* * *
The service was emotional. Jerrod and some of Naomi’s friends spoke about her beauty and lost potential. A preacher led everyone in prayers for her and the city: “Which on days like today can seem to be losing its soul.” A choir from Naomi’s church sang her favorite songs. People cried.
The second it ended, Harper was out of her seat, fighting through the crowd. She needed to talk to Jerrod Scott and find out if he’d spoken to Shepherd. But she couldn’t immediately find him in the crush.
When she did locate him, he was near the door, talking to Blazer, their heads close together.
She dropped back to the bar, waiting for them to finish. The next time she looked, she couldn’t see either of them.
With a sigh of irritation, she started her search again. The small, packed bar wasn’t getting any less crowded. Most people were staying, keeping Fitz and Bonnie busy mixing drinks.
Finding a spot near the bar with a good view of the room, Harper waited for people to leave. It was ten o’clock. She still had time before her midnight deadline.
Along with Jerrod, she needed to talk with Fitz. If the police were looking at him for Naomi’s murder, she had to find out why. And there was no way the cops were going to tell her.
The crowd parted briefly and she spotted Luke and Detective Daltrey standing at the edge of the room, observing the audience, much as she was.
Harper noticed Fitz glance at them from time to time and then look away quickly, his lip curling. Whatever had happened that afternoon, he was still angry about it.
DJ strode up to her, holding a full glass of beer.
“I love wakes,” he announced. “The booze is half price and they say there’s going to be food later.”
“Why don’t you go see if you can get some quotes first?” Harper suggested, tilting her head to where the choir had clustered near the jukebox. “Start with them. Find out if Naomi was in the choir. Were any of them her friends?”
Most of the singers were young women, and she saw DJ’s face brighten.
“You got it.” He hustled over to them obediently.
While he ingratiated himself with the singers, Harper made her way to the bar, waving to catch Bonnie’s eye.
“Well, that was depressing,” Bonnie said, as she mixed a vodka and soda.
She forced a light tone, but Harper didn’t miss the fact that her mascara was smeared and her nose was red.
“Yes, it was,” Harper said, glancing down the bar at the Library’s owner. His face was set in deep, sad lines as he measured wine into glasses. His hands were unsteady.
“How’s Fitz?” she asked, quietly.
Bonnie glanced at her boss before answering.
“Not great,” she said, quietly. “He’s hardly spoken since the cops left today. He drank all the way through the ceremony.”
“Did you find out any more about why the police came for him?” Harper asked. “Did Naomi complain about him?”
Motioning for her to wait, Bonnie took a drink to someone farther down the bar. When she returned, she leaned close.
“Not Naomi,” she whispered. “Someone else.”
“Someone else complained?” For some reason, Harper hadn’t expected this. “Who?”
“Two years ago.” Bonnie glanced back at her boss to make sure he couldn’t overhear. “We had a bartender—beautiful girl. She only lasted a few months. Said Fitz wouldn’t leave her alone. She didn’t like being alone with him. After she quit, he went to her house drunk, late at night, pounding on her door. She called the cops.”
Harper didn’t know what to make of this new information. It didn’t sound like Fitz. He was an amiable, laid-back guy. He seemed to get along with everyone.
“Did you believe her?”
Bonnie hesitated before replying.
“His wife had left him.” She held up her hands, as if that statement explained everything.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Harper said. “What is wrong with men?”
“Amen to that, sister.”
“I need to have a word with him,” Harper said. “Just in case he’ll tell me anything about what’s going on. Do you think now’s a bad time?”
Bonnie’s shrug was eloquent. “I don’t think there’s ever going to be a good time for that conversation.”
“I’ll make it fast.”
Harper waited for a lull at the bar, then headed over to where the owner was now stacking glasses.
“Hi Fitz,” she said. “Beautiful ceremony.”
He barely glanced at her, hands mechanically cleaning the already clean bar.
“It was,” he said.
“Bonnie told me the cops were hassling you today. What’s that about?”
He blinked at her, blearily. It was obvious that he was drunk. His eyes were unfocused.
“They’ve already got somebody and now they want to blame me, too.” Bewildered, he turned to the photo of Naomi still resting on the bar. “I treated her like a daughter. The way I treat all my girls.” He gestured at Bonnie, who was absorbing herself in cleaning the bar. “I wouldn’t ever hurt her. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Harper assured him. “But why? Why are they targeting you? Did something happen between you and Naomi?”
He held up his hands, a cleaning rag flopping from one.
“They said they wanted to check everything out. Be sure. But they already have someone in jail for it. Why’d they think I’d hurt her? I don’t understand. I never hurt anyone, Harper. Never hurt anyone.”
He was too drunk and morose for her to question further. Even about the case Bonnie had mentioned. She needed to catch him sober.
“Okay, Fitz,” she said, stepping back. “You hang in there.”
She left him shaking his head, and mumbling to himself.
The room was getting louder. Harper got the feeling some were there for the service and others were regular drinkers who’d stumbled in.
Across the room, DJ was chatting with the choir, who’d surrounded him like birds around a feeder.
Harper was scanning the crowd for Jerrod or Blazer when her phone vibrated in her pocket.
It was Miles.
“Hey,” she said, lifting it to her ear. “What’s up?”
“I just pulled up at the police station,” he said. “Get down here. They’re letting Wilson Shepherd go.”
13
Clutching her phone in her hand, Harper raced across the barroom to where Daltrey and Luke had been standing minutes ago. But they were no longer there.
She stood on her toes, trying to see above the crowd, but there were too many people. She grabbed a chair and climbed on top of it to survey the room.
All the detectives were gone.
Hopping down, she pushed her way through the crowds to DJ, who was regaling the choir with reporting stories.
She grabbed his arm without warning.
“Here’s my assistant,” he announced.
“We need to go,” she urged, her voice tight.
“She’s so demanding,” DJ told the choir, waving good-bye as Harper pulled him across the bar by his sleeve.
“What’s going on?” he asked as they rushed out into the night. “It better be good—I think I was about to get a date with five cute Christian girls.”
“The cops are letting Wilson Shepherd go,” she explained without slowing her pace. “That means they don’t have enough evidence to charge him. The whole case is up in the air and there’s two hours until deadline.”
“Day-um,” he said. “Where are we going now?”
“I need to find the detectives. They just left.”
She stopped outside the door, looking up and down the short lane. But it was empty.
This must have been what Blazer was telling Jerrod Scott when she saw them. The two of them had probably left then. The other detectives, though, had only just gone, because she’d seen them minutes ago.
“They must have gone to the station,” s
he said.
She ran to the Camaro, which she’d parked a block down from the bar, glancing back to see DJ hurrying after her.
“I have to go find them,” she said. “Do you want to come with me or stay with your choir girls?”
“Are you kidding?” He opened the passenger door. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since I lost my virginity.”
“Well, buckle up.” Harper gunned the engine and slammed it into gear, pulling out from the curb with her tires squealing.
Grinning broadly, DJ clutched the handle above the door. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the roar of the engine.
“This is exactly what I thought your beat was like.”
They tore across the city, taking every shortcut Harper knew, and pulled up in front of police headquarters eight minutes later with a screech of brakes. Leaving the car in a well-indicated fire zone, Harper jumped out and ran to where Miles stood by the front door, his camera in one hand.
“Has he come out?” Harper asked. “I got here as fast as I could.”
“Not yet,” Miles told her.
“Hi, Miles.” DJ walked up to join them.
“DJ.” Miles gave him a bemused look. “Nice to have you join our merry crew.”
“I’m only here because badges turn me on,” DJ explained.
“Have Daltrey or Walker come in?” Harper asked. “I lost them at the bar.”
“No, but Lieutenant Blazer came through here fifteen minutes ago, looking like he was ready to kill someone with his bare hands.” Miles paused, looking through the glass door into the station. “Hold on. We’ve got action.”
Stepping to one side, he raised his camera.
On the other side of the thick, smudged glass, Harper could see a small crowd gathering. Wilson Shepherd was in the middle. A cluster of police officers moved around him, going through the official steps of release.
A black Ford pulled into the lot and stopped behind Harper’s Camaro.
Looking over her shoulder, Harper saw Luke and Detective Daltrey get out of the car. They’d just begun to walk toward her when the station’s doors swung open, and Shepherd stepped out, flanked on either side by uniformed officers.
The last few days seemed to have diminished him. He looked small and exhausted.
As Miles moved in to get his shot, Shepherd stared at him blankly.
Harper stepped into his eye line. “Wilson.”
His head swung toward her. The skin on his round face looked gray, and he had several days’ growth of whiskers.
“Wilson, did you hurt Naomi?” she called. “Are you the killer?”
His face crumpling, Shepherd turned as if to run back inside the station, but the two cops grabbed him.
“This way,” one of them said, pulling him to the left.
Until then, Harper hadn’t noticed the taxi parked on Habersham Street, behind the shielding branches of an oleander bush.
With the two officers half helping, half dragging him, Shepherd stumbled to the car. Harper, Miles, and DJ followed.
“I swear I didn’t hurt anyone,” Shepherd said, in belated response to Harper’s question. “I swear.”
Before he could say more, the cops maneuvered him into the backseat and shut the door behind him. The taxi sped away right as a Channel 5 van tore into the parking lot.
“Too late,” DJ noted, with pleasure.
Leaving him with Miles, Harper walked over to where Luke and Daltrey stood beside their car.
She kept her focus on Daltrey.
“Why are you letting Wilson Shepherd go?”
“We have no comment at this time,” Daltrey said.
“Is he on bail?” Harper persisted. “Or has he been released due to lack of evidence? Did you arrest the wrong man?”
Daltrey fixed her with a hard stare. Luke avoided her gaze.
Harper held up her hands. “Come on, guys. I’ve spent twenty-four hours assuring the taxpayers of Savannah that the killer is in custody. Now you let him go. Give me something here. Are you still sure he’s your guy?”
“McClain, I know you’re doing your job but I need you to tread lightly right now,” Daltrey warned her.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Harper was exasperated. “I can’t not report that Shepherd’s been released. And when I tell my editor this, she’s going to want to know why.”
Daltrey stepped toward her—she was shorter than Harper but when she was angry she seemed much taller.
“You were at that service, McClain. You saw how destroyed that girl’s father is. I want to solve this case. I intend to do justice by Naomi Scott.” Her eyes flashed. “I need you to stay out of my way.”
Harper bit back a harsh reply.
Forcing a measured tone, she said, “That is what I want, too.”
She looked at Luke, whose lips were pressed in a tight line. “But you have to give me something to work with here. And Channel Five is heading this way, so they’re going to ask the same question. Do you still think Shepherd’s the killer? Tell me what you think, and I can take it from there.”
Turning to Daltrey, Luke said, “I think you should talk to her.”
Daltrey glared at him, but he held his ground.
“You know I’m right.”
After a long, icy pause, Daltrey turned back to Harper.
“On the record: Shepherd has been released without charge while the investigation continues.” She paused for a long, tense moment before continuing in a quiet voice. “Off the record: We haven’t got the physical evidence we need to charge him with the killing. But I still believe he’s our guy. We’re going to take it slow and steady and bring him back in.”
At his van, Channel 5 reporter Josh Leonard was draping microphone cable across his shoulder and tucking a camera under his arm. He kept glancing at them urgently.
“What about Jim Fitzgerald, though?” Harper asked. “I understand you questioned him today.”
Luke and Daltrey exchanged an incredulous look.
“How the hell do you know about that?” Luke asked her. “We haven’t even written up our report yet.”
“It’s my job,” Harper said.
“Unbelievable.” Daltrey leaned back against the car, her arms folded. “Look, McClain, we’re going through the criminal history of everyone close to the victim. Fitzgerald’s name came up because of allegations filed against him two years ago. And all of that is one hundred percent off the record.”
“You don’t really think Fitz would do it, do you?”
Neither of them responded, but the look Daltrey gave her said she thought anything was possible.
Leonard slammed the Channel 5 van door and began running toward them, laden with equipment. He looked uncharacteristically flustered.
Harper thought about her conversation with Peyton Anderson at the bar. His odd, flirtatious intensity.
“What about the Anderson kid?” she asked. “Did you look into him? Jerrod Scott said Naomi had a problem with him.”
“And that’s my cue.” Daltrey lifted herself off the car and headed for the station. After a second’s hesitation, Luke followed.
“What?” Harper stood behind them. “You won’t even talk about it?”
Josh was only a few feet away now.
“You want to take on the Anderson family? Knock yourself out,” Daltrey told her without breaking stride. “I don’t need that kind of heat. I know who my killer is.”
Josh skidded to a stop in front of Harper. Despite his rush, his blow-dried hair was perfect.
“Dammit,” he said, looking at the detectives’ receding backs. “What’d I miss?”
“Not much.” Harper patted him on the shoulder and turned back to her car. “It’s been a quiet night.”
14
The next day Harper woke at noon and her first thought was about Wilson Shepherd.
She kept thinking about how he’d looked. Jail takes life out of almost everyone. But some people get it worse than othe
rs. It’s hard to tell the difference between a guilty man, racked by conscience, and an innocent man, destroyed by being falsely accused. Wilson could have been either.
One thing was certain: She needed to talk to him. And she knew who could reach him.
As soon as she’d showered and made the coffee, she called Jerrod Scott.
He answered on the first ring.
“Miss McClain.” His deep, steady voice was somehow comforting. “I was thinking I might hear from you.”
“I guess you know they let Wilson Shepherd go,” Harper said.
“I do.” Scott didn’t sound unhappy. “I think it’s the first right thing the police have done since Naomi died.”
“You still don’t think he did it?” Harper asked.
She was in her kitchen, sitting on a wooden chair, bare feet resting on the chair across from her, laptop open in front of her.
“I do not believe for an instant that Wilson is the man the police are looking for.” Scott spoke with quiet dignity. “I talked with him last night, and he is a broken man, Miss McClain. The police must leave him alone and find the true murderer.”
Harper was surprised he’d already talked to Shepherd. But then a hazy fact she’d known and forgotten swam into view.
Scott drove a cab for a living.
She thought of the taxi, hidden behind the oleander bush.
“Mr. Scott,” she said, “was it you who picked up Wilson Shepherd at the police station last night?”
“He didn’t have anyone else willing to help,” Scott told her. “Naomi wouldn’t want me to abandon him in his time of need.”
Harper was speechless. Scott had left his own daughter’s memorial service and gone to pick up the man the police believed had killed her to drive him home.
His absolute faith in Wilson’s innocence was extraordinary. In her entire career, she couldn’t remember another case like this one.
But statistics told her that, whatever Jerrod believed, his daughter’s boyfriend was still the most likely suspect. And if she could talk to him she’d have the scoop of the year.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 10