ spun his chair around and rolled closer to her.
“Heads up. Baxter’s been sniffing around looking for your story on that River Street murder case,” he informed her. “She asked me twice where you were. I told her I’m not your keeper.” He rubbed his chin. “That went over well.”
Harper glanced across the room to where the editors’ desks stood—but Baxter’s seat was empty.
“Thanks,” she said, logging into her computer at record speed. “I am so late and so screwed.”
He watched her with interest as she switched on her scanner with an unconscious flick of her wrist. Its low static filled the air as she looked through her notes.
“I take it the story isn’t ready?” he guessed.
“I haven’t even interviewed the suspects yet,” she said, typing grimly. “This desk may be yours before the night is over.”
“Oh goody,” DJ said. “I’ve always wanted two desks.”
Harper didn’t smile. She barely even heard him.
Putting the note and Smith out of her mind, she read through the little information she had. There was no time for strategy at this point.
Her only option now was to shake all three suspects hard and hope something fell out of them.
Her first call was to Jim Fitzgerald. The phone rang once and went straight to voice mail.
“Hey there, this is Fitz,” the familiar, languid Southern voice announced. “Leave a message; I’ll get back to you.”
After the beep, Harper talked quickly, using the kind of words that might get him to call her back.
“This is Bonnie’s friend from the newspaper—Harper McClain,” she said. “I know you don’t want to talk to anybody right now, but things are happening. You need to talk to me. This situation isn’t going to go away. Tell me your side of the story, Fitz. Let me see if I can help.”
After leaving her number she hung up and, without waiting to gather her thoughts, dialed a different number she’d found in her notes.
“Come on,” she whispered as the phone rang. “Answer.”
But Jerrod Scott’s phone, like Fitz’s, went straight to voice mail.
“Dammit,” Harper muttered as his recorded voice played.
The story was slipping away from her.
“Mr. Scott, it’s Harper McClain,” she told the machine urgently. “I hate to bother you but, to be honest, I’m desperate. If you’re right, and Wilson didn’t kill Naomi, he needs to call me soon and tell me his side of things. This story is about to blow up. Things are happening fast right now. We’re running out of time.”
As she hung up, the first tendrils of panic uncurled in her chest. She’d never screwed up a story this big in her entire career.
It was all her fault. She’d wasted too much time chasing phantoms out at Reidsville, and now she really was in trouble.
There was only one suspect left to call. One more chance to fill the empty space in her article. And she didn’t have his phone number.
Luckily, on the other side of the room, Baxter’s desk was still empty.
Harper stood. If she craned her neck she could see the glass wall of Dells’s office. A small crowd had gathered inside. Baxter must be among them.
The fact that they were meeting for the second time in two days was not something she wanted to think about right now.
Typing so fast she had to redo it twice, she entered Peyton Anderson’s name into the newspaper database. It brought back a few articles from his high school baseball years, and an article about a society party where he’d been present along with his parents.
Searching deeper in the resources section, she found extensive contact information for his father, Randall. Beneath that was a short entry for his son. It held only a phone number. There was no indication of how old it was. Or whether it still worked.
Murmuring a quiet prayer, she pulled a recorder from a drawer, plugged it into the telephone, and dialed the number.
The phone rang five times. Six.
Harper closed her eyes.
Then: “Hello? Who’s this?”
She recognized his voice from Naomi Scott’s memorial service. That distinctive Savannah upper-class accent. A private school crispness to the consonants.
She reminded herself that she’d gotten a good measure of him that night, and she thought she knew what approach to take.
“Hi Peyton.” She smiled when she said it, forcing herself to talk slow and easy. Like they were old friends. “This is Harper McClain from the Savannah Daily News. You might not remember me, but we met the other night. I wondered if you had a second to talk.”
There was a long pause.
“Of course I remember you.” A new note of caution entered his voice, but he remained at least superficially polite. “The pretty redhead with all the questions. You know, I don’t believe you mentioned you were a reporter at the time.”
“Didn’t I?” she asked innocently. “I thought I did.”
“No, you did not.” He sounded almost amused. “What can I do for you, Harper?”
The way he said her name set her nerves on edge. She made herself smile so it wouldn’t show in her voice.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions for a piece I’m writing about Naomi,” she said. “You said some things at the service that were so interesting to me. I’d like to talk to you on the record about how you knew her, and what she was like.”
“I’d be happy to help.” He sounded calm and unthreatened. Like this happened every day. “I mean, I didn’t know her that long, we met at law school. We had a couple of classes together. Hooked up a couple of times. The usual thing.”
“Didn’t you tell me it was more than that?” Harper corrected him. “I thought the two of you had a bit of a thing.”
He brushed that off. “I wouldn’t call it a thing. We were never serious. You know how it is. We went out for a while and moved on.”
“Oh, I remember those crazy college relationships.” Harper grinned. “Everyone’s always hooking up one day and then having to unhook the next. I imagine it was like that?”
“Exactly.” His tone brightened. “I mean—I’m young. No one wants to be tied down when they’re twenty-four. Actually, I was wondering if you’re single?”
Harper gave her phone a disbelieving look.
“Not really,” she said. “But let’s talk about Naomi.”
“No, wait.” He laughed. “How can you be not really single? We need to talk about this, Harper.”
He was so cocky.
He must realize the police looked at him as a potential suspect—they must have spoken to him and verified his alibi. And yet, here he was, flirting with a reporter who could expose that.
“Oh, you don’t want to hear about my boring private life,” she told him. “Besides, I’m far too old for you. Now, I’d like to get back to Naomi. Were both of you cool with that? The whole hooking and unhooking thing?”
“Sure.” His tone was careless. “Naomi had her own life. She was busy with work and school, anyway. There wasn’t a big scene or anything.”
“I suppose you dated other people after you and Naomi unhooked?” Harper said. “I mean, you’re asking me out. I get the feeling you’re a bit of a player.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Harper.” But his chuckle said he wasn’t offended. “I mean, I ask ladies out if I like them. If they like me they say yes. It’s cool.”
His arrogance was grating. She decided it was time to turn the tables.
“What about Naomi?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry—I don’t understand.”
“She dated other people, too. Were you fine with that?”
“Of course.”
“Even h
er relationship with Wilson Shepherd?” Harper pressed. “From what I understand, the two of them were getting pretty serious. That didn’t bother you at all?”
“No.” The lightness faded from his voice. “If that was who she wanted to be with, if that’s what she wanted to do with her life, it was none of my business.”
Tucking the phone beneath her chin, Harper scribbled notes. “Peyton, I’ve got to say you don’t sound very happy about it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, you’re telling me you were fine with Naomi dating Wilson, but you sound angry.”
“That’s ridiculous.” His tone was cool, now. “Naomi was fine with me dating and I was fine with her dating. End of story.”
It was time to show her hand.
“Was everything really fine, though? Naomi filed a restraining order against you, didn’t she? I’ve read it, and it doesn’t sound to me like you were fine with her dating other people, Peyton. Quite the opposite, actually.”
Anderson fell silent.
Harper persisted. “If you two were getting along so well, why would she tell the police you spied on her at home? That you followed her to work and to class. That you threatened her…”
“Oh come on, Harper.” Anderson had recovered from his surprise. He adopted a dismissive tone. “I can’t believe you’re bringing this up. That was all right after we broke up. She was hurt and angry. She said things she didn’t mean. We made up and we were fine after that.”
“Did she withdraw the injunction?” Harper asked.
“How would I know?” There was an edge to his voice. “We didn’t talk about it. It was a dark stain on our friendship. I don’t know if she did officially withdraw it. I hope so.”
“She didn’t,” Harper informed him. “It was still in place when someone murdered her.”
The silence after that was very long.
This time, Harper waited him out. She could feel that she was getting close now.
“Well,” Peyton said, finally. “I didn’t know that. Look, Harper, I have to go. I’m supposed to be somewhere.”
“I’ve only got a couple more questions,” she assured him. “I just need a few things for the record. I take it you deny the allegations contained in Naomi’s restraining order?”
“Of course I do,” he said. “Like I said, it was in the past.”
“It was six months ago,” she corrected him. “She said you grabbed her shoulder so hard you left bruises on the skin. She submitted photographs to back that up. Did you grab her, Peyton?”
“No, I did not,” he said tightly. “Do you have many more questions? Because…”
She didn’t let him finish. “Did you go to her house? Let yourself in? Sit on her sofa waiting for her to get out of the shower and find you there?”
“Not if she didn’t want me to.” His voice was tense. “I don’t want to go through this line by line, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Harper said. “I’m through with that document. Now, I’d like to ask you about restraining orders filed against you by Cameron Johnson and Angela Martinez. I can’t help but notice that their allegations are similar to those filed by Naomi.”
She could hear his ragged breathing through the receiver. She couldn’t tell whether he was angry or frightened. But he must have figured out how much she knew.
“What is this?” he asked. “What are you trying to do here?”
“I’m not trying to do anything,” she told him. “I’m writing a story about Naomi Scott. And these restraining orders are part of it. I’m giving you the right to respond.”
There was another long pause. Across the room, she saw Baxter walk in from the back, and shoot her an urgent look. Silently, Harper waved her over, and hit the speaker button.
She had him where she wanted him. If he blew up at her now, every word he said would be on the record, and he was right on the edge. And Baxter would hear it all.
Peyton didn’t speak for what felt like a full minute. When he did talk, he didn’t blow up. Quite the opposite.
“Here’s my statement on all of this.” His voice was even, now. He was back in control. “The incidents with Cameron and Angela were regrettable misunderstandings, but I take full responsibility for them. I shouldn’t have led them on. When you come from a family like mine, sometimes women get overeager. They believe you’re offering more than you are. And sometimes they want more than you can give. I believe their actions were vindictive and designed to punish me, but I never should have led them on in the first place.”
Baxter had reached her desk now, and stood silently next to her.
“In regards to Naomi Scott—she was a good friend,” he continued. “I have wonderful memories of our time together. I would never hurt her. If you’ve investigated this properly, then you know many people have vouched for my whereabouts the night of her murder. Not only would I not have murdered her, I couldn’t have. Physically, it was impossible.” He drew a breath. “I can understand why you need to ask these questions. But please bear in mind that personal relationships are complicated. If Naomi misunderstood anything I said or did, that was between us. At the time of her death we were still friends.”
“Such good friends,” Harper said, cutting him off, “that she told the police, and this is a quote, ‘I think he’s going to hurt me one day.’ With friends like that, she didn’t need enemies, did she, Peyton?”
This time she got under his skin. When he spoke again, the smooth voice was gone. He sounded furious.
“We are off the record from this point on. If you print these lies, my family will bring down your entire newspaper. And if you’re any good at your job, you know we can do it.”
DJ turned around to listen.
“That sounds a lot like a threat, Mr. Anderson,” Harper said.
“I’m telling you the facts,” he snapped. “It’s that simple. You print these lies, you’re done. Believe me: done.”
The phone went dead.
“He sounds like a nice guy,” Baxter said. “Get anything useful out of him before he lost it?”
“Not much.” Harper flipped through her notes. “He’s careful.”
“Family of lawyers.” Baxter’s tone left no doubt of what she thought of that. “So, aside from the threats, what’ve we got?”
Harper tapped the folder on her desk. “We have the restraining orders. The police acknowledge they’re real. But, they also insist they’ve verified his alibi. He could not be our killer, according to them.”
Baxter considered this. “What other suspects are left? The boyfriend?”
“Yes. Wilson Shepherd is still on the list. I’m trying to get through to him but he’s not talking. There’s also Jim Fitzgerald, the bar owner.”
“What about him?” Baxter asked.
“Stalked a young, female bartender a couple of years ago after his wife left him. Has no alibi for the night of the murder.”
Interest flared in Baxter’s face.
“You talked to him?”
Harper shook her head. “Can’t reach him. He’s been on a bender since the murder.” She hesitated. “I know him. And I have to say I don’t like him for it.”
Baxter made an impatient gesture.
“Put your own feelings aside on this. Go with what the cops tell you. He’s a suspect.”
She tapped her fingers on the stack of injunctions. “Right now, our story is in those documents. You lead with Anderson. You put in his denials, leave out his threats. Get in touch with the other two suspects. Hear them out. But emphasize his alibi.”
She glanced at the slim silver watch hanging loosely from her wrist.
“Get to work on it now. I’ll warn Dells it’s coming.”
It occurred to Harper that she’d said nothing at all about that serious-looking meeting in the chief editor’s office. But there was no time to ask.
Pivoting, Baxter pointed at DJ, who had watched all of this with avid interest. “You got plans?
”
He nodded nervously.
“Cancel them.” She plucked the scanner from Harper’s desk and held it out to him. “You’re on cop shop until she gets the story written.”
With that, the editor headed back across the room, her low-heeled shoes thumping against the hard floor. Her final words floated to them over her narrow shoulder.
“Type fast, McClain.”
22
That night, Harper and Baxter worked on the news story for hours—going through it, word by word. Baxter was ferocious about the details, sending it back over and over for careful adjustments.
When she was satisfied with the article, Dells decided he needed to read it in person.
He strode in to the newsroom just after eleven, looking even more expensive than he had during the day. His navy Brooks Brothers suit was unrumpled. His crisp, white shirt set off his tanned skin. He’d taken off his tie, and the faint hint of five o’clock shadow was annoyingly flattering on his clean jawline.
“What’ve we got?” he asked, heading to where Baxter and DJ were standing around Harper’s desk.
“I think it’s ready,” Baxter told him, moving to one side to make space.
“Let me take a look.” Dells leaned over Harper’s shoulder, close enough that she could smell the cool, green scent of his cologne, and the faint, smoky tang of Scotch on his breath.
Harper tried to imagine where someone like Dells socialized. At swanky dinner parties in the suburbs, she supposed. Or in one of the pricey restaurants she’d never once visited.
“You didn’t have to come in for this,” she told him. “Baxter’s all over it.”
He shot her a sideways look.
“I was on a blind date. Trust me, this is more fun.”
It was such an unexpectedly honest admission, Harper was disarmed. It had never, until that moment, occurred to her that he might be single. Much less exploring the dubious waters of Savannah’s small dating pool.
In fact, she’d never really thought about him much at all, except as her boss—a distant figure she usually only encountered when she was in some sort of trouble.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 17
