by Lisa Jackson
“Hi, babe.”
Her heart plummeted and she nearly dropped the coffee as she imagined her ex-boyfriend’s face—strong jaw, dark beard shadow, even darker eyes. Mysterious eyes. Lying eyes. Nearly black hair long enough to scrape his collar. “Sean. I heard you were in town.”
“You didn’t call me back.”
Did he sound pouty? Hurt? Sean? No way! She took a sip of her drink, then managed to force it into her cup holder with only a minimum of spillage. “I really didn’t see a reason to phone.” The light changed, but another car flew through the intersection. “Idiot!”
Sean chuckled. Low and sexy. “That’s me.”
No, that was me. I was an idiot for you!
“Look, Sean, I’m busy. Is there something you wanted?” she asked as she heard something on the police band that caught her attention. Some units had been sent to a location on Heritage Road. It didn’t sound like an accident.
“I thought we could get together.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Nikki, I need to see you.”
“Now?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Sean was the one who had wanted out, the one who hadn’t been happy in the relationship. He’d peddled her some crap about her not being his “soul mate,” whatever that meant.
“What about tonight?”
“I can’t.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I…I don’t know.” There had been a time when she would have reveled in hearing him utter just those words. But that had been a while back. “I don’t think so.”
“Nikki.” His voice was low. The timbre the same she remembered. Deep. Sexy. Nearly guttural. “You’re avoiding me.”
“You’re right. Wait a minute,” she added, thinking about the note she’d found in her bed. “Do you still have a key to my apartment.”
“Maybe.” He was teasing her now. Flirting. Oh, for God’s sake.
“I’m serious, Sean.”
“No, babe, you made me give it back, remember?”
Vaguely she remembered him removing the key from the ring that held his own set. They’d been in his old “classic” Jaguar and she’d been fighting not to break down.
“That’s right. But you could have made a copy.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why do you do anything.”
“Low blow, Gillette.”
“So I’m not ‘babe’ anymore? Good.” More police cars were being directed to Heritage Road. She caught the address, held the phone with her shoulder and found her city map from the overflowing glove box. “I don’t have time for this now,” she said and hung up. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? He was the one who had dumped her. And now she should drop everything for him?
No way!
But there had been a desperate tone to his voice…Oh, God, he probably wanted money. He already owed her fifteen hundred dollars. He wasn’t going to get another dime.
She thought about the night before. The note in her bed. The note on her car…Could Sean have left them? It really wasn’t his style…and yet…“Don’t think about it now,” she scolded. She couldn’t afford to waste another minute on a free spirit who, she’d learned later, had also been a smalltime hood.
At the next light she stopped and checked the map. Oh, God. Her heart thudded. The address was for Heritage Cemetery. She felt a zing of anticipation.
No doubt the Grave Robber had struck again.
A loud honk alerted her that the light had turned green. She didn’t hesitate, but turned a corner and headed out of town.
Toward her next cover story.
CHAPTER 10
Reed stared down at the open coffin. Not one body, but two were crammed into it. Just like before. Only the naked, bruised body on top was that of an old woman, the one below decomposed, but from the clothing that remained—a man’s dark suit—and from the tufts of gray hair still visible, Reed guessed the other occupant was Thomas Massey.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Morrisette whispered, her face ashen, her gaze riveted to the open casket. The crime scene had been cordoned off, swept over quickly by the crime scene investigators while a huge tent had been erected over the grave to preserve any evidence left at the scene. The tarp held a dual purpose. It protected the scene from the elements as well as from the prying eyes of photographers with long-lensed cameras or television stations with state-of-the-art equipment including low-flying helicopters. Until the next of kin were notified and the police had figured out if they had a serial killer on the loose, they would be careful giving out any information to the press that might panic the public or sabotage the investigation.
“We’d better check with Missing Persons and find out who she is. Call Rita and see if any reports have been filed on a missing white woman in her late fifties or early sixties.”
“Don’t need to.” Morrisette’s spiky hairdo was melting in the rain and she was shaking, visibly quaking as she stared into the grave. “Anyone got a smoke?” she demanded, yanking her gaze away and scanning the faces of her fellows.
“Right here.” Fletcher, one of the uniformed cops, reached into his pocket, found a crumpled pack of Camel Straights and shook out a cigarette. With trembling fingers, Morrisette tried to light up, her lighter clicking but refusing to spark.
“You know her?” Reed asked, taking the lighter and flicking it so that a steady flame appeared.
Morrisette drew hard on the Camel. Smoke streamed out her nostrils. “Mrs. Peters. Don’t know her first name but she was a volunteer at the library. Widow, I think, but I’m not sure.” Morrisette took another calming drag. Some of the color came back to her face. “Mrs. Peters helped out with story hour last summer. My kids went there every Thursday afternoon and listened to her read from one of the Harry Potter books.” Angrily she hissed, “Goddam it, who would do this? What kind of sicko jerk-off would stuff an old lady into an already occupied coffin and”—she leaned forward again, staring at the dead woman’s fingers—“and leave her in there alive? Shit!” She looked away and, holding her smoke in her left hand, made a quick sign of the cross with her right. It was the first time Reed had seen her do anything the least bit religious.
“The same son of a bitch who did Bobbi Jean.” Reed, too, noticed the faded coffin lining, shredded and bloodied, the manicured fingernails now broken and smeared with dried blood, a bruise on the forehead, all evidence that Mrs. Peters, part-time library volunteer, had gone through the same excruciating terror as had Barbara Jean Marx.
“Kinda rules out Jerome Marx,” Morrisette thought aloud. She plucked a piece of tobacco from her tongue as the wind caught against the sides of the tent, causing the plastic to flap.
“Unless it’s a copycat,” Fletcher offered.
“Let’s not go there.” Reed’s thoughts were dark as hell itself It was bad enough that Bobbi and the baby had been killed, but now, another murder? One that was too much the same to be dismissed as separate. Obviously, there was a psychotic on the loose. Again. His thoughts turned back to last summer when in the sweltering heat he’d tracked down a killer who was knocking off members of a prominent Savannah family. Now, this new horror. Barely six months later. “We’ll need to find out how, if at all, the victims were related,” he said to Morrisette. “Did they know each other? What about the people already in the coffin? Why were they chosen. Was it random or is there a connection?” Rubbing the back of his neck, he spied the microphone. “Hell. Look at this.” He squatted next to the casket and pointed to where a hole had been drilled through the rotting wood. The nearly invisible microphone was tucked inside.
“Yeah, we’ve already noted the make and model,” said the investigator who had been cleared to bag Mrs. Peters’s hands to preserve any evidence under her fingernails.
Diane Moses’s team had already carefully gone over the coffin in search of fingerprints, tool marks, fibers, hairs, any piece of evidence. Just as the crime scene team had in Lumpkin County.
This murder is identical t
o Bobbi Jean’s.
Except that you don’t know this woman.
The back of Reed’s neck tightened. “Did you find anything else? A note inside the coffin somewhere?”
“Note?” The investigator looked over his shoulder. His expression accused Reed of being a nutcase. “There was no note in here. Nothing besides two stiffs and the microphone. We’ve already searched.”
Reed relaxed a bit. At least the killer wasn’t contacting him.
He heard the whir of helicopter blades and stepped outside to look up at the cloud-swollen sky. A chopper was hovering above the trees not a hundred feet away and a cameraman was hanging out of the open door. The press was trying to get a bird’s-eye view of the scene. It rankled him as well as Diane Moses, who, dressed in a yellow slicker, walked to the outside of the tent, looked up and swore under her breath. “Goddamned newsmongers.”
News at eleven, Reed thought. He considered the note he’d received at the station this morning. It had indicated there would be more killings. Random? Specific? Did the creep know his victims? Play with them? A bad feeling settled deep in the pit of Reed’s stomach.
“What have you got so far?” he asked Moses.
“Not enough. This is all preliminary, but we’re thinking the perp parked over there”—she pointed to the access road—“and either climbed the fence or had a key. The lock was intact. He would have had to have carried her, so he’s a big guy or at least a strong guy. No drag marks, not even any real impressions that we can cast. The rain hasn’t helped, but it only makes sense as the main road would be too visible. We’ll know more later and I’ll fill you in.”
“Thanks,” Reed said.
“Don’t mention it.” They walked into the tent and she turned her attention to the department’s cameraman. “You get everything you need? I want shots of the entire area and the top of the coffin as well as what’s in it…”
“Let’s go,” Reed said to Morrisette, who seemed to have composed herself. “We’ll get all the reports, but I think I’d better take the note that came to Okano.”
“She’ll bust your ass for coming out here.”
“I was just along for the ride,” he said as they walked across the long grass.
“Like she’ll buy in to that.”
He lifted a shoulder and felt rain slide down his collar. The graveyard wasn’t overly tended, most of the graves a hundred years old, only a few, such as Thomas Massey’s final resting place, more recent. Weeds dotted the grass and some of the bushes were unkempt. Why had the killer used this cemetery? Was it significant or unplanned—by chance? What about the grave? Did the killer choose Thomas Massey for convenience or to make a point?
He glared at the threatening horizon, dark clouds scudding across the rooftops of church spires and highest branches of the palms and live oaks that lined the streets. Why was Roberta Peters, an elderly woman, about as far from Bobbi Jean as one could be, the second victim?
Morrisette was at his side, the tops of her snakeskin boots wet from the grass and rain. As they approached the main gate, he sensed rather than saw the flock of reporters and curious onlookers gathered on the other side of the crime scene tape.
“Detective! Can you tell us what’s going on?” a male voice demanded.
“I have nothing to say at this point in the investigation,” Reed said automatically. He was headed for the cruiser.
“Is this another Grave Robber case?”
Reed recognized the voice. “Grave Robber?” he repeated, looking up and spying Nikki Gillette standing front and center, ever eager for a story. Her red-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that was dripping in the rain, her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed in the cold. She seemed younger, less of an adversary in her oversize coat, jeans and wet sneakers. In any other circumstance Reed would have found her attractive. Today, she was just another pushy newswoman, a real pain in the ass. In one hand she held a recorder, in the other a pen and paper. The notepad was soggy, the pen dripping from the rain, and everything about her was getting wetter by the minute. Nonetheless, she was as eager as ever.
“Is this the work of the same criminal who put a second body in a grave and buried them both up at Blood Mountain?” she asked.
“It’s too early to determine.”
“But the M.O.?” Gillette pushed forward, never one to give up.
“I’m not going to speculate or say anything that might jeopardize the investigation.” He managed a thin, impatient smile.
“It seems more than just coincidence.” Nikki wasn’t giving an inch. But then, she never did.
Other reporters fired their questions.
“We noticed you digging. Was another grave found?” Max O’Dell, brandishing a microphone, demanded.
“Did you find an empty coffin?” another reporter demanded.
“Or was the grave robbed?”
“Or was there a coffin with a second body stuffed into it?”
“Please,” Reed said, trying to keep his temper in check. “Let us do our job. We’ll answer your questions later when we know more.”
“When will that be?” Nikki Gillette again, scribbling wildly, a lock of wild hair blowing in front of her face.
“We’ll issue a statement.”
“No press conference?” she demanded, rain drizzling down her face and pointed chin.
He bit back a sharp retort. “That’s not for me to decide. Thank you.” Raising a hand in a half wave, he moved away from the group of reporters and headed for the cruiser. “Let’s get out of here.”
“The sooner the better,” Morrisette said, more subdued than usual. “When we get back to the station, we’d better fill in Okano.” She slid a glance in his direction as she scrounged through her purse for her cigarettes. Keys and coins jangled within the voluminous leather pouch. “Tell you this much. She ain’t gonna like it.” Cracking the window, she added, “But then, I don’t like it, either. Who the hell would kill an old lady who helps out at the library?” She flicked her lighter several times, swore, and dug in her purse before she found another one and finally managed to get a flame.
“He didn’t just kill her,” Reed growled. “He buried her alive with a corpse.”
CHAPTER 11
“I need to talk to you,” Nikki insisted, driving with one hand, holding her cell phone with the other. She was headed back to the office, skimming through traffic and had finally managed to connect with Cliff Siebert, an accomplishment she considered a minor miracle. “Let’s meet.” Easing off the accelerator she took a corner onto Victory Drive. After spending nearly two hours at Heritage Cemetery she was chilled to the bone. In that time the rain had let up and the sky was showing hints of blue through the clouds, but not before she’d been soaked to the skin. Her hair was a frizzy, damp mess that had escaped from her ponytail, her coat damp, her Nikes squishy, her socks clinging and feeling as if she’d been wading through ice water. She considered telling Cliff about her intruder, about the notes, but knew he’d tell her it was probably just a prank. Like once before. When she’d thought Corey Sellwood was stalking her. She’d made a fool of herself then. No, she had to keep what happened last night to herself.
“Meet where?” Cliff asked.
“I could come by your place tonight,” she offered, forcing some enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “Or wherever you want to hook up.” Trying to keep things light, she switched lanes. “What time do you get off work?”
“Going to my apartment wouldn’t be a good idea.” She heard the indecision in his voice and she imagined him jangling his keys nervously in the pocket of his tan Dockers. With curly, flaming red hair cropped short, Cliff was clean shaven and usually wore polo shirts. To Nikki, he looked more like a pro golfer than a cop.
“Then pick another spot.” She wasn’t letting him off the hook.
“I don’t know…”
“Oh, come on, Cliff.” She needed to talk to him. “How about somewhere out of town?”
He sighed loudly, as i
f he were about to make the biggest mistake of his life and was regretting it already. “All right. Tonight.”
“You name the place and time and I’ll be there.” She turned toward the river and the offices of the Sentinel. She felt like something the cat had dragged in and then discarded, but she didn’t have time for a shower or change of clothes. The school board article was due this afternoon and she had more work to do on the Grave Robber story. Lots more work. The bombshell Lindsay Newell had dropped earlier this morning, about Bobbi Jean Marx being pregnant and involved with a cop, gnawed at Nikki.
Cliff still hadn’t answered her. “Cat got your tongue?”
“It should have.”
“Oh, Cliff, give it up, would ya? Where do you want to meet?”
He hesitated a second. “Weaver Brothers. You know the place I’m talkin’ about? It’s a truck stop off Ninety-Five just across the Carolina border. They’ve got a diner that’s pretty quiet.”
“I’ve heard of it,” she said, trying to picture the place on the interstate. “What time?”
“Eight, eight-thirty?”
“That’ll work. I’ll even buy you dinner.”
“I couldn’t allow that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a woman.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. We’re far into a new millennium, remember? Those antebellum days of genteel southern charm have gone the way of the dodo, Siebert.”
“Not in my book. There’s always room to treat a lady like a lady.” Inwardly she groaned and noticed that there was no lilt to his voice, none of the exuberance of the Cliff Siebert who had been her brother’s best friend, the boy who had flirted outrageously with her, the teenager who had gone squirrel hunting with Andrew. Those easygoing days and Cliff’s happy-go-lucky personality had also been eroded by the passing of time and tragedy.
“I’m not a lady, Cliff. Not tonight. I’m an old family friend.”
“Is that what you call it?”