Page 27 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Oh, right, that’s what you’re doing, Nikki. Helping me by writing and selling my story. As if I would believe her stupid pleas for a second!

“Talk to me.”

Without a word, I hang up my heavy telephone receiver. “Guard,” I say as I clamber to my feet, my shackles rattling. I don’t bother looking over my shoulder as the foiled reporter stares after me.

So you think you know me, Nikki?

Guess again.

CHAPTER 8

“I need a smoke.”

Reed, who had been reading testimony from the trial, looked up and found his partner pushing back her chair from the table where she’d been working.

“Thought you quit.”

“I didn’t say I was going to have one, I just said I needed one,” Morrisette clarified. It had been her turn at the case file after a morning of sorting and double-checking that all the evidence was still intact. The flattened snake, the cigarette butt, and the clothes of all the victims had been sent to the lab for updated analysis; a partial list of names and addresses of witnesses who were still alive had been compiled; the autopsy report on Amity O’Henry and the medical records of the other victims had been reviewed. Even the clippings from Blondell’s fingernails, taken the night of the attack, were being searched for DNA, but the theory was that since they’d been clipped after Blondell had been seen at the hospital, and presumably had been cleaned before she had surgery on her right arm, they would come up with nothing worthwhile, no epithelial tissue of the unknown assailant, who, of course, most likely did not exist.

Morrisette dug through her purse, found a pack of Nicorette gum, and tossed a piece into her mouth. “Let’s take a break, grab some coffee or something. Talk this out. There’s only so much sitting I can do.” She checked her watch. “We kinda missed lunch.”

“Fine. Let’s grab something.” The room was getting to him too. They’d already logged in hours sitting with dusty files and twenty-year-old evidence. He’d made several calls and set up some interviews, the first of which was with Niall O’Henry, to find out why he was recanting his testimony and to get his new view of what had happened the night his sister was killed. Since he’d been a child when he’d taken the stand, there was no talk of perjury—at least none Reed had heard. Unfortunately, the first time that was convenient for David Blass, who insisted upon being present at the meeting, wasn’t for a couple of days. Rather than argue the point, Reed had acquiesced. It might be best anyway, because by the time he interviewed Blondell’s son, he would be up to speed on the case, through his first look at all the evidence. “Crab cakes? At Hoppers?”

Hoppers was a beach house converted to a restaurant on Tybee Island and was a good half an hour away. “Trust me, we need the break,” she said when she noticed he was about to argue about the loss of time. “Sometimes getting away from it, talking it out, helps.”

She was right, and Hoppers, with its view of the beach and the pier that stretched into the Atlantic, would be a good place to find a new perspective. The food was excellent, the prices were reasonable, and she was right, they both needed a break, a change of scenery to discuss the case.

“Sounds good.”

“I just need to stop off at the ladies’ room.” She was already heading for the door, chewing her gum frantically and eyeing her cell phone.

Reed took a quick detour to his office, skimmed his recent e-mail, then grabbed his jacket and sidearm from the back of his chair, logged out, and caught up with Morrisette at the stairs. Together they made their way outside, only to run into Deacon Beauregard heading into the building.

“I was just about to check in with you,” the ADA said as they stepped outside. A cold blast of wind raced down the street, kicking up a bit of trash and a few dry leaves. “How’s the O’Henry investigation going?”

“All right,” Reed said.

“Helluva thing.” Morrisette squinted up at Beauregard.

Unlike his father, Deacon was strapping and fit. Flint had, from all accounts, smoked more than he drank, while his diet had been rumored to revolve around a deep fat fryer. With a fondness for pecan and peach pie, as well as cheeseburgers, po’boys, and any traditionally Southern food, Flint, in his later years had become jowly in the face and soft around the middle. Department pictures taken the last years of his life revealed as much.

Not so with his boys. Deacon didn’t smoke, avoided booze, and spent two hours a day at a gym. At six foot two, he had towered over his father, but he was just as dedicated and focused as his old man had been—at least, that was the current consensus in the department. The younger son, Holt, was a different story altogether. He too was athletic and tall, like his older brother, but there’s where the resemblance stopped. Briefly, he’d become a cop like his old man, but he had bombed out. Reed didn’t know that whole story but decided he’d check it out.

Currently he was dealing with the older brother, and he watched as Beauregard’s lips flattened. “I just can’t believe that after all these years the little prick is changing his story! What’s up with that?” Obviously disgusted, he added, “Dad worked damned hard on that conviction.”

Reed said, “We’re talking to Niall O’Henry and his attorney later in the week.”

“Maybe you can convince him to stick with his original story,” Beauregard suggested.

“A little late for that,” Morrisette said dryly.

“This was Dad’s biggest case, and it’s a shame to see Blondell O’Henry walk when she killed her own daughter in cold blood. She tried to take out the other kids too. And now one of them is saying she didn’t do it?” He let out a huff of air. With a glance at his watch, he said, “I’ve got to run, but if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

“Your dad have any private notes?” Morrisette asked.

Beauregard’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. Lots of times when a detective is caught up in a case—when it becomes his life’s work, so to speak, like I’ve heard it did with Flint—he keeps his own notes, unofficial stuff, musings, ideas that are, for one reason or another, cast aside, don’t make it into the case file.”

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