Page 136 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“I like to think I always had one.”

“To report the news one has to be unbiased. Completely,” he said and she sensed something bad was coming at her. Something with the velocity of a freight train. “Simone Everly was a friend of yours, wasn’t she? Engaged to your brother

years ago?” he asked, then, as if he were suddenly aware that he was coming on too strong, added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Are you?” she shot back.

“Of course. This is an awful thing. Awful. It’s no wonder you feel defensive.”

“Defensive?” Where was this coming from?

“I wouldn’t blame you if you threw in the towel.”

She didn’t respond, just waited. Sooner or later Tom would get to his point, the reason he’d pounced upon her the minute she’d walked into the office and started taking off her coat and scarf.

“Because of your relationship with Simone Everly and the Grave Robber, we have a unique opportunity here at the Sentinel.”

“We?” she repeated.

“Mmm. Let’s turn the tables around a bit,” he said, moving his hands rapidly in two circular motions. “Instead of you doing the interview, you’ll be interviewed.”

This was getting worse by the minute.

“Norm can do an in-depth article about Simone, you, and the Grave Robber, kind of a full-circle thing. It’ll focus on your relationship with the killer and one of his victims.”

“No way. Tom, don’t—” But he was already on his feet, tapping at the glass window and motioning someone in. A second later Norm Metzger slipped through the door. He was carrying a recorder, a pen, and a thick, virgin notepad without so much as an apostrophe on the pages.

“Nikki,” he said, dipping his head but unable to conceal his smarmy smile.

“Tom told me about the article,” she said and forced a replica of his grin.

“Great.”

“I think I should start with a statement.”

“Good idea,” he said, though there was a new wariness in his tone. “What kind of statement?”

Nikki stood and kicked back her chair. “It’s pretty simple and straightforward.”

“Nikki—” Tom warned.

“Here it is, Metzger. When Ms. Gillette was asked about the death of her friend Simone Everly, her only response was a clipped, clear ‘No comment!’”

And then she was outta there.

Reed stopped by the station, then drove to the funeral home where Barbara Jean Marx’s life was being reviewed and relived by a young preacher who pronounced her name incorrectly and had to keep checking his notes as he spoke about her. It was a pathetic service. Low-budget and low-key despite the bevy of reporters camped outside the small chapel. He recognized most of them, including Norm Metzger from the Sentinel, but the one he was searching for wasn’t around. Apparently Nikki Gillette couldn’t stomach a funeral so soon after Simone’s murder.

He didn’t blame her. But Reed thought that the least he could do was pay his respects to the woman who’d been pregnant with his child and surreptitiously scan the mourners to see if any of the grief-stricken might be the killer. Morrisette and Siebert were in attendance as well, checking for a party crasher, a guy who got his jollies by killing his victims by dumping them into already-occupied coffins, then attending the funeral to check out the ravages of his deeds and feel superior in the knowledge that no one but he knew that he was the reason the victim was dead, the catalyst for the funeral itself.

But he didn’t know many of Bobbi’s friends or acquaintances. He spied Jerome Marx who seemed less sad than annoyed that he had to attend the service, a couple of undercover cops, some of the people she had worked with, but that was all.

It was a small, straggling, nervous group that listened to the inept preacher, bowed their heads in prayer and struggled with the words to a couple of obscure hymns. All in all, it was a depressing affair.

Afterwards, he decided not to approach Morrisette. There was just no reason to drag her into deeper trouble. She was already wading knee-deep in that particular muck as it was.

Outside the chapel, the wind was blowing full force, holding the rain at bay but stinging as it hit his face and hands. He drove to the graveyard where, once again, Barbara Jean Marx was buried. Fewer mourners gathered at the grave site and he observed them silently, wondering how they knew her, if some of the men had been her lovers, if any of them knew her killer.

“…God be with you,” the preacher said finally and Jerome Marx approached the casket, placing a rose and something shiny—the ring that the kid had found in Dahlonega—upon the flower draped casket. With that, he turned and left and the mourners dispersed just as the rain began to fall.

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