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‘There are enough differences in this scene to reassure me that those superficial similarities are no more than coincidences,’ he continued. ‘Listen, if you stick around in this business long enough, you get to see the same kind of murder happen again. There are only so many ways to kill.’
Harper tried to think of something to say, but all the fight left her. She kept seeing Marie Whitney – her hand flung out, fingers curled. And her own mother, still and cold.
‘Oh,’ she said softly.
‘Harper,’ the lieutenant looked concerned. ‘Are you OK? You need something? Some water?’
‘No …’ she told him. ‘I mean … I’m fine.’
It wasn’t true. She wanted to ask him about what Blazer had said, about the killer being a professional, and what did that mean but, suddenly, she felt suffocated in this windowless room. She had to get out.
She stood abruptly, shoving the chair back so hard it skidded harshly on the floor. Smith looked startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, backing to the door. ‘I have to get to the newsroom. Deadlines.’
Smith nodded. ‘Of course.’
But he stood up behind his desk, as if deciding whether or not to follow her as she fumbled with the door.
In the open doorway she stopped and looked back at him. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were worried.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’ Remembering their agreed lunch plans, she added hurriedly, ‘I’ll see you Sunday, OK?’
Before he could reply, she yanked the door open and ran out into the hallway, rushing to the security doors and out into the warm summer night.
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_22c969ad-5115-5fc1-bcc9-795d440018a9)
Five hours later, just after midnight, Harper stood in front of a converted warehouse on a cobblestoned lane at the edge of the river squinting at the numbered buttons in the dark.
The light above the door had gone out two weeks ago and no one had fixed it yet. One of these days she was going to come down here with a screwdriver and replace that damn bulb herself.
Finding number twelve, she hit it hard and waited, staring at the camera above the door. Her right leg jittered with ill-concealed impatience.
Now that she was here, she wanted to get this over with.
‘Jackson.’ Through the tinny speaker, Miles’ voice sounded crisp and cautious.
‘It’s me,’ she told the camera. ‘Obviously.’
With a deep, mechanical clunk, the heavy steel door unlocked and swung silently inward.
Inside, she crossed a spacious, empty lobby, past over-sized pots holding glossy palms and ficus trees that seemed small in the cavernous space. The owners had kept the original pitted and worn stone floor, polishing it up to make it look a bit more like a home and less like what it had been for more than a hundred years – a giant holding area for crates of cotton and tobacco, sweet potatoes and sugarcane.
Even now, despite all the developer’s efforts cleaning and glossing and polishing, she thought she could detect the faintest scent of ancient field dust in the artificially cooled air.
The elevator opened as soon as she pressed the call button. They’d gone for a post-industrial look here, with walls made of sheets of metal that looked like someone had punched it repeatedly until it behaved.
As the lift rose, she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. Her stomach grumbled loud enough to be heard above the elevator’s pulleys. She hadn’t eaten anything since her interrupted lunch at Eric’s. There’d been no time.
Once she’d returned from the police station, she’d spent hours putting together a complete news package about Marie Whitney for the final edition. DJ had stayed late to help.
The headline – Murder Shocks Peaceful Neighborhood – was mediocre, in Harper’s opinion. But it was, at least, accurate.
Miles hadn’t told anyone about Harper’s behavior at the crime scene. Now, she was here to give him the explanation she’d promised.
On the fourth floor, the doors swept open with a soft shushing sound, revealing a dimly lit, wide hallway with exposed brick walls. The door to number twelve stood ajar.
She walked in, shutting the door behind her. A husky blues singer’s voice streamed from speakers.
‘Hello?’
The loft apartment had soaring ceilings and a floor made of wide planks of reclaimed oak. Huge windows lined one wall, framing the glittering lights of downtown Savannah and the undulating dark swirl of the river.
The living room, dining room and kitchen were all one space. His furniture was modern – leather and chrome. Most of the lights were turned down low, except in the kitchen, where Miles sat at the table in the bright, clean glow of a pendulum light.
Glancing up at her, he tilted his head toward the fridge. The wire-framed glasses he wore for close-up work glittered in the light. If he was still angry at her, it didn’t show on his face.
‘Grab yourself a beer.’
He’d spread the internal parts of a camera out on clean, white paper and under a bright light was working with an array of complex tools, meticulously putting it back together.
He did this regularly; said it helped him think.
A police scanner on the counter next to the fridge buzzed and crackled loud enough to be heard above the music.
Harper pulled a bottle from the fridge.
‘I’m surprised to see you,’ Miles said, as she popped the lid with an opener he’d left on the counter. ‘Figured you’d be at Rosie’s.’
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