by Lisa Jackson
“No, Lily,” Nikki retorted hotly as she turned off the Island Expressway. “It’s all about you. It always has been.”
Lily hung up so loudly, Nikki winced, then dropped the phone into the cup holder by the driver’s seat of her hatchback. She told herself she should feel bad, but she didn’t. Not for her sister. This was how Lily handled every crisis. By lashing out.
Still fuming, she wended her way through the historic district. She took a corner a little too fast to avoid stopping for a yellow light, then told herself to calm down. A fight with Lily wasn’t exactly a news-breaking event. She and her sister had never gotten along. She glanced in her side-view mirror. Reed was still behind her, never letting her get too far ahead, never gunning the El Dorado past her. His being near was comforting in an odd way. She liked knowing he was so close. He’d been more approachable and she’d thought she’d heard a new tone in his voice, something softer, as if he cared about her—if only because she was a person he was sworn to serve and protect.
At that thought, she nearly ran the next light. “Get over yourself,” she admonished. “This is Pierce Reed you’re mooning over.” Disgusted with the turn of her thoughts, she pulled into her spot in the tiny parking lot. A police car was already parked in the alley that housed the Dumpsters for the apartment building. Red and blue lights strobed the old bricks, tall windows and gleaming shutters of the once-grand house that she now called home. Yellow tape was being strung to keep the onlookers at bay while more than one of her neighbors’ lights were blazing. A few braver souls, clad in raincoats hastily thrown over pajamas craned their necks to stare up at her apartment and some of the bystanders had begun peppering a stoic-faced officer with questions.
“What’s going on?” one woman asked. She was huddled under an umbrella with a big hulking man dressed in wrinkled sweat clothes.
“Don’t really know,” the police officer said. “If you’ll please stand back and let us do our work, we’d appreciate it.”
The big man didn’t take the hint. “Whatever it is, it’s the top apartment, the one in the turret.” The umbrella shifted as the curious neighbors turned their noses skyward to stare at Nikki’s apartment. Nikki moved back a couple of steps, behind the umbrella, where the nosy neighbors couldn’t see her, and was grateful when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed Reed approaching.
“Isn’t that where Nikki Gillette lives?” the woman under the umbrella said. Nikki shrank back even farther. “She’s that reporter, you know. The one who’s writing all the stories about the Grave Robber…”
Nikki backed away from the conversation before they turned, saw, and realized who she was. She nearly bumped into Reed, who grabbed her arm and shepherded her away from the conversation. For once she was grateful to rely on someone else, to feel his strong fingers around her forearm. For the moment she felt protected, though she knew it was only a matter of time before she was spotted and recognized. More neighbors had begun collecting. Fortunately most of the onlookers stood away from the police, preferring the safety of the shadows or their own porches. Only a few vehicles passed by, rolling slowly, drivers rubbernecking, passengers pointing at the elegant old house while sirens, coming ever closer, wailed in the night.
“This is going to be a three-ring circus,” Nikki muttered under her breath.
“Or four,” he agreed.
“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”
One of the uniformed officers took up traffic duty, waving the onlookers through while a damp, icy wind scraped Nikki’s cheeks and tugged at the hem of her coat as vehicles crept down the street.
“We’ll need a key,” Reed said.
She wanted to refuse, hated the invasion of her privacy, but she dug through her purse, found her key ring and slipped the house key off.
“We’ll go inside as soon as we get the okay.”
“From?”
“Diane Moses. And believe me, she’s aptly named. In this department, she does hand down the word of God.”
Nikki chuckled despite her case of nerves. She glanced up at Reed and noticed he wasn’t smiling, but his eyes seemed warmer than before, his perpetually harsh expression less severe, the hint of tenderness perceptible beneath his gruff facade.
“Hang in there,” he said, dropping her arm as the crime scene van arrived along with two more police cars and the news van from WKAM. Nikki watched a reporter and cameraman emerge, while Reed spoke to a petite black woman whose face seemed set in a perpetual frown. The woman slid a curious glance in Nikki’s direction, but her scowl only deepened, another fan of the press, as Reed introduced Diane Moses, then handed her Nikki’s key.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” Fred Cooper, the apartment manager, had finally awakened and wasn’t too happy about it. Dressed in a striped bathrobe, he came charging around the corner of the apartment house like a bulldog. His thin white hair was standing on end, the bags under his eyes indicating he needed a lot more sleep. “What the hell is this?” Turning his gaze on Nikki, he stopped dead and the corners of his mouth pursed. “Why am I not surprised this has something to do with you?”
It was Nikki’s turn to make hasty introductions. “Fred Cooper, the manager, Detectives Reed and Moses. They want to see my apartment. I said it was okay.”
“Of course it’s okay…but…” Fred, standing in the midst, was obviously confused and not happy about the situation. He stared at the ever-growing crowd of police and onlookers. “Jesus…”
Reed took over. The ensuing conversation was short. Reed explained what they were doing as Diane Moses climbed the stairs to Nikki’s apartment.
Cooper backed off and stepped back to stand guard under the overhang of his porch. One shoulder propped against the doorjamb, he glared at the disruption of his usually predictable, neat life.
Members of the team roped off areas surrounding the walkway and gate, then carefully started examining the exterior of the house before climbing the stairs to Nikki’s apartment. It was weird to see the police swarming around her home, searching for evidence of a crime against her. She hated to think how many crime scenes she’d visited, always hungry for knowledge, with fleeting thoughts of the victims, while her concentration had been on finding out who, what, when and why.
“We’ll give them time to look around first,” Reed said, grabbing hold of Nikki’s arm again when she tried to follow an officer through the gate. “Even though it’s been over twenty-four hours since the break-in, they could find something important.”
“Okay, but my cat will freak.”
The hand around her sleeve didn’t let go. “He’ll get over it.”
“You don’t know Jennings. He holds a grudge for weeks!” she insisted, staring up at her apartment. “This’ll cost me a fortune in catnip.”
He snorted a laugh and looked at her. For the first time, she was certain, he really looked at her. Past her I’m-a-serious-reporter skin to probe beneath the surface, to search for the woman she usually kept locked away. “I think you can afford it,” he observed as another police car, lights blazing, roared down the street.
With a squeal of tires, the cruiser ground to a stop.
“Morrisette,” Reed said.
Cliff Siebert, his expression grave, made a hasty exit from the passenger side. He slid a look in Nikki’s direction, then immediately turned his attention to Reed, who dropped her arm. Cliff’s forehead was creased, his lips pursed. He looked ready to spit nails.
“You call this in?” he demanded, zeroing in on Reed.
Nikki saw the fight brewing and stepped in. “Wait a minute. I called Detective Reed and told him about the break-in.”
“You called him.” Obviously Cliff wasn’t buying it.
“Ms. Gillette has some evidence about the Grave Robber that she’d like to share with us all.” “So, after we’re through here, let’s all go to the station.”
“Hold on, Reed. You’re off the case.” Cliff scowled at the older detective and his lips barely moved
as he added, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Okano will have your badge and your ass.”
From the corner of her eye, Nikki saw Detective Morrisette approach. “Whoa, boys. Enough. Let’s not go off here half-cocked.”
“This is my fault,” Nikki cut in. “I knew Detective Reed had been called up to Dahlonega and was close to one of the victims, so I approached him first. I’ve been leaving messages for Detective Reed ever since this case broke.”
Cliff’s gaze, when he looked at Nikki, was cold as death. “Detective Reed was removed from the case, Ms. Gillette. I assumed, as you’re writing so feverishly about everything there is about the Grave Robber, that you knew that Detective Morrisette was in charge and that I’m assisting her.”
“Listen, Siebert, turn down the testosterone a notch or two, okay?” Morrisette’s multiple earrings caught in the light from the street lamps and her platinum spikes took on a gray-blue hue as another press van pulled into the alley. “Great. More dickhead reporters, present company excluded.” A uniformed officer met the van, keeping the driver and newsman behind the barrier. It was weird being on the other side of the microphone, Nikki thought, strange being the victim rather than a voyeur looking for a story, an angle to make her story the best.
Morrisette was still reaming out Reed and Siebert. “…so I don’t give a flying fuck who did the calling or responding on this. It just doesn’t matter. So let’s just get to work and figure out what’s going on before we have the press crawling up our butts.” She looked from Siebert to Reed. “Let’s go.” She was already starting for the gate.
Jaw tight, Cliff Siebert was only one step behind.
“Ms. Gillette said her apartment was broken into the other night. Whoever did it left a note with a poem. Looks like it’s from the Grave Robber,” Reed said.
“Holy shit.” Only one step from the stairs, Morrisette stopped dead in her tracks and spun on the heels of her snakeskin boots. “I assume you brought it.”
“She gave it to me,” Reed said. “I thought we’d take it down to the station and compare it to the other notes.” He must’ve seen Cliff’s reaction because he added, “And yeah, she does know that the Grave Robber’s been sending us messages, too.”
“Reed,” Morrisette warned.
“Ms. Gillette’s agreed not to print any of this until such time as the department deems is acceptable.”
“Now you’re making deals? For someone off the case, you sure throw your weight around,” Cliff growled.
“Enough, already.” Morrisette glared at the two men. “Let’s just get this joker. You”—she pointed a finger at Nikki—“stay outside until we ask you in and then be careful where you step. Diane Moses—she’s the lead crime scene investigator—will tell you what you can and cannot touch, and if I were you, I’d do exactly as she says. Got it?”
Nikki nodded. “Got it.”
“And I’d find another place to spend the night.” Morrisette’s gaze swept to Reed’s face, then back to Nikki’s. “Somewhere safe. Maybe with your folks or a friend. Someone you can trust.”
“I already changed my locks,” Nikki protested.
“Not good enough. We might need more time. You can take a few of your belongings. A change of clothes.”
Nikki argued, “Now wait a minute, this is my home.”
“And it was violated once.” Detective Morrisette’s face was without a trace of humor. “Let’s not invite trouble back again. Got it?”
“Okay. Yeah…I got it,” Nikki said, staring up at the turret apartment and feeling a chill. The Grave Robber had been inside her home. The creep who tossed living women into coffins already occupied by decomposing bodies had walked through her tiny rooms, running his hands over her counter and bureau, maybe even lying in her bed, going through her drawers. She shuddered.
Morrisette was right.
She’d stay away tonight.
At least, this night. In her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of a shadow and the lower branches of the laurel hedge shuddered. Nikki’s heart nearly stopped and she visibly jumped before she realized that her cat, spooked by the police, had darted under one of the police cruisers. His eyes were wide as he huddled behind one tire, staring out at her.
Nikki bent down on one knee. “Come on, Jen,” she said, feeling some of the animal’s unease. “It’ll be all right.”
But the cat didn’t budge. In fact, when she reached for him, he hissed, baring his needle-sharp teeth, then scrambled away to the far side of the vehicle where he continued to cower and stare at the house.
As if he sensed the very essence of evil.
As if the Grave Robber were lurking nearby.
Hiding in the shadows.
Watching.
Waiting.
Nikki’s throat went dry. She felt it then, that cold damp wind that rattled through the branches of the surrounding trees, masking sounds, the night itself hiding the most hideous of murderers, the killer who had decided to contact her.
A footstep scraped on the concrete of the parking lot.
She turned quickly and saw no one.
Or did she?
Was that a shadow in the foliage near the alley?
A dark figure walking by or a trick of light?
Did the fronds of a fern shiver as someone passed?
Suddenly frightened, she stepped backward and bumped into something, a person, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Nikki?” Reed’s voice asked. Turning quickly, she found the detective staring at her, studying her. “Are you all right?”
“Would you be?” she tried to quip back, though her voice faltered a little.
“Me? Hell, no. I’d be scared to death.”
“Yeah, well, that about covers it.” Shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat, she said, “Can we go inside now?”
“I think so. Come on.” Once again he wrapped strong fingers around her arm and propelled her toward the walkway. As she looked ahead to the stairs that wrapped around the outside of the house she knew she’d never climb them again without a new, unwanted sense of trepidation. The Grave Robber had gotten into her home once. What was to stop him from doing it again?
Morrisette didn’t like what was going through her head as she drove through the empty, night-darkened streets of Savannah. Something wasn’t right about the investigation, something major. She was tired, cranky, worried about leaving her kids in the middle of the night with a bleary-eyed sitter and didn’t need this kind of gut-wrenching suspicion.
Reed and Nikki Gillette?
What was with the two of them? Were they involved…? The way they hung close to each other while Gillette’s apartment was searched felt odd…out of sync…like there was more to their relationship than met the eye. But Reed detested reporters, especially the pushy kind like Ms. Gillette. And yet…
Morrisette’s feminine intuition, which was sometimes a blessing but more often a curse, was working overtime tonight. And she wasn’t the only one who’d sensed the shift in the atmosphere. As she’d torn down the old Savannah streets, she’d tried not to notice that her new partner was brooding. Mad at the world. Cliff Siebert hadn’t uttered one word on the short trip to the station. He’d even given her that pissy don’t-ruin-my-lungs glare as she’d lit up. What a tight-ass. She turned onto Habersham and saw that Reed’s El Dorado was on her tail. Nikki Gillette’s little hatchback was behind him and all three of the cars rolled into the parking lot one after the other. Siebert had been watching their little parade in the side-view mirror and now, as she shoved the cruiser into park, his already grim expression darkened. He shot out of the car before Morrisette could cut the engine. Yep, he was gonna be lots of fun, she thought, a regular barrel of laughs. She decided to have a much-needed smoke before facing Reed and Siebert in the interrogation room. She paused for a cigarette, noticed that Reed and Gillette were way too chummy, huddling close together against the weather as they headed inside. Morrisette lit up and took a couple o
f quick hits of nicotine as she walked to the doors. She squashed out her half-smoked Marlboro Light in the ash can. Why was the Grave Robber singling out Nikki Gillette and Pierce Reed? What did they have to do with twelve? Reed had been involved with one of the victims, but, as far as Morrisette knew, Nikki Gillette hadn’t.
Maybe the notes would give them the clue they needed.
Inside the interrogation room, she took charge. Reed stood near the doorway, a concession to not being a part of the case, she supposed, while Siebert and Nikki Gillette claimed a couple of chairs. The station was quiet, only a few cops working graveyard. Even here, Savannah’s bastion of security, the night seemed disturbed. Out of sync. Even a little eerie. But then, everything about this damned case was.
Nikki Gillette offered up a list of her friends and associates and starred those that had keys to her apartment, or had used her keys in the time that she’d rented her apartment. The list was way too long for Morrisette’s way of thinking and, she imagined, incomplete, as it was put together hastily, but it was a starting point. Morrisette reminded the reporter that whatever they discussed was definitely off the record, then listened as Nikki Gillette explained about getting the notes on her car, in her house and the E-mail at work.
“It’s essentially the same things I received, only with different wording,” Reed said, then held up a hand to cut Morrisette off. “Ms. Gillette knows I got the E-mail. We’ve been over this. She’s not reporting this until we make an official statement.”
“But I am reporting that the killer contacted me,” Nikki cut in. She looked as tired as Morrisette felt. Dark smudges showed up beneath her eyes, her lipstick had faded and her hair was a tangled mess. But she was still feisty as hell. That probably came with being Big Ron Gillette’s daughter.
“I’d like to see the article before it hits the stands.”
“Too late.” Gillette trapped Morrisette in a sharp, green-eyed glare. “I left one draft at the paper with orders to print it if I didn’t get back with additional facts.”
Morrisette’s frayed temper snapped. “You’re impeding the investigation.”