Page 72 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

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?A skirt’s a skirt.”

“Yeah, right.” Reed stared at the computer screen. “It could be someone I pissed off.”

“Let’s hope not. We’ll never find him. Talk about a needle in a haystack!”

Reed sent her a look meant to kill as her cell phone went off. “I’ll take the call and grab a cup of coffee and be back,” she said, glancing at Caller ID. “It’s Bart. Great. This can’t be good news.” She escaped down the hallway and Reed started thinking in terms of twelve. If Okano came in and saw him working on the case, he’d go toe to toe with her. Somehow, the creep was communicating with him, trying to get to him. He started a list of people who might want to harm him…starting with people who knew he had been involved with Bobbi. Jerome Marx was the only name he could come up with, though, he supposed Bobbi could have told a few people as could have Jerome. Reed didn’t know Roberta Peters, had never met her. Nor Thomas Massey or Pauline Alexander. Just Bobbi Jean.

The phone jangled. Still staring at the computer screen, he picked up. “Reed.”

“Yeah, glad I caught ya. It’s Jed Baldwin up ta Lumpkin County.”

“Sheriff,” Reed said, leaning back in his desk chair until it squeaked. He imagined the craggy face of Jedidiah Baldwin.

“Detective McFee told me you were off the Grave Robber case cuz you were involved with the victim and all, but me, well, I don’t put much stake in rules that just get in the way. I thought you’d like to know what’s happenin’ up here. Nothing new from all the forensic evidence, but early this mornin’ Merle Delacroix came in with his son. You remember Billy Dean, one of the kids up ta the holler that saw the guy. Anyway, Merle’s a single man whose got his hands full with that one. Kind of a hothead, but he and the boy, they brought in a ring, inscribed, probably belongs to the vic. The old man was proud of himself, but the boy, I don’t think he wanted to part with the ring.”

“Was it a gold band with one diamond and some rubies?” Reed asked in a flash of memory. Her hands had been white, with long fingers, manicured nails that knew how to draw down a man’s back. The ring finger of her right hand had been adorned with a ring that caught in the sunlight as they’d sailed. It had been autumn, the air crisp. The leaves on the trees near the shoreline fluttered green and gold as a salty breeze tore at Bobbi’s long hair and pressed a short white skirt against her tanned legs. She’d been barefoot, her toes painted the same color as her fingernails, a color not unlike the bloodred stones in the ring.

“That would be the one,” the sheriff said. “Inscribed.”

“Was it? Didn’t know.” Reed had asked her about the ring and she’d laughed as she’d balanced against the jib. “Yes,” she’d replied naughtily, one eyebrow arched when he’d asked about it. “I got it from an old boyfriend. He’s gone, but I couldn’t part with the diamond.”

“Doesn’t your husband care?”

“Ex-husband. Ex,” she replied tartly. “You keep forgetting the ex part. And no, he didn’t like it, but I never really cared what he did or didn’t like.” She’d smiled, then, her eyes sparkling as if she’d shared with him a secret.

“Ye-ep,” the sheriff said, bringing Reed back to the here and now. “Says here, ‘To Barbara. Love forever.’ It’s got a date on it. June of last year.”

“She said it was from an old boyfriend, but, now I know that she would have been married at that time.”

“Um-hmm. It was her weddin’ anniversary. Fifth year. Beats the hell out of wood or tin or paper or whatever the hell is traditional for five years of wedded bliss.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Reed said.

“Me, neither, but I’ll bet my wife does. Anyway, near as I can figure, her ex gave it to her. Got a call in to him.”

So, she’d lied. Again. Not a surprise. Their whole relationship, if that’s what it was, had been based on lies. More than he’d ever imagined. As he cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear he wondered if she’d lied to someone else and had eventually paid the ultimate price. With her life.

“Look who’s gettin’ a swelled head,” Trina said as Nikki threw her purse under her desk. Trina rolled her chair back so that she could look Nikki in the eye. “Two stories on the front page.” She clucked her tongue in exaggeration.

“Third time’s a charm.”

“You think you’ll get another chance? Once Pierce Reed sees what you’ve written, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a gag order placed on the whole department and no one, not even your own personal Deep Throat, will talk to you anytime soon.” Lowering her voice she added, “Norm Metzger is on a tear. He went screaming into Fink’s office the minute Tom got here. A few minutes later he stormed out ready to spit nails.”

Nikki had to swallow a smile. She didn’t mind getting Norm upset. Not at all. They’d been rivals on this story, both trying to get information on or from Reed. Norm had gone to Dahlonega three times, searching and not finding the connection to the case he was looking for. Neither had Nikki. But she felt she was getting closer to the elusive detective. He wasn’t quite so gruff when she was around him and she’d even caught him observing her not so much as a reporter and the enemy, but quizzically, as if he were trying to figure her out, as if he were intrigued by her womanhood. She’d seen the look before. Recognized it. And was a little flattered. Maybe a lot flattered. Reed wasn’t a bad-looking man and he was sure as hell interesting.

“By the way, if you’re interested, I talked to my friend over at WKAM,” Trina went on. “There’s been hell to pay about the serial killer angle. The station manager chewed on the news manager’s ass and he passed it along to the reporters. Everyone’s walking on eggshells over there.” The corners of Trina’s generous mouth twitched. “So, how does it feel to be the belle of the ball?”

“Good. But you know what they say,” Nikki added, “you’re only as good as your last story.” She clicked on her computer to read her E-mail and Trina rolled her chair into her cube. Nikki rubbed the crick from her neck. Geez, she was tired, her muscles all aching. But she had to keep working. Once she’d E-mailed her story to Tom Fink, she’d finally tumbled into bed around two. She’d slept hard and when the alarm had blasted this morning, she’d been tempted to swat at it and go back to bed. But she hadn’t. Because she’d wanted to see her story in print and had stumbled down the stairs of her apartment building to find the morning edition waiting for her, bold headlines proclaiming the Grave Robber to be a serial killer. No doubt she’d get some heat from the police department for jumping the gun on that, but it was too late to retract now. Besides, she knew in her gut that the killer wasn’t going to stop.

She scrolled down through her E-mail, a lot of it junk, either spam that hadn’t been filtered out, or legitimate advertising or notes from colleagues and readers…almost like fan mail. She warmed under the compliments about her story, but told herself to remain objective.

“Nikki?”

She nearly jumped out of her chair at the sound of the voice so near. Turning, she spied Kevin, the techie, standing inches from the desk. He was practically wedged into the space that should only house her chair.

“Geez, Kevin, you scared me!” She couldn’t keep the note of irritation from her voice.

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