by Lisa Jackson
“Why?” McFee asked.
“They had a disturbance the other night.”
Reed turned all his attention to his partner. “A coffin missing?”
“You got it. Not just the coffin, but the body inside.”
“Let me guess—a sixty-year-old woman?”
“Pauline Alexander.”
McFee snorted. “That works. The coffin was made in Jackson, Mississippi, and sold to Beauford Alexander, for his wife. Just about two months ago.”
“Pauline Alexander died at home, a heart attack while she was in the kitchen making jam or jelly or preserves or the like.” Morrisette shrugged. “I didn’t know anyone did that sort of thing anymore. Anyway Beauford came in from hunting, found her on the floor and called 911. But it was too late.”
Reed scanned the autopsy on the older woman, looking for anything that would have caused a heart attack, but there was nothing, at least so far, that would indicate foul play. “So, we have one woman who died of natural causes and another who was murdered, left alive in the casket to die,” he said, then glanced up. “And she was pregnant.”
“Shit, no!” Morrisette pushed up from the windowsill.
McFee’s expression hardened. “A baby?”
“The victim was around two months along.”
“You think the murderer knew?” Morrisette demanded. “Jesus H. Christ, what kind of sick, perverted wacko would off a pregnant woman? Who would be so angry? Hell, it’s probably the father. The husband.”
“If he was the father,” Reed said, his guts roiling. “We’ll need a DNA test.”
“You said you were involved with her.” Across the desk, McFee was staring suspiciously at Reed.
“What? Wait a minute.” Morrisette’s mouth dropped open. “You, the father? Oh, Christ, wait till Okano gets wind of this. Your ass will be off this case in a heartbeat.”
“Any news on who saw Bobbi last?” Reed asked.
“Maybe you should tell me.” Morrisette was pacing, running her fingers nervously through her already electric-shock-styled hair. “Why didn’t you say anything?” She was angry, her cheeks flaming. “You know, Reed, we’re partners. You know everything about my life, my kids, my exes and…oh, hell.” She flung herself back against the sill in exasperation. “Got any other little secrets you want to air?”
“Not now.”
“Well, let me know, would ya?”
“What we need to figure out is if Barbara Jean Marx knew Pauline Alexander.”
“That, and a whole lot more,” Morrisette muttered.
“Yes, but is there a connection? Was Pauline’s coffin exhumed randomly or was the killer giving us another clue? The note mentions two.”
“Are you fuckin’ for real?” Morrisette muttered. “Or do you have ice water in your veins? You just found out that your lover was tossed into a coffin, buried alive, possibly carrying your child and you…you sit there calmly and ask if she knew the other woman?” She rolled her eyes and threw up a hand. “I can’t believe it.”
Reed leaned back in his chair. “The best thing we can do is solve this.”
“But—”
“He’s right,” McFee cut in. “And you don’t have much time.” He was staring at Reed, but hitched a thumb toward Morrisette. “Because she’s right, too. Your ass is gonna be thrown off this case. Pronto.”
Nikki’s cell phone chirped as she pulled up to the curb in front of Jerome Marx’s business. Caller ID verified that her friend Simone was on the other end of the connection. “Hey, what’s up?” Nikki asked, eyeing the doorway to the redbrick building situated a few blocks from the Cotton Exchange.
“Kickboxing tomorrow night, seven o’clock. Remember?”
Inwardly Nikki groaned. She had hours of research ahead of her tonight and tomorrow, and a story to write. “No.”
“You missed the last class.”
“I know, I know, but I’m caught up in something really big.”
“Don’t tell me,” Simone said and Nikki could hear the smile in her voice. “The story of a lifetime. Your chance to make it in the big time, your big break, the scoop of the century, the—”
“Okay, okay, so you’ve heard it all before.”
“Mmhmm. I thought we could go kick some butt, then get barbecue or go out for drinks or something fun.”
“I don’t know if I can make it.”
“Come on, Nikki, this class was your idea.”
Nikki glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. Where was Marx? “I don’t know.”
“You’ll feel so much better.”
Simone was right about that. A little exercise couldn’t hurt, and after class Nikki usually felt wired, ready to take on the world. “Okay, I’ll meet you at the gym, but I’m not sure about anything else.”
“I guess I’ll just have to talk you into it. Maybe we can talk Jake into going out for something afterwards.”
Jake Vaughn was their instructor. Tall, dark, handsome, with muscles straight out of a Mr. Universe competition. Also, Nikki suspected, gay. All the women and some of the men in the class drooled over him. Jake didn’t give off any of those sexual vibes of most thirty-something jocks. Simone didn’t seem to notice or care. She’d been harboring a crush on Jake since the first class in September. “You can try.”
“I will.”
Nikki’s eyes were on the building’s doorway where she spied Jerome Marx exiting. He was wearing an overcoat and walking briskly to a parking structure. “Look, Simone, I’ve got to run. I’ll see ya later.”
“I’m counting on it. Tomorrow.” Simone hung up. Nikki clicked off her cell phone, dropped it into her purse and was out of the car in one swift motion. Darkness was already descending as she hurried up the street and caught up with him at the building’s staircase. “Mr. Marx?”
The guy turned to face her and a bit of a smile touched his lips. Not exactly the grieving husband.
“Nikki Gillette, the Savannah Sentinel. I heard about your wife. My condolences.”
“My ex-wife,” he clarified, his smile sliding away to reveal the hard line of his mouth. “Well, at least, soon-to-be ex, but thank you.”
“If you have a minute or two, I’d love to speak with you about what happened.” She was nearly jogging to close the distance between them.
“What’s to say? Bobbi was murdered. Some creep threw her in a coffin and buried her alive with a dead woman. I hope to God the police catch the bastard.” He started up the concrete steps.
Nikki stopped short. “Alive?” she repeated, shocked, her blood turning to ice water. In Nikki’s mind she envisioned being in a tight space, running out of air, no escape. “She was alive?” As horrified as she was, she felt a thrill of excitement. She’d not only learned the ID of one victim, but the unique method of the killing. “Was she awake? Or…or drugged? Did she know what was happening to her?”
He blanched. Realized he’d said too much. “That was off the record.”
“You didn’t mention anything being restricted.”
“Quote me and I’ll sue,” he said over his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. Nikki was jazzed. This was it! The story she’d been waiting for. She had two sources saying that Barbara Jean Marx was the victim. She’d double check with Cliff about two bodies in one coffin, about Barbara Jean being buried alive, but she had her scoop.
“Do you know who the other woman was?” she asked, her mind already spinning to her angle.
“No.”
“Did your wife have any enemies?”
“Too many to count, and this interview is over—not that it really began.” He shouldered open the door to the third level. Nikki caught the door and was through it as he made his way to a black Mercedes.
“Do you have any idea who would want to harm Barbara?”
He paused at the sleek car’s fender. “Ask Pierce Reed,” he said angrily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He unlocked the car and was behind the wheel before she could respond. With one final glower, he backed o
ut of his parking space and drove down the ramp.
Wind howled through the open spaces of the parking garage and Nikki stood on the concrete between oil stains and tire marks. The lot was empty except for a few cars. Nikki’s boots slapped on the dirty concrete as she headed to the stairs. Barbara Jean Marx was left for dead in the coffin. With another body? The gruesome thought turned Nikki’s stomach and for a second she felt the victim’s fear. Nikki was claustrophobic by nature, preferred wide open spaces to tight closets or elevator cars, or small rooms. The thought of waking up forced into a coffin between a dead woman and the lid or floor…oh, God, it was too gruesome to consider. Who would do such a thing? How passionately could one person hate another to place them in such a grisly situation?
Nikki walked to the staircase and started down.
Ask Pierce Reed.
Of course she’d ask Reed. He was involved in the investigation.
And yet, the way Jerome Marx had spit out the suggestion, as if it were an invective, was odd. As if there were something more to it. You’re making more of it; your imagination is working overtime. Again.
She heard a door slam from a floor above her and the soles of shoes scraping on the stairs.
But why was Reed called in on the investigation?
And why did the name Barbara Marx ring some sort of distant bell with her? From the moment she’d heard the name it seemed familiar. Maybe it was a movie star or other celebrity, a famous person she’d read about in a gossip column or the credits of a movie, but she had the feeling…
The footsteps overhead were gaining on her and she considered the dark figure she’d seen this morning, the stranger in the shadows. Her pulse quickened a bit; the stairway wasn’t all that well lit, and she increased her pace, hustling to the first floor as the footsteps rang ever closer. She threw open the door to the street and put some distance between herself and the parking garage, glancing over her shoulder in time to see a man in an overcoat dash away from her, as if he were in a hurry of his own. He didn’t even as much as look in her direction as she reached her car, but her heart was drumming a hundred beats a minute as she unlocked the door.
She nearly climbed inside when she noticed the piece of paper tucked under her windshield wiper. Inwardly she groaned. Great. A parking ticket. But it was after hours, right? And it really didn’t appear to be a citation. Oh, God, someone had hit her car. That was it. And they left the scene. She ripped the note from beneath the wipers and opened the folded page. She’d expected to find a name and phone number. Instead, there was one word:
Tonight.
What the hell did that mean?
The wind kicked up and dry leaves skittered down the street. A car passed and Nikki glanced around, looking for the person who’d left the note. No one was close by. No one lurking and watching that she could see. The few pedestrians visible seemed like office workers hurrying through the dusk to their own vehicles or homes. There was a kid on a skateboard, a woman pushing a carriage, an older man walking his dog, a teenaged couple cuddling and laughing as they jaywalked across the street. She looked back to the parking area…the door was closing…the hairs on the back of her neck raised, though there was really no reason.
She shoved the note into her purse and scooted into her car. She was usually pretty fearless, but there was something in the air today, something that put her on edge, and the thought of Bobbi Jean Marx crammed into a coffin with a dead, decomposing woman bothered her. She was a reporter. She’d become inured to a lot of the pain and suffering in the world, but when the suffering was children or animals, it got to her. Big time. Anyone who inflicted harm on the innocents should be locked away forever or worse. The same went for any creep that threw a living, breathing woman into a coffin with a corpse. What death could be worse? She shuddered and drove away from the curb.
Tonight.
Tonight, what?
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” Katherine Okano was standing behind her desk, staring out the window as Reed knocked on her partially opened door, then entered. The District Attorney’s arms were crossed under her breasts, the fingers of one hand tapping angrily on the opposite arm’s sleeve. Thin, imperative and determined, she nailed Reed. “You knew Barbara Jean Marx, a victim in a homicide investigation, and you requested to be on the case?” Before he could answer, she added, “And she was pregnant. The child could be yours. Do you see that there is a conflict of interest here?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
“I want to find her killer.”
“No doubt, but you’re off the investigation.” She looked over the tops of her wire-rimmed glasses. A no-nonsense woman in her mid forties, she sported a blond bob, quick mind, and a stare that could cut a person to the bone.
“I knew Barbara.”
“You’re prejudiced. And by the way, the woman was married. The department doesn’t need this kind of bad publicity. The press would have a field day with this.”
She pulled out her desk chair and settled into it as if the subject were closed. “No more discussions, Reed. You’re out.”
“The letter in the coffin was directed to me. I got another one in the mail the other morning with a fake postmark, Colonial Cemetery. I think they’re from the same person. Whoever this creep is, he’s trying to engage me.”
She looked up at him. “All the more reason.”
“Kathy, you know I can handle this. I’ll be objective and yet I’ll have an inside view of the case.”
“Give it up, Reed. No way.”
“But—”
“And I suggest you give up a DNA sample voluntarily.”
“Already done.”
“Good. Then leave it, Reed. We’re doing this one by the book.” She blinked once. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Fine. But if you have any ideas of doing something behind my back, remember, it’s your job we’re talking about. I stuck my neck out for you when you left San Francisco. Don’t make me look like a fool.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.” She offered him the first sincere smile of the day. “Then you won’t object to a paternity test and an interview with Detective McFee.”
“Not at all,” Reed said, though he was fuming inside. He knew that she wasn’t accusing him of anything, probably didn’t suspect him of any wrongdoing, but it galled him nonetheless. He walked to the door and as he was leaving she said, “Thanks, Pierce. I know this isn’t easy and…well…my condolences if…you know.”
If the child turns out to be yours.
“Yeah. I do know.” He left her office and wound his way back to his own desk. His child. Was it possible? Damn, what a mess.
She was in the kitchen. Small, with white hair piled high on her head, exposing a dowager’s hump beneath her dressing gown, the woman was busy at her stove, heating water for tea. Just as she did every Tuesday night, the only evening the maid didn’t stay in. The old house was dark except for the bluish glow from the television she’d left on in her bedroom and the warm patches of light from the kitchen.
The Survivor watched her from the outside. Hungered for what was to come. He saw it in his mind’s eye, the killing, and a rush stole through his blood. Hidden in the shadows of a huge magnolia tree, he petted the huge tabby cat in his arms and glanced up to the sky. The quarter moon was high, barely visible through the web of branches and the thin layer of clouds that hung above the city. The cat was nervous, trying to get away. No such luck.
The tea kettle whistled. The Survivor heard its shriek even through the watery panes. Good. The cat jumped, but couldn’t get away. It was almost time. Sweat broke out on his skin. He must be patient. A few more seconds.
The back door opened a crack. The old woman stepped into the porch light’s beam. “Maximus?” she called in her cackly voice. “Come, boy.”
The cat squirmed.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. The time was near.
Wait. Not yet.
“Here, kit
ty, kitty…Maximus, you little devil…where are you? Come, boy, come kitty, kitty, kitty.” Her voice edgy with concern, she shuffled from one end of the porch to the other and peered into the darkness and the dense foliage of her garden.
In his arms the tabby tried to scrabble free.
Not yet. Not quite yet. His blood thundered in his ears. Rushing. He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, you naughty boy, now you come in…”
Now!
In one silent movement, he hurled the cat over the fence.
The tabby screeched.
“Maximus? What the devil?” she asked and hurried down the steps…onto the brick path…her slippers rustling as she made her way to the gate.
He reached into his pocket. Gloved fingers found the waiting syringe.
“Come here, boy. Kitty, kitty, are you hurt?” She was fumbling with the latch when he leapt from the shadows. She started to scream.
With one hand, he covered her mouth.
She struggled, surprisingly strong for an old bony thing. “Time to meet God, Roberta,” he whispered roughly against her ear and she struggled more fiercely, her body writhing wildly. But she was no match for him.
With his free hand, he plunged his deadly needle into her scrawny arm, through the silky fabric of her dressing gown. She fought, twisting her neck backward and staring into his face. There was a moment of recognition, of astonishment and anguish as she bit into the glove. Hard. Teeth piercing the leather.
Pain shot through his palm. “Bitch!” he snarled.
Her last-ditch effort to save herself was too late.
The damage was done.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her jaw slackened. Her body sagged.
He threw her over his shoulder as the cat, hissing, darted through the shadows to stare at him with angry malevolent eyes. His only witness. And an unwitting partner. The stupid creature didn’t realize he’d never see his mistress alive again.
No one would.
CHAPTER 7
“You’re calling the guy ‘the Grave Robber?’” Tom Fink asked as he adjusted his reading glasses and studied the final draft of Nikki’s article on the crime scene in Lumpkin County. It was late at night, the morning edition was about to be put to bed, and Nikki shifted from one foot to the other in front of Fink’s desk. He stood on the other side. Her article was faceup between them.