Page 2 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

Above the gruesome silence she thought she heard laughter. It sounded far away, but she knew it was meant for her to hear. He wanted her to know. To hear him before she drew her last breath.

Whoever had done this to her was enjoying it.

CHAPTER 1

“That son of a bitch is taking me back to court!” Morrisette blazed into Reed’s office and slapped some legal papers on the corner of his desk. “Can you believe it?” she demanded, her west Texas drawl all the more evident in her fury. “Bart wants to reduce my child support by thirty percent!” Bart Yelkis was Sylvie Morrisette’s fourth and latest ex-husband and father of her two kids. For as long as Reed had been with the Savannah Police Department, Sylvie and Bart had been at odds over how she raised Priscilla and Toby. Sylvie was tough as dried leather and rarely kept her sarcastic sharp tongue in check. She smoked, drank, drove as if she were in the time trials for the Indy 500, swore like a sailor and dressed as if she were pushing twenty rather than thirty-five, but she was first and foremost a mother. Nothing could bristle her neck hairs faster than criticism of her kids.

“I thought he was caught up in his payments.”

“He was, but it was short-lived, believe me. I should have known. It was just too effin’ good to be true. Damn it all, why can’t the guy be a dad, huh?” She dropped her oversize purse onto the floor and shot Reed a glance that convinced him right now all the men in Morrisette’s life were suddenly considered big-time losers. Including him. Morrisette had a reputation for being tough, a woman hell-bent to do a man’s job, a prickly female cop whose tongue was razor-sharp, her opinions unpopular, her patience with “good ol’ boys” nil and her language as blue as any detective’s on the force. She wore snakeskin boots that were far from department issue, spiked platinum hair that looked as if Billy Idol had been her hairdresser, and had an attitude that would make any young punk think twice about taking her on. Reed had suffered many a sympathetic glance from other cops who pitied him for his bad luck in the partner draw. Not that he cared. In the short time he’d been back in Savannah, Reed had learned to respect Sylvie Morrisette, even if he did have to walk on eggshells upon occasion. This morning her face was flushed a color bordering carmine and she looked as if she could spit nails.

“Can he do that—reduce the payments?” Reed had been opening his mail but, for the moment, set his letter opener on a desk that was a jungle of papers.

“If he can find himself a wimp of a judge who’ll buy into his pathetic, poor-pitiful-me act. So, Bart lost his job, so what? He should get off his ass and find another means of gainful employment—you know, like normal people do? Instead, he thinks he’ll cut back on me and the kids.” She rolled her eyes and straightened her petite frame, from the worn heels of her boots to the top of her spiked blond hair. Her west Texas drawl was stronger than ever when she was on a tear and she was on a major one this morning. “Bastard. That’s what he is! A card-carrying, dyed-in-the-wool, fucking bastard.” She stalked to the window and glowered outside at the gray Savannah winter. “Jesus, it’s not as if he pays us millions to begin with. And they’re his kids. His kids. The ones he always complains about not seeing enough!” She stomped a booted foot and swore under her breath. “I need a drink.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“Who cares?”

Reed wasn’t too concerned. Morrisette was known to go into overdrive in the theatrics department, especially when her kids or one of her four ex-husbands was involved. Her domestic traumas reinforced his vow to remain single. Spouses were trouble and cops didn’t need any more than they already had. “Can’t you fight him?” Reed drained a cup of tepid coffee, then crushed the paper cup and tossed it into an overflowing wastebasket.

“Yeah, but it’ll cost. I’ll need a damned attorney.”

“The town’s lousy with them.”

“That’s the problem. Bart’s got a friend who owes him a favor—a lawyer friend. So he called in his marker and she filed a motion or whatever the hell it is. A woman. Can you believe it? Where’s the sisterhood, huh? That’s what I’d like to know. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of female bond where ya don’t go trompin’ all over another woman’s child support?”

Reed didn’t touch that one with a ten-foot pole. As far as he knew, Morrisette wasn’t part of any sisterhood. She ran roughshod over men and women with equal vigor. He picked up his letter opener again and began slitting a plain white envelope addressed to him in care of the Savannah Police Department. The address was written in plain block letters: DETECTIVE PIERCE REED. The return address seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“So, this is it,” Morrisette groused. “My kids’ future in the toilet because Bart built this woman a fence for her dogs a few years back and whamo—she goes after my paltry support check.” Morrisette’s eyes slitted. “There oughta be a law, ya know. Don’t people in the legal profession, and I use the term loosely, hav

e better things to do than file stupid lawsuits to screw little kids out of a piece of their father’s paycheck?” She raked her fingers through her already unruly hair before storming back to the desk and scooping up her legal papers. Flopping into a side chair, she added, “I guess I’ll be putting in for overtime, and lots of it.”

“You’ll get through this.”

“Screw you,” she spat. “The last thing I expected from you, Reed, is platitudes. Okay? So stuff ’em.”

He swallowed a smile. “Whatever you say.”

“Yeah, right.” But she seemed to cool off a bit.

“Why don’t you sue Bart for more money? Turn the tables on him.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it, but it’s the old adage of tryin’ to get blood out of a damned turnip.”

Reed glanced up at her and grinned. “You might not get anything but the squeezing might be fun.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“You brought it up,” he reminded her as he extracted a single sheet of white paper from the envelope.

“Don’t remind me. My luck with men.” She sighed through her nose. “If I were smart I’d become a nun.”

“Oh, yeah, that would work,” Reed mocked. He unfolded the single page. There was nothing on the paper save a few lines written in the same neat block letters that had been used in the envelope’s address:

ONE, TWO,

THE FIRST FEW.

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