Page 23 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

He snorted as he eased off the desk. “For pushing Metzger?” he asked and shook his head. “Nah. As I said, a little good old competition doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“So, I’ve got the green light to investigate the story?”

“As long as you don’t get in Metzger’s way.” Fink was nodding, his head keeping time with his moving foot.

“What about him getting in my way?”

“Now, you’re pushing it, Gillette.”

She held up both hands beside her head as if in surrender. “Just checkin’ the boundaries.”

“Now, you know them.” He stood and she took it as her cue to do the same.

She was nearly at the door when he said, “And play this one straight, okay? Nothing that would get the paper into any trouble, legal or otherwise.”

Reflexively her spine straightened. She knew what he was talking about. The Chevalier case. Long dead, but one that would haunt her for the rest of her life. She’d been young and green at the time and had compromised nearly everyone she knew, including her father, all for the sake of a story. She’d learned her lesson. A long time ago. Turning to face him again, she inched her chin up and said icily, “Trust me, everything I get will be on the up-and-up. You and the Sentinel will be able to bank on my story.”

Fink offered his almost-a-smile. “That’s all I need to know.”

Amen, she thought, but didn’t say it. No reason to tick him off. Not when he’d finally agreed to let her do something with more meat to it than school board agendas and interviews with the historic preservation committee. It crossed her mind as she zigzagged through the cubicles that she shouldn’t trust him, but she put the feeling aside. She could access her suspicions later. For now, she was finally able to prove herself. With Fink’s blessing. Things were looking up. She’d spend a few hours here, catching up on some of the stories she had in the works, then she’d pick up where she left off. That meant tracking down Detective Pierce Reed.

Finding him wouldn’t be tough but getting him to open up would be something else altogether. She’d tried to interview him before and he’d always responded to her as if she were a pariah. His attitude toward the press and the people’s right to know needed a serious adjustment and Nikki figured she knew just how to do that.

No doubt Reed had a skeleton or two in his closet—a dirty little secret that he’d rather not have anyone know about.

This is close to blackmail, Nikki, that damned voice in her head chided, but she wasn’t listening. Not today. She’d be careful with whatever information she dug up. She just needed a little firepower, something to get him to confide in her. Her conscience pricked again. How would you like Reed digging into your past?

Ignoring the question, she made her way to her cubicle and before she called Dr. Francis back or finished her story on the school board, she connected to the Internet and her favorite search engine where she typed in Detective Pierce Reed. As she waited for the links about Reed to appear, she made a mental note to check on his marital status and any more information about what had happened to him in San Francisco. And what about the fact that he’d spent the first few years of his life in Northern Georgia, up near Blood Mountain and the site of the graves before his parents had split and his mother had hauled him to Chicago before eventually landing on the West Coast. Despite all that Reed kept returning to Savannah, once about fifteen years or so ago and then again recently. Why? She made a note to herself to dig deeper in Lumpkin County, to talk to the sheriff, the kid who was hurt, his cousin, and anyone else who knew Reed growing up. There had to be a reason that Reed went all the way up there.

The computer screen flickered and she smiled. Detective Pierce Reed had dozens of links of information about him. There was a veritable wealth of data, much of it tagged to the Savannah Sentinel. But there were other bits of info, including a series of articles in San Francisco and Oakland, California newspapers.

With a click of the mouse, Nikki Gillette got a glimpse inside the personal and professional life of Detective Pierce Reed. She saw pictures of him as a much younger man and decided that as handsome as he’d been back then, he looked better now. At least, he was more appealing to her. He’d filled out, his hair was dusted with a bit of gray, but his bold features and hawkish eyes seemed to fit better into a craggy face where squint lines and beard shadow dared appear. The disappointment and suspicion that guarded his gaze these days only added to his allure.

You’re a sick woman, she told herself. And always get involved with the wrong type. Sean Hawke is a case in point. As attractive as Reed may be, remember that any interest you have in him is singularly and totally professional. You have a story to write, a career to bolster, and what you don’t need by any stretch of the imagination is a romantic entanglement.

She nearly laughed out loud. Romance? With Pierce Reed? The quintessential hater of the fourth estate?

What a joke!

“I want to find out who was the last person to see Bobbi Jean alive,” Reed growled at Morrisette and McFee as they drove away from Marx’s office. It was dark, nearly nine o’clock, the streetlights keeping the night at bay and Morrisette, driving with her usual lead foot, was at the wheel. Reed was riding shotgun and McFee was in the backseat of the cruiser. They’d spent the day driving to Atlanta and observing as an ashen-faced Jerome Marx had identified his estranged wife. He’d never broken down, hadn’t allowed one solitary tear to track from his eyes and hadn’t seemed overly grief-stricken, but he had appeared shocked to learn of her death and that trauma hadn’t wo

rn off when he’d viewed the body. He’d watched as the sheet was lifted, every muscle in his body stiffening. “It’s her,” he’d whispered and turned away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her.

Reed hadn’t determined if his revulsion was because she was dead, or because he’d been divorcing her. Whatever the reason, if Jerome Marx had thrown her alive and screaming into that coffin, he was doing a damned fine job of hiding his guilt. He’d talked freely to them and agreed to a polygraph test. He’d asked where her ring was, the one he’d given her for an anniversary, then said she’d probably taken it off because of the divorce proceedings that had been pending. When asked if they could search his premises, he’d not even batted an eye, nor asked to speak to his attorney. For all practical purposes, Marx was acting as if he had nothing to hide. But Reed wasn’t buying it.

“And I want all her phone records and—”

“Yeah, yeah, the usual, I know,” Morrisette said as she drove. “Friends. Relatives.”

“Bobbi’s got a brother somewhere around New Orleans, I think, but her parents are deceased.”

“Kids?” Morrisette asked as she reached for a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights. She managed to shake out the last cigarette and negotiate a turn near the river.

“None that I know of.” Reed’s mind was working overtime and he was barking orders. “We’ll work backward from there. We’ll check with her job, her landlady, her friends. Someone must know something. I’ve had her house watched, just to see if anyone shows up.” When Morrisette cast a glance in his direction, he added, “Until the body was positively ID’d we couldn’t get a search warrant.”

“You ID’d the body,” she said.

“It wasn’t as official as her husband’s.”

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