The Morning After (37 page)

“Shit,” he growled. “Goddamned son of a bitch!” He threw the car into gear and backed up, then rammed the gearshift into drive. He punched the accelerator. The Caddy shot out of the parking lot and onto the foggy street.

Reed considered stopping by the local watering hole for a drink or two or six. Tonight would be a great night to get blotto and have the barkeep pour him into a cab. Jack Daniels sounded like a pretty damned good friend.

But Jack couldn’t help.

It wouldn’t change a damned thing.

When Reed woke up with a hangover pounding at his skull tomorrow morning, Bobbi Jean would still be dead. The baby would still never have had a chance to breathe a single breath. And Reed would have to live with the fact that somehow, some way, their deaths were his fault. He was the connection. The damned Grave Robber was talking to
him
. And killing with ease.

But what about Roberta Peters?

How is she connected to you?

He remembered walking through her home and sensed something…a feeling he couldn’t identify. Like déjà vu, but that wasn’t quite it. An unformed idea nagged at him and wouldn’t gel…What the hell was it—something to do with Nikki Gillette? Had Nikki written an article on Roberta Peters? Known her? There was only one way to find out.

He eased off the gas and maneuvered the big car through the city streets, past shops bedecked with Christmas greenery and a few pedestrians on the sidewalks. At the offices of the
Sentinel
he found a parking space near the employee lot. Nikki Gillette’s Subaru was parked near a short hedge. So she was working late. Again. A fact he’d learned long ago when she’d dogged him on other cases. Ambitious to a fault, she spent more time at the newspaper than at home. But she wouldn’t work all night. Rather than be seen in the offices of the
Sentinel
where he could again be accused of being the police department’s leak, he decided to wait outside. There was already enough speculation about him as it was. Morrisette wasn’t the first cop to suggest he might be the rat who was filling the press with inside information.

Last summer he’d been a damned hero solving the Montgomery case, and now, less than six months later, he was under suspicion of being a snitch. A classic case of damned if you do and goddamned if you don’t.

He slid the seat back, stretching his legs, and waited, his gaze glued to the front door as people drifted in and out of the brick building where the offices of the
Sentinel
were housed. As it was late, more people left the building than walked inside.

Reed recognized a few faces. Norm Metzger, wrapped in a wool coat and scarf, drove away in a Chevy Impala while Tom Fink tooled off in a restored vintage Corvette. A kid he recognized as Fink’s nephew…what was his name? Deeter, that was it, Kevin Deeter, arrived in a truck with a canopy and walked into the offices. He wore an oversize Braves jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Reed watched the kid and noted that Deeter paused just outside of the light mounted over the front door, then fiddled with a cassette and donned earphones. He jammed the cassette into a pocket of his baggy jeans, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He was an oddball.

But the city was filthy with nutcases of one kind or another.

Reed settled onto his back and wondered why the Grave Robber was communicating with Nikki Gillette. He had half an ear turned to the police band that he kept at a low volume. What was the connection? Did the killer inherently know that she was hungry, that she was determined to make a name for herself? Had he been watching her? Or did he know her personally?

Condensation collected on the windshield.

What was the significance of twelve?

Gaze never sliding from the doorway, he thought of all the combinations he’d come up with during the past few days. Twelve what?

Months in the year?

Hours in a day? Or conversely, hours in a night?

He bit his lip, eyes narrowing.

Apostles?

Doughnuts in a dozen?

Members of a jury?

Signs of the zodiac?

Inches in a foot?

One, two, buckle my shoe.

Three, four, lock the door.

Five, six, pick up sticks.

And so forth…. What was the twelfth part?

Eleven, twelve,

Dig and delve.

Was that right? Hell, it had been years since he’d thought of that. Delve for what?

For bodies in coffins.

He zeroed in on that. Maybe there was something to the old nursery rhyme…or maybe not. The killer hadn’t mentioned it in any of his pathetic communiques.

A group of six carolers strolled by, harmonizing on “Silent Night.” Christmas lights twinkled in the shrubbery surrounding the buildings. Men dressed in Santa suits rang bells and collected for charity on the street corners.

Christmas.

Could that be it?

The twelve days of Christmas?

They started on December twenty-fifth and ran to January sixth, Epiphany—or at least he thought so. It had been a long while since he’d gone to Sunday school, hadn’t heard a bit of Bible instruction since he was a kid up near Dahlonega. But he was fairly certain that was right.

How did the carol about the twelve days go?

Twelve lords a-leaping, no, no wrong. Twelve drummers drumming. That was it. Twelve damned drummers. But, so what? Big deal. What did drummers have to do with anything?

Before he could analyze the song, he spied Nikki Gillette as she strode through the glass door with a slim black woman Reed didn’t recognize. They paused under the building’s overhang, Nikki hiking up the collar of a tan raincoat that cinched tight around her small waist, her friend adjusting an umbrella.

Nikki’s face was alive. Animated. Beautiful in a way that disturbed Reed. She was talking wildly as the wind blew her red-blond hair around her face. Together the women hurried to the parking lot, then got into separate cars. The black woman’s Volkswagen Jetta sped away quickly while Nikki’s hatchback took a little while to start. Once the Subaru kicked into gear, Nikki hit the throttle full-bore and barely stopped before entering the street.

Reed followed.

He had no trouble keeping up with Nikki’s silver car, nor did he try to hide the fact that he was tailing her down the narrow streets leading to her apartment, through the historic district, past large homes with raised porches, tall windows, and ornate grillwork festooned with garlands and wreaths. Her little car bounced down cobblestone streets and paved roads until she pulled into the alley behind her apartment house.

Reed parked behind her, turning off his headlights as she opened her car door. “Well, well, well. Detective Reed. My new best friend. You know, for years you wouldn’t even return my calls and now, here you are in the flesh. Again. You weren’t kidding about this private bodyguard stuff, were you?”

“I rarely ‘kid.’”

“I’ve noticed. But you might want to give it a try.” She winked at him and offered the hint of a dimple, which was nearly his undoing. “Lighten up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, right,” she said as if she didn’t believe it, but even in the darkness, he noticed that her eyes twinkled a bit as she baited him. Flirted with him.

Don’t even think this way. This is Nikki Gillette you’re thinking about. Ronald Gillette’s daughter. A hungry reporter always looking for an angle and a story.

She pushed open the gate and it creaked upon old hinges. “Detective Morrisette wouldn’t give me any information about what’s going on with the investigation.”

See, what did I tell you? Always on the job. Don’t let yourself get involved, Reed.

“I don’t think there is anything. We’re still checking things out.”

“You, too? I thought you were off—”

“Let’s not go into that,” he suggested. They passed by a fountain that gurgled near the bole of a huge magnolia tree.

“There you are!” Reed recognized Fred Cooper, the landlord. An oval-shaped man with a falsetto voice, Fred bustled around the corner. His nose was too big for his face and his rimless glasses were a little tilted over the bridge of a small nose. Reed was reminded of all of the pictures he’d seen of Humpty-Dumpty. “I wanted to talk to you.” Thin lips pursed.

“What is it, Fred?” Nikki paused at the bottom step. “You remember Detective Reed.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. “Yes. Oh.” Some of his gumption evaporated. “Don’t tell me there’s more trouble!”

Reed said, “I’m just escorting Ms. Gillette home.”

“Why?” Fred asked nervously, his gaze darting around the yard as if certain dead bodies would pop out of the ground at any second. “Do you think whoever broke into the apartment is back? Oh, my God, that would just be the worst. I’ve got to tell you that everyone in the building is nervous.
Extremely
nervous.” He adjusted his glasses and focused on Nikki. “They don’t like the fact that you’re attracting the attention of this killer, this Grave Robber, with your articles about him. It makes the tenants jumpy.” His hands were moving quickly as he gestured wildly to an apartment doorway. “Brenda Hammond on the first floor wants stronger locks on the doors and even more bars on the windows, and Mrs. Fitz, in 201, is considering moving. Can you believe that?” He wrung his hands in agitation. “She’s been here thirteen years and now, after last night, she’s ready to jump ship. Already packing.”

“I don’t think anyone else is a target,” Nikki said calmly, though the corners of her mouth were tight.

“But how do you know?” Fred demanded. “And what’s this ‘anyone else’? Do you think
you’re
a target, because if you are, that would mean he’ll be back. For the love of God, we can’t have a murderer stalking around the premises looking to get at you. Or…or anyone!” He was really upset now. He turned his fearful gaze on Reed. “Are the police providing round-the-clock protection for Ms. Gillette? Will there be extra patrols in this area? Surveillance?” He glanced nervously toward the street where several cars had been parked.

“The department is taking all the appropriate steps.”

“‘The appropriate steps?’ Meaning what? That just sounds like the company line to me.” He folded his arms over his ample chest.

“Believe me, Mr. Cooper, we are doing everything possible to get this guy. Just advise your tenants to be careful, use their heads, don’t go out alone and keep their doors and windows locked. Those who have security systems should use them. Those who don’t should get them installed.”

“And who will pay for that? Me?” Cooper was shaking his balding head, the horror of spending money edging out his fear of the killer. Temporarily. “Wait a minute.” He refocused. “Oh, dear God, you
do
think he’ll be back!”

“I don’t know what he’ll do, unfortunately. I’m only giving you the advice I’d give anyone in the city.”

“This is all your doing,” Cooper said, his features pinching as he glared at Nikki. His lips were pursed so tightly they turned white. “I warned you once before when you had that problem with that Sellwood boy.”

“It was my problem, not Corey Sellwood’s. I made a mistake.” She was getting angry now. Reed sensed the full-blown fight before it erupted.

“But he threatened you. Ever since then I’ve wondered if he’d try to get revenge by doing something outrageous. Or ugly. Or…or horrible. I’ve even thought he was the kind that might try to get even by torching this place.”

“Fred,” she said, holding up a hand, trying to rein in her temper, “you worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough. I’m serious about this, Nikki. I can’t have all the tenants here worried that someone might break in and kill them. It’s damned irresponsible of you to bring this kind of terror here.”

“All right. You’ve made your point. You’ve warned me,” she snapped. “So, now what? Do you want me to move? Are you suggesting that you’re going to evict me? Because some creep broke into my apartment?”

“Evict? Oh…no…I would never…” Cooper glanced anxiously at Reed. “I, um, just wanted to let you know that the other tenants are upset.”

“Fine. You’ve done your duty. I got it.” Leaving the manager standing on the walkway, Nikki stormed up the stairs. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered under her breath. “Like I’m
trying
to have my place broken into!”

“He’ll get over it.”

“You don’t know Fred!” she said, loud enough for the manager, still hovering at the base of the stairs, to hear. “He never gets over anything! He’s beyond anal!”

Two steps behind, Reed swallowed a smile and while following her, attempted not to notice the back of her leg peeking through the slit in the back of her raincoat as she climbed.

“Here goes nothing,” she said, reaching for her keys.

Reed caught hold of her wrist, then wrested her key ring from her fingers. “I’ll go first.”

“Wait a minute.” She turned affronted green eyes up to his and he noticed the way they were shaped over a sturdy, straight nose, the way they darkened with the night. “This is my house, Detective. You don’t have to act like I’m a damsel in distress or anything.” Her hair was damp, her lips shiny from the mist, her anger at the manager, Reed and all men in general, palpable. And ridiculously sexy.

“Damsel in distress? Nikki Gillette? Trust me, I
never
think of you in those terms.”

“Good.”

“But I’ll go in first, anyway. Consider it part of my job.” He slid the key into its lock, then pushed the door open. Reaching inside, he switched on an overhead light and surveyed the living room and kitchen just as a fat yellow cat streaked its way through the door.

“Jennings!”

The apartment seemed empty. Sounded unoccupied. Carefully, Reed stepped inside. Nikki was right behind. In the kitchen she bent on one knee and cooed to the striped feline, “So you finally decided to come home, you bad boy.” She scooped up the tabby. He let out a soft yowl before rubbing the top of his head under her chin and purring loudly enough for Reed to hear. “Did you miss me, hmm? Or just your dinner?”