Page 44 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“And what’ll you do?”

“Work on other cases, of course.”

“Give me a break.” Morrisette snorted. “Okay, okay, so that’s the way we’ll play it. Okano will have your badge if she finds out you’re still working on this. Even in an advisory capacity.”

“But I’m not working on it.”

“My ass.”

Reed didn’t argue as a matronly clerk rapped on the door, entered and dropped a bundle of mail into his box. “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” Reed replied. “How’s it going, Agnes?”

“Same old, same old.” Her eyes slid to the desk. “I see you’re gettin’ yourself some press.”

“It’s hell to be popular.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Chuckling, she left.

Reed grimaced as he snapped the rubber band off the bundle and began shuffling through the small stack. “I’ll want to know when we can talk to the kid in the hospital.”

“Prescott Jones?”

“Yeah. Check on his condition and if he’s allowed visitors. See if we can get in to talk to him for a few minutes.”

“You mean see if I can get in to see him.”

Reed grimaced. “That’s right. There’s a good chance he’s seen the killer. And so far, he’s the only one. Take a picture of Marx up there with you and flash it at the kid. Then double check Jerome Marx’s alibi.” Reed continued sorting through his mail as he talked. “Have you talked with anyone where Barbara Jean worked—Hexler’s Jewelry Store near the Cotton Exchange?”

“Already looking into it. And I’ve started with a list of her friends. What about relatives?”

“There’s a brother, I think. Maybe an aunt. The brother’s name is”—he flipped through the envelopes—“Vic or Val or…”

“Vin. Vincent Lassiter. That one I’ve checked out, but he’s MIA. His phone was disconnected a week ago and he did some time. Car theft, solicitation and possession, nothing violent that I’ve come up with.”

“Hell’s bells, aren’t you the efficient one?” Reed looked up from the mail.

“Just doin’ my job,” she quipped. “I thought you might want to put a friendly call in to Detective Montoya in New Orleans, to double check on Lassiter. Unofficially, of course.”

“Of course.”

“See what he knows about Lassiter.”

“Good idea.” He glanced down at the mail and saw the envelope.

An average white envelope, handwritten, addressed to him.

“Shit.”

The return address was out of town on Heritage Road. No name. He stopped sorting and slit the envelope open. A single page was enclosed. It read:

ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…

SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?

He froze. Reread the damning words over and over again.

“What?” Morrisette said. She was on her feet in an instant. Looking over his shoulder, she read the message. “Oh, Jesus.” She moved her gaze to stare straight at Reed. “This son of a bitch means business.”

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