Page 68 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

“Aye, aye, sir!” she mocked. “You get a move on.”

Twenty minutes and a brisk walk later, they were settled into a booth in their favorite Irish bar near the riverfront. Murphy’s, a long-standing fixture in the historic district of Savannah, had a somewhat murky past, a dark history that the current owners exploited. There had been rumors of shanghaied patrons in days long past; a network of tunnels that ran beneath the city added to the notoriety, and some of the drinks on the menu were named after pirates of long ago.

They settled into one of the booths that had

been built along the wall opposite the long bar, its tall mirror flanked in stained glass.

Paddle fans swirled from a tin ceiling, and the two-hundred-year-old planks of the floor were worn. A waiter in a long, white apron quickly navigated a gamut of tables in the dining room to take their drink orders and drop off menus and a basket of warm biscuits.

Once the waiter had wended his way through the swinging door to the kitchen on the other side of the bar, Nikki couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. “How did Blondell look?”

“Older.”

“And mentally?”

“We are off the record here,” he said.

She held up two hands in surrender. “Absolutely.”

He nodded. “So I might have a deal for you.”

“What kind of deal?”

He waited, allowed the waiter to deposit two frosty mugs of ale onto the table. They placed their meal orders as a shout went up from the back of the establishment, where a dart game was in progress.

Once the waiter was gone, they automatically clinked their glass mugs and each took a swallow. “I repeat, ‘what kind of deal?’ ” Nikki asked.

“One where we join forces.”

“On the O’Henry case?” She couldn’t believe her ears. This was a complete one-eighty from his position earlier.

“Okano wants us to pull out all the stops, so we could use your help. Or if that doesn’t work, someone else from the media, I suppose—”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. If you’re talking to anyone, it has to be me.” She’d almost come off the bench on her side of the table.

“I’ve worked with Lynnetta Ricci at WKAM before.”

“Cute,” she said. “You’ve also worked with me. A lot. And you said we might have a deal. Well, I’m in. You know it. This is mine, Reed. Don’t even joke with me about it.”

His lips twitched as another couple came in and took a table next to theirs. “Figured that’s what you’d say,” he said and finished his beer just as the waiter arrived with two steaming bowls. “Let’s eat and discuss this once we’re home again.” He glanced pointedly at the two new patrons, twenty-somethings, both in business suits, she in heels, he in wingtips, close enough to overhear their conversation.

Even though Nikki wanted nothing more than to talk more about the case, she turned her attention to the meal, which, as usual, was fabulous. The stew was made with beef and root vegetables simmered in a rich broth flavored with beer and spices. Served piping hot, with a dollop of mashed potatoes spooned on top, Murphy’s stew was, in Nikki’s opinion, the best in town.

They ate without interruption, and all the while the gears in Nikki’s mind were turning rapidly, questions about the case whirling through her brain. She knew the relationship would be symbiotic, and she would have to give as well as get information, but she knew this was a major step toward driving into the heart of the story and finding out what really happened.

“I would still like to interview Blondell,” she said to Reed as they were walking home.

“We’ll see.”

“Is it up to you?” She glanced over at him as they crossed a street where the traffic was slow, headlights and taillights illuminating the cobblestones. All the way back, Nikki thought about the computer files she’d “borrowed” from her Uncle Alex’s den. She couldn’t mention them to him. She was walking a thin line between the prosecution and the defense, even though she was just a private citizen. In order for justice to prevail, she had to uncover the truth without sabotaging either side.

“Just so we’re clear,” she said as they reached the back door of the house. “As soon as this is over and Blondell’s fate is determined, I can publish the book.”

“I don’t care what you do once the case is closed,” he said.

“But let’s just say she’s innocent, for the sake of argument, and the real killer isn’t located, that would still be okay?”

“Yeah. As long as you don’t do anything stupid and break the law, by, let’s say . . . going through my files, or using police information that you get your hands on that isn’t for the public. Then, I’d say, all bets would be off.” He unlocked the door to an area that had once been the foyer and that still opened up to wide, curving interior stairs. Originally there had been several hallways and doors off the main area, but they’d all been sealed with fire barriers, and now the only doors opening off the former foyer were one to a storage area to the right of the stairs and, to the left, the entrance to the Donnigans’ apartment. Behind the staircase were French doors that opened to the veranda and the fenced garden area, and beneath the stairs was a locked door that led to a narrow staircase and basement that Nikki never used. It too had a separate entrance and egress windows, so there was a chance the rooms below could be renovated into two more apartments, but so far she hadn’t had the time, money, or energy to tackle what promised to be a huge project.

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