The Morning After (27 page)

“Tonight. After work. Say, seven, seven-thirty. Can you make it?”

“Sure.” She tried not to sound too eager, even though this seemed like a gift from heaven. An interview with the elusive detective. No, make that an
exclusive
interview. “What happened?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Why the change of heart?”

“I’ll explain it all when I see you.”

“When and where?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Johnny B’s Low Country Barbecue on I-80. It’s about a mile, maybe less, before you reach the bridge to Tybee Island. You know where it is?” In case she didn’t, he gave her the address.

“I’ll find it,” she said, writing down the name of the place on a scratch pad. “Seven-thirty.” She clicked off, felt a sense of elation and started to place the phone in her purse when she felt something. A change in the atmosphere, a cooler breath of air. Glancing over her shoulder she found Kevin, barely six inches from her. “Geez!” She jumped, knocking over the rest of her soda. “What is it with you always sneaking up on people?” She looked down at his crepe-soled shoes as she righted the can and dabbed at the spilled puddle of Diet Coke with a tissue she found in her purse.

“You were on the phone. I didn’t want to bother you.” For a second he looked wounded. But a second later, she saw a shaft of defiance in his eyes before his bland expression slipped into place. She’d always thought he was doped out, on something to keep him a little off; now, she wasn’t so sure.

“It’s all right. Let’s go upstairs. On the way, you can tell me about the computer.” Tossing the wet Kleenex into a wastebasket, she started for the steps. She didn’t want to be trapped down here with the weird guy a second longer than necessary.

“It’s working again.” Which was all she wanted to hear, but, of course, Kevin didn’t give up, began talking techno-speak all the way up the stairs to the newsroom floor. She couldn’t shake him as he followed her to her desk, then spent the next twenty minutes telling her in minute detail what he’d done to fix the damned thing. She wasn’t interested, but made a mental note to learn more about the machines so she didn’t have to depend on him. Maybe a class, or a copy of some basic manual like the
Idiot’s Guide To All Things Tech-inc.

“Thanks, Kevin,” she said as he finally ambled off. He flashed her a smile that seemed boyish rather than diabolical and she called herself a fool for letting her imagination get away from her when it came to Tom Fink’s nephew.

Trina looked over the top of her cubicle. “
Never
leave me alone with that guy again.”

“You weren’t.” Nikki scanned the rest of the newsroom where reporters were plugged into their stations.

“He’s off, Nikki. All the while you were gone he was humming and singing to himself, oddball lyrics that didn’t make any sense. Kinda like kids’ poetry. I kept thinking he was talking to me.” She shuddered. “If you ask me, he’s more than a couple of cans shy of a six-pack.”

“I know, but he fixed my computer, that’s all I care about.”

“Well, next time don’t run and hide.”

Nikki flashed a smile. “Hey, Norm was at his desk. If Kevin put the moves on you or started acting strange, you could always rely on Metzger.”

“Oh, God, this place
is
a looney bin.” Trina’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Uh-oh, looks like you’ve got company.”

“What do you mean?” But she turned in her chair and spied Sean Hawke, all six feet two inches of him, standing at the front desk, leaning close to Celeste, while the flustered receptionist pointed toward Nikki’s desk. Sean caught Nikki’s eye and started walking toward her station. The years hadn’t hurt him. He was still fit and handsome, his hair still brushing the collar of a leather jacket, a goatee decorating his chin. Though he was inside and it was December, he was wearing tinted glasses that, she suspected, were more for effect than vision. The rest of his outfit included khakis, a tight sweater, black boots and a killer smile.

“Oh, my,” Trina said, and from the corner of her eye Nikki saw her friend pretend to fan herself. “That boy’s hot.”

“That boy’s trouble,” Nikki said under her breath, then stood as Sean reached her.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

“So, now you’re a detective.”

“And you’re still as sassy as ever.” He swung one leg over the top of her desk, pulling his jeans tight in his crotch, then grabbed a paperweight on her desk and began tossing it and catching it. That’s always the way he’d been, a bundle of nerves wrapped up in a sexy, masculine skin.

Nikki introduced Sean to Trina, who nearly melted at the sight of him. Just as Nikki had years before.

“You haven’t been returning my calls.”

“Sorry—no, that’s a lie. I’m not. I’ve been busy, Sean.”

“Too busy for an old friend.”

“One who dumped me twelve years ago.”

“Ouch.” He visibly winced. “My mistake.”

“Maybe not. It all worked out for the best.”

“Did it?” He looked up at her intensely with eyes that shifted in color. Years before, her heart had thumped wildly under his scrutinizing stare. Now, it bothered her in a different way. Once she’d found him sexy, now she found him troubling.

“What is it you want from me?”

“A date. Just a chance to catch up.”

“No reason. I’m working here. Where I was when you left.”

“But you graduated from college in the meantime. Came back to Savannah and seem to be making a name for yourself.”

She didn’t respond.

“I thought you might have married.”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re not even going to ask about me, are you?” He tossed the paperweight into the air. Caught it deftly.

“I don’t think there’s any reason.”

“Are you involved with someone?”

“Not now.”

“Have you been?”

“Look, Sean, this is really none of your business and I’ve got work to do.”

“So, let’s meet for a drink when you get off.”

“Don’t
you
have somewhere you’re supposed to be?”

His grin slid from one side of his jaw to the other. “Not today.”

“This just isn’t a good idea.”

“One drink won’t kill you.” His smile was almost boyishly charming and there was the hint of the devil in his eyes, just as there had been way back when.

Her cell phone jangled and she said, “I really do have to go.”

As she reached for the phone, he grabbed her wrist. “I’ll call, Nikki.” Then he released her and from the other side of the partition she heard Trina whisper, “Oh, my.”

“You want him? You can have him,” Nikki said, watching as Sean sauntered out of the building, his faded jeans tight over his buttocks, his boot heels unworn, his jacket without a scratch. He was almost too perfect. And he’d broken her heart…The phone rang again and she answered. The call was from one of the women with the historical society making sure that Nikki had all the facts straight on a tour of homes that would be open during the Christmas season. Nikki double-checked the information, then hung up.

Finally, she was free to log on to her computer again. She’d been halfway through her E-mail earlier and now finished reading the new messages that were waiting. She was nearly done when she clicked on one with a subject line of GRAVE ROBBER STRIKES AGAIN. Though she didn’t recognize the return E-mail address, she clicked on the mail.

Her heart stopped. The newsroom faded into the background as she stared at the horrible images on her screen, pictures of four people—the victims of the Grave Robber, she felt certain—that disintegrated to bones before her eyes. The message was simple:

WILL THERE BE MORE?

UNTIL THE TWELFTH,

NO ONE CAN BE SURE.

She was suddenly as cold as if she’d been dropped into the North Atlantic.

What the hell did the message mean?

Was the Grave Robber talking to her?

Or…or was it a prank?

Her mind raced. Hadn’t Cliff said just last night that the Grave Robber had sent Reed notes?…What about E-mail? Oh, God. What was the return path…? She tried to respond. The message could be a hoax, of course. Lots of people these days got their jollies by sending spam, but she had a sense, an intuition that the killer was reaching out to her. Because of her stories. Because she’d named him. Paid attention. Somehow puffed up his sick ego.

Biting her lower lip, she replied, sending an E-mail asking for the sender to respond and identify himself. It bounced back nearly immediately. She printed out the E-mail, making two copies and on the second one, cutting off the message. Then she searched through the offices until she found Kevin, earphones in place, browsing the vending machines in the lunchroom. He was just punching in his selection when he saw her from the corner of his eyes.

“Don’t tell me, you can’t make the machine work,” he said, his eyes nearly arrogant as they stared down his nose at her. The corners of his lips twisted up slightly, as if he were pleased with himself.

Because he was smarter than she?

Or because he’d expected her to chase him down?

“No. No. The system works fine. But I need a favor,” she said, grateful, for once, that she’d found him alone.

He pulled down his earphones. “Another one?”

A bag of M&M peanuts dropped into the tray. Kevin snagged them up quickly, as if he thought she might snatch them from him.

“Yeah.”

“It’ll cost you,” he said, and flashed a smile that bordered on a leer.

“Oh, right…look!” She handed him the E-mail address. “Can you find out who sent this to me?”

“Maybe.” He scanned the paper, his eyebrows drawing together thoughtfully. “Why?”

“Because it’s important, okay? Someone sent me a strange message and when I tried to reply, the E-mail bounced back.” She handed him the response again, with the message cut out.

“Is it about the serial killer? That Grave Robber guy?”

She didn’t want to lie and hated the fact that she needed Kevin’s help. “Yes. Really.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“It’s your job!”

“I got lots of work to do.”

Frustrated, she stared at him. “What do you want, Kevin?”

He hesitated and she felt her chest tighten. Oh, Lord, he
wasn’t
going to ask her for a date, was he? Or some kind of kinky sexual favor disguised as a joke?

“What?”

“Credit, okay? You and a lot of people act like I’m useless, or…or that I don’t exist…or that I’m stupid…or that I only got the job because Tom’s my uncle, but the truth of the matter is that you and Trina and Norm and everyone in this damned place need me.” He hooked a thumb at his chest emphatically, the candy rattling in its bag.

“Credit?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay…” she said, still unsure. His anger had flared so quickly, as if it had smoldered for years. “You got it.”

“I mean it, Nikki.” He grabbed the paper from her hands and started reading it. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Fast. This is important.”

His eyes flashed again. “Like I don’t get it? I
know
that.” Again with the undefinable smile. He left her standing there and she realized that he was the last one who’d used her computer. He knew the system inside and out. He could have sent the E-mail and inserted it between the others…

Oh, for the love of Mary, what was wrong with her? She was seeing everyone as a potential killer these days. She hurried back to her desk and started working up an interview for Reed. This was her shot. She might not get another chance.

CHAPTER 18

“The good Lord don’t like anyone messin’ with graves,” Bea Massey insisted. She was a tiny, stooped black woman with teeth too big for her head. So far, she’d given Morrisette no information that could help the investigation. Nearly blind, she petted a raggedy old mutt who sat at her feet at the kitchen table. “Once a person is laid to rest, he ought to stay that way.”

Amen, sister,
Reed thought, but kept his viewpoint to himself as Morrisette interviewed Thomas Massey’s widow. From his vantage point near the window, Reed inspected the grounds. Bantam chickens roosted on the back porch. A vegetable garden, gone fallow, was wedged behind a garage that listed badly and was home to a 1967 Buick Skylark. In the house, handmade lace cloths covered every table and surrounded the windows. Mrs. Massey swore she’d never met Jerome Marx, nor had she heard of him. “But I told Thomas that he had no business bein’ buried in the city. He belonged out here in the country, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Wanted to be with the rest of his family in Savannah…. Now look what’s come of it.”

They left the house with not much more information than they’d come with. Bea Massey had been the second stop. They’d already interviewed Beauford Alexander at the assisted care facility where he’d lived since his wife’s death and thought that neither he, nor Pauline, had ever met anyone named Barbara Jean Marx. Or Thomas Massey. Or Roberta Peters.

“Two strikes,” Reed muttered as they drove toward Savannah.

“What does it matter? You’re out already.” Morrisette punched in the lighter and glanced his way as she drove toward the city. “Remember?”

“I was thinking of you.”

“And I’m touched,” she mocked as the lighter clicked. She managed to light up and switch lanes as they neared the city.

Reed scowled out the window and watched the wind whip through the tall grass and scattered brush of the low country. The case was getting to him. He thought about it constantly, couldn’t concentrate on the rest of his work, and was having a helluva time sleeping.

“I’ve been thinking about this twelve thing. Even checked on the Internet. A dozen as in doughnuts, or signs of the zodiac, or months in the year,” Sylvie said.

“Right, I checked, too. There are boxcars in a dice game, jurors on a jury, twelve apostles, twelve inches in a foot and the Big Twelve Conference.”

“What? Big Twelve?”

“Sports. College teams in the Midwest.”

“I knew it sounded familiar. Bart was a sports nut.” She snorted derisively. “I’m still paying on the big screen to prove it.” She drew hard on her cigarette and scowl lines creased her forehead. “But I don’t think this case has anything to do with sports.”