Page 33 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“Maybe cops scare him. They do a lot of kids. So the boy clams up rather than get himself into what he thinks will be deeper trouble.”

“I’ll check with him again.” McFee made a note to himself. “Or maybe the sheriff can get whatever it is out of him.”

“Maybe,” Reed allowed.

“I also talked to the lead investigator for the crime scene and they’ve got a serial number on the coffin, along with soil samples. You were right, some of the dirt on the coffin didn’t match the soil where it was found. Too much sand.”

Boots beating a sharp tattoo announced Morrisette before she appeared in the doorway. Her blond hair projected in all directions and she was dressed head to toe in denim jeans, shirt, and jacket. Along with her snakeskin boots that she’d bought long ago in El Paso. “Did I miss anything?” she asked and offered McFee a smile that could easily be construed as flirty. Jesus, would she never learn?

“McFee was just filling me in on what they found up north.”

“The crime scene team got a serial number on the casket and soil that doesn’t match the surrounding dirt.”

“So, the coffin came from somewhere else.”

“Looks like,” McFee said. “They’re checking and comparing.”

Morrisette propped her rear on the windowsill. Behind her, on the other side of the glass, a winter sun was forcing rays through thick clouds. “They might see if it matches the silt around Stonewall Cemetery.”

“Why?” McFee asked.

“They had a disturbance the other night.”

Reed turned all his attention to his partner. “A coffin missing?”

“You got it. Not just the coffin, but the body inside.”

“Let me guess—a sixty-year-old woman?”

“Pauline Alexander.”

McFee snorted. “That works. The coffin was made in Jackson, Mississippi, and sold to Beauford Alexander, for his wife. Just about two months ago.”

“Pauline Alexander died at home, a heart attack while she was in the kitchen making jam or jelly or preserves or the like.” Morrisette shrugged. “I didn’t know anyone did that sort of thing anymore. Anyway Beauford came in from hunting, found her on the floor and called 911. But it was too late.”

Reed scanned the autopsy on the older woman, looking for anything that would have caused a heart attack, but there was nothing, at least so far, that would indicate foul play. “So, we have one woman who died of natural causes and another who was murdered, left alive in the casket to die,” he said, then glanced up. “And she was pregnant.”

“Shit, no!” Morrisette pushed up from the windowsill.

McFee’s expression hardened. “A baby?”

“The victim was around two months along.”

“You think the murderer knew?” Morrisette demanded. “Jesus H. Christ, what kind of sick, perverted wacko would off a pregnant woman? Who would be so angry? Hell, it’s probably the father. The husband.”

“If he was the father,” Reed said, his guts roiling. “We’ll need a DNA test.”

“You said you were involved with her.” Across the desk, McFee was staring suspiciously at Reed.

“What? Wait a minute.” Morrisette’s mouth dropped open. “You, the father? Oh, Christ, wait till Okano gets wind of this. Your ass will be off this case in a heartbeat.”

“Any news on who saw Bobbi last?” Reed asked.

“Maybe you should tell me.” Morrisette was pacing, running her fingers nervously through her already electric-shock-styled hair. “Why didn’t you say anything?” She was angry, her cheeks flaming. “You know, Reed, we’re partners. You know everything about my life, my kids, my exes and…oh, hell.” She flung herself back against the sill in exasperation. “Got any other little secrets you want to air?”

“Not now.”

“Well, let me know, would ya?”

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