Page 71 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“She won’t tell…won’t give up a source.”

“It comes from the department. Maybe we should figure it out here.”

“Could be more than one guy,” Morrisette thought aloud as she plopped into a side chair.

“Or woman.”

“I meant guy in the nonsexist manner. I meant it as officer or secretary or janitor, for Christ’s sake.” Both her eyebrows raised. “Touchy today, aren’t we?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I suppose.”

“And don’t forget about this.” He slid a printed copy of the E-mail he’d received at home across the desk, carefully avoiding his half-full coffee cup and a stack of files.

She glanced at the page and sighed. “I thought about that all last night.”

“Just a friendly little note from the killer,” he said sarcastically. “It loses something in hard copy, though, here…I’ve got it on the screen.”

“Grave Robber on a roll…Now we have number four. One third done, will there be more?” she read aloud, though she’d seen it herself. “So, have the nerds figured out who sent it?”

“Not yet. I tried to respond last night, but the answer kicked back at me. Not really a surprise. Bentley hopes he can go through the address and server or whatever the hell they are and find out where the E-mail came from, but I’m certain he won’t be able to. He’s forwarded it on to the FBI.”

“Man, you’ve been busy this morning.”

“Already talked to Okano, too. There’ll be a statement.”

“Did she warn you off the case again?” Morrisette cozied up to the radiator under the windowsill.

“Yeah, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that this Grave Robber, whoever the hell he is, is contacting me. Here ya go…take another look at this.”

Giving up the warmth of the heater, Morrisette leaned across the desk as Reed twisted the computer monitor so that she could view the original message from the killer and watch all the graphics, twisting pictures of the victims, their faces becoming skulls, their bodies morphing into skeletons before the bones disintegrated into rubble only to be resurrected into the original pictures again. “Who is this guy?”

“Don’t know. But we’d better find out fast.”

“I’ve cross-referenced the four victims—assuming that the already dead guys in the coffins are part of this thing…. Anyway, other than that they all lived in Savannah, there isn’t much that ties ’em together. Barbara Jean Marx and Roberta Peters are about as different as night and day in age, interests, style…The only link I can find so far is that they were both patrons of the arts. They both went to charity functions and gallery openings, that sort of thing. But whereas Roberta had a real interest in the arts, Barbara just tagged along after her husband. You know, trophy wife. Well, yeah, I guess you do know.”

Reed shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“So, now there’s gonna be more?”

“A total of twelve.”

“Isn’t that odd? To come up with a number of victims who are unconnected. I mean, if you’re a killer, you’re a killer, right? Why limit yourself?”

“Maybe he isn’t limiting himself. Maybe this is just the first wave. Twelve here and then he’ll move on. Or twelve just to tease us.” Reed was fiddling with his pencil, tapping an eraser on the desk. He popped a couple of ibuprofen he found in the top drawer, then washed them down with cold coffee.

“So, you think he’s trying to throw us off?”

“No, this is a clue to what he’s doing. He’s trying to engage us…or engage me.”

“Yeah, why you?”

“Because of Bobbi.”

“Nah. Doesn’t wash. Unless you were having a hot affair with Roberta Peters, too,” she said with the hint of a smile.

He snorted. “Too young for me.”

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