“What’s his alibi?”
Blazer spoke before Daltrey could. “We’re not at liberty to share that.”
Harper didn’t want to accept this. The wording of Naomi’s injunction was striking. She kept her focus on Daltrey.
“Detective, have you read those restraining orders? Personally read them?”
Daltrey’s lips tightened. She gave a curt nod.
“Then you know what Naomi Scott was dealing with.” Harper leaned toward her. “She was afraid of him. Her fear is on every single page. He turned up inside her home. He threatened her.”
“I know that.” Daltrey’s voice was clipped. “But he didn’t do it, McClain. Somebody else killed Naomi Scott. And now you’ve got to step back and let us find him.”
“If it wasn’t Anderson, then who?” Harper didn’t hide her frustration. “Don’t tell me you still like Wilson Shepherd for this. Because I don’t see it.”
“Oh sure.” Blazer threw up his hands. “Now I’m going to take investigative advice from a reporter. You want to look at our case files? Flip through our forensic evidence? I know you like going through our records, please help yourself.”
He shoved the papers on his desk toward her.
Harper didn’t reach for them. “Come on, Lieutenant.”
“No, you come on.” His face hardened. “This is an active murder investigation. We have been very patient with you. But if you seriously consider writing about Peyton Anderson as a suspect we are failing to investigate, it won’t only be his father gunning for you. You’ll hear from our attorney, as well.”
He pointed at her. “You have no idea what we’re doing behind the scenes. And that’s the way it’s going to stay. For once. Now, we have to get back to work.”
But Harper wasn’t done.
“Just tell me this.” She fixed Blazer with a challenging look. “On the record. You aren’t giving Anderson a pass because his father was district attorney, are you?”
Blazer flung out his arm, pointing at the door.
“Get out, McClain,” he said. “We’ve given you enough time. We have work to do.”
18
After leaving the police station, Harper made her way through rush-hour traffic back to the newspaper’s Bay Street office going over the interview in her mind. What had Blazer meant when he said, “You have no idea what we’re doing behind the scenes”? Did that mean they had another suspect? Was it Fitz? She could have kicked herself for not asking when she had the chance. What if they had something solid on the bar owner?
Or was Blazer trying to throw her off the scent?
Harper parked in an open space outside the newspaper’s front door and killed the engine.
Ominous gray clouds billowed overhead, turning the river steel gray. A warm breeze blew strands of hair into her face as she got out of the car.
It was going to storm before the day was over, and it looked like it might be a bad one.
Walking into the paper’s small, utilitarian entrance hall, she waved at the guard, who grunted something in response as she hurried up the stairs, her bag thumping against her hip.
“I know it’s my day off,” she said to DJ, who looked up as she threw herself into her chair. “I have reasons for wasting my life in this room.”
“It’s me, isn’t it?” DJ spun his chair toward her, stretching out his arms. “You can’t bear to be away from this hunk of manly love for five minutes. It’s so sweet.”
“Good God.” Harper dropped her bag by her desk, scanning the room for the editor’s trademark dark helmet of hair. “Is Baxter in yet?”
He pointed to the far end of the newsroom. “She’s in a meeting with Dells. Nobody looks very happy about it.”
“Damn.” Harper craned her neck to try to see into the glass office. “I need her.”
“Well, maybe give her a second. Everyone with an editor’s desk is in a seriously bad mood today.” Glancing around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, he lowered his voice. “Rumor has it more layoffs are coming.”
Harper’s heart sank.
“You’re kidding. They lay off any more of us, the paper’s going to shrink to a pamphlet.”
DJ’s expression was somber.
“I think it’s going to be me this time. I’ve got to tell you, if I were laying people off, I’d get rid of the education reporter. Nobody reads my stuff anyway.”
“No way, DJ,” Harper said. “Parents would revolt if they couldn’t read about their little darlings’ schools in the paper. You’re safe.”
In truth, they both knew no one was safe. In the last round, the paper had laid off all the photographers, including Miles, who was now a freelancer. Nobody had thought that could happen.
The memory made Harper’s stomach churn. She’d seen enough talented people pack their things into cardboard boxes and leave in tears. She didn’t need to go through that lottery again.
“Dammit.” She sat down heavily. “I hate this.”
“There’s Baxter,” DJ said, pointing.
Dells’s office swung open and the city editor walked out, her short, dark bob swinging around a narrow face set in tight, worried lines.
Grabbing the folder of court documents, Harper hurried over to meet her.
“Good,” Baxter said, as she approached. “What’d the cops say?”
Harper searched her face for any clues as to what had happened in that meeting. But Baxter knew better than to give that sort of information away for free.
She turned her attention to the case at hand.
“They say Peyton Anderson has a rock-solid alibi and it can’t be him,” Harper told her. “They say if we run an article that implies they’re failing to investigate him because of who his father is they’ll come down on us like a ton of lawyers.”
Baxter didn’t seem surprised.
“What’s so rock-solid about his alibi?”
“They won’t tell me.”
Baxter snorted a laugh.
“Typical.” She held out a hand. “Let me see those documents.”
She quickly flicked through them, scanning the information. Her fingertip paused over Anderson’s name.
“And you still don’t know how these got in your car?”
“I think it might have been a detective source,” Harper said.
“You think.”
Baxter made thinking sound worse than homicide.
“The Anderson kid is a piece of work.” She waved the file. “This is damning stuff—whether he’s our killer or not, it’s newsworthy. And it’s public record, regardless of how you came by it.”
“Blazer will blow a gasket,” Harper warned her.
Baxter made a dismissive sound.
“Last time I checked we don’t work for the Savannah PD.” She scrawled a note to herself on a pad on a desktop cluttered with paper. “Still, it’ll be a shitstorm. Dells will have to read the article before we print. He knows the Anderson family. He’ll want to give them a heads-up.” Dropping the pen, she looked at her. “Track down the Anderson kid and get a comment. We need him to have a chance to say it’s all lies, those ladies were out to get me, or whatever his excuse is going to be. While you’re at it—call Jerrod Scott. See if he knew Anderson was threatening his daughter. And we need an official comment from the police on the record, even if that comment is ‘No comment.’ Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” Harper took the papers back from her.
“Harper.” Baxter’s expression grew serious. “We need to be right about this. Take your time. We won’t run it tomorrow—we’ll wait until Wednesday. That gives us a chance to double-check. Right is better than fast in this case. Get quotes from everyone—and I mean everyone.”
“I hear you,” Harper said, heading back to her desk. “I like not being sued, too.”
* * *
Outside, the storm had begun. The sky was an apocalyptic greenish black. Lightning crashed above the river. Water streamed down the window next to Harper’s desk as s
he picked up the phone to call Jerrod Scott. He answered right away.
“Miss McClain. How can I help you?” His slow vocal cadence was becoming familiar to her.
Harper paused as thunder shook the building.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Harper said. “I wanted to tell you about some court documents we found that Naomi filed six months ago. They’re about Peyton Anderson.”
Sticking to the high points, she told him about the papers, and that other women had filed for injunctions as well.
When she finished, there was a long silence. All she could hear was the rain, pounding against the glass like it wanted in.
“Well, she never told me she did that.” Scott’s voice was uneven. “Naomi was such a brave girl. Always did stand up for herself. But she didn’t like to upset me. And she knew that would have scared me. Knowing she was having trouble. Knowing she did something like that against such a powerful family.” He drew a shaky breath. “Does this mean the police believe that boy—Peyton—could be the murderer?”
Harper bit her lip. He’d been through so much. But he needed to know the truth.
“The police say he couldn’t be the one who killed her,” she told him. “They still think it’s someone else.”
“Well, his daddy’s got all the power, doesn’t he?” Anger seemed to shake the sadness out of Scott. “Giving up’s always easier than fighting.”
“I’m trying to find out more about Naomi and Peyton Anderson,” Harper said. “I want to know the story behind this document. But I gather she didn’t tell you much?”
“No,” Scott conceded. “The person she would have talked to about it was Wilson. I’ve been trying to get him to call you, like you asked. But he’s too scared after all he’s been through. You know how it is.”
By now, Harper was desperate to talk to Naomi’s boyfriend. It seemed as if, one way or another, he held the keys to this case. But she was losing hope it would ever happen.
“If there’s anything I can do to help convince him,” Harper said, “just ask.”
There was another long silence as he thought it over. Lightning struck somewhere close and the newsroom lights flickered ominously.
“Let me have another word with him,” he said, finally. “Maybe I can change his mind. All he needs right now is someone who’ll listen.”
Harper cheered silently.
“I promise I’ll listen to him, Mr. Scott,” she said. “But I need to talk to him soon. Can you let him know that? It needs to be by tomorrow.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “And thank you, Miss McClain, for telling me about those court papers. I always believed Naomi would have been a wonderful lawyer. I think those papers prove that.”
* * *
There was one other call Harper needed to make. But she couldn’t seem to do it.
She kept picking up her phone and putting it down again.
Her meeting with Luke at the Library had gone far better than she’d hoped, but it had left her confused. Maybe she’d misinterpreted the attraction between them. What if it was all her, and he wasn’t interested at all?
If he left those papers in her car, though … Was he sending her a message? And if so, what was he trying to say?
That he trusted her again? Or something else?
There was only one way to find out.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed dial.
It rang four times before he answered.
“Hang on,” Luke said, instead of hello. “I’ll step outside.”
She could hear voices in the background. He must be at work.
Then a door creaked open, and the background fell quiet.
“Harper.” She loved the way he said her name. A half whisper—like they were alone somewhere in the dark. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you when you’re working. I just wanted to ask you something.” She was talking too fast. Her voice was high and nervous.
“Sure,” he said. “Shoot.”
“Today I found some very important court documents in my car,” she said. “Did you by any chance put them there?”
“What are you talking about?” He sounded confused. “What documents?”
She heard thunder crash and didn’t know if it was coming through the phone or the window.
“Documents related to the Naomi Scott case,” she said. “Restraining orders filed against Peyton Anderson. It wasn’t you?”
“It wasn’t me.” His answer was definitive. No hesitation at all. “You said they left them in your car?”
“Yes.”
Even as she spoke, Harper was trying to figure it out. If it wasn’t Luke, who was it?
“You know, I was sure it was you because the car was locked and not everyone can get through that without leaving a scratch. But a detective could.”
“Harper, it wasn’t me.” A new note of concern entered his voice. “Do you have another detective contact it might be?”
“No. You’re the only one I could think of. Daltrey wouldn’t do it, would she?”
“Hell no. She’d saw off her right arm first.” Luke paused. “Harper, was your car at the house or the office?”
Something in the way he said it made her stomach tighten.
“At the house.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” he said. “Who knows where you live?”
Harper didn’t like it much either. If it wasn’t him, who was it? What if it was the same person who tried to get into her apartment?
“Luke,” she said, hesitantly, “there’s something else. Someone tried to break into my place Saturday night. While I was with you. I’d just changed the code, and they set off the alarm when they punched in the wrong one. The locksmith said they had a key. Only, I know where all the keys are. And none of them are missing.”
“And now, all of a sudden, you find those documents in your locked car?” There was an edge to his voice. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I wish I knew.”
There was a long silence.
Then, Luke said, “I don’t like what I’m hearing, Harper. This isn’t right.”
Harper felt suddenly furious about all of it. The invasion. The intimidation. And the sheer distraction of it.
Nearly a week had passed since Naomi was murdered, and she felt she was nowhere nearer now than she’d been that night on River Street to understanding who had killed her.
When she spoke again, her jaw was tight.
“I don’t know what’s going on. But I’ve got a story to write. I’ll talk to you later, Luke.”
19
After her conversation with Luke, Harper tried to work on the Scott case. But her mind kept trying to piece everything together: The break-in. The documents. The sense she’d had for months now that she was being watched. There was more to this than she’d initially thought.
She just couldn’t figure out what it all meant.
Opening her long, narrow reporter’s notebook to a clean page, she wrote down every occasion she could think of when her instincts had told her someone had been in her house, and she’d suppressed that voice, convinced she was paranoid.
A few days ago, she thought she smelled cigarette smoke, and had the distinct impression that someone had been inside her apartment.
Three weeks before that, she’d been certain she left a glass on the kitchen table, but when she came home it was in the dish drainer. At the time, she thought she’d forgotten putting it there.
That day in April when she’d searched for a picture of her with her mother, before deciding it must have fallen under something. She was sure it had been in a dresser drawer.
One after another, she traced a series of small, seemingly unconnected incidents when she’d thought she’d been scatterbrained or distracted, all the way back to last year. All the way back to the first break-in. When someone had trashed her apartment and painted the word “RUN” on her wall in red paint.
When she finishe
d, it was so obvious, she couldn’t believe she’d missed it until now.
He’d been there all along.
There was no other answer.
Someone had keys. He knew her alarm code. And now he must know everything about her.
The place she’d thought was her sanctuary was never safe. Who knew what he’d done there while she was at work?
The realization made her stomach roil. She stood up so fast her chair skidded back.
DJ looked up at her curiously.
“I’ve got to go,” Harper said, grabbing her bag and scanner.
“See you…” he began, but she was already halfway across the room “… later,” he finished, as she disappeared from view.
Harper ran down the stairs and burst out of the door into a full thunderstorm. Winds blew the rain sideways. Lightning crackled overhead.
Harper didn’t feel the rain. She was too angry.
When she reached the Camaro, she stopped and stood next to the car, letting the storm rage around her. Rain ran down her face, soaking her clothes.
People hurrying by, sheltered under umbrellas, stared at her curiously. But she didn’t care.
She stood staring at the red sports car. Did he have keys to this, too? He’d put those documents on the seat of the car without leaving a scratch on the scarlet paint.
How could he do that without a key?
She knew the answer already.
He couldn’t.
She opened the car door gingerly, and scanned the front and back seats—but there was nothing new. Just the usual clutter of used coffee cups and discarded notebooks.
No sign that anyone had been in the vehicle while she was working.
But she could no longer assume anything in her life was safe. Or private.
He’d touched everything. He’d gone through her life and explored it all.
She climbed into the car, dripping water on the seats, and shut the door, sitting for a moment in silence.
Had he sat where she was right now, hands stroking the leather-wrapped steering wheel? Touching the dials and buttons? Rummaging through the glove compartment?
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 14