His only reaction to his dead girlfriend’s name was a kind of withdrawal—he seemed to curl up. Like someone who’d been punched so often he no longer really felt the blow.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she added, belatedly.
There was a pause.
“You’re the first person to say that to me.” He was soft-spoken, his voice deep but very quiet. “Right now the only person who doesn’t think I killed her is Jerrod Scott.”
“That’s why I’m here.” She kept her expression open, approachable. “I know you’ve answered a lot of questions for the police. I need to ask you a few more to make sure I understand.”
She pulled a digital recorder out of her bag. “Would you mind if I recorded this?”
He leaned back on the sofa, studying her from beneath lowered brows.
“That’s fine. I have nothing to hide.”
Harper set the small silver recorder on the coffee table between them, its red light glowing. She didn’t usually use one for face-to-face interviews, but she didn’t want to spend this interview looking down at her notepad. She wanted to observe him.
“Tell me about you and Naomi. When did you get together?”
“At school.”
“She had a part-time job looking out for kids from difficult backgrounds,” Harper pressed. “Is that how you met?”
“Yes. I’m the first person in my family to go to college. My father works in maintenance at an office building in Atlanta. My mother works at a hotel. They were so proud…”
His voice trembled and he looked away.
“They were so proud of me,” he said after a second, “when I got into college, and then when I was accepted to law school. It was like they’d achieved something themselves, you know?”
His eyes searched her face for understanding. Harper’s background wasn’t the same as his, but she’d put herself through the first couple of years of college. She knew how hard it was. Filling out your own financial aid forms. Choosing your books, courses, and dorm all alone.
“Naomi helped you.”
He nodded. “She was one of the first people I met at school. She walked me through the first couple of weeks, making sure I got a good start. But it was more than that. We hung out after class, talking, for hours.” His face lightened at the memory. “One day, I noticed how much I looked forward to seeing her. And I told her that. We became friends. It wasn’t a job then for her—it was fun. I got into law school the year after she did.” He turned his hands over. “After that, we started seeing each other more seriously.”
“Were you aware she’d had a relationship with a student named Peyton Anderson?” she asked.
His expression darkened.
“I read your article about the restraining orders in the paper this morning. You made it sound bad. But not nearly as bad as it was.”
“How bad was it?”
“I know how you’re going to take this,” he said. “But I believe he’s insane. The things he did to her…”
“What did you mean when you said you knew how I would take this?” she asked.
He gave her a knowing look. “I’m a law student. I know when a murder suspect tells you someone else is dangerous, you think he’s trying to put the blame on that guy to save himself. But all I can tell you is—Peyton Anderson is dangerous.”
“Was Naomi afraid of him?” she asked.
“Hell yes, she was.” For the first time, he showed real animation, sitting forward on the sofa, talking fast. “He showed up in her living room, uninvited, when she got out of the shower. He told her he’d kill one of us if she didn’t break up with me. He threatened her openly.”
“Why didn’t she tell her dad how bad it was?”
“She didn’t want to upset him. She thought she could handle it.” His throat worked.
“Then she got shot and the police said it was me.”
So far, Harper was impressed. He seemed candid and sad. But she was also aware that he had legal training. It would be foolish to take him at face value.
She decided to press a little harder—see what happened.
“People who know you and Naomi say you were having trouble—maybe breaking up,” she said. “That would be motive, as far as the police are concerned.”
A long moment passed before he replied.
“We were both law students—that’s a lot of work all on its own. We both have jobs—I work afternoons until eight o’clock. Naomi’s job kept her out most nights until nearly three in the morning. Sometimes days would go by when we only saw each other in class. It was hard, I’m not going to lie to you. But we weren’t breaking up. We were trying to find a way. Naomi … she was looking for another job with better hours.” He blinked hard. “I knew we were going to be fine. Because she was all that mattered to me.”
“Let’s talk about that,” she said. “What can you tell me about the night Naomi died?”
He took a deep breath.
“I had a paper to write for one of my classes. Naomi had to work late, so we decided she’d come over here after she got through at the bar. I finished at about eleven, then I watched some television. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew the phone was ringing.”
Up until this point, he had talked quickly. Reciting facts he’d obviously been asked to explain many times. Now, his words came slower, getting harder to say.
“It was Naomi’s dad. He said something happened to her. That was when I found out.”
“And nobody knew you were home?” Harper pushed back. “You didn’t talk to anyone?”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“You want to know something funny? The only person who can back up my alibi is Naomi. She knew where I was. I texted her.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, then touched the screen, opening his texts, and held it out to her.
“See for yourself.”
Harper took the phone.
He’d opened it to a text conversation, dated the day of the murder. The name at the top was Naomi.
At 11:26 that night, Wilson had written, I’m done working. What time are you getting off?
Naomi had replied three minutes later: 2:30. It’s quiet, though. Maybe I’ll get out early. How’d it go?
Wilson: Meh.
Naomi: ☺ Meh for you is an A+ for anyone else. Are you at home?
Wilson: Yeah, gonna watch the news and crash.
Naomi: Jealous. Sleep tight. See you tomorrow.
It was the last thing she’d written.
After that there was nothing until a series of plaintive texts from Wilson written later that night, after her father called.
They were messages written by someone who desperately didn’t want to believe.
4:12 A.M., Wilson: Nay, where are you? Your daddy says something happened. Tell me he’s wrong.
4:15 A.M., Wilson: Baby, please answer.
4:23 A.M., Wilson: I love you.
It was painful to read. When Harper handed the phone back, he closed the screen without looking at it.
“I don’t know how to make you understand.” His voice was uneven. “I didn’t kill her. I wanted to marry her. I still want to marry her. I don’t understand how she’s not … Excuse me.”
Standing abruptly, he left the room.
The house was small; Harper could hear Wilson in the next room, blowing his nose.
When he returned, his eyes were red. He held a tissue in one hand.
“You sure you don’t want a cup of coffee?”
He needed something to do or he would fall apart in front of her.
“Sure,” she said. “I like it black.”
* * *
Wilson Shepherd’s kitchen was bigger than Harper expected, given the modest size of the house. It had space for a table, which he used as a work area. His laptop sat on one side, next to a neat stack of papers.
She leaned against the counter, watching as he scooped coffee into the coffeemaker. She’d carried the recorder with
her, and set it down just out of his view. It would be good if he could forget it was there.
“This is a nice place,” she said, looking around. “How long have you lived here?”
“Six months.” He poured water into the reservoir and flipped the switch. The machine whirred into life, and the rich scent of coffee filled the air. Wilson’s back was to Harper when he spoke again. “Naomi was supposed to move in with me in a couple of months. When she stopped working nights.”
Pulling two clean, white mugs from the cupboard, he arranged them on the counter with a sugar jar and creamer.
“Garden City might not be much, but you can rent a whole house for nothing out here. I thought we could live here until we graduated, and then find a place in town.”
As he told her of their now impossible plans, his expression was bleak.
“Wilson,” she said, “you seem like a smart guy. A trustworthy guy. But, the other night when you were arrested, you were waving a gun at the police. Why did you do that?”
He froze, hands hovering above the mugs.
“I hardly remember that whole day,” he said, softly. “I knew the police were looking for me, and I knew they wanted to blame me. But all I could think about was Naomi, and what happened. It tore me up thinking about it. I knew they’d look at my background—the things I did when I was a kid—and they’d blame it on me. If they did that, the killer would get away.” He met her eyes with sudden directness. “If the police have someone to pin a murder on—especially a young black man—they wash their hands of the truth, you know that, right? I mean with your job. You have to know.”
Harper couldn’t argue with him. After all, Daltrey and Blazer had made it clear they wanted it to be him.
It would make their lives so easy.
“So you ran,” she said, leading him back to the story. “Where were you going? They caught you on the edge of town.”
He sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t have a plan. I was going crazy. And I know that makes no sense. But, I was in pain. I lost it.”
“What about the gun?”
He gave a bitter smile.
“You’ll never believe the truth.”
She didn’t blink. “Try me.”
“I bought that for Naomi. To protect herself. Because she was scared. But she wouldn’t take it. Said guns didn’t make anyone safer.” He gave her a tortured look. “Can you believe it? The police arrested me with the gun I wanted my dead girlfriend to use to stay safe.”
The coffeemaker had finished now, and Harper could hear herself breathe in the sudden silence.
“Wilson,” she said, “who do you think killed Naomi?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“I think Peyton Anderson killed her. I think he’s unstable and I think his father is covering it up for him. And I don’t believe the police will ever, in one hundred years, arrest him.”
In that instant, Harper decided she agreed with him.
To disguise this, she reached for the carafe, pouring coffee into both of their cups.
“The police say he has an alibi,” she told him. “That he couldn’t have done it.”
“Oh yeah?” He didn’t sound convinced. “That guy is made of money. He could pay people to say whatever he wants. Guys like him? They get away with murder.”
She couldn’t blame him for sounding bitter. But she knew the police would never have accepted Anderson’s word. They’d have wanted proof, regardless of who his dad was.
And if she was going to challenge that alibi, she was going to need proof of her own.
She turned to Wilson. “If you really are telling the truth—if it wasn’t you who killed Naomi—then help me prove it.”
His face lit up. “What can I do to help?”
“I need you to tell me everything you can remember about Peyton and Naomi. And I need evidence. If you can find any emails she sent you about him, send those to me. Texts. Everything. I need it all.” She gave him a warning look. “Don’t alter anything. And no lies. I need complete truth or we’ll both be in trouble.”
As he listened to her, a tear slipped down his cheek. He swiped it away.
“Please believe me, Miss McClain,” he pleaded. “I’m no killer. And my family … They need to know it wasn’t me.”
He drew a shaky breath.
“I’ll get you everything I can.”
26
After leaving Wilson’s Garden City house, Harper headed straight back to the newspaper to transcribe the recording of the interview.
Her phone buzzed with sporadic demands from Bonnie, who wanted her to meet for coffee.
Harper’s thumb hovered over the phone’s tiny keyboard. She knew why Bonnie wanted to meet. And she simply wasn’t ready to talk about Luke yet. Not even with her.
Can’t, she texted back. Working on a big story.
The reply came instantly. Tomorrow then.
Harper sighed. I’ll try.
Harper tossed the phone aside and turned back to her recording.
With her headphones on, lost in Wilson Shepherd’s voice, she never heard Dells approaching and didn’t know he was there until he tapped her on the shoulder.
She yanked the earphones from her ears.
“How’d it go with the boyfriend?” he asked. “Any luck?”
“Pure gold.” She beamed at him. “He let me see the text messages they sent to each other the night she died.”
As she spoke, Baxter walked up to join them.
“Are they useful?” Dells asked.
“Kind of. She asked if he was at home, he said yes. Said he was going to bed early.”
“Be careful with that,” Baxter warned, glancing at Dells.
“Yes.” He leaned against the desk next to hers and crossed his ankles. His shiny black shoes looked like they might have cost more than Harper earned in a week. “He could have been standing on River Street when he wrote that text, loading his pistol.”
“I know,” Harper said. “But I’ve got to be honest. Having talked to him, I don’t like him for it.”
“Why’s that?” Baxter cocked her head, dark eyes watching her sharply.
“Instinct, I guess,” Harper said. Baxter made an impatient gesture but Harper kept going. “He’s fragile. He seems devastated in a way I would be if my girlfriend just got shot to death on her way home from work. Either he didn’t do it or he deserves an Oscar for that performance.”
“Well, let’s assume he’s a gifted actor until we have more proof,” Dells said. “In my experience, killers make great liars.”
“I’d lay money on it not being him,” Harper insisted.
“Then prove it’s someone else,” Baxter told her, shortly. “What’s next?”
Harper picked up the file of injunctions that lay on her desk. “I’m going to talk to the other two women Anderson stalked. See what they have to say. I’ve tracked them both down, already. They’re still in town. I’ve left messages for both of them.”
“Good,” Dells said. “Keep it moving. We’ve got no more than three days left to pull this all together. Two would be better.”
When he’d walked back to his office, she turned to Baxter.
“What’s happening in two days?”
The editor gave her a level look.
“There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about. Let’s just say we all need to be very careful right now.”
Harper frowned. “What does that mean?”
There was a pause.
“I know you’ve heard about the restructuring plans,” the city editor said. “But remember, Dells can take the hits from the Anderson family. You can’t. And, I’ve got to say, I’m not really happy that he’s putting you in the middle of this.”
Before Harper could ask more questions, Baxter reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Golds.
“I’m going out for a smoke.”
* * *
It took several phone calls, and a lot of fast talking, but eventuall
y Harper convinced Cameron Johnson and Angela Martinez to meet her the next afternoon when their classes ended for the day.
To set the women at ease, she’d chosen a public place for the meeting, and so, at four o’clock, she set out for the Pangaea Coffee Shop.
It was, her own newspaper informed her, the hottest day of the year so far. The summer that would not end showed no sign of letting them out of its vise grip.
Harper was sweating before she reached the car.
With the air-conditioning cranked up high, she made her way across downtown. The scanner mounted in the dashboard holder crackled its litany of fender benders and minor disasters, but Harper barely noticed.
Dells had said they had two days. Three max. This was the end of day one. And she didn’t have much.
She had Wilson Shepherd’s claims of innocence. She had the two victims of Anderson’s obsession waiting for her. But she’d been unable to get anyone on the police force to talk about his alibi.
Daltrey wasn’t taking her calls, and Blazer just told her to back off and let the detectives work before hanging up on her.
Making things worse—Fitz was still off the radar. His voice mail box was full now, so she couldn’t even leave messages for him.
She had time, but it was ticking down.
Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper on Bull Street, and she drove halfway around Chippewa Square before an SUV pulled out of a space right in front of her. Harper raced into the spot, stopping in the shade of a sprawling oak tree so covered in Spanish moss, velvety gray fronds brushed the top of the Camaro like long, soft fingers.
She hadn’t slept well the night before. The murder, Luke, Anderson—it all swirled in her head like shouting voices. She didn’t fall asleep until nearly dawn.
But at least she did sleep. And she felt more like herself as she gathered her things in preparation for meeting the women. Checking her phone for messages, unplugging her scanner and putting it in her bag. Making sure she had everything.
When she at last climbed out of the car, a man stood at the end of the block in the full glare of the sun, staring at her.
Normally she might not have noticed him at all, but she had the strangest sense that he’d been watching for some time. And more than that, she got the feeling she knew him from somewhere.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 20