Page 24 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“So now you’re going by the book?” she asked.

“Strictly by the book.”

“Yeah, right. Not you, Reed.”

“Let’s stop by her house. See if the crime scene team is there yet.” He rattled off Bobbi’s address and Morrisette managed a police U-turn at the next alley. Then they were speeding south through the historic district, past refurbished homes with high porches, wide windows and gleaming shutters, around the park-like squares with their benches, statues and lush vegetation.

“There might be a little problem with you being on the case,” Morrisette pointed out as she lit up and cracked the window. The smell of Old Savannah wafted into the cruiser as it drew out the smoke.

“I worked it out with the sheriff.”

“That’s right,” McFee chimed in. The “silent one” finally spoke as Morrisette turned onto a side street.

“Yeah, in Lumpkin County. Okano might see it differently. She’s a stickler for details.” Morrisette held her cigarette in her teeth as she negotiated a tight corner.

Reed scowled into the night.

“That’s the trouble with lawyers.” Morrisette checked the rearview mirror as the police band crackled. “Always on the lookout for a lawsuit.”

“No, the trouble with lawyers is that they’re paranoid,” Reed grumbled, but he knew he was walking on thin ice. Katherine Okano, the D.A., was usually on his side and had been known to bend the rules a bit, but when she found out that he and Bobbi had been involved, she would likely pull the plug on his participation in the case. Morrisette hung a left at the next corner and drove up to Bobbi’s driveway. Several cruisers were parked on the street and crime-scene tape was being stretched across the yard. A K9 unit was included. Morrisette parked in the driveway and squashed her cigarette in the tray. All three detectives made their way through a team collecting evidence and into the house.

Aside from the buzz of activity, the place looked the same as it had the last time Reed stepped through the door. He made his way outside, ensured that his footprints, should there be casts made, were accounted for. “What have you found?” he asked Diane Moses, who was in charge of the crime scene team in Savannah. An African-American who had fought her way through the trenches, Diane was smart and tough. The running joke in the department was that if she wanted to, she could not only part the Red Sea, but divide it into a grid.

“Not much. Still collecting. The big news is no forced entry. But then, her car is missing. She must have met the killer somewhere, either by accident or intent.”

“Not an accident. This murder was planned.”

“If you say so.”

“No one goes to the trouble of digging up a coffin just on the off chance he runs across a victim.” Nor does he address a note specifically to a cop.

“Well, it looks like our gal was into sex and God. Fun and religion. All sorts of sex toys in the bedroom, but her reading material was spiritual. Go figure.”

The place was being photographed and videotaped, though there was no evidence of a crime. Every part of Barbara Jean Marx’s life was about to be opened up to the public. Including questions about her relationships. His name was bound to come up.

“Did you check her computer? E-mail? Her phone?”

“We’re taking the hard drive with us and there were no messages left on her phone. No trace of Caller ID for the numbers coming in.”

“You’re certain?” he asked, glancing at the phone. “No messages?”

Diane looked up from her clipboard. “That’s what I said, no messages.”

“What about hang ups?”

Frown lines pulled her eyebrows together. “Nothing. Nada. The tape on the machine was empty. If she had a cell phone or a purse, we haven’t found either. Anything else?” she asked. “Because if not, I’ve got work to do.” At that moment, the photographer asked her a question and Reed backed off. He walked to the telephone and looked at it. The message light was not blinking. So someone else had been here, after his evening visit.

They left after another ten minutes and Morrisette took the wheel again as they headed back to the station. The night seemed darker, headlights bright as they flashed by, street lamps giving off a false blue sheen. A few Christmas lights adorned houses lining the streets, and every once in a while he caught a glimpse of a decorated tree, festively aglow in a large window.

He’d forgotten it was the yule season.

Not that it mattered.

Morrisette gunned the engine as they whipped by Colonial Cemetery. The graveyard looked barren and bleak with its ancient headstones and dry grass. And this was the return address for the missive he’d received yesterday morning. As if whoever had penned the note had been here. “We need to check with all the local cemeteries,” he said, eyeing the few leafless trees planted between the old grave markers. “See if any of the graves have been disturbed.”

“You think whoever planted the coffin up in the mountains got it from down here?” McFee asked.

“It’s possible,” he thought aloud, but then, anything was. Glancing through the back window he wondered if he was being followed. Had Bobbi’s killer been watching him? Seen him walk familiarly through the house? Or had he been hiding in the shadows, in a tiny nook or cranny, and Reed had walked right by him? Or was it someone else who had the key to Bobbi’s place and had come looking for her? What about her husband? Jerome Marx had still been paying her bills. As far as Reed knew, Bobbi’s part-time job wouldn’t pay her Visa bill.

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