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‘She got a call on her cell just before one o’clock,’ Bonnie explained. ‘After that she seemed … I don’t know. Anxious, maybe? Upset. She asked if she could go early. We weren’t busy, so I told her she could. She cleaned her station and headed out right after Harper arrived.’
Daltrey made quick notes. ‘She didn’t say why?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘I assumed it was something to do with her boyfriend or her dad.’ She paused before explaining, ‘She and her dad are really close. Sometimes he picks her up after work.’
Daltrey’s eyes sharpened. ‘Do you know her father’s name?’
‘Jerrod Scott.’
‘He pick her up tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bonnie admitted. ‘I was working the bar alone by then. If he did, he didn’t come inside.’
‘But you say she seemed anxious,’ Daltrey said. ‘What made you think that?’
Bonnie paused.
‘Earlier in the night she’d been joking about things, kind of chilled. But after that call … It’s hard to explain. She seemed tense. Distracted. Like she’d gotten bad news.’
Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘If I’d known she was in trouble, I’d have done something. Tried to help.’
Daltrey made notes while Bonnie pulled herself together.
She had a good technique, Harper thought, approvingly. Brisk but not unfeeling.
When Bonnie had recovered, the detective resumed the interview.
‘I’m sorry to ask so many questions. I know it’s been a long night. But I am grateful for your help, Miss Larson.’
Bonnie gave a tremulous nod.
‘Now …’ The detective referred to her notes. ‘You mentioned a boyfriend. Did you see him tonight?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was at the bar. If he came to get her, he’d usually come in for a drink and wait for her to finish.’ She paused. ‘I think they’ve been taking a break lately, anyway.’
Harper noticed the interest flare in Daltrey’s eyes.
‘What’s the boyfriend’s name?’
‘Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Wilson Shepherd.’
She offered it willingly, thinking she was helping. Harper had a feeling she wouldn’t have been so eager if she knew why the detective wanted it.
Daltrey made her spell it. When she’d finished, she said, ‘Remind me again – what time did Naomi leave last night?’
‘Just after one,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m not sure of the exact time …’
‘I can answer that,’ Harper cut in.
Daltrey shot her a steely glance.
‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘And why is that?’
‘I happened to look at the clock above the bar when she walked out,’ Harper said. ‘I noticed it was one thirty, and I thought that was early for her to go. It isn’t normal for Bonnie to be left alone to close up.’
‘There are always supposed to be two workers in the bar,’ Bonnie explained, before Daltrey could ask. ‘For security. But since Harper was there, I figured it was fine.’
After noting this down, Daltrey said, ‘If you’re right, she left the bar on College Row at one thirty, and was shot to death thirty minutes later on River Street. Do either of you have any idea what she might have been doing down there?’
Her eyes welling, Bonnie shook her head, mutely.
‘No idea,’ Harper said.
‘Meeting the boyfriend?’ Daltrey suggested.
‘Her boyfriend lives in Garden City.’ Bonnie wiped a tear away with the side of her hand. ‘Naomi lives on 32nd Street. Those are both miles from downtown.’
Daltrey’s phone buzzed. She picked it up to look at the screen.
‘All right. That’s it for now, ladies.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood abruptly. ‘Leave your numbers with Dwayne, he’ll give you mine. Let me know if you think of anything you haven’t mentioned tonight. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.’
She directed them toward the lobby. Dazed, Bonnie headed down the hall, but Harper hung back with Daltrey, who was turning out the lights in the interview room.
‘Was Naomi robbed? If she wasn’t, what happened to her phone? We know she had it before she left the bar.’
Daltrey fixed her with a cool look. ‘I don’t know why you’re still talking, McClain. I don’t give tips to turncoats.’
Harper flinched.
No matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. The detectives who’d invited her to their parties, drunk beer with her, showed her pictures of their kids, now treated her like a criminal.
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said, stiffly, and left the room.
She didn’t wait to hear Daltrey’s response. It was always the same with all of them these days.
Traitor.
Chapter Three (#ucac769f1-70d8-584b-aa80-2eb53a110df6)
Five hours later, Harper walked into the newspaper’s offices, clutching a large black coffee and blinking in the sunlight flooding through the tall windows.
After leaving the police station, she’d grabbed a few hours’ rest in Bonnie’s insanely pink spare room. She’d crept out early to go home for a shower and change of clothes before heading to work, and she felt like she hadn’t slept at all.
The newsroom was busy and loud, with twelve writers and editors all typing and talking at once.
With its rabbit warren of corridors and narrow staircases, the sprawling, century-old building was designed to be a boarding house rather than a newspaper but, despite its worn edges, there was something undeniably grand about the place. This was most true of the newsroom, with its sturdy white columns and tall windows overlooking the river.
The reporters’ desks were set in rows, overlooked by three editors’ desks at the far end of the room and, beyond them, the glassed-in office of the paper’s managing editor, Paul Dells.
Harper’s desk was midway down the row closest to the windows. She’d had this prime position since the last round of layoffs removed many of the paper’s senior writers two years ago, and left the newsroom half empty.
As soon as she set her coffee down, DJ Gonzales spun his chair around to face her. His wavy dark hair was even more unruly than usual.
‘What are you doing here this early?’ he asked accusingly. ‘I thought you burned in daylight.’
‘I’m not a vampire, DJ,’ she told him, dropping into her seat. ‘I work nights. We’ve had this conversation.’
She switched on her computer with a move so automatic she couldn’t remember doing it two seconds later and took a sip of coffee.
‘Christ, I’m tired,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.
DJ rolled closer. ‘Were you up all night on this murder everyone’s talking about?’
Harper waved her coffee in affirmation.
He didn’t try to disguise his envy. DJ worked the education beat. He found Harper’s work endlessly glamorous.
‘Sounds like a juicy one. It was all over the TV this morning. You’re going to own tomorrow’s front page.’ His tone was wistful. ‘I can’t believe some chick got capped right in the middle of River Street.’
‘I can’t believe people still say “capped”,’ she replied.
‘Is it out of fashion?’ DJ sounded surprised. ‘I thought it was cutting edge.’
‘Harper.’
At the sound of Emma Baxter’s sharp bark from the front of the room, DJ spun his chair back toward his desk with pinpoint precision, and ducked behind his computer screen as if it were a shield.
The city editor strode across the room, her blunt-cut dark hair swinging against the shoulders of her navy blazer. Dells was right behind her.
‘Crap,’ Harper whispered.
The managing editor usually didn’t get involved in the crime beat. But this one must be big enough to attract his attention.
‘What’ve you got on River Street?’ Baxter asked as she neared Harper’s desk. ‘Why does Miles say you know the victim?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw DJ’s head bob up.
‘I don’t really know her. I just happened to be in the bar where she works last night,’ Harper explained, glancing at Dells.
‘Perfect,’ Baxter snapped. ‘Do me a first-person, emotional account – “A Brush With Death”. It can run alongside your main piece on the shooting.’
Dells stepped forward. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a dark-blue suit with a crisp white shirt that looked like it cost more than her car, and a pale blue silk tie. His dark hair was neatly styled.
‘What do we know so far?’ he asked. ‘The TV stations haven’t got much.’
‘The dead woman is Naomi Scott – a second-year law student.’ Harper flipped open her notebook. ‘Seemed to be your basic all-American girl. Left work at one thirty, died of two gunshot wounds. Found with her purse but not her phone. Cops aren’t saying if it was robbery. Nobody knows what the hell she was doing down by the river.’
‘Do we know who her family is?’ Dells asked. ‘Are they locals?’
‘I think so,’ Harper said. ‘Her father’s Jerrod Scott, I’m trying to track him down now.’
Baxter peered at the half-empty notebook. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘Come on.’ A defensive note entered Harper’s voice: ‘I was in the police station half the night.’
‘We’re holding most of the front page for this,’ Dells told her. ‘The TV stations are going to be all over it.’
‘I’ll start making calls,’ Harper said.
‘Good.’ Baxter’s tone was brisk. ‘I want to know who this girl was. If she was so perfect, how’d she end up dead in the street at two in the morning? Call the mayor’s office. Ask her what she’s going to do about people getting shot in the middle of the damned tourist district.’
Dells headed back to his office. Baxter followed, turning so fast her jacket flew off one bony shoulder.
Her last words floated behind her like a cluster bomb: ‘Do it fast. We need something for the website, now.’
When they were gone, DJ swung around to look at Harper, brown eyes wide behind smudged, wire-framed glasses.
‘Dude. You drank in her bar and then she died?’
Harper nodded.
He looked impressed. ‘Tell me something – do you ever think you might be cursed?’
Shooting him a withering glance, Harper logged in to her computer.
‘I’m busy, DJ.’
‘I’m only saying it’s worth a thought,’ he said, spinning back toward his own desk.
It was a bad joke but, as Harper hurriedly checked out the stories about the shooting on the local TV station websites, she found herself thinking about it, nonetheless. After all, Naomi wasn’t the first murder victim in her life.
The first murder victim had been her mother.
Harper had discovered her body on the kitchen floor when she was twelve years old. That still unsolved homicide set off a chain of events that led to her close relationship with the police.
It had also led to everything that happened last year, when Lieutenant Smith was convicted of a murder that had mirrored her mother’s killing in every way.
Breaking that story – and becoming part of it when she was shot by Smith – had raised Harper’s profile; ensuring her position at the newspaper, even in these shaky financial times.
Still, Baxter wasn’t one to stand on history. She needed a steady stream of juicy crime stories to anchor the front page. Even without police cooperation, Harper could provide that. She had her ways. She knew the system better than anyone.
As long as she could keep the headlines coming, her job was safe. She hoped.
Picking up the phone, Harper dialed the mayor’s office number. It rang five times before an assistant answered.
‘Thank you for calling Mayor Cantrelle’s office, how can I help you?’
‘This is Harper McClain at the Daily News. I’d like to ask the mayor some questions about the shooting on River Street last night.’
