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Chapter Eleven (#ulink_5b26f4ee-1a5a-5bdc-b281-0c9c47e87076)
Two hours later, Harper walked out of the darkening city through the heavy glass door into the police station. The entrance hall was empty at this hour and her footsteps echoed in the hollow quiet. Her ankle still ached from her fall earlier, but she was no longer limping. The air conditioning felt like ice against her skin.
Dwayne Josephs looked up from the screen of the small TV that sat underneath the top of the broad modern reception desk. Seeing her, his face brightened.
‘Harper! I heard y’all got y’allselves a live one,’ he said, his tone meaningful. ‘Got everyone here in an uproar. Like someone killed the president.’
Dwayne was dark-skinned and as skinny as daytime receptionist Darlene was curvy. He was six feet tall but his arms and legs still seemed too long for his body, a fact that imbued him with the endearing gawkiness of a teenager, although Harper reckoned he had to be at least thirty-five.
She’d known him for years and she knew how much he loved to gossip. At the moment, she needed information, and she was hoping he’d have something she could use. But she had to play this carefully. As much as Dwayne loved gossip, he also hated breaking the rules. So the trick was to get him to talk without realizing he was saying anything he shouldn’t.
Harper tried to strike a note somewhere between interested and not too interested.
‘Really? Why are they in an uproar?’
Leaning against the counter, Dwayne lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘Well. Blazer went through here a while ago cussin’ a bluestreak,’ he confided with breathless reproach. ‘F-this and F-that.’
Aware that Dwayne had a close and fervent relationship with his church, Harper shook her head disapprovingly.
‘Did he now? My goodness, that’s not like him.’ It was like Blazer actually, but she also knew Dwayne liked to think the best of everyone. ‘What was he so upset about?’
‘Said the TV reporters were vipers crawlin’ all over his crime scene and talkin’ the b-word.’
It took Harper a second to figure out that ‘talking the b-word’ probably meant ‘talking bullshit’. She could readily imagine Blazer coming up with that one.
‘Really?’ She tried to look aghast.
‘Said they were tryin’ to trip him up.’ Dwayne warmed to his topic. ‘Make him say something wrong. Get him in trouble. Said there’s a killer out there who’s a professional and they ought to be worried about that instead of wastin’ his time.’
Harper’s heart jumped. She had to look away so he wouldn’t see the excitement in her face.
‘A professional?’ She pretended to dig in her bag for something. ‘In Savannah? Is he crazy?’
Dwayne didn’t notice the tight edge to her voice.
‘He ain’t crazy,’ he assured her. ‘Everyone’s sayin’ it. No fingerprints. No footprints. No DNA.’
Harper pulled out her lip balm as if that was what she’d been looking for all along. Her eyes glanced off of his.
‘So they don’t have any suspects at all?’
It was a step too far. Dwayne paused, biting his lower lip.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, suddenly cagey. ‘You’d best ask Detective Blazer.’
His brow lowering, he took a step back from the counter.
‘Yeah, I really should.’ She kept her tone easy, meticulously applying the lip balm and then dropping it in her bag. ‘Is he in?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s at the morgue.’
This was fine with Harper. There was no point in talking to Blazer. He’d give her nothing. But someone else might help.
‘What about the lieutenant?’ she asked.
Relief suffused Dwayne’s features. He hated to tell her no.
‘He’s in his office,’ he said. ‘I’ll buzz you through.’
She headed for the security door. ‘Thanks a lot, Dwayne.’
It was after seven and the long, narrow hallway, busy during the day with uniformed police carrying files, dispatchers heading off to get coffee, and detectives strolling to interview rooms, was quiet.
As she walked, Harper worked through the information Dwayne had unknowingly revealed.
A professional killer? What did that mean? A hitman? Or just someone who’d killed before?
And if it was the latter, why couldn’t it be the same person who killed her mother fifteen years ago?
Smith’s door was near the end of the hallway. The lights glowed softly through the frosted-glass window as Harper approached.
He wasn’t usually in this late. The Whitney case must be keeping him busy.
She knocked once.
‘Enter,’ he called gruffly.
When she stepped in, she saw surprise on his face. Closing the folder on his desk, he set a paperweight – a heavy bronze golf ball – on top of it.
‘Harper.’ He didn’t sound thrilled. ‘I figured you’d be busy writing up that homicide.’
‘I am. That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to you.’
He gave her a warning look.
‘Now, listen, you know I can’t help you with an active investigation …’
She held up her hands. ‘I know. But still. There’s something I need to ask you.’
Without waiting for an invitation, she closed the door and sat in one of the chairs facing his desk and leaned toward him.
‘The girl I saw you with today – Camille Whitney – is she OK?’
Some of the sternness left his expression.
‘She’s fine, Harper. You know we’ll look after her.’
She did know. She knew exactly what would happen to Camille now. How police would try to keep her distracted, plying her with soft drinks she didn’t want and coloring books she was too old for, until social workers and family could spirit her away to some inadequate kind of safety.
‘Is that all you wanted?’ Smith asked, when she didn’t speak again.
‘I just …’ she paused, looking down at the notebook in her hand. ‘Seeing her today. With you. It was so similar to what happened. Back then.’
Smith shifted the golf-ball paperweight across the folder.
‘I thought the same thing when I saw her,’ he said gruffly. ‘My first thought was it was too much like you.’
‘Lieutenant, do you think …’ Harper paused, gathering her courage. ‘Did it look to you like the same person who killed my mother, killed Marie Whitney?’
An odd look crossed Smith’s face then. A kind of visceral shock – as if she’d slapped him.
‘What the hell kind of question is that?’
His deep baritone voice was the low, ominous rumble of thunder in the distance.
‘Could you answer it?’ Harper looked at him pleadingly.
Smith shook his head.
‘Harper, no. Trust me – all those two crimes have in common is a girl coming home from school.’
His tone was firm – irrefutable. But she knew that wasn’t true at all.
She wasn’t sure how to play this. She couldn’t explain what she knew without revealing she’d seen the crime scene. And then he was going to want to know how exactly she’d managed that.
But she didn’t have much choice.
‘Are you sure? Whitney was found in the kitchen, right?’ She tried to sound confused but not challenging. ‘Naked and lying on the floor. Stabbed repeatedly. Lieutenant, that’s exactly like my mother.’
His eyes widened. She could sense him preparing an argument, so she launched into all the questions that had filled her mind in the last two hours.
‘What kind of knife did he use? Was it the same kind used on my mother? Have you compared the cases? If it’s the same guy, why—’
‘Harper stop.’ Smith’s big, craggy face reddened. ‘How the hell do you know where the body was found? None of those facts have been released to the press and I’ll be damned if Blazer told you. That man would sooner kiss a rattlesnake than talk to a reporter.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she argued. ‘What matters is whether the same person killed Marie Whitney as—’
‘Enough,’ he snapped, cutting her off again. ‘You don’t get to ask the questions. I do. Now, you have somehow accessed information you should not have about a murder case under investigation. As head of the homicide division I am ultimately responsible for that crime scene. And I will know who gave you those details, or I will be on the phone to your editor to get her over here to explain for you.’
Harper swallowed hard.
Now and then she got small glimpses of what it must be like to be a murder suspect interviewed by him. His narrow blue eyes were so steely and penetrating it hurt to look at them. It was as if he could see through her to her soul.
‘I saw the crime scene,’ she confessed.
Smith rubbed his forehead tiredly.
‘Oh, wonderful. And how, exactly, did you manage that?’
‘Through the window,’ she said. ‘I happened to get a quick glance. That’s it.’
‘Happened to get a quick glance?’ Smith cocked his head, eyeing her with open suspicion. ‘Which window?’
‘One of the back ones.’ She tilted one shoulder. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Hell, yes, it matters. Because the only way to see through those windows …’
With a silent apology to Miles, Harper said, ‘… is with a long-range camera lens from the backyard of a helpful neighbor. Yes. And that is not illegal, Lieutenant. As you well know.’
His mouth snapped shut.
There was a pause as they both sat staring each other down across the vast desk.
Finally, he blinked.
‘Harper, why did you do that? This isn’t like you.’ The anger had left his voice, replaced by weariness. ‘You know you’ve got no business spying on an active homicide investigation.’
This time Harper didn’t have to think up a good lie.
‘I saw Camille,’ she said. ‘I saw her standing next to you, and it was like looking at myself. I had to know if the crimes were the same. And they were.’
The lieutenant sagged in his seat.
‘It’s not the same,’ he insisted. ‘That girl isn’t you.’
‘Lieutenant, please.’ Harper leaned forward. ‘I have to know why this crime scene looked so much like my mother’s. I don’t want to fight with you. I need to understand what’s happening. This is for me, not the newspaper. For me.’ She pressed a hand hard against her chest. ‘Do you think the same person committed both murders? Is my mother’s killer back?’
Deep lines scored the skin above Smith’s eyes as he studied her with grave understanding.
‘I’m so sorry, Harper,’ he said gently. ‘The same person did not commit both murders.’
Some tiny strand of hope or fear that had wrapped itself around Harper’s heart from the moment she first saw Camille standing on the street hours earlier, let go. And she hated to see it leave.
She felt numb. She’d been so sure.
‘You’re certain?’ Her voice was airless.
‘I’m certain.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, look. I’m not denying there are striking similarities with your mother’s case. But there are differences, too, Harper. Significant differences.’
‘What differences?’
‘The type of weapon used, the angle of the wounds, the force used in the attack – it all indicates a different person committed this crime,’ he said. ‘This person is taller than your mother’s murderer. He’s heavier. The wounds were less efficient, more tentative – Whitney had more defensive wounds, so she had more of a chance to fight. This all points to a different killer.’
He spoke with confidence. Evidence was where he was comfortable. It’s where all detectives are most at home. Building a case from a hundred microscopic individual strands, like an architect designing a building one pencil-stroke at a time.
Harper couldn’t argue with evidence.
