Harper gave her a sceptical look.
‘You know there’ll be dead people there, right?’
Shrugging, Bonnie unlocked the front door and pulled it open. Steamy southern night air poured in.
‘I’m a grown-up. I can take it.’
She glanced over her shoulder with a look Harper had known better than to argue with since she was six years old.
‘Let’s go.’
* * *
At the edge of the city, overlooking the Savannah River, Bay Street ran parallel to River Street, but about twelve feet higher. Below lay the old wharves and warehouses that had once serviced tall ships, sailing for Europe, but which now served the city’s massive tourist industry.
The street was virtually empty when Bonnie swung her pink pickup, with ‘Mavis’ painted on the back in bright yellow, into a parking spot and killed the engine.
From her window, Harper could see flashing blue lights down at the water’s edge.
‘Come on,’ she said, throwing up the door and jumping out.
She landed hard on the curb, and the bullet wound in her shoulder throbbed a sharp warning. She winced, pressing her hand against the scar.
It had been a year since she’d been shot. It was rare for the wound to twinge like that these days. It usually only acted up when the weather changed.
‘You’ll be a walking barometer now,’ her surgeon had remarked jovially at one of her check-ups. ‘Always be able to tell when rain is coming.’
‘That is not the superpower I was hoping for,’ she’d responded.
Secretly, she was glad the pain was still there. The wound – which she’d sustained while exposing former Lieutenant Robert Smith for murder – served as a reminder to be careful who she trusted.
Bonnie, who had missed her pained expression as she walked around the truck to join her, looked down at the line of police cars below and whistled.
‘Damn,’ she said, ‘It really is right in the middle of everything. That’s just a couple of blocks from Huey’s.’
Huey’s Bar and Restaurant was one of the most popular tourist joints in the city.
Harper had already noticed the proximity. She needed to get down there.
‘They’ll close the street,’ she said, pointing to her left. ‘Let’s go down that way.’
They strode down the cobbled incline towards the river. Harper’s rubber-soled boots struggled to find grip on the rounded stones. Bonnie swore as her boots skidded.
River Street was the oldest lane in the city. It was undeniably atmospheric, with the old docks converted into artfully landscaped plazas where visitors gathered and buskers performed. Warehouses that once stored cotton and indigo had been repurposed as pubs, restaurants and shops selling pralines and T-shirts with slogans like ‘MADE IN THE SOUTH’. During the day, a brightly painted streetcar rumbled up and down the water’s edge, dinging its cheerful bell.
Harper usually avoided it. It was packed with tourist traps and no interesting crimes happened here.
Tonight, though, was different.
Crime tape had been strung from light pole to light pole, blocking the narrow street. Flashing blue lights lit up the night.
Harper scanned the scene – the road was packed with police cars but she could see no trucks bearing the hallmarks of the local TV news stations.
She smiled to herself. Bless Miles for staying up all night listening to his scanner. They’d have an exclusive on this.
About thirty yards beyond the tape, a cluster of uniformed cops and plain-clothed detectives gathered at the foot of the old, stone staircase that led back up to Bay Street. They were all looking down at something.
‘Look, there’s Miles.’ Bonnie pointed. ‘Hey Miles!’
The photographer was on the far side of the street. Hearing her voice, he looked up, and waved them over.
As always, he looked dapper in slacks and a button-down shirt – as if he’d been dressed early and waiting for this crime to happen.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, as they walked up. ‘Is it two-for-one night? I didn’t bring my coupon.’
‘Hi Miles.’ Bonnie beamed at him. ‘Fancy running into you at a murder scene.’
‘The night is full of surprises,’ he agreed.
‘What’d we miss?’ Harper gestured to the crowd of cops. ‘Any ID on the victim? Is it a tourist?’
‘Nobody’s saying anything.’ He gave her a significant look. ‘The tape was up when I got here. They’ve kept it quiet on the radio – there’s no chatter. I almost missed it myself. I heard some chit-chat about the coroner which let me know something was up, otherwise I’d still be home.’
Keeping it quiet – that meant the police were trying to buy themselves time. They knew this story was going to be big.
Their editor would want to know about this as soon as possible.
‘You called Baxter yet?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
‘Don’t have enough to tell her,’ he said. ‘I’ve got nothing but instincts right now says this isn’t a normal crime.’
Harper didn’t reply, but they both knew his instincts were good. Still, better to wait until they knew more for certain.
Bonnie listened to all of this, but said nothing. Harper wondered how she and Miles must look to an outsider. After years of working together, the two of them had a kind of complex shorthand that included no platitudes for the dead. When it came to a crime scene, they were pure business.
In the distance, the crowd of officers shifted. Near the foot of the steps, Harper saw several figures in plain clothes, crouching low. She squinted into the shadows but couldn’t make them out.
‘Who’s lead detective?’ she asked Miles, who stepped over to join her.
‘Daltrey.’ He raised his camera to take a speculative shot, then checked the image on the screen.
Harper’s shoulders relaxed just a little. She could work with Julie Daltrey. The same wasn’t true of all the detectives these days.
A rumble broke the stillness, and they all turned to see a white van with the words FORENSICS UNIT on the side rolling slowly past them, its tires stuttering on the cobblestones.
A uniformed cop ran over to untie the crime tape and let it through. As the van pulled in, its cold, bright headlights swung to the cluster of investigators, lighting up the scene like a film set.
They all saw the body on the staircase in the same instant. The young woman lay face up across the lowest steps, wide eyes staring at the black sky. Her fingers still clung to the metal railings, slim legs sprawling at an unnatural angle. She wore a knee-length skirt and boots.
The hairs on the back of Harper’s neck rose.
This was no gangbanger crime. She could tell that from here.
The woman’s green T-shirt looked familiar, although she couldn’t make out the writing on it.
Miles gave a low whistle and, lifting his camera, fired off a rapid series of shots.
Harper stood on her toes to get a better look.
Beside her, Bonnie made a stifled shocked sound.
‘Don’t look at the body,’ Harper advised. ‘Take a walk if you feel sick.’
But Bonnie didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned against the crime tape, straining to see the woman, pushing hard enough to make it bow.
One of the uniforms flashed a light on her disapprovingly. ‘Hey you – get back.’
Harper turned to ask her what the hell she was doing. The last thing she needed was for Bonnie to piss off the cops. But when she looked at her face, the complaint died on her lips.
Bonnie looked stricken.
‘Oh my God, Harper,’ she said, staring at the body on the stairs. ‘I know her.’
Don’t miss the next book in the Harper McClain series, coming in April 2019
About the Author
As a crime reporter, Christi Daugherty saw her first dead body at the age of twenty-two. There would be many more, when she covered murders in cities like Savannah, Baton
Rouge, and New Orleans. Her work eventually took her to England, where she wrote the Night School series of thrillers for young adults under the name C. J. Daugherty. That series was an international bestseller, and has been translated into twenty-four languages. The Echo Killing is her first novel for adults. Find out more – and win free books – on her website: ChristiDaugherty.com
@CJ_Daugherty
/CJAuthor
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