Page 53 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“And the people at the library.”

“No rest for the weary, is there?”

“Never,” Reed muttered.

So far, no one from the press had arrived. But that wouldn’t be for long. Meanwhile, members of the crime scene unit were photographing, dusting, vacuuming. The trash had been collected and the old house was being searched for any kind of evidence. No blood trail or spatter was detected, but then, Roberta Peters hadn’t had any visible wounds other than the bump on her head, probably from trying to sit up in the coffin, and the raw tips of her fingers. She’d been moved to the morgue, and they were waiting for an autopsy report, which could take days. Not that it mattered all that much. Reed figured because of the condition of her hands, that Roberta Peters had suffered the same fate as Bobbi Jean.

Except it’s an odds-on shot that she wasn’t pregnant.

He’d suspected that the killer had been targeting him and feared that Bobbi had met her fate because of her relationship with him. Had some creep he’d sent up the river been released and decided to get back at him? He’d already started going through records of those prisoners who had been released or escaped, but now…he was rethinking the crimes. He’d never met Roberta Peters in his life. At least, not that he could remember.

But the killer’s still contacting you.

There has to be a reason.

Unless Reed had been chosen randomly, perhaps because he’d gotten so much press last summer. He’d been a target for nutcases ever since.

Disturbing nothing, carefully walking around crime scene investigators, Reed and Morrisette walked through the refurbished home with its carved wood banisters polished to a high gloss and faded rugs that, he suspected, had been handmade in the Middle East. Upstairs were four bedrooms, the largest obviously belonging to Roberta Peters. Framed, fading pictures of the woman and a man, presumably her husband, were set on tables and mounted over the fireplace. Her clothes were in the bureau and closets, her pills and toiletries tucked away in her private bath. The second and third rooms were obviously for show and guests. Antique beds appeared never to have been slept in, the bureaus empty. The fourth and smallest bedroom was filled with personal items, clothes in the closet and bureau, bottles of face and body creams, makeup and other toiletries on the bedside table. But the owner was absent. Reed made a mental note, then took a second set of steps, the servants’ stairs, down to the kitchen where Diane Moses was once again keeping a log of what was done and found at the crime scene.

“Send me all the reports ASAP,” Reed said.

“I was told you were off the case.” Diane, gloved, had been ordering the photographer to take more shots of the kitchen where a teapot sat on the stove and dishes for an animal were sitting on a small rug near the pantry. Reed felt all eyes turned in his direction. Diane wasn’t being her usual razor-sharp cynical self as she collected evidence and made notes in the crime scene log. She was just telling it like it was.

“Send the reports to Morrisette,” Reed said as the photographer snapped some more photos with a .35 millimeter camera as well as a state-of-the-art digital cam. Morrisette walked over to the bowls on the floor. “So, where’s the dog or cat?”

“Haven’t found it yet,” Moses replied.

“Looks like the bowl was just filled.”

“So, maybe the cat’s on a diet,” the dour-faced photographer muttered.

“Yeah, and she was making tea.” The porcelain cup and saucer still sat on the marble counter. Empty and clean. A tea bag was still steeping into now-cold water tinted a deep, impenetrable brown. Two shortbread cookies sat uneaten on a tiny glass plate. “Stove was off. Kitchen lights were on, stairs, back porch and main bedroom lights were on, all others off. All the doors and windows except this one”—she pointed a gloved finger at the back door—“were locked. This one was left ajar.”

“Forced?” Reed eyed the door, lock and jamb.

“Nu-uh. And no signs of a struggle. We’ve already gone over this room, the porch and backyard. Looks like she was turning in and didn’t make it. We’ll check the tea and water in the pot for possible toxins, but I doubt she even had a sip.”

“Any messages?”

“No phone machine, pager or computer, nor voice mail,” Diane said. “Lots of books. Tons of books, only one TV, tuned to a local channel that broadcasts religious stuff twenty-four seven.”

“What about who she called?”

“The last number dialed is a Phoenix area code.”

“She didn’t live alone, though,” Reed said.

“No. Someone’s MIA.”

Footsteps sounded on the back steps. Reed looked up and found a uniformed rookie named Willie Armstrong crossing the porch. “Found the cat,” he announced. A long red scratch showed on his cheek. “Hiding under the porch. Won’t come out.”

“But he got a piece of you,” Morrisette said.

The young cop blushed to the tips of his large ears. “Yeah. He’s really freaked out. Either scared shitless or wounded. I’ve called animal control.”

“Animal control?” Morrisette repeated. “Jesus Christ, Willie, are you a policeman or a pussy? Can’t you get the damned cat out yourself?”

“Hey, I tried. The damned thing nearly took my face off!” Armstrong seemed offended by Morrisette’s remarks, but then, he hadn’t been with the department very long. He’d

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