Page 96 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

His disguises were many. They fooled most people. No one seemed to remember him as he was and that was the way he wanted it. Of course, he’d been much younger then.

He pulled out his scrapbook and found the picture of Nikki—she’d been younger, too, freshfaced and green as a reporter. Her red-gold hair had been longer, her eyes bright and vibrant. Without fear. A daughter any man, even the bastard judge, should take pride in.

But fathers rarely did.

Born of privilege, athletic and beautiful, Nikki Gillette had never had to struggle. “Cunt,” he muttered and slammed the book shut.

You expected her to go to the police once she got the note, didn’t you? Everything’s fine…stay calm…stay focused.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the dots of sweat from his forehead. He couldn’t lose it now. He had too much work to do. And it was all coming together. He slipped his fingers into his pocket again and withdrew the tiny cell phone. Neat. Compact. A flip phone. Kind of sexy. Just like its owner.

CHAPTER 22

“Just tell me you’re not the fuckin’ snitch, okay?” Morrisette was mad as a wet hen as she strode into Reed’s office. It was late morning and she had obviously gotten up on the wrong side of bed.

“You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” she demanded, slamming the door shut behind her. “The truth of the matter is that I don’t know shit. Well, that’s not entirely right. I do know that you are off the Grave Robber case, and yet you were with Nikki Gillette last night, and both your and my asses are gonna be in slings if you don’t get smart. So tell me again and repeat it slowly, ‘I’m not the snitch, Sylvie.’”

He stared at her. “Bad night?”

“Christ, yes. You were there.” She ran stiff fingers through her hair, making it stand even farther from her head. With a look over her shoulder to make sure the door was still closed, she lowered her voice, planted both hands on his desk and leaned closer to him. “You and I both know that in order for you to be anywhere near this case you had better keep a low profile, and I mean low. You might want to risk your job, but I don’t. I have two kids to support, Reed, so don’t fuck with me!”

“This is getting us nowhere.”

She stopped short. “Okay. You’re right. I just want to nail this bastard.”

“So do I.”

“Well, do it from the sidelines, will ya? No, better yet, don’t do it at all. Leave it to me. I need this job, though, sometimes, I gotta tell ya, I’m ready to take my retirement and run. I do have a life, you know, outside of this place.”

“How’s it going?”

“Just swell. Bart’s decided that he shouldn’t have to pay a nickel. Not one nickel, and so we’re going to court. Well, you knew that. Priscilla’s talking about living with Daddy, and my son…well, some kids in preschool are giving him trouble. And then there’s this fuck—er, effin’ Grave Robber case I’m supposed to crack.” She thumped a finger on the paper tucked on the corner of Reed’s desk. “You know—the one in which one of the victims was pregnant and involved with my partner and—” She must’ve read something in his eyes, because she came up short. “Jesus. I need coffee. At least two gallons. Maybe three.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve found out?”

“You’re not a part of the investigation. Remember?”

“Last night Sheriff Jed Baldwin got in to see the kid who was attacked in the woods, Prescott Jones. Baldwin faxed me a copy of his interview. It’s not much more than we already had, but it’s something.” Reed slid the three sheets across the desk. “Also, I got hold of Angelina, the maid for Roberta Peters. Here’s the address.” He slid another sheet onto the first three.

“Also, I’ve got addresses for most of the people who had access to Nikki Gillette’s apartment—filled in the ones she couldn’t remember. Some have phone numbers.” Another sheet skidded onto the ever-growing pile. “And I was finally able to connect with Reverend Joe. I left a message and he called me back, none too happy about being phoned at five A.M.—it was meditation hour or some such garbage—but when I got through all the double-talk, I figure the mission was taking Roberta Peters financially, but they weren’t beneficiaries on her insurance policy. Turns out she has a niece in Charlotte, North Carolina, who gets the bulk of her estate, including Maximus, that’s her cat. Here’s the name of Roberta Peters’s lawyer and the address and phone number of the niece.” He pushed those papers onto the pile. “I’ve also come up with a list of my enemies, people I’ve wronged and those I’ve put away. Jerome Marx is number one.”

“Airtight alibi.”

“I know, but I still included him along with the creeps that I sent to prison and are now out. Take a look at this—there are twelve.”

“What?” Morrisette froze.

“Twelve who’ve gotten out since I’ve been back in Savannah.” He pointed to his compiled list.

“That’s downright scary.”

“Mmm. The last guy is our good buddy LeRoy Chevalier.”

“Shit.” She picked up the paper, scanned the list of lowlife bastards who should never have been allowed back into society. “You have addresses for these guys?”

“Got calls into the parole officers, but I gave them your name. As you pointed out, I’m off the investigation. Start with Chevalier, though, his conviction was twelve years ago. The twelfth guy, in the twelfth year. It could be nothing, but there was something about that trial that bothers me.”

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