Page 77 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

Amen, sister, Reed thought, but kept his viewpoint to himself as Morrisette interviewed Thomas Massey’s widow. From his vantage point near the window, Reed inspected the grounds. Bantam chickens roosted on the back porch. A vegetable garden, gone fallow, was wedged behind a garage that listed badly and was home to a 1967 Buick Skylark. In the house, handmade lace cloths covered every table and surrounded the windows. Mrs. Massey swore she’d never met Jerome Marx, nor had she heard of him. “But I told Thomas that he had no business bein’ buried in the city. He belonged out here in the country, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Wanted to be with the rest of his family in Savannah…. Now look what’s come of it.”

They left the house with not much more information than they’d come with. Bea Massey had been the second stop. They’d already interviewed Beauford Alexander at the assisted care facility where he’d lived since his wife’s death and thought that neither he, nor Pauline, had ever met anyone named Barbara Jean Marx. Or Thomas Massey. Or Roberta Peters.

“Two strikes,” Reed muttered as they drove toward Savannah.

“What does it matter? You’re out already.” Morrisette punched in the lighter and glanced his way as she drove toward the city. “Remember?”

“I was thinking of you.”

“And I’m touched,” she mocked as the lighter clicked. She managed to light up and switch lanes as they neared the city.

Reed scowled out the window and watched the wind whip through the tall grass and scattered brush of the low country. The case was getting to him. He thought about it constantly, couldn’t concentrate on the rest of his work, and was having a helluva time sleeping.

“I’ve been thinking about this twelve thing. Even checked on the Internet. A dozen as in doughnuts, or signs of the zodiac, or months in the year,” Sylvie said.

“Right, I checked, too. There are boxcars in a dice game, jurors on a jury, twelve apostles, twelve inches in a foot and the Big Twelve Conference.”

“What? Big Twelve?”

“Sports. College teams in the Midwest.”

“I knew it sounded familiar. Bart was a sports nut.” She snorted derisively. “I’m still paying on the big screen to prove it.” She drew hard on her cigarette and scowl lines creased her forehead. “But I don’t think this case has anything to do with sports.”

“Probably not.” But what did it mean? So far they’d come up dry with forensic evidence, at least nothing solid yet. No fingerprints, no shoe prints, only partial tire tracks, no blood or hairs or fibers on the victims, no hint of sexual abuse. Whoever the guy was, he got his jollies from their terror and death, maybe even jerked off as he heard them scream through the damned microphone, but he hadn’t left any definite leads. Aside from the notes Reed had received.

Morrisette shot out a stream of smoke. “Okay, this much we know: the last person to see Barbara Jean Marx alive was her ex. Jerome Marx was at her house around six the night before.”

“So he kidnapped her then, dug up Pauline Alexander, hauled them both by truck to Lumpkin County and buried them, then hightailed it back here.”

“Trouble is, he drives a Porsche. As far as I can see he didn’t rent a hearse.”

“Maybe he stole one,” Reed suggested. “Or a truck.”

“Maybe. But he didn’t know Roberta Peters or Thomas Massey.” She flipped on the wipers as the rain that had been threatening all afternoon began to fall in thick drops. She cleared her throat and didn’t look his way as she added, “We’re supposed to get blood typing back on the baby ASAP. DNA is being rushed, but it’ll take a little longer.

Maybe next week.”

To think that Bobbi was carrying his baby. Or Marx’s. Or someone else’s completely. While wearing her wedding band. Hell, he’d been a fool for that woman. But then, that was his M.O. Women, the wrong kind, had always been his downfall.

“The department is going to issue a statement today,” she said, and he felt a jab of jealousy that he wasn’t the one giving her the news instead of the other way around. Morrisette stubbed out her cigarette. “Yeah, explain a little more about the murders, warn the citizens, ask for their help, the same old stuff.”

“And talk about a serial murderer?”

“Mmm. Looks like.” She slid a glance in his direction as she took the corner and headed toward the heart of the city. She licked her finger and drew an imaginary line by her head. “Score one for Nikki Gillette.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Other than that she’s a major pain in the ass?”

“Yeah…”

Passing a slow moving truck, Morrisette said, “Now, wait a minute, you’re not interested in her, are you?”’

“Just curious. She’s got the jump on the department.”

“Yeah, but she’s attractive, if you like pushy, bullheaded blondes.”

“Don’t know any,” Reed drawled, looking at his platinum-haired partner. “You’ve been around here longer than I have. What’s the story with Gillette?”

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