Someone could have driven him—a friend. But he didn’t seem the type to leave himself open like that. People talk.
She’d come up with an answer last night on the way home from the bar. But the idea hadn’t crystallized until she sobered up.
A taxi.
It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure at first. But the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed.
The way the driver’s eyes had assessed and dismissed the drunken pair of them—the way his look said he’d seen it all before and wasn’t interested now. That had been when she began to think it through. Cabdrivers pick up dozens of passengers a day. They pick up many people at hospitals—it was so normal. So forgettable.
And before she’d fallen asleep last night, it had occurred to her that Jerrod Scott had driven a taxi in Savannah for more than thirty years.
“I want you to see if you can track down a taxi driver who picked up Peyton Anderson at Savannah Memorial at around one-thirty A.M. that night,” she told him. “His left arm would have been heavily bandaged. If you can find that driver, bring him to me.”
Scott, who had listened as she explained her theory, didn’t say anything for so long, she wondered if he was still there.
“Mr. Scott?” she asked, hesitantly.
“I’m still here.” He paused. “Miss. McClain, even if we find this cabdriver, will anyone believe us?”
“Look,” she said, “I can’t promise we’ll convince them. But I believe if we don’t find out how he got from the hospital to downtown, Peyton Anderson will walk free from this. Eventually, he’ll kill someone else. I don’t want that to happen.”
A long silence followed—when Scott spoke again, his voice was gruff.
“Well, I’m grateful to you for trying. Tell you what—I reckon I know every cabdriver in this town,” he said. “Let me see what I can find out.”
“Mr. Scott,” Harper said. “I need this fast. Tomorrow might be too late.”
* * *
Harper spent the day sitting at her kitchen table, writing up everything she’d learned on the Anderson story. She wrote fast, not taking time to make it pretty. She just needed all the information in one place.
When she finished writing that night, she knew she’d made a devastating case. With one missing piece.
But Scott still hadn’t called.
When her phone rang at eleven, she pounced on it, her heart sinking when she saw Bonnie’s name on the screen.
She forced her tone to stay neutral.
“Hey, Bonnie.”
“I’m checking in,” Bonnie told her. “I haven’t heard from you and I was starting to get worried.”
“You shouldn’t worry,” Harper said. “I’m fine.”
Bonnie wasn’t convinced. “You want me to come over? I’m off tonight.”
“Bonnie, I love you but I do not need a babysitter.” Harper pulled her feet up onto the sofa. “There’s been no sign of the weirdo in days. Also, Mia’s now sleeping with a cop, so I’m protected.”
“I don’t like you being there at night alone,” Bonnie told her. “You should come over here and drink my wine.”
Harper shuddered.
“No wine. Ever again. I’m on the wagon.”
“Coffee then,” Bonnie said. “Chamomile tea. I don’t care. I want to watch you being safe.”
“You are kind and wonderful. But I have important plans to stay on my sofa. Also, I’m waiting on a phone call, so I have to go.”
“If this is a pretend phone call and you’re trying to get rid of me, God will know,” Bonnie warned her. “Also, since you won’t come over, I’ll tell you now—I think I’m breaking up with the pedophile gallery owner. He turned out to be totally flaky.”
“I’m going to need some time to recover from the shock,” Harper said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sarcasm isn’t pretty, Harper,” Bonnie said. “Love you. Call if you get scared.”
After she hung up, Harper checked her voice mail in case Scott had called while she was on the phone.
But there were no messages.
That night, she sat up for hours, listening to her scanner and waiting for the call that didn’t come.
37
Monday morning, Harper was still willing Scott to call, but when her phone beeped the message was from DJ.
Dells still AWOL. Charlton’s hanging around like a fart in the room. Rumors are flying. It’s a bad scene-don’t come back.
At least the newspaper’s chaos was a distraction. She and DJ exchanged a series of profane and apocalyptic texts about their chances of survival. He ended it with:
Everyone loves crime. No one gives a shit about schools. I’m toast.
There was no small amount of truth in that. But Harper wasn’t about to say so.
Don’t worry. I’m looking for an assistant.
His reply was instant:
Fuck you, McClain. I’m going to work at Starbucks. At least there I’ll get free coffee.
After that, though, her phone fell silent again.
The day seemed endless. She edited her story, cleaned the house, went out for groceries, and came back again, her phone always at her side. It didn’t ring.
By eleven that night, she was on the sofa, staring blankly at the television, as her mind went through all the possibilities.
She’d picked up her phone and put it down a hundred times. She should just call him. But she was too afraid he’d tell her he hadn’t found anything.
Zuzu jumped onto the sofa and curled up beside her, a whorl of striped gray fur. Harper stroked her gently.
She could almost hear Baxter’s voice in her head: You can’t win ’em all, McClain.
She could still take what she had to Daltrey, or to Josh, as Dells had suggested. It laid everything out. But she felt the missing piece like a lost tooth. It was so obvious.
The thing that drove her in this job—the thing that kept her coming back night after night—was seeing crimes solved. Justice served. It fed something hungry inside her. That part of her that was never satisfied until it knew who did it and saw them arrested—it wouldn’t let her sleep if she walked away from this case.
She knew how it felt to be the one left behind. To be the one left wondering forever why.
She couldn’t bear for Jerrod Scott to go through that. Or anyone else.
When her phone rang and Scott’s name flashed on the screen, she snatched the device off the coffee table.
“McClain,” she said.
“Miss McClain, this is Jerrod Scott,” he said, talking more urgently than she’d ever heard him. “I know it’s late, but I need you to come meet me.
“I think I found the person you’re looking for.”
* * *
It was midnight when Harper pulled off of Congress Street into the parking lot behind a modern office building. Eight floors of dark windows looked down on her blankly.
It was the same lot where she’d met Miles a few nights ago. When she’d described it to Scott, he’d known instantly where she meant—if anyone knows a city as well as a reporter, it’s a cabdriver.
The unlit parking lot was empty, save for two taxis parked in the center, side by side. One was a white and black Savannah Taxi; the other was yellow, with LIBERTY CABS emblazoned on the side.
Harper drove toward them. In the stillness, the Camaro’s engine seemed too loud.
Her headlights illuminated two men standing between the two cars. One was Jerrod Scott. The other was a short, bald man in jeans and a checkered shirt.
She pulled up beside the yellow cab, and cut the engine.
When she climbed out, a warm breeze swept her hair back. It was almost oppressively silent. The only sound was a freight train passing through, its horn mournful in the distance.
“Miss McClain,” Jerrod said as she walked up. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Thanks for calling me,” she said, holding out her hand. “Please, Mr. Scott, call me Harper.”
“Harper.” Scott had a firm, enveloping grip—his hand was warm and dry.
Turning, he motioned to the shorter man, who stepped forward hesitantly. He had a smooth head, and a chubby, amiable face. Harper pegged him at about forty-five years old.
“This is Elton Richards,” Scott said. “I think he can help us.”
Harper studied Richards. He didn’t appear nervous—his arms hung loosely at his sides. Mostly he seemed a little puzzled, watching the two of them with a worried frown.
She held out her hand. “I’m Harper McClain, Mr. Richards. Thank you for coming out.”
He shook her hand with quick efficiency.
“I don’t know why I’m here, to be honest,” he told her. “Jerrod put the word out he was looking for anyone who picked up a man with an injured arm at Savannah Memorial on the night his daughter was killed.”
Harper held his eyes. “Did you pick up a man fitting that description?”
“Yes, I did. Took him to the Hyatt on Bay Street. Said he was a tourist, got himself mugged. I told him I was sorry to hear it—that’s not the kind of thing we ever like to see here in Savannah.”
Harper’s heart quickened.
The Hyatt hotel on Bay Street was steps from River Street, and only a few blocks from where the murder took place.
Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she opened a picture of Peyton Anderson, and turned the device around, holding it out to Richards.
“Is this the man you picked up?”
He leaned forward, cupping his hand around the phone and squinting at the image. The light of the screen illuminated his face with a pale blue glow.
“That’s him,” he said.
“You’re sure?” she pressed him. “It was late. Maybe you didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Oh, I did,” he assured her. “He was standing under a streetlight on the road outside the hospital when I drove up. I remember his left hand was bandaged up to here.” He pointed at his elbow. “He looked sick—he was pale, sweating. And I mean sweat was running down his face. I told him I didn’t think he should be released looking like that, but he told me it was fine. He said he wanted to get back with his family, and I could understand that.”
Frowning, he looked from Harper to Scott.
“What’s this about? Jerrod? This got something to do with what happened to Naomi?”
Scott met Harper’s gaze. The hope she saw in the deep brown depths of his eyes was hard to look at.
“It might,” she said, turning back to Richards. “We don’t think that man was a tourist. We think he might know more than he’s saying about the killing. He told the police he didn’t leave the hospital that night. You’re the only person who can prove he did.”
Richards wasn’t stupid. He could hear all the words she wasn’t saying. Blanching, he turned to Scott.
“Oh, Jesus. Tell me I didn’t drive your girl’s murderer straight to her.”
“We aren’t sure yet.” Scott rested his hand on his arm. “Even if you did drive him, it’s not your fault. There was no way for you to know.”
Harper was impressed by Scott’s calm. This was his only daughter they were talking about. But he was steady as a rock.
Richards, though, looked sickened. He’d taken this news like a body blow.
Harper needed him not to panic. She had to know more if she was going to take this to the police.
Stepping closer to the two of them, she adopted her most soothing tone.
“Mr. Richards, it might not be the man who killed her. This is what we’re trying to figure out,” she said. “I need to ask you a few more questions.”
He nodded hard, anxiety still simmering beneath the surface.
“Anything.”
“What time did you pick him up?”
“One twenty-three A.M.” He said it without hesitation. Seeing the look on her face, he explained, “I checked my records when Jerrod called. I keep a very precise log of my fares. Write down every one. Just in case the IRS ever comes knocking. I got my proof.”
“Did he pay by card?” she asked, hopefully.
He shook his head. “Log says he paid cash. Tipped me four dollars on top of the twelve-dollar fare.”
“You say you took him to the Hyatt on Bay,” she said. “When you dropped him off—did you see him go inside?”
He stopped to think, his brow creasing.
“No,” he said after a second. “When I drove away, he was standing in front of the door. Looked like he was messing with his phone.”
Harper nodded, but something about this answer nagged at her. Something wasn’t right. But she couldn’t put her finger on it.
It sounded reasonable. She imagined Anderson, standing outside the hotel’s big, glass doors. Looking down at his phone, avoiding the cabdriver’s eyes …
His phone.
“Wait,” she said, and this time she didn’t keep the urgency out of her voice. Richards’s head snapped up. “You said he was looking at his phone. Are you sure about that?”
Richards nodded, shooting her a puzzled look.
“I’m sure. I remember because he was having trouble holding it with his bad hand. He nearly dropped it. It looked like it hurt. And I thought he should wait until he went inside and his family could help him. But I didn’t say nothing, because…” He shrugged. “Wasn’t none of my business. You know?”
Harper could have hugged him.
“Would you be willing to talk to a detective about this?” she asked.
“You bet. Whatever you need.” He turned to Scott. “If I somehow helped the monster who hurt your little girl … I’ll do anything to make this right.”
Scott put his hand on his shoulder.
“It isn’t your fault. We never know who’s in our cab.” Despite his words, Harper saw the pain in his eyes. She knew how much this night must be costing him emotionally.
“I can’t thank you both enough…” she began, but she didn’t finish the sentence.
A tremendous bang shook the night.
Harper was conscious of multiple things happening at once. A bird flapped its wings in panic and broke away from a nearby roof—a dark shadow against the night sky.
Richards made a strange sound and fell hard. She heard the awful thud of his head hitting the tarmac.
Scott, his face covered in blood, stared at the entrance to the parking lot.
Following his gaze, Harper saw the shadow of a man, a gun in his hand, backlit by the streetlight.
Then he shifted and, for an instant, the light caught his face.
It was Peyton Anderson. His gun was pointed at Scott. He was smiling.
“Get down!” Harper grabbed Scott and threw him to the ground, just as the gun went off again.
38
The quiet following the gunfire had weight to it. Harper could feel it pressing down on her as she lay flat on the ground, one arm flung across Scott’s back, as if that narrow length of flesh and bone could somehow protect him.
Her ears were ringing. The harsh rasp of her own breathing seemed too loud.
With her face pressed to the rough tarmac, she could smell dirt and oil, and the sweat of her own fear.
Cautiously she raised her head to see Richards. He’d fallen a few feet away, and now lay on his back, hands clutching his chest. His breathing made a sickening gurgling sound that made her stomach churn.
Scott turned his head to look at her—his eyes gleamed in the dark through the blood on his skin.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, searching his face for wounds.
“Not my blood.” He was breathing hard.
In shock, she thought.
“Was that Anderson?” he asked. “He tried to kill us.”
“Shh,” Harper hissed.
She cocked her head, still trying to locate the shooter. But she could hear nothing.
They stayed still for a minute, listening to the terrible sound Richards was making. Then Scott had had enough.
; “I’ve got to get to him,” he told her.
Harper didn’t want him to move—if Anderson was out there, any motion could give him a target—but Richards sounded bad.
“Stay low,” she told him. “I’ll get help.”
Raising himself on his elbows, Scott crept toward the wounded cabdriver. Harper pulled her phone from her pocket, shielding the screen light with one hand as she dialed 911. She slid on her belly over toward Richards as the call went through.
“It’s bad,” Scott said.
Richards was struggling to breathe. The bullet had hit him in the ribs. His neat, plaid shirt was soaked in blood.
Harper didn’t know much, but she knew the chest was a bad place to get shot.
“Put both hands on the wound,” she instructed Scott. “Press firmly. I’m calling an ambulance.”
Raising herself up, she peered to where Anderson had stood earlier. The parking lot entrance was empty now. But those high hedges would make a great hiding place. He could be watching them and she’d never know.
When a crisp female voice spoke in her ear, she flinched.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“This is Harper McClain,” she whispered urgently. “I need police and an ambulance in the parking lot behind 369 Congress. A man’s been shot. Warn responding officers: The shooter may still be in the area. We are hunkered down.”
The dispatcher’s tone changed instantly. “I’m sending them now. You okay, Harper?”
In the background, Harper could hear her typing. Her voice was familiar. Was it Sharon? Or Dorothy?
“I’m not hit.” Harper was still whispering, although surely if Anderson were nearby he’d have made himself known by now. “But the victim—he’s in bad shape. It’s a nine-millimeter to the chest. Looks like hollow-point.”
“Is he breathing?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes.” Harper looked to where Scott was bent over Richards’s body, hands glossy with blood as he pressed against the wound. “But it doesn’t sound right.”
“Apply pressure to the wound. Keep him flat. Ambulance is en route.”
Harper could hear sirens in the distance.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 29