Page 82 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“But isn’t it common for serial killers to try to taunt the police, to initiate a game with them, to try to communicate or mislead them?”

“In some cases,” Abbey agreed, and the other reporters, on the scent of some hidden information, pelted her with a few more questions before, smiling, she announced that the department had nothing further to say.

But from Abbey Marlowe’s reaction to her questions, Nikki confirmed what Cliff had inadvertently told her, that the Grave Robber had contacted the Savannah police, specifically Reed. As the killer had written to her. Singled her out. Probably because of her first article on him. From her research, she also realized that killers, pretending to be helpful citizens, often tried to work with the cops, that they sometimes tried to ingratiate themselves with the detectives, that they got off on feeling smarter and superior to the officers trained to capture them, that they liked to be in on the action…Fingers of ice seemed to touch the back of her neck. There was a good chance that the killer was here…near the steps of the station…watching…waiting…feeling superior…trying to blend in.

She sensed his presence in the shift of the wind…No, she was imagining things. Still, she glanced around quickly, past the reporters wrapping up, the cameramen with their shoulder cams, the curious onlookers in dark coats and hats blending into the shadows. Why did she feel as if she were being studied? Being singled out? Remembering the man she’d seen in the foliage the other morning at the diner, her breath caught. Several tall men seemed to fade into the background, away from the crowd and the streetlights that were just beginning to glow. Was one of them watching her, and when she looked in his direction, did he turn quickly and disappear into the coming darkness?

You really are getting jumpy, Gillette, she admonished as she clicked off her recorder.

“Get what you wanted?” a male voice whispered in her ear and she visibly started. Her heart squeezed in panic as she turned.

Norm Metzger was at her side.

“I think so.” Remain calm. He’s a creep, a jealous coworker, but essentially harmless. “You?”

“What was that question about the cops being contacted by the killer?”

“It’s common enough. You know that. Or you should. After all, you’re the paper’s crime reporter.”

“But Marlow nearly fell off the steps when you asked the question. Did your snitch tell you that the killer’s called or written to the police department?”

“I just asked a normal question, that’s all.” She was stuffing her recorder, pen and paper into her purse. “Look, I’ve got to run.”

His eyes, shadowed by the brim of his wool cap, narrowed. “You know something.”

“Geez, Metzger, this may come as a shock to you, but I know a lot. It’s kind of you to finally realize it.” With that, she turned and made her way to her hatchback. She half expected him to follow, but no footsteps scuffed along behind her and as she slipped into her car, she spied Norm and Jim Levitt walking to Norm’s Impala. She didn’t like the fact that he’d picked up on her question and for once, thankfully, her little car started with one twist on the ignition.

Back at the office, she finished her story, turned it in, then checked her watch and realized she was running late. Metzger was still at his desk as Nikki slipped out the back door. Once in her car, she kept an eye on her rearview mirror just to make certain that Metzger, or anyone else for that matter, didn’t follow her. Her interview with Pierce Reed had to be confidential. Completely confidential.

Reed glanced at his watch. Already she was five minutes late. He’d wait fifteen more and if she didn’t show, it would be Nikki Gillette’s funeral. So to speak.

Or his.

Seated behind the wheel of his El Dorado in the dark parking lot, he second-guessed himself. What he had planned could cost him his badge. But he had to do something. Anything to find out who had thrown

Bobbi into that coffin.

The windows were beginning to fog over but through the glass, he stared at Johnny B’s Low Country Barbecue—a restaurant of sorts which, according to the sizzling neon sign, offered up “world-renowned southern barbecue.” The claim seemed a tad farfetched, but the parking lot was littered with pickups, campers, battered wagons and sedans. The El Dorado fit right in. Reed watched customers come and go, shouldering their way through the double doors of the low-slung 1950s-era building with its big plate-glass windows, grimy once-white walls and barely peaked roof. He’d already been inside. A take-out order sat in two brown paper bags on the bench seat beside him. Even in the darkness he saw that grease was already making stains in the paper.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, surprised at how suddenly it was imperative that he speak to Nikki Gillette. For years he’d ducked her and anyone else who was associated with the press. She was pretty, smart, sassy and brash. And she was the daughter of Judge Ronald Gillette. All reasons to avoid her like the plague.

Headlights flashed as a car raced into the pock-marked lot. The small silver vehicle squealed to a stop. Nikki Gillette’s Subaru hatchback. Good. He didn’t like the shot of adrenaline that spiked in his blood at the thought of her, but told himself it was just the fact that he was about to do something he didn’t believe in, that he was contemplating putting his job on the line.

He opened the Cadillac’s door and stepped into the wind that blew in from the Atlantic. Smelling of brine and rippling the marsh grass and sand dunes that surrounded the lot, the wind whipped his coat around his legs.

Nikki parked in a spray of gravel and was opening the car door before the Subaru’s engine died. She was obviously in a hurry. As always. She’d dogged him throughout the Montgomery case last summer, getting in his way and under his skin. There was something about the pushy little woman that bothered the hell out of him. He’d lost more nights’ sleep thinking about her than he’d ever admit. He’d hate to think how many times she’d entered his dreams. Sometimes as a cheeky, irritating reporter, other times as a sexy Lolita, seducing him with her firm breasts, nipped-in waist, athletic legs and taut, evocative ass. Those were the dreams that bothered him the most, because she wasn’t a woman he admired, wasn’t a woman he felt any tenderness for, wasn’t a woman he wanted to get to know any better. Nope. She was the kind of woman to avoid. Period.

And here he was, waiting for her.

He hiked his collar against the wind as she gathered her bag from the backseat, locked the hatchback, then started walking briskly toward the front steps of the restaurant, directly behind his Caddy.

“Nikki. Over here,” he called and she stopped short. A slim black coat was cinched at her waist and her hair blew over her eyes as she searched the darkness.

He approached, his feet crunching on the gravel.

Whirling, she gasped, one hand flying to her throat. “Oh! Reed! You scared the bejesus out of me.”

“Did I?” He couldn’t help the amused smile he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth. For once, he’d gotten the better of her.

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