“But it could’ve been.”
“Yeah.” A muscle worked in his jaw. He didn’t want to think about it.
“Jesus H. Christ, Reed, what were you thinkin’? In today’s world? You didn’t use a condom?”
He didn’t answer, just glanced out the window where morning light was filtering through the dirty panes and pigeons were roosting on the sill.
“Men!” She sighed audibly and jabbed at her hair with her fingers. “Damn, I could use a cigarette.”
You and me both.
“Okay, okay, so you don’t need a lecture.”
“That’s right. I don’t.”
She shook her head. “Okay, so what do you want me to do?” Suddenly she was all business again. Composed. Her little jaw set, her mouth a line of determination.
He was two steps ahead of her. They were an odd team. There had been bets by some of the other detectives about how long their pairing would last. Odds were against it. But so far, it had worked. “You’ll need to handle the official stuff. Requests that require signatures. Phone calls to and from the department. That sort of thing.”
“And what’ll you do?”
“Work on other cases, of course.”
“Give me a break.” Morrisette snorted. “Okay, okay, so that’s the way we’ll play it. Okano will have your badge if she finds out you’re still working on this. Even in an advisory capacity.”
“But I’m not working on it.”
“My ass.”
Reed didn’t argue as a matronly clerk rapped on the door, entered and dropped a bundle of mail into his box. “Mornin’.”
“Morning,” Reed replied. “How’s it going, Agnes?”
“Same old, same old.” Her eyes slid to the desk. “I see you’re gettin’ yourself some press.”
“It’s hell to be popular.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Chuckling, she left.
Reed grimaced as he snapped the rubber band off the bundle and began shuffling through the small stack. “I’ll want to know when we can talk to the kid in the hospital.”
“Prescott Jones?”
“Yeah. Check on his condition and if he’s allowed visitors. See if we can get in to talk to him for a few minutes.”
“You mean see if
I
can get in to see him.”
Reed grimaced. “That’s right. There’s a good chance he’s seen the killer. And so far, he’s the only one. Take a picture of Marx up there with you and flash it at the kid. Then double check Jerome Marx’s alibi.” Reed continued sorting through his mail as he talked. “Have you talked with anyone where Barbara Jean worked—Hexler’s Jewelry Store near the Cotton Exchange?”
“Already looking into it. And I’ve started with a list of her friends. What about relatives?”
“There’s a brother, I think. Maybe an aunt. The brother’s name is”—he flipped through the envelopes—“Vic or Val or…”
“Vin. Vincent Lassiter. That one I’ve checked out, but he’s MIA. His phone was disconnected a week ago and he did some time. Car theft, solicitation and possession, nothing violent that I’ve come up with.”
“Hell’s bells, aren’t you the efficient one?” Reed looked up from the mail.
“Just doin’ my job,” she quipped. “I thought you might want to put a friendly call in to Detective Montoya in New Orleans, to double check on Lassiter. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course.”
“See what he knows about Lassiter.”
“Good idea.” He glanced down at the mail and saw the envelope.
An average white envelope, handwritten, addressed to him.
“Shit.”
The return address was out of town on Heritage Road. No name. He stopped sorting and slit the envelope open. A single page was enclosed. It read:
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…
SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?
He froze. Reread the damning words over and over again.
“What?” Morrisette said. She was on her feet in an instant. Looking over his shoulder, she read the message. “Oh, Jesus.” She moved her gaze to stare straight at Reed. “This son of a bitch means business.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Norm Metzger was so angry the moustache above his goatee quivered with rage. He slapped a folded copy of this morning’s paper onto Nikki’s desk. She’d expected the explosion, had caught his angry glances all morning, and seen him beeline into Tom Fink’s office as soon as the editor had shown up this morning.
“I found an angle and ran with it.” She leaned back in her chair and stared up at him, not giving in an inch. She was tired, had barely slept a wink because of the note in her apartment, and wasn’t about to take any of Metzger’s guff. Not today.
Hooking a thumb at his chest, he growled, “It was supposed to be my story.”
“Take it up with Fink.”
“I have. But you already know that.” Metzger leaned over her desk, pushing his face close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath. “You’ve been trying to muscle in on my territory for years, Nikki, and it’s just not going to work.”
“Muscle in on your territory?’ Oh, come on, Norm. Who are you? James Cagney in some old tough-guy black and white movie from the forties?” She managed a smile and noticed the corners of his mouth were so tight his lips had paled. “As I said, I saw an angle and ran with it. I talked it over with Tom and he decided to go with the story.”
“You could have run it by me.”
“Why? Would you have if you were in my position?”
He straightened. Looked up at the ceiling. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“So you want to work with me on this?” he asked as if granting her a great favor. When she was the one with the source and the scoop.
“I work better alone.”
He snorted. “You don’t prescribe to the two heads are better than one theory?”
“Only a man, because of his anatomy, would think that.”
He slid her a glance that was meant to be glacial. “You know, Nikki, you act tough, but you’d better be careful. This is a small newspaper in a town with a long memory. You got yourself into trouble a while back, so you’d better be sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“I won’t,” she said with more confidence than she felt as he walked back to his desk.
Trina slid her chair back. “Ouch. Looks like someone’s fragile male ego has just been bruised.”
“And battered, but not broken.” She glanced down the hallway. Metzger was grabbing his coat and wool cap, making a big exit and a bigger point. “He’s just ticked cuz I aced him.”
“And he won’t forget it. I wouldn’t want to be on Metzger’s bad side.”
“Is there a good one?”
“My, my, look who’s full of herself today.” Trina laughed and winked as her phone rang and she rolled her desk chair into her cubicle.
Nikki called her landlord and had the locks of her apartment changed. Fortunately, the man who owned the building loved doing handyman tasks and he promised that he’d change the dead bolt, tumblers, and have the entire project done by the time she got home. She could pick up her new set of keys at his apartment on the main floor this evening. When he asked why she wanted them changed, she told him about an ex-boyfriend who was bothering her and there were no further questions. She spent the rest of the day avoiding Metzger, putting together her story on Dr. Francis and the school board, while doing research on the Grave Robber case. The sheriff’s department in Lumpkin County offered up a few more details, the hospital in Atlanta wouldn’t let her talk to the kid in the accident and the other kid was off-limits, his old man insisting on payment for any interview with Billy Dean Delacroix. Frustrated, Nikki put a call into Cliff again, then tried to locate any information she could on the two women in the grave. Barbara Jean Marx’s husband wouldn’t speak to her and the employees at Hexler’s Jewelry Store were closemouthed as well.
But Nikki wasn’t about to give up.
Nor did she forget about the two notes she’d received.
TONIGHT.
And
IT’S DONE.
Whatever happened last night was now a fait accompli.
The headline was worth the trouble.
“Grave Robber Strikes, Baffles Police.”
Oh, yeah!
Though he was tired, The Survivor tingled inside as he smoothed page one of the
Savannah Sentinel
on his table. Carefully, making certain that he was cutting in a perfectly straight line, he sliced the article from the rest of the page and discarded the remainder of the paper. The clipping would go in his scrapbook with the pictures. His televisions were all glowing bright, anchormen and-women mouthing words in hushed voices since he kept the sound down until he heard something he wanted, then he’d up the volume. His tape players were recording every segment of the news, cable stations from all over the country. Later, after a few hours of sorely needed sleep, he would edit out all the unwanted pieces before adding to his personal tape library.
The Grave Robber.
Nikki Gillette had come up with a name for him, as if she’d anticipated that he would strike again. If only she knew how close she was to the truth, to him. Humming softly to himself, he walked to one amplifier on the long wall and upped the volume…nothing…she must’ve already gone to work. No matter. He had last night’s tape. He pushed the play button, heard the mini tape rewind and then Nikki Gillette’s voice, clear over the sound of the talk-radio program. He’d marked the part he liked, the precise moment when she’d read the note.
“What? What’s done?” her voice screeched.
Again, The Survivor tingled, felt an erotic heat warming his blood, but pressed the pause button. He walked to the bureau and reached into the second drawer. There, he withdrew a pair of lacy black panties, barely more than a thong. Oh, Nikki was a naughty girl. He smiled and rubbed the sheer scrap of fabric against his cheek, hearing his beard stubble catch on the fine silk. She didn’t even know they were missing. He’d purloined them far too early, he supposed. Taking them wasn’t part of his usual ritual; she was, after all, still very much alive, not yet locked in a coffin with a corpse. Nonetheless, he couldn’t resist stealing her personal, sexy piece of lingerie.
He clicked on the recorder again. It began to play. A gentle hiss of the tape, then, as he fondled Nikki’s panties, she began to talk to him directly, not knowing that he’d planted a tiny microphone in her bedroom, that anything she said or did in that room would be recorded…just for him…. He waited, heard her moving through her apartment, felt her fear as she reentered the bedroom. Licking his lips in anticipation, he listened as the antique four-poster bed creaked under her weight. He imagined she was climbing into her bed, stretching upon the silky blue sheets and thick duvet. The spit dried in his mouth as he called up the image. Oh, yes…he remembered running the tips of his fingers over the smooth fabrics that smelled faintly of her. It had been erotic then and was doubly so now. He imagined her flesh. Hot. Wanting. Feeling like silk beneath his fingertips.
His blood pounded in his ears, his cock rock-hard in anticipation as he listened hard, hearing her change of movement as she second-guessed herself, her footsteps retreating. “That’s it, baby, talk to me,” he said, unzipping his pants and seeing his disjointed reflection in the splintered mirror.
Soon, Nikki would speak to him. Directly. In an angry hiss. He held his breath for a second, the flimsy lace touching his erection as lightly as a moth’s wings, toying and teasing with his dick as he waited. “Come on, Nikki, talk to me. Come on.” He could barely hold back. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering, pumping blood through his veins.
Finally, just when he thought he might explode, her voice filled the room.
“Bastard!” she hissed from the recording.
He let go.
Filled her panties with that special part of him.
CHAPTER 9
“Call the caretaker for Heritage Cemetery. See if there’ve been any disturbances.” Reed was already reaching for his jacket. “If so, send a unit to secure the scene.”
“You’re off the case, remember?” Morrisette reminded him as he yanked open the door and started through the cubicles and desks where computers hummed, phones rang and prisoners in handcuffs sat insolently in chairs at desks while officers took statements and filled out reports.
“How could I forget?” But he didn’t break stride and hurried down the stairs. Morrisette was at his heels. “I’ll drive.” He shouldered open a side door and they stepped into a gray day. The rain that had been threatening all morning was falling in thick drops that puddled on the pavement and ran from the gutters.
Before Morrisette could put up any kind of protest, Reed claimed the steering wheel. As he pulled out of the lot, Morrisette was on the phone to the dispatcher then the caretaker of the cemetery. She managed to light a cigarette and juggle the receiver as he turned on the lights and sped through the town, turning onto Victory Drive, passing palm trees and shivering azaleas as they headed toward the old graveyard situated on the outskirts of the city.
The police band crackled, traffic hummed, the wipers slapped raindrops off the windshield and Morrisette worked the phone. “…that’s right,” she was saying. “Okay, have the officer secure the scene. We’ll be there in ten, maybe fifteen.” She hung up and glanced at Reed through a cloud of smoke. Her face was set. “You’re right. Someone messed with a grave last night. Visitors saw it this morning. Alerted the city, which found the caretaker who called in the situation just before we did. A unit was only two blocks away and should be on the scene by now.”
Reed’s jaw clenched. “Damn it all to hell.”
“Looks like ‘the Grave Robber’—or whoever you want to call him—is back in action. Serial?” She lifted an eyebrow and drew hard on her Marlboro Light.
“Could be.”
“Jesus, we’ll have to call the Feds.”
“Okano probably already has.”
The contents of the note echoed through his brain.
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR
…
SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?
Reed hated to think.
“So, why has this guy singled you out? Why the messages to you?” she asked, flicking ash out the window she’d cracked.