by Lisa Jackson
“You know I can’t do that,” he said. “It would break all kinds of policies and rules. The reason I’m telling you now is for you to digest it, work it out, and deal with it.”
“Because you knew it would be a fight.”
“Well . . .” He trailed off. “I’ll be home in half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Fine, I’ll see you then.”
“I can’t be talked out of this, Nik. This is my job.” He hung up, but she held onto her phone for a minute longer. This was going to be a problem, but she wasn’t going to let it get the better of her. All problems had solutions; she just had to find hers.
Climbing the spiral staircase to her loft, she was working on the list of people she wanted to interview when she heard footsteps on the building’s interior stairs and smiled when the familiar click of a lock announced Reed was home.
“I’m up here,” she called down the stairs and saved the information on her computer before hurrying down to the living area. Reed had already tossed his keys onto a small table near the front door and hung his jacket on a curved arm of her hall tree. “Beat?” she asked and without invitation threw her arms around his neck.
“Beyond.” The dark shadow of his beard, deepening crow’s feet near the corners of his eyes, and wrinkled shirt attested to his state of mind. But he kissed her just the same, strong arms wrapping around her, hands flat and warm as they pressed against her back. When he lifted his head, he kept the tip of his nose within a hairbreadth of hers as he gazed down upon her. “What about you?”
“Rarin’ to go.”
“Must’ve been all that talk about bows and flowers and menus and seating arrangements.”
“Don’t remind me.” Sliding a glance up at him, she added, “You were right. We should’ve eloped.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “There’s still time, Gillette,” he said and made a big show of glancing at his watch. “We could make the border by midnight.”
“What border? Canada? Florida? We’re not underage or running off to Mexico or Las Vegas or wherever.”
“Not after your mother’s deposit on the country club ballroom or whatever it is.”
“Her idea, not mine,” Nikki reminded him, still slightly bugged that Charlene had insisted on paying for the church, pastor, and reception. Nikki had picked up the tab for her dress, bought on sale, Lily’s gown as maid of honor, and Phee’s frothy frock, as she was slated to be the flower girl. Nikki had argued, but her mother knew her financial state and had waited years to put her stamp on a wedding, so behind her daughter’s back, she’d high-handedly put down a substantial and only partially refundable deposit at the country club to secure the wedding date. “It’s what your father would have wanted,” she’d said after Nikki, horrified, had learned of the deed, a week after the fact.
“I thought we were just looking at the place,” Nikki had protested.
“We had to move fast. Snap it up. The Christmas season, it’s very popular, weekend dates don’t last past June,” was Charlene’s excuse.
So now here she was, facing a large wedding that had never been her idea. At least, though, she was marrying the love of her life. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed Reed a little more soundly and felt his hands slide down to cup her buttocks.
“This won’t work,” he said, around her open mouth.
“What won’t?”
“Seducing me into letting you come with me to the prison tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
He squeezed one of her buttock cheeks. “Then, by all means, seduce me to your heart’s content.”
“I will, Detective,” she said, sliding a hand beneath his shirt to touch the taut muscles of his abdomen. “You can count on it.”
“One,” he whispered into the shell of her ear. “Two.” Her fingers delved beneath the waistband of his slacks. “Three.” She released his zipper and it slid with a slow hiss. “Okay, darlin’. That’s it!” He swept her off her feet and carried her unceremoniously to the bedroom, where he fell with her onto the mattress. “One hundred.”
CHAPTER 15
“If she asks, I’ll put in a good word for you. That’s the best I can do,” Reed said, knotting his tie at the full-length mirror and seeing Nikki standing behind him in the reflection. She’d gotten up first, showered, dressed, spent time on her hair and makeup, and now, having gathered her coat and computer case, looked as if she intended to either jump in the car with him or follow him to Fairfield Prison.
“You have to let me come with you,” she insisted for the sixth or seventh time.
His gaze found hers in the mirror. “Nikki, don’t. Okay? We discussed this.”
“But really, I’m sure I could help. She’s more likely to open up to me.”
“She won’t even see you,” he said, jerking on the tie and scowling.
“But I knew Amity, I was in their home a couple of times, even met Blondell before.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
“And I recently talked to Blythe.”
He sent her an irritated glance. “I know, and I wish you’d back off. I’m the lead detective, and I can’t have my soon-to-be-wife out messing with my witnesses. Don’t you see how impossible that is?”
“I’m a reporter and a crime writer. This is what I do.”
“Not on my cases,” he said sharply. “Go report on the serial murderer who’s terrorizing Chicago.”
“You want to get rid of me?”
“You know what I mean. I’m not giving up my work, just because we’re getting married. Nik, if our relationship is going to work—”
“If,” she repeated.
“You can’t undermine me—”
“I’m not.”
“Or compromise my work in any way, shape, or form.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Just let me do my job,” he said and stalked to the closet, where he found his sport coat hanging between two of her jackets.
“I need to do mine too, Reed.” She looked so earnest and so damned beautiful, with those wild, red-blond curls and that dusting of freckles across her nose, and those green eyes, rounded with sincerity. “Just take me with you. I don’t even need to see her.”
“You’re going to ride all the way up there just to sit in the car?”
Her gaze slid away.
“You want to overhear my conversation with Morrisette.”
“No.” Her eyebrows drew together. “I just need to be a part of it. I’ll sit in the waiting area. Whatever.”
“No dice.” He slid his arms into his blazer. “Tell ya what. I’ll meet you tonight for dinner, and I’ll give you my impressions. No dialogue, nothing like that, just how I feel about the case. And I’ll tell the warden that if Blondell is going to talk to anyone in the press, which I don’t think her attorney will allow, you would be a good candidate.”
She rolled her eyes. “Won’t help. If Jada Hill knows I’m engaged to you, she won’t allow it.” She paused. “But I did do a nice piece on her about four, no maybe five years ago.”
Jada Hill was a local, born and raised in Savannah. “That might work for you.”
“Unlikely.”
Reed didn’t respond, though he silently agreed. Jada was the oldest child in a middle-class African-American family. Through hard work and perseverance, she had put herself through school, graduating summa cum laude from Tulane University before attending law school. She’d married, had a child, divorced, and was back in the workforce.
Nikki touched him on the arm as he headed for the bedroom door. “Reed, I need this.”
“I said I’d put in a good word with the warden and Blondell’s attorney. Other than that, darlin’, you’re on your own.”
“You’re insufferable,” she muttered.
“It’s a curse.” He kissed her on the cheek and ignored the storm of emotions gathering in her eyes, because that could be deadly for him. He found her the sexiest when she was on t
he edge of anger with him, and he didn’t even want to think about what kind of psychological implications that might have, so before his thoughts wandered too far down that erotic path, he said, “Dinner tonight?”
“And now you’re deflecting.”
“Making plans with my bride,” he countered, but the narrowing of her eyes told him she wasn’t buying his story.
“Fine.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “But only if you pay.”
“Something tells me I will, over and over again.”
“You got that right, buddy.” She broke into a small smile despite herself.
Grabbing up his briefcase, he patted his pockets to make sure he had his keys and smartphone and headed out the door.
He was to meet Morrisette at the station, talk briefly with Kathy Okano and probably Deacon Beauregard, then drive out to the prison, where he’d finally meet the woman who had become the center of his work life, the topic of gossip around town, every reporter’s wet dream, and his fiancée’s ultimate fantasy.
He wondered if Blondell would live up to the hype.
All dressed up and nowhere to go, Nikki thought, as she caught her reflection in the mirror. She heard Reed’s old Cadillac fire up and purr out of the parking lot and, looking out the window, caught sight of it lumbering down the alley. “Thanks for nothing,” she said as she let the blinds fall back into position, then gave herself a quick mental shake.
Of course he wouldn’t talk to her about the case, nor take her to a police interview. She’d known that, but she still had to try, didn’t she? She wouldn’t be the reporter she was if she didn’t push the boundaries a bit. The truth of the matter was that she was a little nervous. After being a victim herself, she’d had to fight the urge to shy away from tough, life-threatening situations.
Before the Grave Robber, she’d been brash and bold, and would have done just about anything to get close to a story, no matter how dangerous it might be. Now that wasn’t the case. Having been so near to death once before, she was more cautious.
Sometimes too much so.
She’d been working with a psychologist for the past four years, off and on, dealing with her anxiety.
Last night, after making love to Reed, she’d felt wired and energized, while he, exhausted, had fallen asleep. His briefcase had been in the living room, and all she would have had to do was sneak out of bed, pad silently into the living room, and close the door. With him snoring in the bedroom, she could have opened his case and pored over the documents therein or, even better, taken pictures of the most important ones with her smartphone.
But she hadn’t.
Because she loved him.
Because he trusted her.
And because, deep down, she figured there would be a more forthright and honest way to get the information without potentially ruining his case, not to mention their relationship. She still had a source at the department, she thought, though in recent years Cliff Siebert, her brother Andrew’s friend and coworker, had been reticent about giving her information.
Before that Cliff had often talked to Nikki and given her inside tips. She’d protected his anonymity all the while, pretending she didn’t know that he’d been interested in her and maybe, just maybe, had somehow harbored survivor’s guilt after Andrew’s death. Now, however, her relationship with Cliff was thin and strained, but she knew that if she really pressured him, Cliff might give her the information she needed.
However, she would have to go behind Reed’s back to do it, and so far she had resisted that temptation.
Instead of placing a call to Cliff just yet, she sat down and wrote her article on Blythe, then set it aside before she did a final edit. Afterward, she organized her notes, sent out e-mails, checked social media sites, and searched for the people she needed to interview. Of course, Blondell O’Henry was at the top of the list, and she could only hope Reed would grease those skids so she might have a chance to talk to the woman. In the meantime, she listed all the people who knew Blondell best, including the men who could have fathered the baby she’d miscarried. Aside from Blondell’s ex-husband, Calvin, Nikki wanted to locate Roland Camp. The same went for Amity. Nikki knew the kids Amity had hung out with in high school, but she wanted to figure out who could have gotten her pregnant.
Then there was Larry Thompson, Blondell’s lover, who had helped her escape from prison in the garbage truck. Nikki figured that if Blondell had wanted to admit to something different from the story about the stranger with the tattoo, she might have confided in the one person who had risked his life and freedom to spring her. Thompson was out of prison and had been for more than five years, but with his common name, he’d been able to disappear and was hard to track down, though Nikki figured maybe Reed could get to him. Surely the guy had a parole officer.
Yeah, she’d find him somehow. She was nothing if not dogged, and she’d thought she’d located the right L.C. Thompson in Charlotte, North Carolina, though that guy was no longer a journalist and worked as an auto mechanic. Her phone calls to “L.C.” had remained unanswered, but she wasn’t about to give up. She figured she could drive up there and track him down.
After spending a couple of hours at her desk, she stood and stretched, contemplated taking another run, and glanced at her watch. Was Reed already talking to Blondell? Would she change her story? Would Jada Hill even allow her infamous client to speak? Damn, but she wished she was there.
Sitting on the window seat of the bay window, she tried not to think about the interview in progress and instead made more notes to herself. Though she’d interviewed Blythe, she still wanted to talk to the rest of Blondell’s family, especially Niall and Calvin, her ex. Then there was June Hatchett O’Henry, an odd duck if there ever was one. How did she fit into this? Was it coincidental that her church practiced snake handling and Amity O’Henry had been bitten by a snake before she was shot?
She started writing down questions she’d ask the people most closely associated with Blondell and Amity, and within ten minutes she heard the sound of a car rumbling down the back alley. Nikki looked out over her garden and saw a navy-colored BMW swing into the small parking lot. Seconds later her tenant, Charles Arbuckle, climbed out. Leaving the engine running, he hurried up the outdoor stairs to the second floor.
Nikki circled the name Holt Beauregard on her legal pad and wondered how close Flint’s younger son had been to Amity. Why had she never heard of any supposed relationship? At least it would be easy to talk to him, as he was a private investigator in town. It wouldn’t be so easy to check out Amity’s relationship with Elton, her own cousin, since he’d died a couple of months before Amity, and talking to Aunty-Pen about him would only be pouring salt into the wound. But if that was the way it was, so be it. According to Blythe, like Holt, he’d been interested in Amity and possibly dated her.
Could either of them have been the father of her unborn child?
Elton had dated Mary-Beth Emmerson, a girl who had gone to school with Nikki. Elton and Mary-Beth had been a couple, on and off, for at least two years before his death.
“They’re destined to get married, you know,” Hollis had once confided to Nikki after Elton’s car had roared out of the driveway of the McBaine home, the tires of his seventies Porsche squealing on the asphalt of the long drive. A yellow streak, the low-slung car’s engine had whined loudly as the Porsche disappeared around the hedgerow.
“And why is that?” Nikki asked, staring at the empty lane. Even at fourteen she was just getting into boys and was curious about all aspects of the mysterious male-female relationship.
“Because Mother and Daddy approve, that’s why.” Hollis had arched a knowing eyebrow as she and Nikki had returned to the house. “The Emmersons belong to the club, and Mary-Beth’s dad is a doctor. Pediatrician, I think.”
“So what?”
Hollis rolled her eyes upward, as if thinking hard. “So it’s a big deal. Mother said it was a good match.”
“All because Mary-
Beth’s dad is a doctor?” Nikki had found that hard to believe.
Hollis lifted an “I’m just telling you” shoulder. “Compared to some of the other girls Elton’s been hot for, Mary-Beth looks like royalty, and to Mother, that’s important.”
“Then Aunty-Pen must be a snob,” Nikki had decided.
Hollis laughed, amusement filling her sky blue eyes. “Of course she is, Nikki! Come on, really, aren’t we all?”
Maybe she was right, Nikki thought now, as she scribbled down Mary-Beth’s name next to Elton’s on her legal pad. Jennings trotted into the living area from the bedroom and hopped onto the window seat next to her. Staring out the window, he let out a pitiful cry as he saw birds fluttering through the yard.
“You’re okay,” she said, stroking his downy head just as a downstairs door slammed, thudding loudly.
The cat scrambled off the seat.
Half a second later, Nikki saw Charles Arbuckle appear again on the staircase. He ran down quickly, then jogged to his idling car; he threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat as he climbed in, then yanked the door shut. Backing out quickly, he barely missed the garbage cans lining the side of the alley before ramming his car into gear and taking off.
“Always in a hurry,” she muttered, recalling Arbuckle’s intense demeanor as he’d flown out of the house, then thought the same phrase applied to her. She wondered if marriage would exacerbate her compelling need to get things done yesterday or if she would slow down a bit, “enjoy life” and “smell the roses,” as her mother always advised. “All those deadlines, Nicole, they’re making you a crazy person.”
Until now, she’d thought it was just a matter of age, that, in her early thirties, she was merely running at full steam, while her mother embraced the fact that she and all her friends were in the retirement set.
“Nah,” she decided now. She’d been born revved up, always in third gear, and that was probably the way she’d die.
As she started to turn from the window, something glinted in the weak sun, something near the bins. She squinted. Probably nothing, she told herself. Maybe an errant piece of trash.