A Beautiful Corpse
Christi Daugherty
Copyright (#ucac769f1-70d8-584b-aa80-2eb53a110df6)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Christi Daugherty 2019
Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photographs © Mark Fearon/Arcangel (http://www.arcangel.com)
Christi Daugherty asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008238827
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008238841
Version: 2019-01-02
Dedication (#ucac769f1-70d8-584b-aa80-2eb53a110df6)
For all the women whose murders end up on page six
Contents
Cover (#u04286ac2-fa3a-5921-bfd7-60a0136facbb)
Title Page (#uf496e0aa-beef-5cb9-968c-697f2f7cac45)
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
One Week Later
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Christi Daugherty
About the Publisher
Chapter One (#ucac769f1-70d8-584b-aa80-2eb53a110df6)
‘Eight ball in the corner pocket.’
Leaning over the edge of the pool table, Harper McClain stared across the long expanse of empty green felt. The cue in her hands was smooth and cool. She’d had four of Bonnie’s super-strength margaritas tonight, but her grip was steady.
There was a delicate, transient point somewhere between too much alcohol and too little where her pool skills absolutely peaked. This was it.
Exhaling slowly, she took the shot. The cue ball flew straight and true, slamming into the eight, sending it rolling to the pocket. There was never any question – it hit the polished wood edge of the table only lightly, and dropped like a stone.
‘Yes.’ Harper raised her fist. ‘Three in a row.’
But the cue ball was still rolling.
Lowering her hand, Harper leaned against the table.
‘No, no, no,’ she pleaded.
As she watched in dismay, the scuffed white cue ball headed after the eight like a faithful hound.
‘Come on, cue ball,’ Bonnie cajoled from the other side of the table. ‘Mama needs a new pair of shoes.’
Reaching the pocket lip, the ball trembled for an instant as if making up its mind and then, with a decisive clunk, disappeared into the table’s insides, taking the game with it.
‘At last.’ Bonnie raised her cue above her head. ‘Victory is mine.’
Harper glared. ‘Have you been waiting all night to say that?’
‘Oh my God, yes.’ Bonnie was unrepentant.
It was very late. Aside from the two of them, the Library Bar was empty. Naomi, who had worked the late shift with Bonnie, had finished wiping down the bar an hour ago and gone home.
All the lights were on in the rambling bar, illuminating the battered books on the shelves that still covered the old walls from the days when it had actually been a library. It could easily hold sixty people but, with just the two of them, the place was comfortable – even cozy, in its way, with Tom Waits growling from the jukebox about love gone wrong.
Despite the hour, Harper was in no hurry to leave. It wasn’t far to walk. But all she had at home was a cat, a bottle of whiskey and a lot of bad memories. And she’d spent enough time with them lately.
‘Rematch?’ She glanced at Bonnie, hopefully. ‘Winner takes all?’
Propping her cue against a sign that read: ‘Books + Beer = LIFE’, Bonnie walked around the table. The blue streaks in her long blond hair caught the light when she held out her hand.
‘Loser pays,’ she said, adding, ‘Also, I’m all out of change.’
‘I thought bartenders always had change,’ Harper complained, pulling the last coins from her pocket.
‘Bartenders are smart enough to put their money away before they start playing pool with you,’ Bonnie replied.
There was a break in the music as the jukebox switched songs. In the sudden silence, the shrill ring of Harper’s phone made them both jump.
Grabbing the device off the table next to her, Harper glanced at the screen.
‘Hang on,’ she said, hitting the answer button. ‘It’s Miles.’
Miles Jackson was the crime photographer at the Savannah Daily News. He wouldn’t call at this hour without a good reason.
‘What’s up?’ Harper said, by way of hello.
‘Get yourself downtown. We’ve got ourselves a murder on River Street,’ he announced.
‘You’re kidding me.’ Harper dropped her cue on the pool table. ‘Are you at the scene?’
‘I’m pulling up now. Looks like every cop in the city is here.’
Miles had her on speaker phone – in the background she could hear the rumble of his engine and the insistent crackle of his police scanners. The sound sent a charge through Harper.
‘On my way.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.
Bonnie looked at her enquiringly.
‘Got to go,’ Harper told her, grabbing her bag. ‘Someone just got murdered on River Street.’
Bonnie’s jaw dropped. ‘River Street? Holy crap.’
‘I know.’ Harper pulled out her notebook and police scanner and headed across the room, mentally calculating how long it would take her to get there. ‘If it’s a tourist, the mayor will absolutely lose her shit.’
River Street was the epicenter of the city’s tourism district – and the safest place in town. Until now.
Bonnie ran after her.
‘Give me a second to lock up,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Harper turned to look at her. ‘You’re coming to a crime scene?’
The music had started up again.
‘You’ve had four margaritas,’ Bonnie reminded her. ‘I made them strong. You’ll be over the limit. I’ve only had two beers tonight.’
Behind the bar, she opened a concealed wall panel and flipped some switches – in an instant, the music fell silent. A second later, the lights went off one by one, until only the red glow of the exit sign remained.
Grabbing her keys, Bonnie ran to join Harper, the heels of her cowboy boots clicking against the concrete floor in the sudden quiet, short skirt swirling around her thighs.
Harper still wasn’t convinced this was a great idea.
‘You know there’ll be dead people there, right?’
Shrugging, Bonnie unlocked the front door and pulled it open. Steamy southern night air poured in.
‘I’m a grown-up. I can take it.’
She glanced over her shoulder with a look Harper had known better than to argue with since they were both six years old.
‘Let’s go.’
River Street was a narrow, cobblestone lane running between the old wharves and warehouses that had once serviced tall ships, sailing for Europe, and the wide, dark water of the Savannah River.
The most photographed street in the city, it would be packed in a few hours with workers, tourists, and tour buses, but it was virtually empty now.
Most bars had closed at two a.m. and the heatwave currently underway sent everyone who might ordinarily have lingered by the river scurrying for air-conditioning.
Bonnie swung her pink pickup, with ‘Mavis’ painted on the tailgate in bright yellow, into a parking spot and killed the engine.
They could see flashing blue lights a short distance away at the water’s edge.
The sight made Harper’s heart race. It was nearly three in the morning. At this hour, the local TV channels might not have anyone on call. This could be her story exclusively.
‘Come on,’ she told Bonnie, throwing the door open and jumping out.
When her feet hit the curb, the bullet wound in her shoulder throbbed a sharp warning. She winced, pressing her hand against the scar.
It had been over a year since she’d been shot. It was rare for the wound to twinge. It usually only acted up when the weather changed.
‘You’ll be a walking barometer now,’ her surgeon had remarked jovially at one of her checkups. ‘Always be able to tell when rain is coming.’
‘That’s not the superpower I was hoping for,’ she’d responded.
Secretly, she was glad the pain was still there. The wound – which she’d sustained while exposing her mentor, former Chief Detective Robert Smith, for murder – served as a reminder to be careful whom she trusted.
Bonnie missed her pained expression – her eyes were on the police cars.
‘Damn. It really is right in the middle of everything. That’s just a couple of blocks from Spanky’s.’
Spanky’s Bar was a popular tourist joint. If the murder had happened a few hours earlier, hundreds of people could have been caught up in it.
Harper had already noticed the proximity. She needed to get down there.
‘Let’s go.’
Half-running, they hurried down a steep cobbled lane toward the river. It had rained earlier, and Harper’s shoes struggled to find traction on the slick, rounded stones.
It was darker down by the water. The breeze off the river cut a cool path through the humidity.
Harper usually avoided River Street altogether. It was mostly tourist traps and, until now, she couldn’t think of one interesting crime that had ever happened here.
Ahead, crime tape had been strung from light pole to light pole, blocking the narrow street. Flashing emergency lights lit up the jaunty flags outside the locked bars and shuttered shops.
Harper scanned the scene – the road was packed with police cars but she could see no trucks bearing the hallmarks of the local TV news stations.
Bless Miles for staying up all night listening to his scanner.
About thirty yards beyond the tape, a cluster of uniformed cops and plain-clothed detectives had gathered. They were all looking down at something Harper couldn’t see from here.
‘Look, there’s Miles.’ Bonnie pointed across the street.
The photographer stood alone at the edge of the crime tape. Hearing her voice, he turned and beckoned them over.
As always, he looked dapper in slacks and a button-down shirt. It was as if he’d been waiting for this crime to happen.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, as they walked up. ‘Is it two-for-one night? I didn’t bring my coupon.’
‘Hi, Miles.’ Bonnie beamed at him. ‘Fancy running into you at a murder scene.’
‘The night is full of surprises,’ he agreed.
‘What’d we miss?’ Harper gestured to the crowd of cops. ‘Any ID on the victim? Is it a tourist?’
‘Nobody’s saying anything,’ he said. ‘The tape was up when I got here. They’ve kept it quiet on the radio – there’s no chatter. I almost missed it myself. I heard some chit-chat about the coroner that let me know something was up, otherwise I’d still be home.’
‘You called Baxter yet?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
‘Don’t have enough to tell her.’
Bonnie listened to all of this, but said nothing. Her fine eyebrows were drawn together as she watched the police. They were shining flashlights on something lying on the cobblestones.
In the eight years Harper had worked at the newspaper, this was the first time she could remember Bonnie being at a crime scene. It felt strange. This wasn’t Bonnie’s world. She was an artist – bartending paid for the paint. Murder wasn’t her business.
It was Harper’s.
She’d been a crime reporter since she’d dropped out of college to take up an internship at the Savannah Daily News when she was twenty years old. Ever since then she’d spent her nights investigating the city’s worst crimes. Murder no longer turned her stomach as it had early on.
When she looked at a body now, all she saw was the words she’d need to describe it.
In the distance, the crowd of officers shifted. Squinting, Harper saw a small woman in a dark suit, crouching low.
‘Daltrey’s lead detective?’ She glanced over at Miles.
‘Looks like it.’ Raising his camera, he took a speculative shot, pausing to check the image on the screen.
It wasn’t terrible news. Daltrey wasn’t the easiest detective to work with, but she wasn’t the worst, either.
Anyway, none of them were very easy to work with anymore.
A rumble broke the stillness, and they all turned to see a white van with the word FORENSICS UNIT on the side rolling up to the crime tape, its tires stuttering on the cobbles.
Its cold, bright headlights swung across the cluster of investigators, lighting up the scene like a film set.
They all saw the body in the same instant. The young woman lay sprawled on her back on the uneven cobbles. She wore a dark T-shirt with a knee-length skirt.
Harper couldn’t make out her face from where she stood but one thing was certain – this was no gang-banger crime.
Lifting his camera, Miles fired off a rapid series of shots.
Harper stood on her toes to get a better look. Something about the woman was familiar.
Beside her, Bonnie made a stifled shocked sound.
‘Don’t look at the body,’ Harper said.
But Bonnie didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned against the crime tape, pushing hard enough to make it bow.
One of the uniforms pointed his flashlight at her disapprovingly.
‘Hey, you – get back.’
Harper turned to ask her what the hell she was doing. The last thing she needed was for Bonnie to piss off the cops. Things were bad enough with them already.
But the complaint died on her lips.
All the color had left Bonnie’s face.
‘Oh my God, Harper,’ she said, staring at the body in the street. ‘I think that’s Naomi.’
Chapter Two (#ucac769f1-70d8-584b-aa80-2eb53a110df6)
Before Harper could tell her she was wrong – she had to be wrong, it didn’t make sense and they couldn’t see the body properly from here – the uniformed cop beat her to it.
‘Did you say you know the victim?’ He raised his flashlight, shining it on Bonnie’s face.
Her pupils shrank to pinpricks in the harsh light.
‘I think … maybe.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘Her shirt – does it look like mine?’
The cop shined the light on her black T-shirt. Across the front, it read: ‘THE LIBRARY: FROM BEER TO ETERNITY’.
He was young. They always put the young ones on the late shift. He hadn’t yet learned to hide his thoughts. Harper could see the truth in his face.
She squinted at the body in the distance.
Was that really Naomi? It couldn’t be, could it?
She’d only been working at the bar a few months, but Harper knew enough about her to know she was an unlikely victim. Bookish and a bit shy, she eschewed the short skirts that Bonnie preferred. Amid the crowds of art students that favored the bar, with their brightly colored hair and eclectic clothing, she’d seemed quite conservative. In that way, she stood out. That, and the fact that she was gorgeous – high cheekbones, cat-shaped eyes, a perfect figure.
She never seemed to try to be noticed, but everyone noticed Naomi.
Who killed a girl like that?
‘Stay right here,’ the cop ordered, swinging his flashlight to take in all three of them. ‘None of you moves.’
Turning, he ran across to the official cluster.
A moment later, the detective Harper had noticed earlier broke loose from the group at the foot of the stairs and walked toward them with the uniformed cop.
She was dark-skinned, about forty years old, no taller than five foot four. She wore a simple navy suit with a white blouse. Her hair was short and no-nonsense straight. She ducked under the crime tape with the ease of an athlete.
‘Which one of you thinks you know the victim?’
Detective Julie Daltrey’s tone was crisp and official. Her eyes skated across Harper’s face without a flicker of acknowledgement that she’d known her for years. That they used to gossip and joke at crime scenes like this one.
Hesitantly, Bonnie raised her hand. ‘Me.’
Harper watched as Daltrey took in Bonnie’s blue-streaked ponytail, her miniskirt, and black work T-shirt.
‘Your name, please?’
‘Bonnie Larson,’ she said, after a fractional pause.
Daltrey wrote this down in a small notepad.
‘Who do you think that is?’ Daltrey gestured with the notepad to the body on the ground.
Bonnie’s throat worked. Her hands clenched at her sides.
‘I … I thought … I mean, I think it’s Naomi.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Naomi Scott.’
Daltrey had been a cop a long time. Her expression gave nothing away as she wrote something else and then raised her eyes to meet Bonnie’s again.
‘What can you tell me about Naomi Scott?’
Bonnie blinked. ‘I don’t …’
‘Anything you know,’ the detective encouraged her. ‘Who she is, where she works, how old she is.’
‘She works with me at The Library,’ Bonnie said, uncertainly. ‘We’re both bartenders. She’s at school during the day. Law school.’
Daltrey made a note.
‘Please,’ Bonnie said, her voice faltering, ‘tell me it isn’t her.’
The detective paused, as if deciding what to say. When she spoke, though, she delivered the news quick and she didn’t sugarcoat it.
‘I’m sorry to inform you that identification found on the victim indicates that it is Naomi Scott.’
‘Oh my God.’ Bonnie reeled back, taking the news like a blow. Her blue eyes filled with tears.
‘She can’t be dead,’ she pleaded, looking from the detective to Harper. ‘She was at work tonight. She was fine. She’s only twenty-four. What happened?’
Daltrey focused on Harper.
‘This is off the record, you got me?’
Harper nodded, although she was taking mental notes of everything that was said.
Daltrey turned back to Bonnie.
‘She was shot.’ Her tone was almost gentle. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about her that might explain who would do this? Did she tell you she was scared of anyone? Did she have any problems you can think of? Drugs?’
But Bonnie was numb now. In a kind of shock.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
Tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. ‘I have to tell her dad.’
‘We’ll take care of that,’ Daltrey said quickly.
She turned back to Harper. ‘Did you know the victim, too?’
‘Only a little. I saw her at the bar tonight. Her shift ended about an hour ago. She said she was going home.’
‘She live on River Street?’ Daltrey asked.
Harper shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
The detective snapped her notebook shut and checked her watch. ‘OK. I need both of you to come down to the station and give me a statement.’
Harper’s heart sank.
‘Could we come later?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get my story in first. And there’s not much I can tell you …’
‘I don’t care about your story.’ Daltrey cut her off. ‘This is homicide, McClain. Either you get to the station under your own power immediately or I will have you both taken there under mine. Am I clear?’
There was no point in arguing.
‘We’ll go straight to the station,’ Harper agreed glumly.
‘I’ll meet you there,’ Daltrey said.
She ducked under the crime tape and headed back to the body.
When she was gone, Harper turned to Miles.
‘You heard all that?’
He nodded, concern in his eyes. ‘You want me to call Baxter?’
Harper let out a long breath. The last thing she wanted was for him to call the city editor and wake her up to tell her Harper wasn’t at the scene of a murder in the center of the tourist zone because it turned out she’d been talking to the victim an hour ago.
But that was exactly what he had to do.
‘Yeah.’ She rubbed her forehead. The tequila she’d drunk earlier was transforming into a nice little headache.
‘She’s not going to like this,’ he warned her. ‘She finds out you left, she’s going to be pissed.’
But Harper was already leading Bonnie away. She threw her answer back to him over her shoulder.
‘What’s new?’
When they walked into the lobby of the Savannah police station ten minutes later, the air-conditioning streamed an arctic breeze across Harper’s skin, sending a chill down her back.
The night desk officer, Dwayne Josephs, glanced from Bonnie to Harper and back again.
‘Something wrong, Harper?’ As he took in Bonnie’s red face and swollen eyes, he rose from his chair. ‘Is Bonnie hurt?’
Harper had known Dwayne since she was twelve. He’d been one of the cops who took her under his wing after her mother was murdered.
These days, he was one of only a handful of cops she still considered her friends.
The rest had shut her out. They believed she’d betrayed the force by exposing Smith’s crime.
She’d had a solid year of shrugs and turned backs. Of phone calls that began with her giving her name and ended a second later with the click of a phone being put down. Of getting pulled over for minor traffic offenses she knew she hadn’t committed.
So she was grateful every time Dwayne greeted her kindly.
‘She’s not hurt,’ Harper assured him. ‘You heard what happened on River Street?’
‘The shooting?’
She nodded. ‘She knows the victim. Daltrey asked us to come give statements.’
His expression grew somber. ‘I’m truly sorry to hear that.’
While Harper led Bonnie to a hard plastic chair, Dwayne disappeared behind his desk, reappearing a second later with a paper cup.
‘Here’s some water,’ he told Bonnie. ‘I’m sure you could use it.’
She accepted it numbly. ‘Thank you, Dwayne.’
‘Detective Daltrey won’t be too long,’ he said, squeezing her arm.
He was wrong about that, though.
Harper and Bonnie waited for more than half an hour in the arctic lobby.
Periodically, the buzz of Harper’s phone broke the silence as Miles sent her cryptic messages from the scene.
Cop source tells me purse untouched but phone missing.
Reading this, Harper’s brow furrowed. Surely no one had murdered Naomi over a phone?
She texted a quick reply:
What about wallet/money?
She stared at her phone, waiting impatiently for his response.
It killed her not to be out there with him. There was so much she could be doing right now, instead of sitting here.
When her phone buzzed again, though, it wasn’t with the answer she expected.
Told Baxter you knew the vic – she’s thrilled. Wants you in the office by nine.
Harper shoved her phone back in her pocket with more force than necessary.
When a police car pulled up out front, she craned her neck to see if it was Daltrey. Instead, a pair of uniformed officers got out, leading a handcuffed suspect to the back for processing.
By the time Daltrey finally walked through the bulletproof glass door, they were half-asleep. Bonnie had curled up in the plastic chair, her head resting on Harper’s shoulder.
It was nearly four in the morning. The night had begun to feel endless.
‘Sorry you had to wait,’ the detective told them crisply. ‘Come with me.’
They stood up slowly, muscles aching from the hard seats.
Bonnie’s eyes were puffy; her skin blotchy from crying. She was so out of place in this official world, with her turquoise hair and cowboy boots, it made Harper’s heart hurt.
At his desk, Dwayne pressed a button, unlocking the security door with a jarring buzz.
The long back corridor was lined with offices – this was where the real work of the police department got done. During the day it would be teeming with detectives, 911 operators and uniformed cops. At this hour, it was shadowy and still.
‘This way.’
Daltrey’s voice echoed as she guided them to the right. They walked past several doors before reaching the room she wanted.
Flipping on the light, she set her bag down next to a metal folding chair.
‘Have a seat, ladies,’ she told them with a brief twist of a smile.
The room was small and windowless, holding only a scarred wooden table and four chairs. A narrow sliver of mirror glittered coldly on one wall.
Daltrey waited as they settled into place across from her. In the harsh fluorescent light, Harper could see the long night was showing on her as well. There were shadows under her eyes, and the humidity had left a sheen on her skin.
‘This won’t take long,’ she said, pulling a notebook and a ballpoint from her bag. ‘I’d like you each to tell me in your own words about tonight. Your impressions of the victim.’
Harper knew she wouldn’t have much to say. All she knew was that three hours ago, Naomi had been alive – small and absorbed in her work, her heart-shaped face serious as she scrubbed The Library’s bar with a towel, her motions fast and angry. She’d barely looked at Harper when she sat down, and Harper hadn’t paid any attention to her. She was focused on her own problems. And on the margarita on the rocks Bonnie was setting in front of her.
Daltrey motioned at Bonnie. ‘You first, Miss Larson. I understand you knew her best.’
Bonnie glanced uncertainly at her.
‘I don’t know what to say …’
‘Anything you noticed could be helpful,’ Daltrey coaxed. ‘Start with the basics. How did she seem tonight? Happy? Unhappy? Frightened? Or did anything strange happen on her shift?’
Knotting her fingers on the tabletop, Bonnie thought it over.
‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘she seemed fine most of the night. Like, normal.’
Daltrey cocked her head.
‘You said “Most of the night”. What did you mean by that?’
‘She got a call on her cell just before one o’clock,’ Bonnie explained. ‘After that she seemed … I don’t know. Anxious, maybe? Upset. She asked if she could go early. We weren’t busy, so I told her she could. She cleaned her station and headed out right after Harper arrived.’
Daltrey made quick notes. ‘She didn’t say why?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘I assumed it was something to do with her boyfriend or her dad.’ She paused before explaining, ‘She and her dad are really close. Sometimes he picks her up after work.’
Daltrey’s eyes sharpened. ‘Do you know her father’s name?’
‘Jerrod Scott.’
‘He pick her up tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bonnie admitted. ‘I was working the bar alone by then. If he did, he didn’t come inside.’
‘But you say she seemed anxious,’ Daltrey said. ‘What made you think that?’
Bonnie paused.
‘Earlier in the night she’d been joking about things, kind of chilled. But after that call … It’s hard to explain. She seemed tense. Distracted. Like she’d gotten bad news.’
Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘If I’d known she was in trouble, I’d have done something. Tried to help.’
Daltrey made notes while Bonnie pulled herself together.
She had a good technique, Harper thought, approvingly. Brisk but not unfeeling.
When Bonnie had recovered, the detective resumed the interview.
‘I’m sorry to ask so many questions. I know it’s been a long night. But I am grateful for your help, Miss Larson.’
Bonnie gave a tremulous nod.
‘Now …’ The detective referred to her notes. ‘You mentioned a boyfriend. Did you see him tonight?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was at the bar. If he came to get her, he’d usually come in for a drink and wait for her to finish.’ She paused. ‘I think they’ve been taking a break lately, anyway.’
Harper noticed the interest flare in Daltrey’s eyes.
‘What’s the boyfriend’s name?’
‘Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Wilson Shepherd.’
She offered it willingly, thinking she was helping. Harper had a feeling she wouldn’t have been so eager if she knew why the detective wanted it.
Daltrey made her spell it. When she’d finished, she said, ‘Remind me again – what time did Naomi leave last night?’
‘Just after one,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m not sure of the exact time …’
‘I can answer that,’ Harper cut in.
Daltrey shot her a steely glance.
‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘And why is that?’
‘I happened to look at the clock above the bar when she walked out,’ Harper said. ‘I noticed it was one thirty, and I thought that was early for her to go. It isn’t normal for Bonnie to be left alone to close up.’
‘There are always supposed to be two workers in the bar,’ Bonnie explained, before Daltrey could ask. ‘For security. But since Harper was there, I figured it was fine.’
After noting this down, Daltrey said, ‘If you’re right, she left the bar on College Row at one thirty, and was shot to death thirty minutes later on River Street. Do either of you have any idea what she might have been doing down there?’
Her eyes welling, Bonnie shook her head, mutely.
‘No idea,’ Harper said.
‘Meeting the boyfriend?’ Daltrey suggested.
‘Her boyfriend lives in Garden City.’ Bonnie wiped a tear away with the side of her hand. ‘Naomi lives on 32nd Street. Those are both miles from downtown.’
Daltrey’s phone buzzed. She picked it up to look at the screen.
‘All right. That’s it for now, ladies.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood abruptly. ‘Leave your numbers with Dwayne, he’ll give you mine. Let me know if you think of anything you haven’t mentioned tonight. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.’
She directed them toward the lobby. Dazed, Bonnie headed down the hall, but Harper hung back with Daltrey, who was turning out the lights in the interview room.
‘Was Naomi robbed? If she wasn’t, what happened to her phone? We know she had it before she left the bar.’
Daltrey fixed her with a cool look. ‘I don’t know why you’re still talking, McClain. I don’t give tips to turncoats.’
Harper flinched.
No matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. The detectives who’d invited her to their parties, drunk beer with her, showed her pictures of their kids, now treated her like a criminal.
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said, stiffly, and left the room.
She didn’t wait to hear Daltrey’s response. It was always the same with all of them these days.
Traitor.
Chapter Three (#ucac769f1-70d8-584b-aa80-2eb53a110df6)
Five hours later, Harper walked into the newspaper’s offices, clutching a large black coffee and blinking in the sunlight flooding through the tall windows.
After leaving the police station, she’d grabbed a few hours’ rest in Bonnie’s insanely pink spare room. She’d crept out early to go home for a shower and change of clothes before heading to work, and she felt like she hadn’t slept at all.
The newsroom was busy and loud, with twelve writers and editors all typing and talking at once.
With its rabbit warren of corridors and narrow staircases, the sprawling, century-old building was designed to be a boarding house rather than a newspaper but, despite its worn edges, there was something undeniably grand about the place. This was most true of the newsroom, with its sturdy white columns and tall windows overlooking the river.
The reporters’ desks were set in rows, overlooked by three editors’ desks at the far end of the room and, beyond them, the glassed-in office of the paper’s managing editor, Paul Dells.
Harper’s desk was midway down the row closest to the windows. She’d had this prime position since the last round of layoffs removed many of the paper’s senior writers two years ago, and left the newsroom half empty.
As soon as she set her coffee down, DJ Gonzales spun his chair around to face her. His wavy dark hair was even more unruly than usual.
‘What are you doing here this early?’ he asked accusingly. ‘I thought you burned in daylight.’
‘I’m not a vampire, DJ,’ she told him, dropping into her seat. ‘I work nights. We’ve had this conversation.’
She switched on her computer with a move so automatic she couldn’t remember doing it two seconds later and took a sip of coffee.
‘Christ, I’m tired,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.
DJ rolled closer. ‘Were you up all night on this murder everyone’s talking about?’
Harper waved her coffee in affirmation.
He didn’t try to disguise his envy. DJ worked the education beat. He found Harper’s work endlessly glamorous.
‘Sounds like a juicy one. It was all over the TV this morning. You’re going to own tomorrow’s front page.’ His tone was wistful. ‘I can’t believe some chick got capped right in the middle of River Street.’
‘I can’t believe people still say “capped”,’ she replied.
‘Is it out of fashion?’ DJ sounded surprised. ‘I thought it was cutting edge.’
‘Harper.’
At the sound of Emma Baxter’s sharp bark from the front of the room, DJ spun his chair back toward his desk with pinpoint precision, and ducked behind his computer screen as if it were a shield.
The city editor strode across the room, her blunt-cut dark hair swinging against the shoulders of her navy blazer. Dells was right behind her.
‘Crap,’ Harper whispered.
The managing editor usually didn’t get involved in the crime beat. But this one must be big enough to attract his attention.
‘What’ve you got on River Street?’ Baxter asked as she neared Harper’s desk. ‘Why does Miles say you know the victim?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw DJ’s head bob up.
‘I don’t really know her. I just happened to be in the bar where she works last night,’ Harper explained, glancing at Dells.
‘Perfect,’ Baxter snapped. ‘Do me a first-person, emotional account – “A Brush With Death”. It can run alongside your main piece on the shooting.’
Dells stepped forward. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a dark-blue suit with a crisp white shirt that looked like it cost more than her car, and a pale blue silk tie. His dark hair was neatly styled.
‘What do we know so far?’ he asked. ‘The TV stations haven’t got much.’
‘The dead woman is Naomi Scott – a second-year law student.’ Harper flipped open her notebook. ‘Seemed to be your basic all-American girl. Left work at one thirty, died of two gunshot wounds. Found with her purse but not her phone. Cops aren’t saying if it was robbery. Nobody knows what the hell she was doing down by the river.’
‘Do we know who her family is?’ Dells asked. ‘Are they locals?’
‘I think so,’ Harper said. ‘Her father’s Jerrod Scott, I’m trying to track him down now.’
Baxter peered at the half-empty notebook. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘Come on.’ A defensive note entered Harper’s voice: ‘I was in the police station half the night.’
‘We’re holding most of the front page for this,’ Dells told her. ‘The TV stations are going to be all over it.’
‘I’ll start making calls,’ Harper said.
‘Good.’ Baxter’s tone was brisk. ‘I want to know who this girl was. If she was so perfect, how’d she end up dead in the street at two in the morning? Call the mayor’s office. Ask her what she’s going to do about people getting shot in the middle of the damned tourist district.’
Dells headed back to his office. Baxter followed, turning so fast her jacket flew off one bony shoulder.
Her last words floated behind her like a cluster bomb: ‘Do it fast. We need something for the website, now.’
When they were gone, DJ swung around to look at Harper, brown eyes wide behind smudged, wire-framed glasses.
‘Dude. You drank in her bar and then she died?’
Harper nodded.
He looked impressed. ‘Tell me something – do you ever think you might be cursed?’
Shooting him a withering glance, Harper logged in to her computer.
‘I’m busy, DJ.’
‘I’m only saying it’s worth a thought,’ he said, spinning back toward his own desk.
It was a bad joke but, as Harper hurriedly checked out the stories about the shooting on the local TV station websites, she found herself thinking about it, nonetheless. After all, Naomi wasn’t the first murder victim in her life.
The first murder victim had been her mother.
Harper had discovered her body on the kitchen floor when she was twelve years old. That still unsolved homicide set off a chain of events that led to her close relationship with the police.
It had also led to everything that happened last year, when Lieutenant Smith was convicted of a murder that had mirrored her mother’s killing in every way.
Breaking that story – and becoming part of it when she was shot by Smith – had raised Harper’s profile; ensuring her position at the newspaper, even in these shaky financial times.
Still, Baxter wasn’t one to stand on history. She needed a steady stream of juicy crime stories to anchor the front page. Even without police cooperation, Harper could provide that. She had her ways. She knew the system better than anyone.
As long as she could keep the headlines coming, her job was safe. She hoped.
Picking up the phone, Harper dialed the mayor’s office number. It rang five times before an assistant answered.
‘Thank you for calling Mayor Cantrelle’s office, how can I help you?’
‘This is Harper McClain at the Daily News. I’d like to ask the mayor some questions about the shooting on River Street last night.’
‘She’s in a meeting.’ The assistant’s tone indicated she wasn’t the first to call. ‘I’ll ask her to get back to you.’
‘Make it quick, would you? We’re in a rush.’
‘As I said,’ the assistant sounded unmoved, ‘she’s in a meeting.’
While she waited for the mayor to call her back, Harper opened an internet search engine and typed: ‘Naomi Scott’.
A flood of false returns filled her screen. A blogger with 40,000 Twitter followers dominated, along with a Chicago attorney.
When she added ‘Savannah’ to the search, though, she found what she was looking for.
It was a social networking site for students at the Savannah State College. The picture on Naomi’s page was arresting. Her shoulder-length black hair hung loose in waves. Her unblemished skin, high cheekbones and huge, cinnamon eyes gave her an ethereal beauty.
Harper stared at the familiar face for a moment.
‘What did you get yourself into?’ she murmured.
The short bio beneath the image said: ‘Young, free, and ambitious. Ready to change the world.’
It listed her area of study as criminal law. The only other information was a phone number and a student email address.
Leaving the landline open for the mayor’s call, Harper picked up her cell and dialed Naomi’s number.
It went straight to voicemail.
‘Hi. This is Naomi. Leave a message.’
Hearing the dead woman’s familiar voice was chilling.
Harper hung up and then immediately dialed another number. This one she knew by heart. As it rang, she stared at the picture of the vibrant young woman with her challenging eyes.
The ringing stopped abruptly. ‘Savannah Police Public Information.’
The voice was male and breathless – as if he’d snatched up the phone while running in search of a fire extinguisher. She could hear other voices in the background and people typing – the sounds of a busy office.
‘This is Harper McClain,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for whatever you’ve got on the Naomi Scott murder from last night.’
‘You and everybody else,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘The basics. Got any suspects?’
‘Nothing I can tell you on that.’
‘You looking for the boyfriend?’ she tried, already knowing the answer but also suspecting he wouldn’t verify it on the record.
He snorted a laugh. ‘Is this some sort of hoax? Or do you have any real questions?’
Harper tried a new angle. ‘Could you verify that her wallet was found in her bag?’
She heard him typing something.
‘That’s affirmative,’ he said.
‘Money in the wallet?’ she asked, propping the phone under her chin as she made notes.
‘Affirmative.’
In that case, it definitely wasn’t a robbery. Miles’s source had been right.
‘But her phone was MIA?’ she pushed it.
‘That is what it says on my screen,’ he said, adding, ‘Right now we don’t know if she lost it, left it at home, or got shot for it.’
Harper knew she hadn’t left it at home. Bonnie had seen Naomi take a call less than an hour before she left work.
‘Any witnesses?’
There was a pause, and she heard him clicking keys on his computer.
‘Negative,’ he said, after a second. ‘No witnesses have come forward. The body was found by two members of the public, walking home from a party at the Hyatt hotel.’
‘Can you give me their names?’ she asked.
‘Oh sure,’ his tone was sarcastic. ‘And would you like perfume on your birthday, or do you prefer flowers?’
‘Please?’ Harper begged. ‘Just one name?’
He made an exasperated sound. ‘You know I can’t tell you that, McClain.’
Through the line, she could hear another phone ringing.
‘Is that everything?’ His voice was impatient. ‘I’m a popular man today.’
‘I guess that’s it –’
Before she’d even finished the sentence, the phone went dead in her hand.
Well, at least, thanks to Bonnie, she had the father’s name. And the internet had given her his phone number.
She dialed the number and waited as it rang and rang. After eight rings, she hung up.
If she couldn’t reach family, she’d need to find someone else. But she had enough for the website now.
Turning to her computer, she quickly wrote up a short, sparse news story about the shooting.
Murder on River Street
By Harper McClain
The city was shaken in the early hours of this morning by news of a murder at the very heart of the city’s tourism district.
The victim was Naomi Scott, 24, a law student who also worked as a bartender at the Library Bar on College Row. Police say she was shot twice, at around two o’clock Wednesday morning.
No motive has been determined at this time, although robbery is unlikely.
As this story was being written, detectives were still looking into the details of the crime.
The body was discovered minutes after the murder by two members of the public. Police say no witnesses to the crime have come forward.
Calls for comment to Mayor Melinda Cantrelle’s office were not immediately returned.
She’d just sent the story across to Baxter when her phone rang.
‘McClain,’ she said, throwing her empty coffee cup in the bin.
‘Now look, Harper, my office will be issuing a statement at ten thirty. Don’t you dare write that I’m not replying, or that I’m trying to dodge this murder case.’
Mayor Melinda Cantrelle had a distinctive voice – rich and resonant, made for television. In fact, twenty years ago, she’d started her career anchoring the morning news on a local station. That experience gave her an air of cultivated calm most of the time, and she had a made-for-TV smile. But today she was talking fast, her words short and clipped.
Harper fired a quick message to Baxter: ‘Hold the story. Mayor on phone.’ And then leaned back in her chair, propping a notebook on her knee.
‘Of course not, Mayor Cantrelle,’ she said sweetly. ‘But the first story will go up on the website any minute now and I can’t have our readers think I didn’t try to reach you.’
‘Oh come on, Harper …’ The mayor did not sound happy.
‘Can’t you give me something small?’ Harper cajoled. ‘What does this murder mean for tourism? And will you be sending more police downtown? Anything like that would be enough to get that “no comment” out of my story.’
There was a long pause, during which Harper suspected the mayor was fighting to control her temper. She’d taken over the city leadership a year earlier, and Harper almost liked her – she had a blunt approach that, if nothing else, gave the appearance of honesty. At forty-five, she was younger than the gray-haired men who normally served as mayor, and she was still new enough at her job to pick up the phone at times like these.
‘The police have informed me they are searching for a suspect,’ the mayor said smoothly. ‘We believe this to be a family incident. It would be inappropriate for me to comment further while the investigation is underway. But we intend to get to the bottom of this, I can promise you that. I consider it my number one job to keep visitors and residents here safe.’
Harper wrote as she talked, pen skidding across her notepad.
‘A family incident? Can you be more specific?’ she asked, not looking up from the page. ‘You’re not saying her father had something to do with it, are you?’
‘This is off the record.’ The mayor lowered her voice. ‘But I’m told the detectives are looking for her boyfriend. They think this was a personal thing.’
Someone spoke in the background, and the sound suddenly became muffled. When Cantrelle returned she sounded rushed.
‘Look, I’m afraid I have to go. We’ll be issuing a full statement in an hour. Cathy will email it over. Call her if you need anything else.’
When she’d hung up, Harper read over her notes.
As she’d suspected when Daltrey questioned them last night, they thought it was the boyfriend.
She flipped through her notepad until she found his name: Wilson Shepherd.
It wasn’t a surprise. The vast majority of murdered women are killed by someone close to them – husband, boyfriend, friend. No more than one in ten murdered women are killed by someone they don’t know.
Harper had long thought women were afraid of the wrong thing. Women are scared of the hooded teen at a gas station, or the unknown man walking down the dark street late at night.
They should be afraid of their husbands.
When you get right down to it, if you’re a woman, being killed by someone you love is the most ordinary murder of all.
This was bad news. The paper hardly covered domestic violence.
‘There’s nothing there,’ Baxter had said, more than once. ‘No one wants to read about that stuff.’
She wasn’t wrong.
A random murder is a threat to everyone. It’s lawlessness in the streets.
But if a woman’s ex-boyfriend shoots her? Well. She should have made better choices.
If Naomi Scott was killed by Wilson Shepherd it would move the story to page six within a couple of days.
Harper kept trying to remember if she’d met Naomi’s boyfriend. Her mind summoned an image of a serious, chubby-cheeked guy, neatly dressed, sitting quietly at one end of the bar.
Otherwise, she knew nothing about him.
Before she’d gone to sleep last night, she’d asked Bonnie what she knew about him. All she’d said was that they met at school. She’d been so worn out Harper hadn’t wanted to push it.
She’d still be asleep now. But later today, she could see if she remembered more.
For now, she searched his name in the newspaper database and came up empty.
Staring at the empty screen, she tapped her fingers against the desk. She’d done all she could in the office. It was time to go hunting.
After typing up a quick update with the mayor’s statement and sending it through to the editor, she grabbed her scanner and stood up.
DJ glanced at her enquiringly.
‘I’m heading out,’ she said, stuffing a fresh notebook in her pocket. ‘If Baxter comes looking for me, tell her I’m off to find a killer.’
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