Page 132 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

She was right. Reed rubbed the back of his neck and wished he understood the cryptic note. As far as the police knew, Pauline Alexander, Thomas Massey and Tyrell Demonico Brown were the only three jurors who’d died of natural causes. Another three, Barbara Marx, Roberta Peters and now Simone Everly had been buried alive. At the Grave Robber’s hands. The other six jurors were alive and under police protection. And that total was only twelve. Why up the score by five? What was the significance of that particular number? He thought of Nikki and how the Grave Robber had chosen her to contact. To terrorize. The creep had been in her apartment? Bugged her? Why? And why contact Reed as well?

Because you both were involved in the Chevalier trial. This all has something to do with what went down then when Chevalier was arrested and sent to prison.

Reed had already gone over all the notes of the trial, had requested all the prison records on the guy and found nothing that would help. Maybe if the senior detective who had helped collar Chevalier were still alive, he would remember something about the trial that would help. But Reed’s ex-partner was dead.

“I tell ya, the guy’s messin’ with us. Ten and two and five?” Morrisette cut in.

“It’s his way of telling us there will be seventeen bodies, and, check it out, the note had to be seventeen words long.”

“What a crock,” Siebert cut in.

Morrisette glared at the note as if it were pure evil.

“Listen, this just doesn’t make any sense. The guy’s way off.” Cliff was obviously not buying into Reed’s line of reasoning. “There weren’t seventeen jurors.”

“What about alternates, or other people involved in the trial?” Reed asked, thinking aloud. “We’re not talking about a rational guy, you know.”

“Shit, no,” Morrisette muttered under her breath, lines creasing her forehead.

The new note from the Grave Robber meant more death. More killing. More work and more frustration.

“There aren’t five alternates on a jury panel, you know that. And why up the score now?” Morrisette wondered aloud and Reed could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. “To confuse us? Jesus, this is one sick prick.” She stared at the damned note. “I hate to say it, but I think you’re right. For whatever the reason, the bastard’s definitely talking about seventeen.”

“Son of a bitch,” Siebert growled.

Haskins stared at the note. “I’ll check with our profiler. See what she says about this guy.”

“This guy? Meaning you don’t think it’s Chevalier?” Morrisette exchanged looks with Reed.

The FBI agent held up a hand. “I’m just covering all the bases, but yeah, I think it’s Chevalier. Everyone who died suspiciously who was on the jury—even good old Tyrell here—kicked off after Chevalier was released. Coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Morrisette said. “I’m an ‘everything for a reason’ kind of girl.”

Reed’s cell phone beeped. Turning his back on the crowd in the tent as the wind tugged at the flaps, he answered, “Reed,” seeing from Caller ID that the call was long distance.

“Rick Bentz, New Orleans P.D. You asked me to call you when we located Vince Lassiter.”

“I did.”

“We found him today in a hospital in San Antonio. Drug OD, no ID on him, so it took a while for us to piece it all together. According to hospital records, he was admitted five days ago, comatose, only regained consciousness late last night. Doesn’t look like he’s your boy.”

“It sure doesn’t,” Reed agreed. He’d already struck Bobbi Jean’s brother from the list of suspects.

“How’s the investigation coming along?”

“Unearthed another body today. Same M.O. Buried alive.”

“Hell.”

“Yeah, that’s what it’s been around here.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will,” Reed agreed before hanging up and deciding he had to face Nikki. He slipped through the vent in the tent and saw her stiffen in the passenger seat. Other reporters, all clustered near the front gate, started hurling questions at him, but he ignored them, didn’t even bother acknowledging their presence. No doubt he was being filmed from the news chopper overhead and from the handheld cams on the other side of the iron bars. He only hoped that the footage would be edited out before the story aired and that Nikki Gillette wasn’t recognized as the woman sitting in his car.

What were the chances of that?

Without a word he opened the car door, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “I’m sorry,” he said and she let out a weak gasp. She looked away, through the passenger window as he drove away from the cemetery.

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