Page 102 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“Jesus, what crappy weather,” she growled.

Night had already fallen, streetlights glowing through the thickening fog, headlights few and far between. Rush hour was over; traffic no longer snarled and slowed. “Look, Reed,” Morrisette said as they reached his El Dorado, “I thought about it and I guess I came on a little strong this morning.”

“You guess right.” His keys were already in his hand.

“So, you’re pissed, right?” She was reaching into her purse, digging, presumably, for her pack of Marlboros.

“You’re batting a thousand.” Unlocking the car, he didn’t bother to glance in her direction.

“Hey, I’m just doing my job.”

“I know.” He swung the car door open and the interior light flashed on. “So, do it. You don’t need to apologize.”

“Come on, Reed, when did you get to be so thin-skinned?” She found a crumpled pack and shook out a cigarette. “You know what the drill is.”

“Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Yeah.” She clicked her lighter to the end of her filter tip and drew in hard. “First of all, we haven’t got much out of Nikki Gillette’s apartment. No fingerprints or any other hard evidence.” Morrisette blew out a cloud of smoke. It dissipated into the gathering fog. “She was right. The door and windows weren’t forced, so we have to assume whoever got in had a key—he either had it made, stole it, or borrowed it from someone who had one, most likely Ms. Gillette.

“The microphone we found in her bedroom is identical to the two we found in the coffins and we’re checking with stores and distributors who deal in all that electronic shit, including on-line dealers. All the mikes are wireless, kind of sophisticated, so we figure our guy is probably a techno geek. We’re looking for anyone who bought at least three of that brand and make of microphone and the listening devices that go with them.”

“Good.”

“So, I guess I’m telling you that we’re done searching her apartment. We’ve got all we can get from there.” Morrisette took another drag. “Siebert called her already. Gave her the green light. She can move back in.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because I thought you’d want to know.” She lifted a brow as smoke drifted from her nostrils. “Right?”

“Yeah.” A cruiser rolled in and parked two slots down from the Caddy.

“And there’s something else.” He heard the tension underlying her words; realized she was about to give him bad news. She glanced back at the station before meeting his eyes. “The DNA results on Barbara Jean Marx’s baby came back.”

His shoulders tightened.

“It confirmed the blood test.”

“Great.” He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Not that he hadn’t expected it, but this was so final. So unequivocal. A blood test left a little

doubt. DNA did not.

She looked at him hard, her eyes squinting against the darkness. “If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry.”

His jaw slid to one side. Cold air collected on his face.

“I know. It’s a bitch.” Morrisette flicked her cigarette onto the pavement. Its red tip glowed for a second before sizzling and dying in a puddle. A brief little light. Extinguished quickly. “Hang in there.” Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she walked toward the back door of the station.

Standing in the parking lot in the night, Reed felt suddenly alone. Empty inside. Hollow.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and stared up at the heavens. Above the glow from the city lights, there was nothing but cloud cover. He should have experienced something more than this gnawing vacuum within him, something akin to loss. But how can you lose something you never really had?

The baby hadn’t been planned. Nor had it been wanted. It would have complicated his life immeasurably and yet…and yet he experienced a deep-seated desolation that would only be assuaged by vengeance. That, at least, he could fix. He planned on finding the son of a bitch who had done this and stringing the bastard up by his miserable balls.

Climbing behind the wheel of his El Dorado, he jabbed his keys into the ignition. A look in the rearview mirror reflected haunted eyes that were dry but seething with pent-up anger, a beard-darkened jaw that was set in stone, lips that folded over his teeth in newfound determination.

“Shit,” he growled. “Goddamned son of a bitch!” He threw the car into gear and backed up, then rammed the gearshift into drive. He punched the accelerator. The Caddy shot out of the parking lot and onto the foggy street.

Reed considered stopping by the local watering hole for a drink or two or six. Tonight would be a great night to get blotto and have the barkeep pour him into a cab. Jack Daniels sounded like a pretty damned good friend.

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