Page 97 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“What?”

He glanced out the window where Morrisette saw the usual group of pigeons crowding the ledge. “First of all, the judge was Ronald Gillette, Nikki Gillette’s dad.”

“He presided over a lot of cases.”

“But Nikki was just working part-time and she nearly got the case thrown out of court.”

“If we looked up all the cases where a reporter was out of line, we’d fill this room.”

“I know, but there has to be some connection. I think we should, no, you should find Chevalier. His parole officer will have an address.”

“I’ll check out all of these jokers. See that they’re walkin’ the straight and narrow,” Morrisette agreed. “Twelve of ’em. In twelve years. You don’t suppose they’re in this together…I’ve been considering the apostle angle, but it’s not fitting.”

“Farfetched.”

She eyed the typed pages. Ran her thumb along the edge of the stack. Looked up at him and let out her breath. “Jesus, Reed, don’t you ever sleep?”

“When I have to.”

“Should I know anything else?” she asked, obviously mollified.

“Yeah.” Skewering her with his gaze, he reached for his jacket. “You should know one final thing. I’m not the fuckin’ snitch.”

“So, now the killer’s talking directly to you?” Norm Metzger didn’t bother hiding his skepticism as he hung his bomber jacket on one of the pegs on the coatrack near the back door of the Sentinel’s offices.

Dealing with Norm was the last thing Nikki wanted to do. It was nearly noon and even though she should have been keyed up because her story had hit page one again, she was too tired to feel her usual rush. Metzger only made her lack of enthusiasm worse. She hooked her raincoat over a peg and hoped he would shut up.

No such luck.

“A dialog with the killer.” Unwrapping his scarf, he added, “That’s damned convenient.”

“Convenient?” she fired back. “Oh, yeah, right. Real convenient when the guy breaks into my place.” She was tired and grouchy from a short, sleepless night in the bed she’d slept in as a kid. Her body had been weary, but her mind had raced, as if she’d downed eight cups of coffee before trying to burrow under

the covers. She’d kept thinking about the Grave Robber, about the victims, about her house, about the number twelve, about Simone and Andrew and about Pierce Reed. Her mind had been a revolving carousel of images that had whirled faster and faster and driven sleep away. When she’d finally dozed she’d had dreams of corpses filling her apartment only to disintegrate in front of her eyes. The skeletons had turned to dust while somewhere in the shadows a killer had laughed, a chilling sound that had caused her heart to race and a cold sweat to cover her skin.

She’d forced herself out of bed only to face her parents, creeping down the stairs to hear the tail end of an argument that evaporated the minute she walked into the kitchen and her tight-lipped mother had caught sight of her. Charlene had shot her husband a don’t you say a word glare and then managed a smile.

In the next hour, while guzzling coffee and trying to wake up, Nikki had heard a dozen times over all the reasons why she should give up her interest in crime reporting. Even her father had suggested she go back to school, get a degree in law, follow the old man’s footsteps…

No way. Law had been her father’s dream. Andrew’s ambition. But now, facing Norm’s petulant diatribe, she wondered if maybe she should take her mother’s advice.

“The killer broke into your apartment?” Norm demanded.

“A couple of days ago.”

“That what was going on last night?” he said. “I heard about it on the police band, but I was tied up and…Wait a minute, are you all right?”

“The truth?” she asked, hiking her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “No, I’m not all right. Not by a long shot. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not willing to”—she held up one finger—“A. Sell my soul”—another finger shot up—“B. Sell my body”—she raised another finger—“or C., allow some creep to break into my place and touch my stuff just for a story.” She started to walk away then when she noticed Kevin Deeter, earphones in place, hanging out near the candy machine. He was eyeing the display as if the vending machine were dispensing the word of God, backlit in neon, all for a dollar. As she started to walk by she saw his reflection in the glass covering the Snickers bars, Cheetos and red licorice. His expression was dark, his eyes sliding to one side, as if he wasn’t interested in the snacks at all, but had been listening to her conversation with Norm.

What was that all about? Edging closer, she poured herself a cup of coffee from the glass pot still warming on a hot plate nearby. As she stirred a little cream into her mug, she pretended to peruse the offerings and whispered, “What looks good?”

“What? Oh. Uh, everything.”

Lowering her voice further still, she swirled the stir stick and said, “I’m thinking about M&M peanuts, but they’re all out.”

“No, they aren’t.” He tapped a thick finger against the glass. “See there? E-5. M&M peanuts.”

Frowning, she took a sip of coffee and stared at the snack machine where his pudgy finger was putting an oily print on the glass. “You’re right.”

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