Page 54 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

get used to it.

He was still explaining and rubbing a finger on his cheek. “The stupid thing wants to claw the hell out of me. And I didn’t want to disturb the scene. Something else might be under there.”

“You’re right,” Diane said.

“I can get the cat.” Morrisette eyed Armstrong as if he were either stupid, a wimp or both. “It’s not brain surgery and you don’t have to be a bear wrassler.” She rolled her eyes at his expense. “You don’t even have to use tear gas, Willie. It’s a cat, for God’s sake.”

“Leave it. Armstrong’s right.” Diane was reaching for her collection kit. “And you know it, Morrisette. Give the guy a break.”

“Why should he be any different than the rest?” another cop muttered and Morrisette shot him a look guaranteed to castrate.

Young and green, Armstrong made a hasty exit down the stairs to a backyard that was fenced, private and lush with thick shrubs.

“As soon as we get something, we’ll get it to you, Morrisette,” Moses said pointedly. But she glanced at Reed from the corner of her eye and gave a curt nod, then went about her work.

“So everyone knows you’ve been booted from the case.”

“I guess.”

“Looks like you’re gaining yourself a reputation,” Morrisette remarked as they walked along a brick path to the cruiser.

Reed opened the door and slid inside. “Already had one.”

CHAPTER 12

“So, you think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?” Katherine Okano asked as she studied the note Reed had received through her bifocals. Her gray wool suit reflected her mood. Her demeanor was stern, her mouth set it an uncompromising line.

“Looks like.” Reed was seated in one of the side chairs, Morrisette standing near the window.

“Just what we need.” She settled into her chair. “Okay, what have you got.”

They’d brought the D.A. up to speed on the events at Heritage Cemetery and Roberta Peters’s home. They’d interviewed neighbors, one of whom had remembered they’d heard Roberta calling for her cat around ten, another who informed them that the woman who lived with Roberta was a maid named Angelina Something-Or-Other who lived in with the elderly lady and had one night off a week.

“You haven’t talked to the maid yet?”

“Haven’t located her.”

Okano’s frown deepened.

“And the press hasn’t got wind of this?”

“We’ve had a few inquiries,” Reed admitted, thinking of the phone calls and E-mail he’d received—two voice mail messages and one E-mail message from Nikki Gillette alone. She hadn’t been the only one, just the most determined. And she’d made it a point to try to reach Reed. While Morrisette and Cliff Siebert and Red Demarco had gotten calls from other reporters, Gillette had zeroed in on Reed. “The press is putting it together.”

Okano frowned and sat back in her chair. Her lips rolled in on themselves; behind her wire-rimmed glasses her greenish eyes had darkened. She wasn’t pleased. “We’ll have to make a statement, but I need more facts first.”

“We’re waiting for the reports from the crime scene team and the ME,” Reed said, and when Okano shot him a dark look he added, “Look, you and I both know I’m not officially on the case, but the killer keeps dragging me into it by sending me letters.”

“I’m in charge,” Morrisette insisted. “I’ve already started interviewing Roberta Peters’s neighbors and friends. It’s a long list. She not only was active volunteering in the library, but played bridge with the same women every week, was on the board of the garden club and was a dues paying member at two country clubs. Pretty high profile.”

“So the press will be all over us ASAP.” Okano’s eyes narrowed. “And you knew her?” she asked Morrisette.

“I knew of her. I probably said ten words to her last summer, most of which were ‘Hi,’ or ‘How’re ya’ll doin’.’ I don’t know anything about her other than she helped out with story time.”

Okano picked up a glass of some coffee concoction that was sweating on a corner of her desk. “Okay, you can stay, but Reed, you’re off. Officially and unofficially. If the killer contacts you again, let Morrisette know, and you”—she hitched her chin to the policewoman—“you keep me up on the investigation.” She tapped a long finger beside the note from the killer. “Send this to the lab, have it compared to the other letters you got, and keep me posted. Meanwhile, I’ll contact the FBI.”

Reed nodded but didn’t make any comments about the Feds. Usually a pain in the butt, they nonetheless knew their stuff and had access to resources that were otherwise unavailable to the Savannah police. The Feds could help, and right now, the department needed all the help it could get.

“We’ll have to make a statement, warn the public,” Okano thought aloud. “Without causing a panic.” She glanced at both of them before her gaze settled on Morrisette. “Nail this bastard, and quick.”

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