“Because it isn’t,” he said. “That’s not how this works. You were not responsible for a killer’s actions.”
“But he’ll get away with it now, Luke,” she said, miserably. “And that’s my fault.”
He shook his head.
“We have Richards’s log, Harper. It was in his cab, and it lists the pickup at the hospital that night, exactly like you said. Daltrey got the CCTV footage from the hospital and the hotel. He’s on there. Clear as day. We’ve subpoenaed his phone records. If he was communicating with Naomi Scott, and we believe he was…” He reached across, putting his hand on hers. “He’s going down.”
Not trusting herself to speak, Harper looked down at their entangled hands.
“The person responsible is Peyton Anderson, and you will help us put him away.” His thumb stroked the side of her hand. “We’re looking for him now. We’ve got a warrant to search his apartment. His father is cooperating.”
Letting go of her hands, he touched her chin, tilting her face up, making her look at him.
“That’s what you did, Harper. You caught a killer. You did right by Naomi Scott. Keep that in your mind.”
As she listened, something that had held tight in Harper’s chest since that first shot last night loosened, just a little.
She blew out a shaky breath and nodded.
“Okay,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “Okay.”
“Get some sleep,” he said. “When you wake up, this will all be over.”
Nodding, Harper reached for the door handle. But at the last minute she turned back.
“Luke,” she said, “when this is all over … let’s talk.”
His eyes held hers. “I’d like that.”
She climbed out of the car feeling the weight of her own exhaustion so heavily, she barely noticed as Luke drove away.
She trudged up the front steps, wondering how much time she had before she needed to go into the office. It was not yet eight o’clock. If she could sleep for three hours, she was sure she’d be fine.
She was putting the key in the third lock when she heard her phone ringing inside.
Hastily, she shoved the door open, typed the code into the beeping alarm, and ran into the living room, dropping her bag on the couch, and grabbing the phone off its stand on the sixth ring.
“Hello?”
“Finally,” an unfamiliar voice said. “This has been a long time coming.”
The voice sounded older. Male. Harper frowned.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who has secrets to tell.”
“Look,” Harper said wearily, “I’ve had a long night. If this is about a story, call me at the newspaper this afternoon. Right now, I…”
The chuckle in her ear made her voice trail off.
“Come on, Harper. You’re a reporter. You must be more curious than this. You figured out how I was getting in, and you cut off all my access routes. So now I have to call you. It’s a hell of a thing.”
Harper’s blood turned to ice.
“Who is this?”
“I think you know who this is.”
For one second, she stood frozen, the phone in a viselike grip. Then she grabbed her bag and rifled through it, pulling out a notebook and pen. Flipping furiously to a clean page, she wrote, Over 45 years old. No Southern accent.
“You must have questions for me.” he said, almost kindly, as if he knew she was tired.
“Why did you break into my house?” Harper’s voice was airless. “What do you want?”
“I have some information for you. But before I gave it to you, I wanted to know who you were.”
Harper frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We met, long ago,” he said, not answering her question. “When you were young. I knew your parents. How is your father, anyway?”
Harper’s pen slid across the page, scratching a thick black line.
“You know my dad?”
“I knew him back then.”
His voice was steady, unafraid. Almost helpful.
Whatever she’d thought she’d do in this moment left her mind now. She had to force herself to think.
“Were you a friend of my parents’?”
“Of a sort.”
“You said you wanted to know who I am,” she said. “Why?”
There was a pause. Harper thought she heard a car through the phone, driving by him. Was he on a street?
“At first,” he said, “I wanted to warn you that you were in danger. I told you to run. But you didn’t. That surprised me. You’re not much like your father. And, I suppose, in the end, that’s what I wanted to know, when I first checked in on you. I wanted to see if you were more like your mother.”
Harper’s knees gave. She found herself sitting on the sofa with no memory of lowering herself there.
“You knew my mom.” The words came out as a whisper.
“Yes. I knew Alicia,” he said, and she thought—although this must have been wrong—that she heard emotion in his voice.
Harper didn’t want the man who broke into her house and invaded her life to talk about her dead mother with such longing and loss.
“I don’t understand what you want.” Her voice hardened. “Why are you telling me this? Who are you?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, “because I want you to know I’m for real. And because you’re in danger. The person who killed your mother is looking for you. He’s been in prison for a long time and he’s about to get out. And he’s going to come for you.”
The phone nearly slipped from her nerveless hand.
“Who killed my mother?” she demanded, no longer interested in being toyed with. “If you know so much, tell me. If this is some sort of joke, I swear to God, I will find you and…”
“I don’t joke.” His voice was steady and insistent. “If you are as smart as I think you are, you’ll know that. I’m telling you to find a safe place and go there until I can sort this out. The person we’re talking about is very good at what he does. He considers his job unfinished.”
“Who is he?” Harper demanded. “Who killed my mother?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “Over the last year, I’ve learned what kind of person you are. And I know what would happen if you knew. You’d go look for him. That cannot happen. Because that is a fight you will not win, Harper McClain. For once, I need you to do the smart thing, not the brave thing. Get out of my way, and let me take care of this. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. I owe your mother this much. It’s not enough. But it’s something.”
Harper stared across the room, trying to absorb this. She had no idea who she was talking to, but all her instincts told her to believe him, which was insane. He’d broken into her house. He’d broken into her car. He’d invaded her life. She had no idea who he was.
And yet.
Still, she wasn’t naive. She knew better than to believe.
“Why should I trust you? You broke every law to get to me. And now, all of a sudden, you’re full of advice I’m supposed to take. How do you think that plays?”
“Badly, I’d imagine,” he said. “But I think you know I’m telling the truth. You’re a good reporter, Harper. Listen to those instincts.”
She heard what sounded like a bus rumble by him, and his voice faded for a moment.
“Hold on,” he said, his tone changing to something like alarm. “What’s this?”
“Just tell me who you are,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone…”
“Harper, listen.” His voice had changed completely. He sounded urgent and tense. “There’s a man walking up to your house. He’s got a gun. Don’t open your door.”
Harper stood up. Was he outside her house right now?
“I don’t understand…”
“You don’t need to understand.” His voice sharpened. “Call the police. Do it now. Tell them Peyton Anderson is outside your door. Do it, Harper. Trust me.”
“Wait…” she said.
The phone in her hand went dead, just as someone pounded his fist against her door.
40
Harper’s ribs felt too tight around her lungs—she couldn’t get a breath. She stared at the windows across the room, her hand still clinging to the dead phone.
Someone pounded on the door again. Three heavy bangs. She felt each one in her chest.
“Come out, Harper. Come out and play.”
It was Peyton Anderson’s voice.
The voice on the phone had been telling the truth. He was watching her. And she was in trouble.
There was only one reason for Anderson to be here now.
She dialed 911 so quickly her fingers slipped on the phone. As it began to ring, she jumped to her feet, heading for the door.
“911 what’s your…” a voice began.
“This is Harper McClain. Peyton Anderson is outside my house right now. He’s got a gun. I need help.” The words came out fast but clear. “317 East Jones Street. Call Daltrey.”
She drew a quick breath before adding, “Send an ambulance.”
Before the operator could respond, she hung up. She didn’t want to get into a conversation with Anderson standing on her front porch.
Avoiding windows, she crossed the living room to the entrance hall and stared at the front door. The peephole was a sinister black eye, looking back at her.
No way was she putting her face up against that right now.
She turned herself sideways, pressing her back against the wall. If he fired through the door, she wanted him to miss.
“What do you want, Peyton?” She raised her voice, trying to sound authoritative but not shrill. Like a cop.
“I only want to talk,” he insisted. “Come outside. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Sure you’re not,” she said. “I saw how you talked to that cabdriver last night. You can talk through the door.”
He laughed then, a gasping, angry sound.
“You’re such cowards,” he said. “All of you. You write lies in your newspaper, but you won’t say it to my face. You’ve got no soul.”
“What did I lie about, Peyton?” she asked. “Didn’t you kill Naomi? Didn’t you kill that man last night? I saw you do it, Peyton. I was there.”
“So what?” He was angry now, his voice rising. “He was going to lie, too. You all lie.”
There was something in his voice—an unevenness she recognized.
Is he drunk?
It wasn’t a good thought.
“I’ve called the police,” she told him. “They’re on their way.”
“I knew you would. They were going to find me eventually anyway. My dad told me to turn myself in.” He gave an angry laugh. “My own dad. He believes you, do you know that? I thought getting rid of that cabdriver would put an end to this. But then you messed it all up, you stupid little bitch.” He drew a breath. “Now I’ve come to thank you. Come out.”
There was a pause. Harper could hear sirens in the distance. Anderson must have heard it, too.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said, with sudden clarity. “Open the door, or I start shooting your neighbors.”
Harper stopped breathing.
He’d already shot one innocent person today. And if she’d learned anything from seven years on this job, it was that the first kill made all the other kills easier.
When she didn’t reply, he grew impatient.
“You like that old lady, don’t you? The one with the ugly little dog? Never shot a dog before. But there’s a first time for…”
“Stop.” Harper turned to face the door. “I’ll come out.”
Her eyes fell on the baseball bat leaning against the wall.
He couldn’t kill anyone else. She wouldn’t let him.
There was no time to plan. All she had was the element of surprise. And she was going to take it.
She picked up the bat and, moving fast—her hands surprisingly steady—she unlocked the door.
She turned her body sideways and burst out onto the porch holding the bat like a hitter at home plate.
She had time to clock Anderson’s pale sweaty face. To see his eyes widen, and the gun in his hand start to rise.
She swung.
She put all her strength into it—swinging the bat with her whole body. It connected with his shoulder with a sickening crunch. The gun flew from his hand.
Anderson screamed and grabbed his arm.
With grim determination, Harper swung the bat back, and hit him again as the first police cars pulled up on the street outside, sirens blaring. This time the bat connected with his chest.
Anderson collapsed to the ground.
He was sobbing, one hand held up as if it could stop the next blow.
Uniformed officers jumped out of the cars and ran toward her, guns drawn. She stood over Anderson’s huddled form with the bat raised, breathing heavily, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He wasn’t going to hurt her. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
Voices shouted at her: “Stand back!”
She could barely hear them through the roar of blood in her ears.
A crowd of officers rushed up the narrow steps, shoving her aside and surrounding Anderson, who lay groaning on the floor.
“We need an ambulance,” someone said.
“There’s a gun somewhere on the ground,” she heard herself tell them.
Someone took the bat from her.
More police cars were pulling up on the street below. Blue lights flashed in all directions, as her neighbors emerged from their houses to see what was going on.
Between the cars, Harper caught sight of a man. He stood back from the fray. She wouldn’t have noticed him were he not watching her so steadily.
He was tall and slim, with steel gray hair. His upright stance betrayed military training. His eyes had the sharp intensity of a police officer’s. He wasn’t a neighbor. She’d never seen him before.
Harper took a step forward, trying to get a better look. Their eyes met.
“Is it you?” she whispered, unaware that she’d spoken aloud.
An ambulance rolled down the street, blocking him from view.
When it passed, he was gone.
ONE WEEK LATER
Harper stood in her bedroom, a suitcase open in front of her. Zuzu watched her balefully from atop the dresser. She’d gone up there as soon as she’d seen the first box, and refused to come down since.
Harper took the last items of clothing from the dresser and put them on top of the rest of the clothes, then looked around the room for anything she’d forgotten.
But she’d been pretty thorough.
Peyton Anderson was in jail, awaiting trial. His father had hired him an excellent defense lawyer, naturally, but the police case was solid.
The dramatic news of Anderson’s arrest on two counts of murder had filled the paper for days.
All the tiny missing pieces had fallen into place. Police believed Anderson had texted Naomi Scott on the night of her murder, demanding she meet him. He’d threatened to kill Wilson Shepherd if she didn’t.
She’d insisted on meeting in a crowded place—River Street.
When she’d shown up, though, the street wasn’t crowded. And Anderson hadn’t wanted to talk. He’d had other plans.
He’d killed her and thrown her phone in the river to destroy the evidence of their conversation. He’d told police his own phone had been stolen on the same night.
Harper had to admire the plan. He was smart.
He would have made a great lawyer.
The article she’d sat at her kitchen table writing the day Richards was killed had at last been published. Charlton hadn’t said a word when Baxter told her she was doing a front-page splash.
There were rumors that Dells might come back—that his suspension might not turn into a full firing. But, so far, his office had stayed dark.
Baxter grumbled mutinously about the idiocy of newspaper owners, but th
e other rumor circulating was that she was in line for a promotion.
Amid all of this furor, at least so far, the planned round of layoffs had not occurred.
When she wasn’t working, Harper had been searching every spare minute for the man she’d seen that day, standing on her street. He hadn’t been in touch since.
She believed him when he told her she was in danger. And, for once, she decided to listen to advice.
She’d gone to Blazer, and told him about the phone call, the break-ins. What the man had said. He’d been skeptical, at first, just like her. But in the end, he’d told her she should consider moving. At least for a while.
“He can find you at the paper, but there’s an armed guard at the front door there. If you move, leave no forwarding address.”
He’d also offered to look through her mother’s case for anything that might have been missed sixteen years ago.
Harper was grateful to him. But she didn’t think he’d find anything she and Smith had overlooked.
The only person who knew who killed her mother had called her from a burner phone and then disappeared.
She needed to talk to that man again. Somehow, she needed him to find her.
It was time to find out the truth about her mother’s murder. If she was going to do that, she was going to need his help.
When she walked out of the house with a suitcase in one hand and Zuzu’s carry box in the other, her landlord, Billy Dupre, was pulling up to the curb in his battered blue pickup.
He put the suitcase into her trunk with the others and slammed it shut. Zuzu yowled from the cat box as if Harper were strangling her instead of setting her gently on the backseat.
She closed the door, shutting off the ruckus.
After that, she and Billy stood for a moment, staring back at the Victorian house, with its tiny porch, and stained-glass window.
Harper had lived there for seven years. It was the closest thing to home she could think of.
“It ain’t gonna be the same,” Billy told her, sadly. “Doesn’t feel right renting your place out to some stranger.”
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 31
