Page 47 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“I knew Bobbi.”

“So, you think you’re gonna know the next one?”

Reed’s gut churned. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Christ, he couldn’t imagine that all of the victims were people he’d known. Oh, Jesus, no. “I hope not,” he said fervently. Would some nutcase, someone he’d made an enemy of, hate him enough to kill the people he cared about, people he knew?

Who would hate

him so much?

Someone he’d offended?

Some criminal he’d sent up the river?

Hell. He turned onto the county road and followed it to the cemetery where not one, but two patrol cars were parked. The gates had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape and a few gawkers had stopped to stand in the rain and peer past the ancient headstones, hoping for a peek of the tragedy.

A white van with WKAM emblazoned upon its sides in deep blue letters was parked near the curb. The press had arrived.

“Damned three-ring circus already.” Reed opened the car door as Morrisette squashed her cigarette and left the smoldering butt in the ashtray. “Let’s go.”

Before the reporters could get to them, they flashed their badges at a uniformed cop, then slid beneath the yellow tape. The grass was wet, the wind cold with the rain as they made their way to the back of the cemetery where a crowd had gathered. Pictures were being taken. Soil samples already being bagged. Debris collected. Impressions in the ground studied. The crime scene team, headed by Diane Moses, was already at work. Reed noticed a gate in the wrought-iron fence line that bordered the cemetery. It was wide enough for a vehicle to pass through and opened to an access road running behind the graveyard. Probably used for hearses and the digging equipment needed to excavate graves. Through the trees, far enough away from the gate so as not to disturb any evidence that might have been left, the crime scene team’s van, back doors open, was parked.

“How long will it be before we can start digging?” one of the officers asked. He was wearing rain gear, and along with several of the other uniforms, was equipped with shovels and picks.

“Until we’re done,” Diane snapped. “Ask him.” She hitched her chin in Reed’s direction.

“We’ll wait,” he said.

“Damned straight you will,” Diane grumbled as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up her clipboard. “At least we’ve already got permission to dig it up, but you just wait until I give the word.”

“Man, did you get up on the wrong side of the bed, or what?” the officer taking pictures asked.

Diane didn’t answer. But her mouth compressed into a thin line of irritation as she made a quick note, then walked closer to the grave site to converse with a man taking soil samples.

The rain seemed colder as Reed stared at the freshly turned earth. The gravestone had weathered and read: Thomas Alfred Massey, beloved husband and father. Thomas’s dates of birth and death had been etched beneath his name. From the looks of it, Massey had been eighty when he’d been buried seven years earlier.

If he was in the coffin.

Until they dug it up, no one knew for certain.

Reed didn’t know the man, but the name rang a far-off bell. He thought hard as raindrops ran down his nose, but couldn’t conjure up an image of the guy or even put his finger on where he’d heard the name before.

At least he wasn’t someone he knew.

Reed only hoped that if there was another victim, he or she was a stranger as well. He reached into his pocket for his roll of antacids. His stomach was churning from bad coffee and not much else.

Mud oozed around his shoes as Diane Moses conferred with members of her staff and the wind kicked up. He glanced at a nearby gravestone, read the name and simple message cut into the granite:

Rest In Peace.

Fat chance.

Not with the Grave Robber on the loose.

“…so you, like, won’t use my name, will you?” From across the table in the little coffee shop, the waif-like girl beseeched Nikki. Lindsay Newell was twenty-seven, but didn’t look a day older than eighteen. “You know Mr. Hexler; he doesn’t want any trouble or hint of a scandal at the store. He thinks it’s bad for business.”

“I’ll be discreet and of course, if you don’t want me to, I won’t quote you directly,” Nikki assured the jewelry clerk who had worked with Bobbi Jean Marx.

Nikki had dressed down this morning, wearing her weathered jeans and a sweater in order to help the jewelry clerk relax and feel more likely to share secrets. Like they were best girlfriends or something. Nikki had bought her the coffee and a croissant, but Lindsay had only picked at the pastry. While spoons clinked in cups and conversation buzzed around them, Nikki tried to make Bobbi Jean’s coworker feel at ease. None of her ploys worked. Lindsay was edgy. Customers of the Caffeine Bean came and went, the bell over the door tinkling as they entered. Each time the door opened, Lindsay visibly jumped, as if she were certain her boss would walk into the shop and spy her spilling her guts to a reporter.

---