Riley’s weary shrug spoke volumes. “Young men. Ought to be at home.”
A voice spoke on his radio, and he cocked his head to listen. In the quiet, Harper heard it as clearly as he did.
“All units on Waters—caller reports seeing two armed suspects in the four hundred block of Liberty.”
He sighed and pulled his keys out of his pocket with a jangle of heavy gear.
“I’ve got to go.” He took a step away before pausing. “You had any more problems since the break-in?”
She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”
“Good,” he said. “Your place is on our watch list. I’ve been driving by to keep an eye on it.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Oh, it’s my apartment you’re keeping an eye on? I thought you might have your eye on my neighbor.”
A wicked smile lit up his face. His dimples were ridiculous.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’m keeping an eye on Mia, too. Got to make sure she stays safe. This town keeps getting more dangerous.”
“Be nice to her,” Harper ordered. “She’ll blame me if it all goes wrong.”
“Oh, come on.” He held out his arms, still backing toward his car. “I’m always nice.”
After he drove away, Harper made her way down the street past the ambulance. If she could talk to the detective on the scene, she’d be done here.
When she saw a cluster of officers gathered at the side of the road, she knew she was in the right place. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she didn’t look at it—Baxter had been calling her all night, asking for updates.
As she approached, the group parted, and she saw the detective who’d pulled the case.
Her heart sank.
Why did it have to be Luke?
Stopping midstride, she thought about turning around, then changed her mind, nearly tripping in her indecision. The sudden motion caught Luke’s attention and he looked up.
Their eyes met. The hurt Harper had been suppressing for days tightened its grip on her heart.
Desperately she looked around for another detective to interview, but with so many violent crimes in one night, they were stretched thin. He was alone.
This was why she never should have dated him in the first place, she told herself. It interfered with her work. Made it impossible to focus on what she needed to pay attention to—which was the bleeding man on the stretcher.
When she looked up again, the uniformed cops had fanned out across the block, and Luke was striding toward her.
“Harper.” He glanced around to see if anyone was looking at them. “Can we talk?”
The way he said her name killed her, every single time.
She swallowed hard.
“Now isn’t a great time,” she said.
“Later then.” He stepped closer. “We can’t leave it like this. I need to explain.”
“What’s the point?” Her voice was cold. “You’re seeing someone else. I get it. That’s all you ever had to say.”
“I’m not…”
He stopped, lips tightening as two uniformed cops brushed past them, glancing at Harper curiously.
“We can’t do this now, Luke,” she told him, when they were gone.
She pulled a pen from her pocket.
“Have you got a quote for me? I understand you’re looking for two suspects. Is this a gang thing?”
He held her eyes. For a second she thought he might refuse to answer. But then he gave in with obvious impatience.
“Yes,” he said. “Witnesses say the three people involved knew each other. They had an argument over territory. Everyone had a gun. Our victim drew the short straw. We’re searching for suspects now.”
Harper wrote it all down, glad to have something to look at that wasn’t him. When she finished, though, he was still standing there, surveying the scene with something like despair.
Down the street, a cop motioned for another to come over, pointing at something on the ground.
“I’ve got to go,” Luke told her, quietly. “Whatever they’ve found, they’re going to call me over.”
He raked his fingers through his hair.
“This fucking night,” he said. “Some eighteen-year-old kid shot twice over nothing. EMTs don’t know if he’ll make it. And I can’t…”
His gaze swept across the scene, which flickered in blue lights. When he turned back to her his eyes were anguished.
“Harper, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I screwed up.”
Her throat was tight.
“Don’t.” It was the only thing she could say.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come to you until I sorted out my own situation. But I didn’t want to lie to you.”
Harper blinked hard. She wanted to tell him that he’d broken her heart twice now. And that was enough. That there had to be someone else out there for her. Someone who wouldn’t do this.
But she couldn’t find the words.
Someone down the street called his name. Luke raised his hand to acknowledge him but stayed where he was.
“I’m going to fix this,” he said. “I know I don’t deserve it. But please have some faith in me.”
Then, before she could ask what he meant, he turned and walked away.
Harper stood and watched him go—that long cowboy stride of his, steady and unhurried.
She hated that he could still do this to her after everything. The way he’d looked at her—no one had ever looked at her like that before. She felt that look on her skin.
The night seemed colder the second he turned away.
But she couldn’t keep doing this. Telling herself each time it would be different.
She couldn’t take it if he hurt her again. And he would.
That’s what guys like him do.
It took all her willpower to walk back to her car. Every step heavier than the one before. Yet she kept moving, down the dark street, away from the flashing blue lights. Away from Luke.
Putting one foot in front of the other, as she had all her life, she kept walking.
34
“Where have you been?” Baxter glared from behind her computer as Harper walked into the empty newsroom, her scanner buzzing in her hand. “I’ve been calling you for half an hour.”
In no mood to engage in their usual debate about her reachability, Harper headed straight to her desk.
“It’s crazy out there,” she said. “People won’t stop killing each other.”
“You should thank them. They’re your job security.” Baxter followed her through the rows of vacant desks. “What’ve we got?”
“One dead.” Dropping her scanner on the desk, Harper turned to her. “Six injured in three separate incidents.”
“This is out of control. Call the mayor,” Baxter said, drumming her fingers on her desk. “Wake her up. Ask her how it feels to be in charge of a goddamn shooting gallery.”
Harper blinked.
“I don’t have her home number.”
“I’ve got it,” Baxter said. “Tell her the headline’s going to be ‘City Reels from Night of Violence.’ And we’re not pulling any punches this time.”
She was talking fast and angry, a hail of words.
Harper suddenly felt sorry for her.
As if she knew what Harper was thinking, the editor changed the subject abruptly.
“Fucking MaryAnne Charlton. Firing Dells and leaving us with this mess to handle alone.”
“Is he really fired?” Harper asked. “I thought he was suspended.”
“She’ll never let him back in here,” Baxter pronounced. “Jesus, what are they thinking? Dells isn’t perfect but Charlton’s out of her gourd if she thinks she can run this place without him. That woman knows about as much about running a newspaper as I know about building an atomic weapon. Which, come to think of it, is a skill I wish I had right now.”
Cutting herself off, she raked her fingers through her hair. “God, I need a
cigarette.”
Harper wasn’t sure how to take this sudden onslaught of honesty. Baxter had always been a company girl—“abide by the rules and this is a great place to work,” she’d said more than once, even though that had become transparently untrue over the last few years. She’d personally laid off many of her own friends.
Each round took something out of her—another piece of her soul. But Harper got the feeling she’d genuinely believed it was for the greater good.
It was as if all of a sudden she no longer believed the myth.
“What about the story I’ve been working on?” Harper asked, hesitantly. “The Anderson story. Is it dead?”
Baxter gave her a level look.
“MaryAnne Charlton will not run that story without Dells to make her do it. And I simply don’t have the power he did.”
Harper wanted to argue, but Baxter looked so angry and defeated, she decided now wasn’t the time.
“Are there going to be more layoffs?” she asked. “Everyone’s talking.”
“Count on it.” Baxter’s voice was grim. “As long as there are people breathing in this building, MaryAnne Charlton will want them off her payroll. Besides, I hear she just bought a villa in the Caribbean. Those things cost money.”
“We’re already down to the bare bones here,” Harper said. “How will we keep putting the paper out if even more people go?”
Baxter stared out the window into the darkness—as if she could see something there Harper couldn’t. Without answering, she turned and headed back to her desk.
“You better get to work. I’ll get you that number.”
* * *
By the time Harper left the office that night, she needed a drink.
She stood on the sidewalk at the edge of Bay Street, trying to decide where to go.
It was after midnight, and the heat was easing. A breeze blew off the river, ruffling her hair and bringing its cool, green water scent.
Leaning her head back, she breathed in—as if the air could somehow purge her of this entire day.
She felt beaten. They’d got all the stories in—some were shorter than others. But Miles had brought in some brilliant photos, and the front page wouldn’t look like it came from a newsroom in meltdown.
Her car was parked in the lot behind the building, but she didn’t head in that direction. She didn’t want to go home to a lonely apartment, and she didn’t feel like the Library. Bonnie would see right through her and, tonight, she didn’t feel like being seen.
She just wanted a quiet drink with other miserable people.
Turning left, she headed toward the trendier bars and restaurants of downtown. She walked slowly, trying to think of the right place.
She knew if she went to Rosie Malone’s, she’d find other people from the newspaper to gossip with about Charlton and Dells, but she didn’t want that, either.
Shoulders hunched, she walked past Reynolds Square, where the snakelike oak branches writhed overhead, Spanish moss trailing. Medusa’s hair against the streetlights.
She saw a sign for the Pink House—which had a great bar, but she wasn’t in the mood for the touristy thing.
A block away, though, a new hotel had opened in a modern building. It was one of those expensive international chains with an instantly forgettable name.
Through the windows, she saw a quiet lobby with a bar beyond it. Everything was lit in cold blue light. It looked empty. Anonymous.
Aware that her clothes were rumpled and that she probably looked like hell, Harper squared her shoulders and pushed open the door.
One staff member was working at the reception desk and she gave her a bland smile as she crossed the spacious lobby—where minimalist chairs in a smooth, dark fabric gathered around glass coffee tables under chandeliers as big as her apartment—toward the blue-lit bar she’d seen from the street.
Hidden speakers played jazz classics at a volume low enough to avoid becoming annoying. A long bar, illuminated from beneath, stretched along the back wall. Rows of bottles glittered on mirrored shelves behind it.
The room was wide, with well-spaced clusters of tables. Most were unoccupied.
Only one person sat at the bar—a man in a suit, hunched over his glass.
Harper headed up to order a drink from the lone bartender. She didn’t look at the customer. People drinking alone usually like to be left alone.
“Whiskey, please,” she said. “Neat.”
“Irish or Scottish?” a voice at her elbow inquired.
Harper turned to see Paul Dells watching her with an amused expression, as if all of this was perfectly normal.
“Irish,” Harper said, staring at him.
“Good choice.” Catching the bartender’s eye, Dells pointed at a bottle with a green label. “Jameson. Make it two. Put it on my tab.”
Raising his glass, he finished his drink, pushing the glass across to the bartender, before turning to Harper.
“How’s your night going?” he asked. “Mine gets better with every glass.”
Harper was momentarily speechless.
He looked fine—his face was smooth, his suit unwrinkled. He didn’t look like a man who’d been fired earlier that day.
“What the hell happened?” she said, when she found her voice.
His expression spoke volumes. “I warned you we didn’t have much time.”
The bartender set their drinks down on thick napkins with the hotel’s monogram stamped in gold.
Picking his glass up, Dells stood and motioned for her to follow.
“Let’s find a corner.”
Harper followed him across the bar to a quiet table. A candle glittered at the center of it. Frank Sinatra crooned from the speakers.
It felt like an awkward date.
“Are you fired?” Harper asked, when they were both seated.
He gave her an approving look.
“Straight to the point, McClain. See, now that’s what I like about you. No bullshit. You call it like you see it.”
“Were you?” she pressed. “I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone.”
“Not yet. Technically speaking, I have been suspended.” He tilted his glass at her with a cynical smile.
“Suspended for what?” Harper didn’t hide her frustation. “And for how long? What happens now?”
He ticked the answers off on his fingers. “For not doing what I was told. Indefinitely. Who knows?”
She opened her mouth to ask another question, but he pointed at her glass.
“Drink. You’ll hurt the bartender’s feelings.”
Picking up her glass, Harper took a quick swallow. It burned through her body, taking some of her tension with it.
She gave an unconscious sigh of relief.
Dells nodded and clinked her glass with his.
“Doctor’s orders,” he said.
Harper studied him curiously. He hadn’t shaved since this morning. The five-o’clock shadow suited him. It made him look less perfect. More human.
He’d obviously had enough to drink that the rules of boss and subordinate had been lifted between them.
“Aren’t you upset?” she asked, taking another sip. “Baxter’s furious at Charlton.”
His face softened.
“Emma’s a rock,” he said. “And Charlton better not even think about taking her on. She’ll burn the whole place down.”
“Was it over layoffs?” Harper said. “Or was it our story? Is it my fault?”
“A bit of both.” He paused, meeting her gaze. “And thanks for the ‘our.’ It’s your story. But working on it with you reminded me why I got into this business in the first place. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.”
He drained his glass, and stood, pointing at hers. “Take your vitamins. Don’t want you getting scurvy.”
Harper drank the rest of her whiskey obediently, and handed him her glass.
“Oh, great,” Dells grumbled. “Now, you decide to do as you’re told.”
&nbs
p; “Only because I like what you’re telling me to do.”
She heard him laughing as he walked to the bar.
She watched as he ordered fresh drinks, bantering with the bartender, who seemed to know him—or, if nothing else, to have seen all of this before.
When he returned, he set the glasses down carefully.
She wondered how much he’d drunk before she arrived.
“In answer to your questions,” he said, as if there’d been no pause in the conversation. “Charlton is in need of an infusion of cash. Her favorite method for acquiring cash is to lay off staff. Thus cutting back on salaries, and pocketing the difference. She’s been doing this for years. I have gone along with it, every time, like a good little boy. This time I refused.” His voice was emotionless. “We quarreled over her judgment and morality, and what her parents, who used to run the newspaper, would think of her actions if they were here to see them. She took umbrage at my tone—which I admit was aggressive—and suggested the newspaper might be better run if I were not involved in the process. I told her to enjoy finding out.”
He held her gaze steadily. “If she tells anyone this is about the Anderson story, you need to know she’s full of shit. Anderson is the excuse. Greed is the real reason.”
Harper stared at him as he took a drink.
If what he was saying was true, then Charlton would surely fire him. He’d never get away with talking like that to the owner. To save face, she’d let him go.
And she’d hire someone more likely to do as they were told.
“Oh hell,” she said, emptying her glass.
“My thoughts exactly,” he agreed.
Raising his hand, he got the bartender’s attention—swirling his index finger in silent communication. The bartender nodded and immediately set to work.
It was like an alcohol conveyor belt. Harper was going to have to pace herself.
A minute later the new drinks arrived at their table. The bartender’s impassive face showed nothing of what he thought of the speed with which they were consuming the drinks.
“Enough about me,” Dells said, when he’d gone. “How are things going with the Anderson story, anyway?”
Harper told him about Anderson’s alibi. She told him her theory that he’d stabbed himself. She described her trip to the hospital, and what she’d learned about the understaffed floor, the easy access to the parking lot.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 27