by Lisa Jackson
Because you both were involved in the Chevalier trial. This all has something to do with what went down then when Chevalier was arrested and sent to prison.
Reed had already gone over all the notes of the trial, had requested all the prison records on the guy and found nothing that would help. Maybe if the senior detective who had helped collar Chevalier were still alive, he would remember something about the trial that would help. But Reed’s ex-partner was dead.
“I tell ya, the guy’s messin’ with us. Ten and two and five?” Morrisette cut in.
“It’s his way of telling us there will be seventeen bodies, and, check it out, the note had to be seventeen words long.”
“What a crock,” Siebert cut in.
Morrisette glared at the note as if it were pure evil.
“Listen, this just doesn’t make any sense. The guy’s way off.” Cliff was obviously not buying into Reed’s line of reasoning. “There weren’t seventeen jurors.”
“What about alternates, or other people involved in the trial?” Reed asked, thinking aloud. “We’re not talking about a rational guy, you know.”
“Shit, no,” Morrisette muttered under her breath, lines creasing her forehead.
The new note from the Grave Robber meant more death. More killing. More work and more frustration.
“There aren’t five alternates on a jury panel, you know that. And why up the score now?” Morrisette wondered aloud and Reed could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. “To confuse us? Jesus, this is one sick prick.” She stared at the damned note. “I hate to say it, but I think you’re right. For whatever the reason, the bastard’s definitely talking about seventeen.”
“Son of a bitch,” Siebert growled.
Haskins stared at the note. “I’ll check with our profiler. See what she says about this guy.”
“This guy? Meaning you don’t think it’s Chevalier?” Morrisette exchanged looks with Reed.
The FBI agent held up a hand. “I’m just covering all the bases, but yeah, I think it’s Chevalier. Everyone who died suspiciously who was on the jury—even good old Tyrell here—kicked off after Chevalier was released. Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Morrisette said. “I’m an ‘everything for a reason’ kind of girl.”
Reed’s cell phone beeped. Turning his back on the crowd in the tent as the wind tugged at the flaps, he answered, “Reed,” seeing from Caller ID that the call was long distance.
“Rick Bentz, New Orleans P.D. You asked me to call you when we located Vince Lassiter.”
“I did.”
“We found him today in a hospital in San Antonio. Drug OD, no ID on him, so it took a while for us to piece it all together. According to hospital records, he was admitted five days ago, comatose, only regained consciousness late last night. Doesn’t look like he’s your boy.”
“It sure doesn’t,” Reed agreed. He’d already struck Bobbi Jean’s brother from the list of suspects.
“How’s the investigation coming along?”
“Unearthed another body today. Same M.O. Buried alive.”
“Hell.”
“Yeah, that’s what it’s been around here.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I will,” Reed agreed before hanging up and deciding he had to face Nikki. He slipped through the vent in the tent and saw her stiffen in the passenger seat. Other reporters, all clustered near the front gate, started hurling questions at him, but he ignored them, didn’t even bother acknowledging their presence. No doubt he was being filmed from the news chopper overhead and from the handheld cams on the other side of the iron bars. He only hoped that the footage would be edited out before the story aired and that Nikki Gillette wasn’t recognized as the woman sitting in his car.
What were the chances of that?
Without a word he opened the car door, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “I’m sorry,” he said and she let out a weak gasp. She looked away, through the passenger window as he drove away from the cemetery.
“Who was Simone with?” she asked.
“A man by the name of Tyrell Demonico Brown.”
“A juror?”
“Yes.”
She sniffed loudly and from the corner of his eye he saw her chin tighten as if she were willing herself to be strong. In more ways than one she was Ronald Gillette’s daughter.
“Get him, Reed,” she said, dashing away her tears. “Get the son of a bitch.”
“I will.” He turned onto a road leading away from the city. “That’s a promise.”
Nikki wanted to believe him. Desperately she wanted to think that justice would be served, that Chevalier would rot in hell for his crimes. “Did you find any other evidence?”
“Another note.”
“Oh, God, no.”
“Addressed to me.”
“What did it say?”
He explained and she listened, horrified. “More? More than twelve? Seventeen,” she whispered as they drove across the bridge to Tybee Island. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace quiet. Just for a little while. To regroup.”
“On Tybee?”
“Got a better idea?”
“I wish.”
They stopped at the beach and walked along the dunes and beach grass, not saying a word, smelling the salty sea air as a thick mist rolled in from the sea. Reed draped an arm over her shoulders and she huddled close to him as her pain lessened and the guilt she clung to so tightly eased a little.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asked and she nodded, squinting up at him, feeling the wind snatch at her hair and pull at the hem of her coat.
“I have to be. We Gillettes, we’re survivors…well, except for Andrew.” She sighed and admitted something she’d held in for twelve years. “I think he committed suicide. There was talk of an accident and that’s what Mom and Dad choose to think, but when you examine the facts, Andrew hated to lose and the fact that he couldn’t get into the law school he wanted, even with Dad’s pull as an alumnus and a judge, Andrew decided to flick it in.” She plunged her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and stared out to sea where the gray water met the dark clouds.
“But you’re different.”
“I hope.” She managed a weak, watery smile. “Okay, Detective, so you brought me out here to help me shake off the guilt and, I assume, to be away from the prying eyes of the other cops and journalists. So, now what?”
He drew her closer still and lowered his head to hers, kissing her so hard, with such desperation that she couldn’t resist him and kissed him back. Over the rush of the sea she heard his heart, steady and strong, felt his heat at odds with the weather, and realized that in the past few days she’d started to fall in love with this brusque, hardheaded cop.
He pressed his tongue against her teeth and she opened to him, clinging to him, feeling his body, hard and wanting beneath his clothes. The winter air swirled around them, the sea pounded the surf, and for just a few vital minutes Nikki forgot about everything, all the pain, all the guilt and grief, everything except this one lone man.
It felt so good to forget. If only for a few minutes.
With a groan, he lifted his head and loosened his hold on her. “I hate to cut this short, really, but I have work to do.”
“We have work to do,” she corrected. “And I’ll take a rain check.”
“You’ll get it.” His tone was soft, his gaze concerned. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“Not all right. But as right as I ever was.”
“Then, I’ll drive you to a car rental agency.”
“That, Detective, would be an excellent idea.” She slid into the Caddy’s interior and knew that she’d have to face Norm Metzger and Tom Fink and all their questions. Metzger had seen her with Reed. Hence she’d have to endure the third degree, but so be it.
She’d do whatever she had to to help bring Simone’s killer to jus
tice.
Now is the time.
Everything is in place.
The Survivor glanced at the unmoving body on his floor. Not dead. Just out cold. Death would come soon. Around his room, television screens flickered with images of Peltier Cemetery. The police and FBI had been there en masse. He knew. Just as he knew they would be. Looking in the other direction.
That had been earlier today and the stations had been replaying the footage over and over again. He was pleased. At least the media was finally taking notice. Giving him the proper respect.
Two of the televisions were playing DVDs. His favorites. The two with which he could identify most closely. Rambo filled one screen and he noticed Sylvester Stallone in the title role, silently eluding the army, and on another screen, a sleeker avenger, Neo, in The Matrix.
He, too, was an avenger. A seeker of justice. A victim of the system and one who would right the wrongs cast upon him.
Turning his attention from the screens, he crossed the small room and ended up at his dresser. With the glimmering blue light from the screens as a backdrop, he saw his face reflected harshly in the cracked mirror. He’d aged so much in the past few weeks, he was nearly unrecognizable to himself. Which, he decided, was good. For he wouldn’t be easily recognized by others. With or without his elaborate disguises.
Besides, it was time to unmask himself.
To face the world.
To make his ultimate point.
He glanced down at the stained top of the bureau and remembered how that blood had been spilled, how this dark spot in the wood had become sacred to him. Delicately, he touched one drop, then another, using a swirling motion, feeling the oak finish and the blood, once hot, that had pooled there. It was almost as if it pulsed beneath his fingertips. Faster and faster he rubbed the stain. Sharp images of the past, of spraying blood and shrieks and dying rushed through his head.
So much blood.
So much pain.
Twelve-year-old screams resounded in his ears, echoing eerily, urging him on.
Closing his eyes, he mentally focused on his mission.
All the recent killings were only practice.
Now was the time for the coup de grâce.
The clues he’d sent had been a smoke screen. There had been enough truth in the notes to keep the cops interested, but also to throw them off. They were busy protecting and offering surveillance to the remaining jurors in the trial, but they were wasting their time, disbursing manpower to remote locations.
He smiled. Rubbing the bloodstains gave him strength.
Power. Reminded him of his purpose.
Now.
Tonight.
It had to be done.
For the first time in a dozen years, he unlocked the top drawer. His eyes remained closed, his heart pounding rapidly, his pulse leaping in anticipation as he pulled. The old drawer stuck, but he yanked harder and it squeaked open.
Gingerly, he reached inside.
His fingers encountered the long leather sheath and he unbuckled it eagerly, suddenly anxious, knowing the end was so close. He had to force himself to slow down, extracting as much pleasure as possible as he slid the hunting knife from its case.
Then he opened his eyes.
Gazed down at the shiny honed blade, then tested it on his own palm.
A thin crimson line appeared upon his skin. Blood oozing. Another scar in the making.
It was perfect.
CHAPTER 28
“I thought I made it clear that you were off this investigation,” Katherine Okano stated angrily from the throne that was her desk chair. She was polishing her glasses so furiously that Reed thought the lenses might pop out of the frames. “Or did you conveniently forget, Detective?”
“I remembered,” he said tightly.
“And yet, there you are, big as life, caught on film. When we nail the killer what do you think his defense lawyer is going to come up with? Footage of one of the victim’s lovers at a crime scene and proof that you were there when Barbara Marx’s body was found along with the little nugget that you were her baby’s father. Won’t that be the reason you might contaminate or embellish the evidence to convict?” She stopped rubbing her glasses long enough to give him a long, hard stare. “You know I gave Morrisette specific instructions about you, so it’s not just your ass that’s in a sling right now. She’s jeopardizing the case by keeping you privy to what’s going on.”
“The Grave Robber addresses his notes to me.”
“Big deal. Just stop, Reed, and stop now or I’ll have to ask for your badge.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Searching his pocket, he came up with the wallet that held his police ID and badge. With a flick of his wrist, the leather case slid across her desk to land in front of her trademark glass of some iced-coffee concoction. “It’s not Morrisette’s fault. I coerced her.”
“My ass.” She settled her glasses on the bridge of her sharp nose. “You’re not getting off this easy, Reed.” She pushed the wallet back to him. “Just lay low. I’ll see how I can handle this.”
“And here I thought you didn’t care,” he mocked.
“Don’t push me.”
Picking up his ID, he started for the door. “Wouldn’t dream of it, K.O.,” he said, knowing he was lying through his teeth.
The day had been hell. After renting a car, Nikki had driven home and walked an excited and uproariously enthusiastic Mikado. Watching the dog scamper, chase squirrels and eagerly bark at strangers only reminded Nikki that she’d never see Simone again. Never hear her voice. Never stand her up.
But you can do something. You can help catch this creep. Put him away. He communicates with you.
And you can take care of her dog. She would have wanted that.
Though Jennings had been obviously miffed with the new little interloper, Nikki had decided that Mikado was to become a permanent addition to the family.
Leaving the dog and cat to sort things out, she finally drove to work and upon arriving was accosted at the coatrack by Tom Fink. “Nikki,” he said in a hushed tone as she draped her scarf over an empty hook. “Can you spare a minute?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Let’s go to my office.”
As they walked through the cubicles, she felt everyone’s eyes upon her, sensed the curiosity in their gazes. Trina didn’t even look up as she passed. Norm Metzger eyed her as if she were the enemy and Kevin studied her from beneath the rim of a baseball cap. Even the ever ebullient and inefficient Celeste stared openly as Tom escorted her into his office. It seemed to Nikki that all clicking of computer keys, ringing of phones and gentle buzz of conversation ceased as she walked by. The newspaper offices sounded more like an elevator with only the soft chords of piped-in music disturbing the silence.
“What’s going on?” she asked as Tom waved her into a side chair and took his seat behind the desk.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He tented his hands in front of him and balanced his chin on his thumbs. “Something’s up. Something major. You’re getting notes from the killer, your apartment was broken into and now one of your best friends has become a victim of the killer you named the Grave Robber; have I got that right?”
“I thought the police weren’t releasing the names of the most current victims until the next of kin had been notified.”
“They have been. Simone Everly’s parents have already heard the news as have Tyrell Demonico Brown’s sister, kids and ex-wife.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“Yes.”
“Because we make sure it does.”
“We, as in the paper? Oh, God, Nikki, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a conscience.”
“I like to think I always had one.”
“To report the news one has to be unbiased. Completely,” he said and she sensed something bad was coming at her. Something with the velocity of a freight train. “Simone Everly was a friend of yours, wasn’t she? Engaged to your brother
years ago?” he asked, then, as if he were suddenly aware that he was coming on too strong, added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Are you?” she shot back.
“Of course. This is an awful thing. Awful. It’s no wonder you feel defensive.”
“Defensive?” Where was this coming from?
“I wouldn’t blame you if you threw in the towel.”
She didn’t respond, just waited. Sooner or later Tom would get to his point, the reason he’d pounced upon her the minute she’d walked into the office and started taking off her coat and scarf.
“Because of your relationship with Simone Everly and the Grave Robber, we have a unique opportunity here at the Sentinel.”
“We?” she repeated.
“Mmm. Let’s turn the tables around a bit,” he said, moving his hands rapidly in two circular motions. “Instead of you doing the interview, you’ll be interviewed.”
This was getting worse by the minute.
“Norm can do an in-depth article about Simone, you, and the Grave Robber, kind of a full-circle thing. It’ll focus on your relationship with the killer and one of his victims.”
“No way. Tom, don’t—” But he was already on his feet, tapping at the glass window and motioning someone in. A second later Norm Metzger slipped through the door. He was carrying a recorder, a pen, and a thick, virgin notepad without so much as an apostrophe on the pages.
“Nikki,” he said, dipping his head but unable to conceal his smarmy smile.
“Tom told me about the article,” she said and forced a replica of his grin.
“Great.”
“I think I should start with a statement.”
“Good idea,” he said, though there was a new wariness in his tone. “What kind of statement?”
Nikki stood and kicked back her chair. “It’s pretty simple and straightforward.”
“Nikki—” Tom warned.
“Here it is, Metzger. When Ms. Gillette was asked about the death of her friend Simone Everly, her only response was a clipped, clear ‘No comment!’”