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‘Demon alcohol is destroying my life,’ she informed him solemnly. ‘I need to find Jesus.’
DJ grinned. ‘My mom knows where he is if you’re really looking for him. She also has an excellent lock on the Virgin Mary’s location.’
With that, he shoved his chair forward and around in a surprisingly accurate move that propelled him precisely as far as his own desk.
DJ was only four years younger than Harper, but they were four really long years. When he’d first started at the paper, he was like the kid brother she never wanted, and she’d blamed Baxter bitterly from day one for putting his desk next to hers. He was so needy – constantly asking questions. It drove her crazy.
Gradually, though, he’d got better at his job and, although she couldn’t put her finger on when it happened, at some point she’d decided she liked him after all.
Pulling out her notes, she began typing up a quick report of the day’s smaller crimes. These would go on page six, in a box unimaginatively called ‘The Crime Report’.
‘McClain.’ Baxter’s voice cut across the hum and buzz of the room.
‘Present.’ Harper lifted her hand.
Baxter marched over to her desk – her hair bone-straight, her angular features set in tight lines. She moved so fast her jacket swung around her thin frame when she stopped at Harper’s desk.
‘I had an agitated call from the deputy police chief this afternoon,’ she announced. ‘Seems you got too close to the action at that homicide last night. Is this true?’
As she spoke, the ambient noise in the room dipped subtly.
Harper leaned back in her chair, calculating her chances. Even after years at the paper, she found it impossible to tell when Baxter was really pissed off. The woman had to be a nightmare at the poker table.
‘I guess I did,’ she conceded. ‘That bullet missed me by inches.’
The room was very quiet now. DJ swiveled slowly around to watch.
Baxter’s hand dropped onto Harper’s shoulder in a movement that could either have been a pat or a punch.
‘Good work,’ she barked. ‘That’s what I like to see. Initiative.’
The noise in the room returned to normal.
‘Get me another front page like that and I’ll give you a raise.’ Baxter spoke loud enough to ensure the whole room could hear.
Behind her back, DJ gave Harper a thumbs up.
‘A raise? Isn’t that one sign of the apocalypse?’ Harper heard someone ask in a pseudo-whisper.
When the editor had returned to her desk, DJ slid closer.
‘That reminds me. I meant to tell you your story was awesome today,’ he said. ‘That picture, too.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve got the best beat. I never get to write that hero shit.’
DJ was on the education beat. The most exciting thing he got to write about was a new dormitory at the college.
‘The hours suck,’ she pointed out kindly.
‘True.’ He spun around again and returned to his desk.
She didn’t know how he could do that so many times a day without making himself puke.
Harper’s copy of the day’s paper still lay on her desk. Idly, she picked it up. Miles’ photo took up most of the space above the fold, with her story running underneath it.
Because of the darkness, and the way Miles had widened the aperture so he could shoot at night without a flash, the photo looked almost black and white. The barrel of the gun was pointed right at the camera. Above the shooter’s bandanna, his young, jaded eyes stared at the reader with unconstrained loathing.
It was intimate. Intimidating. It grabbed you by the throat and demanded to be noticed.
‘Hell of a shot,’ she muttered.
Then she tossed the newspaper aside and got back to work.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_385e17e5-6866-5f83-b9e9-5d92a6d6e7b6)
That night was blessedly uneventful – Harper spent most of it at her desk, listening to the low rumble of the scanner and trying to stay awake.
At midnight, she went straight home and collapsed in bed. She was asleep in seconds.
The next day, she woke after noon, ravenous, the last remnants of the hangover finally gone.
Following a quick shower, and a scan of her emails, she headed out for breakfast. She was sitting alone in a red vinyl booth in Eric’s Diner eating one of the ‘fresh burgers’ advertised in vivid neon out front when Miles called.
Stuffing a French fry in her mouth, she hit the answer button.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘I’m at a crime scene on Constance Street. I think you better get down here.’ His voice was low but intense.
‘What’ve you got?’
Even as she spoke, she was wrestling her scanner out of her bag; switching it on. A confusing tangle of police voices hissed into the air.
A man at a nearby table glanced over curiously and she turned it down.
‘Looks like homicide,’ Miles said. ‘A bad one. Everyone’s rolling out.’ He paused. ‘It’s a good street, Harper. Expensive houses. Fancy cars.’
She didn’t wait to hear the rest. Pulling a wad of cash from her wallet, she dropped some bills on the table and hurried to the door. It jangled cheerfully as she opened it.
‘How many vics?’ she asked, stepping out of the ice-cold air conditioning into the bright sunlight.
‘Unclear,’ Miles said. ‘Can’t get a word with the detectives. They’re all inside. And I do mean all – there must be six of them in there.’
Harper gave a low whistle.
Two detectives were standard on a normal homicide. Six was unprecedented.
A wall of heat hit her as she opened the door of the Camaro. She dumped her bag unceremoniously on the passenger seat and stuck the scanner in the dashboard holder. Switching her phone to speaker, she started the engine and cranked up the air conditioning.
Hot air hit her face like a punch.
‘What’s it look like to you?’ she asked, putting the car in reverse and glancing over her shoulder.
She’d turned the volume up high – Miles’ voice soared above the rumble of the engine.
‘It looks like page one.’
When Harper arrived, Constance Street was blocked by crime tape and a uniformed officer waved her away. The TV news crews were already there and their satellite trucks took up most of the available spaces.
Just outside the historic district, this neighborhood had once been affordable. But lately the big lawns and Arts and Crafts houses had been discovered and prices had skyrocketed. The schools were good around here and parents would claw each other’s eyes out to get their kids in one of them.
Harper could already see what Miles had observed – this was not the usual place for a homicide.
She backed hurriedly into an empty space around the corner and ran toward the crime tape, straight into the TV reporters, who were blocking the way with the forest of tripods and boom microphones that followed them everywhere.
‘Hey, Harper.’ Josh Leonard, Channel 5’s blow-dried but not entirely offensive news correspondent flashed a blinding smile as she approached the crime tape. ‘We were wondering when you’d show up.’
‘I can’t believe you beat me,’ Harper said absently, her eyes on the police activity beyond the crime tape. ‘I guess there’s a first time for everything.’
‘The first time was that car racing accident, actually.’ Josh straightened his cuffs. ‘But who’s counting?’
She raised one eyebrow. ‘You are, apparently.’
‘Five times.’ He held up his right hand, fingers splayed. ‘Five times – and I can list each one – I’ve got there first.’
‘Give up, Josh. This is not a fight you’re going to win.’ Natalie Swanson, the anchor from Channel 12 stalked up to them. In a pristine blue suit and four-inch heels, she looked impossibly regal as she hooked a tiny microphone to her lapel. The sun made her glossy helmet of blonde hair glimmer.
Harper blew her a kiss. ‘Looking hot as ever, Natalie.’
The other woman smiled serenely. ‘Compliments will get you everywhere.’
‘Now, see,’ Josh told his cameraman, ‘I’d never get away with saying that.’
‘Try it. See what happens.’ Natalie’s voice dripped pleasant malice.
Harper looked down to where police were bustling in and out of a yellow house with a high peaked roof.
‘What do we know?’ she asked, glancing from Josh to Natalie.
‘All I’ve been told is the victim is a woman in her early thirties.’ Natalie lowered her voice. ‘The cops are being weird about this one. My producer talked to the information officer and he wouldn’t tell her a thing. Never got that before. Anyone got anything else?’
Josh shook his head. ‘Everyone’s keeping schtum.’
‘Miles might have more.’ Harper stood on her toes, trying to see through the growing crowd of gawkers, cops and TV cameras. ‘I better find him.’
Grabbing her phone, she typed a quick message:
Where are you? I’m here.
When she’d walked as far as the tape allowed, she paused beside a handful of residents gathered in a worried huddle. Most of them were elderly.
That made sense. Everyone else would be at work at this hour.
While pretending to look at her notepad, Harper studied them carefully. Their clothing was perfectly serviceable, but nothing fancy. There was no indication that they could afford to pay half a million dollars for a three-bedroom. They must have bought before the bankers moved in.
This was good. Bankers would know better than to talk to her.
Sticking her notebook back in her pocket, she made her way to the center of the group. She moved slowly, a sympathetic look softening her expression.
‘I hate to bother y’all,’ she said, thickening her native Georgia accent and keeping her voice hushed.
As one, they turned to glance at her.
‘I’m from the Daily News. Can anyone tell me what’s going on?’
‘Oh Lord,’ a sixty-something woman in a floral dress said mournfully. ‘The newspaper’s here, too. Someone’s dead for sure.’
A dark-skinned, gray-haired man with a glossy black cane took a step towards her. ‘I wish you could tell us. All we know is the police are in Marie’s house. They won’t tell us anything. Is she dead?’
‘It can’t be Marie, can it?’ The first woman shook her head. ‘Or her little girl? Sweet Jesus, not that.’
Gradually, Harper moved closer to their tightly knit circle, making herself one of them. She kept her expression curious but also open and unthreatening.
‘Tell me about Marie,’ she said, all sympathy. ‘Who is she?’
‘Marie Whitney,’ the first man said. ‘She lives in that house.’ He pointed his cane at the yellow house. ‘Where the police are.’
‘She lived there long?’ she asked.
The neighbors conferred.
‘Was it two years?’ someone said.
‘It was after the tree fell on the Landry’s place,’ the first man reminded everyone.
‘About three years, I think,’ a woman said, after a second.
Harper did a quick mental calculation. Three years ago, prices were already rising. Whoever bought that place had money.
She needed to tell Baxter to hold the front page.
‘Is she married?’ she asked easily.
‘Divorced,’ a small woman in a blue cardigan informed her, a hint of excitement underlying her tone. ‘Ex-husband lives out of town somewhere.’
She seemed chatty. Harper inched closer to her.
‘Do you know if she worked?’
The woman lowered her voice confidentially. ‘She worked down at the university. I don’t know what she did there, though. She wasn’t a teacher, I don’t think.’
