After Rocky left, having installed new high-security locks on the front and back doors, Harper moved around the apartment with caution.
She did everything just as normal—she fed the cat, listened to the scanner, and made herself lunch. The whole time she was trying to figure out who could have gotten a set of her keys.
Whoever it was would have had free access to her home, her laptop, her belongings—her whole life.
Something told her they’d been in her apartment more than once. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her she’d felt uncomfortably aware that something wasn’t right for a long time. She’d written it off as a natural reaction to the break-in last year.
And then there was that break-in to consider. What if it was the same person?
The person who’d told her to run.
Maybe she should have listened.
As she thought it through, she kept peering out the kitchen window, looking at the place in the shadows where she’d thought she’d seen a man standing yesterday, watching her building.
There was no one there.
Finally, she made herself stop. This wasn’t healthy. She needed to do something proactive.
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and called Bonnie.
“Harpelicious!” Bonnie sounded giddy. “You and that gorgeous hunk of man cop ran out of here so fast last night, please tell me he only just left your apartment.”
“I wish,” Harper said.
When she told her what had happened, Bonnie grew serious.
“Oh hell, what is going on, Harper? This is crazy. Do you want to come stay with me for a few days?”
It was tempting. But Harper couldn’t run away from this. She needed to be systematic about it. She had to understand how it had happened. And who was doing this.
And she needed to protect her home.
“Thanks. But I’m all right,” she said. “I was wondering—do you still have my keys?”
“Of course I do,” Bonnie said. “If I’d lost them I’d have told you.”
“I believe you, but, do me a favor—could you check and make sure? I hate to ask. But somehow this bastard got my keys and only you and Billy have copies.”
Bonnie didn’t take offense. “Hang on. I’ll go check right now.”
Harper heard the click of Bonnie’s boots as she walked down the wooden stairs to her ground floor, crossing her small living room. Then the jangle of metal as she searched through the bowl where she kept her spare keys.
“They’re right here,” she said, after a second. “Right where I left them.”
That settled that. Harper knew the keys wouldn’t have come from Billy—he kept all his keys in a makeshift safe in his house, which was guarded by a pack of rottweilers. The man took security seriously.
Maybe Rocky was wrong. Maybe this guy had gotten in some other way.
“Thanks Bonnie,” she said. “I need to get you a new set. I had them changed today.”
“Harper.” Bonnie’s tone grew serious. “Are you safe there? I don’t like the sound of any of this. Someone was in your house.”
“I don’t like it either,” Harper said. “And I intend to put a stop to it.”
* * *
Harper barely left the house the rest of Sunday. If someone was going to try to break in, for a change they’d find her home.
She spent the day drinking coffee, going through her notes on the Scott case, looking for anything she might have missed. After going through everything painstakingly, Wilson Shepherd still seemed the most likely suspect. But she understood Luke’s frustration—there was nothing in there that looked like proof.
After a restless night, by Monday she needed a break from the case.
She wasn’t expected at work—Sundays and Mondays were her nights off. She didn’t wake up until noon—her nocturnal schedule was permanently fixed by this stage. She spent the day cleaning the apartment, listening to her scanner and trying not to think about Naomi Scott.
At four o’clock she started thinking about dinner, but her refrigerator was empty of everything except dried-out cheese and a bottle of wine.
After double-checking the back-door locks, she headed out for supplies.
Before she left, though, she changed the alarm code again. Rocky had suggested she should change it every few days from now on.
“You don’t know how this guy is getting this stuff,” he’d said. “Or who he is. You keep switching it up, keep him off balance. Make it harder for him.”
Certain she wouldn’t remember another new code, she scrawled the four numbers she’d chosen at random on the inside of her wrist before grabbing her scanner and walking outside into the full heat of the midday summer sun.
The street was quiet at this hour—most people were at work. A warm breeze blew the oak trees’ branches, sending the Spanish moss swaying in a slow, sultry dance.
Her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Watson, was walking her rotund pug and talking a blue streak to the animal as if he understood every word.
“Another damn hot day. Seems like the Lord has it in for us this summer. Now, don’t you go peeing in those flowers, Cooper. Those daisies are far too pretty to piss in. Oh, look, Cooper—there’s young Harper.”
She lifted a hand and waved.
“Hi Ms. Watson,” Harper said, walking down the front steps toward the Camaro. “Is Cooper still preferring the prettiest places to pee?”
The older woman, who wore pale blue pedal pushers with a pair of startling pink plastic sandals, tilted her gray head down at the dog, which was now rolling in a patch of pink petunias, and making a disturbing snorting noise.
“Oh, that fat little bastard,” she said, lovingly. “He’s never gonna change.”
The dog was still rolling in the flowers as Harper crossed the street to her car.
She opened the door and stood back as a molten flood of heat poured out.
When it was cool enough not to burn her skin, she slid inside and put the key in the ignition.
That was when she saw the folder sitting on the passenger seat.
It was an ordinary, unmarked manila folder, thick with papers. There was nothing unusual about it all. Except she hadn’t left anything in the car.
Her brow furrowing, Harper reached to pick it up. The paper was hot from the sun.
Cautiously, she opened it.
Inside, she found what looked like an official document, stamped and dated six months earlier.
The first lines read:
“Superior Court of Chatham County, State of Georgia
Naomi Willow Scott (Plaintiff) v. Peyton Titus Anderson
Civil action. Verified emergency injunction for Restraining Order…”
Harper’s jaw dropped.
Heedless of the sweat running down her back, she scanned the rest of the documents in the folder rapidly. Along with the injunction filed by Naomi, there were two documents that appeared to be injunctions filed by different women against Anderson at different times.
Her mouth half open in disbelief, Harper skim-read the documents, turning page after page, words flying up at her: “Abuse.” “Intimidation.” “Harassment.” “Intrusion.” “Invasion.” “Trespassing.” “Fear.”
When she’d seen enough, she leaned back in the car seat and stared at the street ahead without seeing it.
If these papers were everything they seemed, Peyton Anderson had a history of stalking women. The police knew about it, because the women had filed charges.
One of them had ended up dead.
The file was a gold mine. Who the hell put it in her car?
Harper started the engine to turn on the air-conditioning but didn’t put the car in gear. Instead, she pulled out her phone and found Baxter’s cell phone number.
It was the editor’s day off, too, and her phone rang five times before she answered.
“This better be good, McClain.”
Harper smiled.
; “Someone just left a front-page story in my car.”
17
“What the hell does that mean?” Baxter asked.
Talking fast, Harper explained about the documents, describing them as best she could.
She read from the most loaded line in Naomi’s injunction: “Defendant threatened to kill plaintiff if plaintiff continued to date current boyfriend. Defendant said plaintiff belonged to defendant. Plaintiff fears for her life.”
Baxter let out an audible breath.
“And you’re telling me some guardian angel left that in your car?”
“Yeah and the weird thing is the car was locked,” Harper said. “How’d they get it in a locked car?”
Baxter dismissed this concern. “You probably only thought you locked it. And you don’t have any idea who might have put it there? A source?”
“Not a clue,” Harper said. “What do we do now?”
“Start by authenticating them. Someone could be screwing us over,” the editor said. “What do you think? Are they real? Or is this some kind of twisted joke?”
Harper lifted up the top document.
“It’s a photocopy,” she said, holding it up to the light. “It’s got the official stamp, dated in the right place.” She flipped to the last page. “I recognize the name of the judge who signed it. It looks real. But I’m not an expert on court papers.”
Putting the document down, she said, “I’d need somebody more official to verify it before I’d trust it.”
Baxter thought for a second, tapping one nail against the phone.
“You got plans today?”
“I need food,” Harper said. “But otherwise, no.”
“Eat later,” Baxter ordered. “Go straight to the police station. Show those documents to someone high-ranking. Your usual cop buddies aren’t going to be enough this time.”
“You’re thinking Blazer?” Harper guessed.
“Yeah, it better be him. If we go to anyone too low on the totem pole we leave our asses hanging out. And I want us to have pants pulled up on this one, Harper.”
There was no humor in her voice at all. “Randall Anderson is on the newspaper’s board of directors. He’s a close friend of everyone in this town who matters. And he won’t hesitate to use that against us.”
Harper put the car in gear.
“Meet me at the newspaper when you’re through,” Baxter said. “I have a feeling this story’s going to need some time. Lawyers will have to look at it. Don’t tell anyone aside from Blazer what you’ve got. And for God’s sake, keep those papers safe.”
“On it.”
Harper ended the call, dropped the phone on the seat, and made a U-turn, heading for the police station.
* * *
When Harper walked into the lobby at police headquarters a few minutes later, Darlene Wilson did a double take.
“What are you doing here on a Monday? You forget how to take a day off?” She leaned her elbows on the front desk. “Tell you what, on my day off you won’t find me anywhere near this building. You better believe it.”
“Something came up and I need to talk to Lieutenant Blazer,” Harper said. “Is he in?”
Darlene’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yes he is. You really want to see him?”
“Yes,” Harper said. “If he’s not too busy.”
Darlene gave her a look. “That man is always busy. Let me check with him.”
She pushed some buttons on her phone, tilting her fingers so her long nails, which had been painted with red, white, and blue stripes, didn’t touch anything. Holding the receiver to her ear, she hummed tunelessly as she waited.
“Oh, hello, Lieutenant.” She put the emphasis on the first syllable of his title, giving the word a jaunty tone. “I’ve got Harper McClain from the newspaper here, asking if you’ve got a minute for a quick question.”
She flashed Harper a supportive smile that faded as he responded.
“I’ll ask her.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “The lieutenant wants to know what you need him for.”
God, he was such a pain in the ass. He did this every single time.
Harper said, “Tell him I’ve got some documents related to the Scott case. I think he’ll want the chance to comment.”
Apparently, Blazer heard this, because he didn’t wait for Darlene to transmit the message. Harper could hear his barked command.
A second later, Darlene set the phone down, and flashed her a mischievous smile.
“He says you can go right back.”
“Thanks, Darlene.” Harper headed for the security door. When she reached it, Darlene pressed the buzzer.
“Have a nice conversation,” she sang after her.
This was why Harper worked nights. Everyone was so perky during the day.
She made her way down the crowded corridor, conscious of the weight of the documents she carried in her bag.
This was big. Those papers changed everything.
How could the police have kept this quiet? If Peyton Anderson stalked Naomi, he had to be suspect number one. Why hadn’t Luke mentioned it the other night?
Her excitement was tempered by the strange way she’d received them. Why would anyone choose to give them to her like this? It would be so easy to drop them at the newspaper office and run away.
And Baxter was wrong—she knew the car had been locked. She’d heard the locks release before she opened the door.
The only logical answer was, it was a cop or a lawyer—someone who knew about Peyton’s history, and wanted to expose it.
The only problem was, nobody she knew fit that description. In fact, the one person she could think of was Luke.
At their meeting, she’d told him about her suspicions. He’d said he’d look into it.
If he’d gone straight to the office the next morning, he could have obtained copies of the documents.
If he didn’t want her to know they’d come from him, maybe he would have dropped them off to her anonymously.
Perhaps this was his new system to avoid putting them both in a tricky position.
But even she wasn’t sure she believed this.
Lieutenant Blazer’s door was ajar—she could hear a low hum of voices inside. After a brief hesitation, she tapped on the frosted glass.
“Enter,” a voice commanded from within.
When she walked in, the lieutenant was sitting at his desk, and Detective Daltrey sat in one of the chairs across from him. Both watched her with cool caution.
“Sit down, McClain.” Blazer sounded irritable. “Since you insist on discussing the Scott case, I’ve asked Detective Daltrey to join us.”
Harper did as she was told.
“And make it quick.” Blazer dropped a pen onto his clean desktop. “We’re busy.”
Whatever rapprochement she and Blazer had reached the other day, it clearly didn’t mean they were friends now.
Harper got straight to the point.
“I’ve come into possession of a number of legal documents involving Peyton Anderson,” she said. “These are restraining orders, filed in state district court over the last twelve months. One was filed by Naomi Scott.”
The two detectives exchanged a loaded look. Harper kept talking.
“The allegations these documents contain are explosive. I want to know if the detectives investigating Scott’s death are aware of these documents. And whether they impact the case.”
For a second, neither detective moved. She could see them deciding what to say.
Daltrey spoke first.
“We are aware of the documents filed by Naomi Scott.” Her voice was even.
“Are you also aware of previous injunctions filed by two other women?” Harper pressed her. “Their names are Cameron Johnson and Angela Martinez. They made very similar allegations of intimidation, threats of violence, and stalking.”
“We do our jobs, McClain,” Blazer snapped. “Of course we’re aware.”
There was the co
nfirmation Harper needed that the documents were real. She kept her expression steady, hoping he wouldn’t realize what a gift he’d given her. She hadn’t once said this meeting was off the record, and neither had they.
“Detectives, the charges contained in those documents seem to make Peyton Anderson a person of interest in this case,” she said. “And yet, as far as I’m aware, you’re not investigating him. Does this have to do with his family’s influence? After all, his father was the district attorney.”
Blazer’s eyes were chips of ice.
“Mr. Anderson is not above suspicion because of his father,” he said. “He’s not a suspect because he has an alibi.”
“What alibi?” Harper pulled out her notebook.
“We are not at liberty to reveal that,” Blazer said.
Harper made a show of writing that down. She wanted him to imagine the “no comment” in the newspaper.
“His history of intimidation and threats toward Naomi would seem to make him a prime suspect,” she said. “Six months ago he said he’d kill Naomi if she ever dared to date another man. She dated Wilson Shepherd. And then someone murdered her. And your answer to this is, ‘Trust us it wasn’t him’?”
“McClain…” Blazer began, but Daltrey talked over him.
“I’ll tell you something off the record,” she said. “I agree with you, on one thing at least. If there were any way he could have done it, Peyton Anderson would be my lead suspect right now.”
Blazer shot her a narrow look. She kept her eyes on Harper.
“The problem is, there isn’t any way he could have killed her. His whereabouts at the time of the murder have been verified by numerous people,” she continued, steadily. “And that’s why we focused on Wilson Shepherd. Shepherd’s alibi is crap. He says he was home alone. Friends say the two of them were potentially breaking up. We have to look at him.”
Stopping, she let out a long breath, and for the first time Harper could see how frustrated she was. Her body was held tight, every muscle taut.
“You can see our situation,” Daltrey said. “If we thought for one second Anderson might have had the opportunity to kill our victim, we would be on him. But he couldn’t be in two places at once. His alibi is rock solid. He can’t be the killer.”
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 13