The Third Grave

by Lisa Jackson

  No doubt Minister Linley had received his information from either Bart Yelkis and the Internet or possibly someone at the department.

  Reed knew far more about his partner than the man leading the service.

  Throughout it all, Nikki, dressed in black and seated next to him, had been respectful and solemn, bowing her head during prayer while, during the rest of the service, she’d kept her eyes on the preacher, avoiding the accusing gazes of Morrisette’s friends—mainly cops—or family. Though Reed and Nikki had chosen to sit near the back, more than once Bart Yelkis had looked over his shoulder from a front pew, where he’d sat wedged between his children, both dressed somberly, both quietly weeping. When Yelkis caught sight of Nikki he’d sent her a hateful glare that Nikki either didn’t see or ignored.

  Reed didn’t. His jaw tightened and he reached into his pocket to rub his new talisman, Morrisette’s key chain with its star fob. It had been a rough day already as he’d had to explain to Margaret Duval that the woman who’d posed as Rose was a complete fraud. “I should have been there,” she’d said over the weak phone connection. “I would have known immediately if that woman was my little girl.”

  “She wasn’t,” he’d said as gently as possible. “It was a scam, I’m afraid.” He would have proof soon, when the DNA came through.

  “Then find my daughter,” Margaret had said brokenly.

  And then there was Nikki’s wild theory that Rose Duval could be the love child of Margaret Duval and Baxter Beaumont when they hadn’t yet established the two had been involved in an affair. He’d posed the idea to his new partner early this morning while they were both sipping coffee and going over the reports that had come in overnight.

  Delacroix had looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you serious?” she’d asked.

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “But is it probable? More importantly, is it a fact?” She reminded him, “We deal in facts.”

  “And theories that are supported by facts. So we need to find out the truth and before we go asking Margaret Duval or Baxter Beaumont if they had a child together, we’d better make certain they were really involved and this isn’t just local gossip that’s been embellished over the years.”

  “I guess it’s worth looking into,” she’d said reluctantly. “But you should really tell your wife to back off. Doesn’t she have a history of screwing up your cases?”

  “No, never screwed them up,” Reed said, which was a bit of a lie. How many times had Nikki put herself in danger, all for chasing down a story, and yeah, getting involved with his work. “It’s her job.”

  Delacroix didn’t have to say any more, just shot him a knowing look, reminding him of the thin line he was walking between his marriage to a pushy reporter and doing his by-the-book investigations.

  “If Rose isn’t Harvey’s daughter, it might explain why we didn’t find her in the tomb with her sisters.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Delacroix hadn’t been convinced. “You know, your wife has some real out-there ideas. Look, if we go down this rabbit hole and you think it’s valid, you can be the one to ask the woman married to the preacher if she was fooling around on her husband and, oh, by the way, had a baby that she passed off as his.” Delacroix had taken a final sip from her takeout cup and tossed it into the trash. “That’s on you.”

  “Thanks.” He wasn’t looking forward to the prospect, but if it seemed like it was important, he’d deal with what would probably be an even more emotional Mrs. Le Roy.

  He glanced around the church and saw Delacroix, four rows up, sitting near a couple of officers in full uniform.

  They stood for a final prayer and Reed sent up his own private message to his once-upon-a-time partner.

  Hey, Morrisette. Help me out, would ya? I’m running this case and I could use a little of the Texas attitude and smarts right now.

  He rubbed the star and almost heard her say, You’ve got a new partner now. A cute one. Not as cute as me, of course, and not nearly as smart, that’s for damned sure, but you gotta trust her, man. And, for God’s sake, quit with the stealing. The key chain? Really? She laughed that deep raspy laugh. Now, leave me alone, would ya? I’m up here trying to rest in damned peace! Whatever the hell that means.

  He almost smiled. God, he wished he could really hear one of her smartass comebacks one last time.

  “Amen,” Linley said aloud, breaking into his thoughts.

  In hushed tones, the congregation echoed discordantly, “Amen.”

  Reed opened his eyes.

  Found Yelkis staring again.

  Reed took his wife’s hand as they walked out of the stuffy church and down the front steps to the gray day beyond. The sun was trying valiantly to shine through a shroud of clouds, and the air outside the reach of the church’s air conditioning was cloying and heavy, threatening yet another summer storm. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “Amen,” she whispered.

  Outside, cops, family and a few friends were gathering on the lawn beneath a canopy of the surrounding trees. Reed wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Nor was he interested in drinking some kind of weak punch and nibbling on cake or sandwiches that were going to be offered in the church’s rec hall. Nor would he put Nikki through it. And the graveside service was for members of Morrisette’s family, which was just fine with him. Reed didn’t need to see the casket lowered into the earth.

  Time to leave.

  Still holding hands, they headed for his Jeep, when he heard a woman’s voice say, “Nikki Gillette?”

  He glanced up and found a blonde with a microphone thrust forward. Behind her stood a hefty man in his twenties, a shoulder cam aimed at Reed and Nikki.

  “I’m Kimberly Mason with WKAM, and I’d like to ask you a few questions,” she said, then her eyes found Reed. “And you, as well, Detective Reed. We’ve spoken before.”

  He remembered her. As a reporter he actually liked. “This isn’t a good time,” he said, noticing the red light on the camera.

  Shit.

  Nikki shook her head. “Not now.”

  Kimberly’s smile tightened. “Oh, come on. Just a few words.” And to Reed, “Maybe I can help with your investigation. Get the word out. Someone in our viewership might know something about what happened to those poor victims or even locate the missing Duval girl.”

  “This isn’t a good time,” he said.

  “It’s been reported that you,” the reporter said to Nikki, “found Bruno Cravens’s body at his home. Is that true? You were there? And his father, too? Were you two togeth—”

  “Reed!” a deep voice yelled.

  From the corner of his eye he spied Bart Yelkis barreling toward them. Bart was jerking at his tie, his face flushed, anger palpitating off of him. His kids started to follow, but he waved them aside, motioning Priscilla and Toby to stay in a group of mourners who had clustered near the foot of the church steps. While Toby glowered, his sister hid her face behind the veil of her own hair.

  “What the fuck are you trying to pull?” Yelkis demanded, reaching into his inner jacket pocket.

  Jesus Christ, the man was pulling a gun!

  Reed reacted, pushing Nikki behind him, reaching for his sidearm only to remember his service weapon was locked in the Jeep.

  “Don’t move!” Jade Delacroix stepped into the parking lot, her own pistol drawn and pointed directly at Yelkis.

  A woman screamed.

  “Gun! She’s got a gun!” another woman yelled, and she ran toward the church and the crowd reacted.

  “Get down!” a man ordered sharply, while others shepherded people up the stairs and into the church. Others started cars and began wheeling out of the lot, tires screeching, a startled flock of pigeons taking flight.

  “Dad! Don’t!” Priscilla was running forward, her ashen face twisted in horror. “Please don’t!”

  Delacroix said, “Stop!” to the girl. But she kept her pistol tr
ained on Yelkis.

  Both of Morrisette’s kids skidded to a stop.

  Delacroix shouted at Yelkis, “Police! Drop your weapon.”

  “What? No weapon!” Yelkis’s hands went straight up in the air. In his right fist he clenched a packet of white papers. “I don’t have a gun!” he said. “For fuck’s sake, I’m unarmed.” The papers started floating to the ground.

  The preacher was approaching. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Stand back, sir!” Delacroix warned, and slipped a pair of cuffs from her belt. Linley stopped dead in his tracks.

  “This is a house of God,” he reminded Reed’s partner.

  “Sir, stand back,” she said, eyes trained on Yelkis.

  The reporter, who had been frozen to the spot, said to her cameraman, “I hope you’re getting all this.”

  “On the ground,” Delacroix ordered.

  Several other cops approached, weapons drawn.

  Yelkis, some of his anger depleted, dropped to his knees. “What’s wrong with you? Are you all nuts?” he said to Delacroix. “It’s just legal stuff. Sylvie’s will!” He turned his gaze back to Reed, his eyes filled with a hate so intense Reed felt cold inside. “This son of a bitch is supposed to become the guardian of my kids! According to my exwife, I’m not a fit father, but fuckin’ Pierce Reed is.”

  “What?” Nikki whispered. “What’s he talking about?”

  Reed shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Like hell, you don’t know. You were probably in on it. Maybe you and Sylvie had a little something going on the side. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  “This is insane,” Reed said.

  Yelkis’s hands were still held sky high, and he was on his knees on the asphalt as he glared up at Reed. “But it will never happen. Got it? Your little plan won’t work. The kids are mine and whatever my wife had in her retirement, her accounts, it all goes to me and my kids!”

  “Jesus,” Reed whispered, then seeing that the camera for the news station was still rolling, turned on the reporter. “Enough, Ms. Mason. We’re done here.” He grabbed Nikki’s hand.

  “What is he talking about? What about Sylvie’s kids?” she said, and he watched Priscilla marching to Yelkis’s truck, her brother limping slightly before running to catch up.

  “I really have no idea. None.” His phone jangled. He checked the screen and answered. “This is Reed.”

  “Yeah, Deputy Tina Rounds. I was called over to the scene of a possible suicide.” He listened to the officer, but his gaze was fastened on the scene unfolding. Obviously deciding that Yelkis posed no immediate danger, Delacroix slid her gun into the holster at her waist, then pocketed the cuffs while another officer tried to help Yelkis to his feet, just as the first drops of rain from another storm began to fall. Yelkis shook off the policeman’s hand, stood and straightened his jacket. Squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Reed. “I’m not done,” he warned, then followed his kids to his pickup. All the while Nikki was picking up the scattered papers, a legal document from the looks of the neatly typed pages.

  His stomach dropped.

  Was Yelkis actually telling the truth?

  “You got that?” Rounds was saying, bringing him back to the phone call. “Possible suicide. Gunshot.”

  “Where are you?”

  She reeled off the address. “Male. In his thirties. Woman who called it in says the victim is Owen Duval.”

  “What?” In the moment everything changed. Nikki, who had come up to stand next to him, her gaze skimming the documents, glanced up suddenly, meeting his gaze.

  “I said it sure as hell looks like Duval offed himself.”

  “You’re sure about his ID?”

  “That’s right. Wallet is still on him and the woman who found him is Helen Davis, Duval’s landlord. Positive ID.” Reed’s heart sank. “I’m on my way.” He clicked off. “Son of a . . .” Why the hell would Owen Duval off himself now? Pressure? Guilt?

  “What?” Nikki demanded. “Did she say suicide?”

  “Possible. Look, I have to check this out.” He was already fishing in his pocket for his keys. “Take the Jeep and I’ll ride to the scene with Delacroix.”

  Nikki argued, “I can go with you and—”

  “No.” He was already motioning to Delacroix, holding up a finger, silently asking her to wait.

  “I overheard the victim’s name,” Nikki admitted.

  “Great. Then you know why I have to leave.”

  “I could come and—”

  “No! This is police business, Nikki. I thought we were clear on that.”

  “Yes, but there’s something I want to tell you.” The way she said it gave him pause. “Something I did today.” She inched her chin up and he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it was she was going to say. He glanced up and saw that the cameraman was still filming, Kimberly Mason at his side.

  “Can it wait?” he said to his wife under his breath. Then at the reporter, “This is over. Now.”

  “It’s news.” Kimberly Mason’s smile had all the sincerity of the Cheshire cat. “You understand.” She glanced at Nikki.

  “I’ll come home directly,” he said to his wife.

  She wanted to argue, he saw it in her eyes, but she said, “Okay. But it’s important.”

  Isn’t everything? He handed her his key ring and noted that Kimberly Mason was still watching intently.

  “Reed. You coming or what?” Delacroix shouted.

  “It’ll have to wait,” he said into Nikki’s ear. He again held up a finger to Delacroix, silently asking her to wait. “When we’re alone.”

  “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t try to tell you.”

  That gave him pause, but he didn’t have time to deal with it now. He handed her his keys. “I’ll be home as soon as I can and we’ll talk then.”

  “Remember, we have a deal.”

  “A deal?”

  “Exclusive?”

  “Right.” He gave a quick nod. “Exclusive,” though his stomach tightened when he said it.

  CHAPTER 28

  Owen Duval?

  Dead?

  By suicide?

  Before she even got to interview him?

  Nikki tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror. What the hell had just happened? In the few minutes since the funeral service, Morrisette’s ex-husband had insisted that she’d left this world naming Reed as the guardian for her children, despite the fact that they had a father. And then Reed had gotten a phone call about another potential homicide that had caused him to leave her with his car and a promise that he’d be home soon.

  She knew better than that.

  Especially since she thought she’d heard the name Owen Duval from whomever he’d been talking to.

  And what was with his keys? He got a new ring with a star on it? Why? Not that it was a big deal, but it was odd.

  What isn’t?

  She put his Jeep into gear and drove home, but in her mind’s eye she was at Owen Duval’s home, at the crime scene watching the police investigate the suicide. Had the pressure gotten to Owen after all these years? Had the spotlight burned a hole into his soul and he couldn’t go on? Had guilt eaten him alive?

  With thoughts rattling through her mind, she parked the Jeep in Reed’s space in the garage and sat for a second.

  Aside from the death of Owen Duval there was the news that Sylvie Morrisette had named Reed as guardian for her kids should she die.

  Of course that was only if their father, Bart Yelkis, was dead or incapacitated. Or unfit. That last thought bothered her. Was he able to care for a couple of teenagers? Oh, God, was she?

  She went into the house and went through the motions of her life. Greeting Mikado and Jennings, letting the dog out, even throwing a frisbee in the backyard while the cat stalked through the wet foliage, hoping to catch an unsuspecting bird, but her thoughts were miles away, to the idea that she could, under the righ
t circumstances, become the instant mother of grieving teenagers, to Owen Duval and his sudden death. She thought about the apartment that Owen Duval had rented. She knew where it was. Had planned on going there and interviewing him.

  So why didn’t you? When you had the chance, why didn’t you? Was it because you were healing from the accident in the river, or was it because you were being a good girl and doing exactly what your husband and the cops wanted?

  She flung the frisbee past the fountain, skimming the air near a row of azaleas, and Mikado bounded after it, snagging it airborne before it hit the ground. “Good boy,” she said, patting him on the head when he retrieved the plastic disk and brought it back. “We’ll go out to Mom’s place in a few days and you can stretch your legs there.” The backyard here was a little cramped, but Mikado didn’t seem to mind.

  At the mention of her mother, she felt a little guilty. She’d avoided Charlene and told herself she’d visit. Maybe tomorrow. And wasn’t there something she wanted to talk to her mother about? Oh, right—the Savannah gossip about the Beaumont family. “Come on,” she said to the dog, and spying the tabby in a crouch, tail twitching as Jennings eyed a squirrel running along the top of the fence, she scooped him up and was rewarded with a growl. “You’ll live,” she told her cat, and carried him inside.

  She checked her phone.

  No text from Reed.

  Nothing yet on the local news feed.

  She dialed Millie.

  “I figured you’d be calling,” Millie said. “Owen Duval.”

  “You know anything?”

  “Just that Metzger hightailed it out of the office around four.”

  Nikki eyed the digital clock on the stove. 5:17.

  “Why was that?”

  “I’m not sure. He got a call on his cell phone. Didn’t come in through the office, but he’s got a source in the police department. I overheard him mention the name. That’s all I know. Oh, wait.” She paused. “Yep, digital’s got it. I just saw it go up on the screen. Looks like next of kin has been notified.”