The Morning After (18 page)

“I knew Bobbi.”

“So, you think you’re gonna know the next one?”

Reed’s gut churned. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Christ, he couldn’t imagine that all of the victims were people he’d known. Oh, Jesus, no. “I hope not,” he said fervently. Would some nutcase, someone he’d made an enemy of, hate him enough to kill the people he cared about, people he knew?

Who would hate him so much?

Someone he’d offended?

Some criminal he’d sent up the river?

Hell. He turned onto the county road and followed it to the cemetery where not one, but two patrol cars were parked. The gates had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape and a few gawkers had stopped to stand in the rain and peer past the ancient headstones, hoping for a peek of the tragedy.

A white van with WKAM emblazoned upon its sides in deep blue letters was parked near the curb. The press had arrived.

“Damned three-ring circus already.” Reed opened the car door as Morrisette squashed her cigarette and left the smoldering butt in the ashtray. “Let’s go.”

Before the reporters could get to them, they flashed their badges at a uniformed cop, then slid beneath the yellow tape. The grass was wet, the wind cold with the rain as they made their way to the back of the cemetery where a crowd had gathered. Pictures were being taken. Soil samples already being bagged. Debris collected. Impressions in the ground studied. The crime scene team, headed by Diane Moses, was already at work. Reed noticed a gate in the wrought-iron fence line that bordered the cemetery. It was wide enough for a vehicle to pass through and opened to an access road running behind the graveyard. Probably used for hearses and the digging equipment needed to excavate graves. Through the trees, far enough away from the gate so as not to disturb any evidence that might have been left, the crime scene team’s van, back doors open, was parked.

“How long will it be before we can start digging?” one of the officers asked. He was wearing rain gear, and along with several of the other uniforms, was equipped with shovels and picks.

“Until we’re done,” Diane snapped. “Ask him.” She hitched her chin in Reed’s direction.

“We’ll wait,” he said.

“Damned straight you will,” Diane grumbled as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up her clipboard. “At least we’ve already got permission to dig it up, but you just wait until I give the word.”

“Man, did you get up on the wrong side of the bed, or what?” the officer taking pictures asked.

Diane didn’t answer. But her mouth compressed into a thin line of irritation as she made a quick note, then walked closer to the grave site to converse with a man taking soil samples.

The rain seemed colder as Reed stared at the freshly turned earth. The gravestone had weathered and read: Thomas Alfred Massey, beloved husband and father. Thomas’s dates of birth and death had been etched beneath his name. From the looks of it, Massey had been eighty when he’d been buried seven years earlier.

If he was in the coffin.

Until they dug it up, no one knew for certain.

Reed didn’t know the man, but the name rang a far-off bell. He thought hard as raindrops ran down his nose, but couldn’t conjure up an image of the guy or even put his finger on where he’d heard the name before.

At least he wasn’t someone he knew.

Reed only hoped that if there was another victim, he or she was a stranger as well. He reached into his pocket for his roll of antacids. His stomach was churning from bad coffee and not much else.

Mud oozed around his shoes as Diane Moses conferred with members of her staff and the wind kicked up. He glanced at a nearby gravestone, read the name and simple message cut into the granite:

Rest In Peace.

Fat chance.

Not with the Grave Robber on the loose.

“…so you, like, won’t use my name, will you?” From across the table in the little coffee shop, the waif-like girl beseeched Nikki. Lindsay Newell was twenty-seven, but didn’t look a day older than eighteen. “You know Mr. Hexler; he doesn’t want any trouble or hint of a scandal at the store. He thinks it’s bad for business.”

“I’ll be discreet and of course, if you don’t want me to, I won’t quote you directly,” Nikki assured the jewelry clerk who had worked with Bobbi Jean Marx.

Nikki had dressed down this morning, wearing her weathered jeans and a sweater in order to help the jewelry clerk relax and feel more likely to share secrets. Like they were best girlfriends or something. Nikki had bought her the coffee and a croissant, but Lindsay had only picked at the pastry. While spoons clinked in cups and conversation buzzed around them, Nikki tried to make Bobbi Jean’s coworker feel at ease. None of her ploys worked. Lindsay was edgy. Customers of the Caffeine Bean came and went, the bell over the door tinkling as they entered. Each time the door opened, Lindsay visibly jumped, as if she were certain her boss would walk into the shop and spy her spilling her guts to a reporter.

“Please don’t quote me. I can’t afford to lose my job.” The girl bit at the corner of her glossed lips nervously and checked her watch for the third time as soft jazz emanated from the speakers and the aproned cashiers behind the counter called out orders. Lindsay was on her morning coffee break and already jumpy. The triple shot of espresso in her nonfat latte wouldn’t help calm her down. She’d refused to open up to a tape recorder but had allowed Nikki to take notes.

“Okay, I won’t. No names. I promise. So, tell me about Bobbi Jean. When did you last see her?”

“Two mornings before I found out that she…” Lindsay gulped. “…that she was dead…God, that’s
so
horrible. I mean, to be buried alive…with some decaying corpse, trapped in a coffin.” She shuddered and reached for her coffee with a trembling hand. “I already talked to the police, you know, and I told them everything I know about her, which isn’t a whole lot.” Anxiously, she licked the foam from her lips. “Except…”

“Except what?” Nikki saw the hesitation in the girl’s eyes. As if she had a secret she wanted to unburden.

“Oh…God…I…I caught her throwing up one morning just after we opened. It was just about a week ago. I had to run the store by myself for about half an hour. When she came out of the bathroom she was so pale. White as a ghost.” Lindsay leaned closer, across the table, and whispered, “I mean, like, I was sure she had the flu or something and that she should go home, but when I suggested she call someone in to cover for her, she wouldn’t hear of it. She said a day in bed wouldn’t help her at all, in fact, that’s what had started the problem. I didn’t get it…not really, but I suspected…I’d seen an opened pregnancy test package in the garbage a few weeks ago, but didn’t know who it belonged to. We have a lot of girls working there, so it could have been anyone’s. But now…” She lifted a slim shoulder. “I, um, I think it was Bobbi’s.”

“But she was separated from her husband,” Nikki said, adrenaline shooting through her blood. The victim had been pregnant at the time of her death? This was news that hadn’t come out of the police department, something they were holding back. If it was true.

“Yeah, I know, but sometimes people get back together.”

“Had they?”

Lindsay cast a look through the window to the sidewalk outside. Pedestrians were walking quickly, umbrellas open, coats pulled tight to their collars. “Not that I know of, and Bobbi…well, she dated other guys.”

Nikki nearly came out of her chair. She scribbled quickly. “Do you know their names?”

“Uh-uh. I don’t think anyone did because Bobbi was in the middle of her divorce and didn’t want to screw up her chances of getting money from her ex—well, her husband, well, you know, Jerome.”

“But surely the men would call her at the store.”

Blank eyes blinked. Twirled a finger in her dark ringlets. “I guess.”

“You didn’t take any of the calls?”

“Not that I know of. Guys called all the time, you know, to shop for their wives or girlfriends.” Lindsay pursed her lips and her eyebrows drew together as if she were really thinking hard. Meanwhile, the loudspeaker called out, “Double fudge mocha nonfat with whipped cream.”

“No one special?”

“No…but…you know, I just had this feeling that one of the guys was a cop.”

“Why?”
A cop? Who?

“Little remarks, I guess. She teased about handcuffs and being frisked and guys with big nightsticks and…all that double entendre stuff.” She really twisted on the curl now. “Oh, maybe I was just imagining things. I shouldn’t have said anything. What does it matter? She’s dead. But that’s why I couldn’t talk to the police—I didn’t know who he was, didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. It was just too fucked up, y’know?” Lindsay chewed on her lower lip for a second, forsook the lock of hair to pick up her paper coffee cup and said, “Look, I really have to go. My break is over and I don’t know anything else.” She scooted out her chair as quickly as if she expected an angry god to hurl a lightning bolt through the table if she stayed a second longer.

“Call me if you think of anything else,” Nikki called, catching up with her at the door and handing her the business card she’d tucked into the pocket of her jeans.

Lindsay stared at the card as if Satan’s name and phone number were engraved beneath
Savannah Sentinel.
“No, I don’t know anything else. Really.” She was backing toward the door and nearly ran into a guy trying to fold his umbrella. Raindrops littered the floor. “Oh! Sorry,” Lindsay mumbled quickly and was out the door. She jaywalked toward the square opposite the jewelry store.

Nikki didn’t waste any time. She grabbed her cup and walked into the gloom. Though it was late morning, the winter day was dark. Somber. Rain pouring off the awning. She splashed her way to her car, climbed inside and tried to start it. The engine didn’t catch. “Oh, no, ya don’t,” she said under her breath, but the hatchback only coughed twice. “Come on, come on…no need to be temperamental.” Lord, she
had
to take the little car into the shop. It was in severe need of regular maintenance.

The police band crackled, but she didn’t catch the call.

On the third try the old engine fired and Nikki checked her side view mirror before pulling away from the curb. Her cell phone jangled at the next stoplight and she fumbled in her purse before finding the damned thing and catching it on the third chirp. “This is Nikki,” she said, negotiating the turn while juggling her coffee.

“Hi, babe.”

Her heart plummeted and she nearly dropped the coffee as she imagined her ex-boyfriend’s face—strong jaw, dark beard shadow, even darker eyes. Mysterious eyes. Lying eyes. Nearly black hair long enough to scrape his collar. “Sean. I heard you were in town.”

“You didn’t call me back.”

Did he sound pouty? Hurt? Sean? No way! She took a sip of her drink, then managed to force it into her cup holder with only a minimum of spillage. “I really didn’t see a reason to phone.” The light changed, but another car flew through the intersection. “Idiot!”

Sean chuckled. Low and sexy. “That’s me.”

No, that was me. I was an idiot for you!

“Look, Sean, I’m busy. Is there something you wanted?” she asked as she heard something on the police band that caught her attention. Some units had been sent to a location on Heritage Road. It didn’t sound like an accident.

“I thought we could get together.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Nikki, I need to see you.”

“Now?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Sean was the one who had wanted out, the one who hadn’t been happy in the relationship. He’d peddled her some crap about her not being his “soul mate,” whatever that meant.

“What about tonight?”

“I can’t.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I…I don’t know.” There had been a time when she would have reveled in hearing him utter just those words. But that had been a while back. “I don’t think so.”

“Nikki.” His voice was low. The timbre the same she remembered. Deep. Sexy. Nearly guttural. “You’re avoiding me.”

“You’re right. Wait a minute,” she added, thinking about the note she’d found in her bed. “Do you still have a key to my apartment.”

“Maybe.” He was teasing her now. Flirting. Oh, for God’s sake.

“I’m serious, Sean.”

“No, babe, you made me give it back, remember?”

Vaguely she remembered him removing the key from the ring that held his own set. They’d been in his old “classic” Jaguar and she’d been fighting not to break down.

“That’s right. But you could have made a copy.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why do you do anything.”

“Low blow, Gillette.”

“So I’m not ‘babe’ anymore? Good.” More police cars were being directed to Heritage Road. She caught the address, held the phone with her shoulder and found her city map from the overflowing glove box. “I don’t have time for this now,” she said and hung up. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? He was the one who had dumped her. And now she should drop everything for him?

No way!

But there had been a desperate tone to his voice…Oh, God, he probably wanted money. He already owed her fifteen hundred dollars. He wasn’t going to get another dime.

She thought about the night before. The note in her bed. The note on her car…Could Sean have left them? It really wasn’t his style…and yet…“Don’t think about it now,” she scolded. She couldn’t afford to waste another minute on a free spirit who, she’d learned later, had also been a smalltime hood.

At the next light she stopped and checked the map. Oh, God. Her heart thudded. The address was for Heritage Cemetery. She felt a zing of anticipation.

No doubt the Grave Robber had struck again.

A loud honk alerted her that the light had turned green. She didn’t hesitate, but turned a corner and headed out of town.

Toward her next cover story.

CHAPTER 10

Reed stared down at the open coffin. Not one body, but two were crammed into it. Just like before. Only the naked, bruised body on top was that of an old woman, the one below decomposed, but from the clothing that remained—a man’s dark suit—and from the tufts of gray hair still visible, Reed guessed the other occupant was Thomas Massey.