Harper had long thought women were afraid of the wrong thing. Women are scared of the hooded teen at a gas station, or the unknown man walking down the dark street late at night.
They should be afraid of their husbands.
When you get right down to it, if you’re a woman, being killed by someone you love is the most ordinary murder of all.
This was bad news. The paper hardly covered domestic violence.
‘There’s nothing there,’ Baxter had said, more than once. ‘No one wants to read about that stuff.’
She wasn’t wrong.
A random murder is a threat to everyone. It’s lawlessness in the streets.
But if a woman’s ex-boyfriend shoots her? Well. She should have made better choices.
If Naomi Scott was killed by Wilson Shepherd it would move the story to page six within a couple of days.
Harper kept trying to remember if she’d met Naomi’s boyfriend. Her mind summoned an image of a serious, chubby-cheeked guy, neatly dressed, sitting quietly at one end of the bar.
Otherwise, she knew nothing about him.
Before she’d gone to sleep last night, she’d asked Bonnie what she knew about him. All she’d said was that they met at school. She’d been so worn out Harper hadn’t wanted to push it.
She’d still be asleep now. But later today, she could see if she remembered more.
For now, she searched his name in the newspaper database and came up empty.
Staring at the empty screen, she tapped her fingers against the desk. She’d done all she could in the office. It was time to go hunting.
After typing up a quick update with the mayor’s statement and sending it through to the editor, she grabbed her scanner and stood up.
DJ glanced at her enquiringly.
‘I’m heading out,’ she said, stuffing a fresh notebook in her pocket. ‘If Baxter comes looking for me, tell her I’m off to find a killer.’
Chapter Four
When she stepped out of the newspaper office, the sun was fierce. Humidity hung so thick it left a white haze in the air, giving the gold dome of the City Hall an oddly electric shimmer in the distance.
August was always brutal, but this year it seemed even worse than usual. It had been over a hundred degrees every day for two weeks. The heat was relentless.
Harper shoved her auburn hair back, twisting it into a knot at the base of her neck as she surveyed the traffic backed up on Bay Street. She’d planned to get in her car and drive straight to The Library to try to find out more about Naomi and Wilson Shepherd, but it would take half an hour to get anywhere right now.
Instead, she walked toward the scene of the crime.
Already sweating, she threaded her way through stalled traffic, breathing in the acrid scent of exhaust and hot pavement. Whatever the mayor’s worries, news of the murder clearly hadn’t reached the city’s visitors yet. Tourists circulated in brightly colored crowds of T-shirts, baggy shorts and baseball caps, guidebooks shoved under arms.
As she headed down an uneven cobblestone ramp towards River Street, Harper was struck by the audacity of the murderer. All around her were people. Walking, strolling, driving. A Savannah Police car was stuck in traffic twenty feet away.
Even at two in the morning, this area would not have been empty. The Hyatt hotel stood nearby, overlooking the river. Hotels, restaurants, and apartment buildings surrounded her on all sides.
People were close the whole time.
Most murders take place in the shadows. They’re shameful acts hidden from prying eyes.
This hadn’t been a normal murder. This location made it a kind of public execution.
Down by the river, a breeze cooled her skin. The exhaust faded away, to be replaced by the smell of muddy water, and the cloying scent of burned sugar from the praline shops.
It was already busy. Kids ran through the riverfront plaza, oblivious to what had happened here a few hours ago. In the distance, a paddle-wheel riverboat, painted candy-cane red and white, sat waiting for passengers. A busker played the banjo, a battered top hat shading him from the sun as he jangled out a version of ‘Summertime’.
This was why the mayor was panicking. Why Harper and Baxter had both come to work seven hours early today.
The death of Naomi Scott threatened all of this.
Savannah lived or died by its tourist trade. A murder on this street put poison in the well.
Hurrying her pace, Harper walked down the narrow street, searching for the spot. It was hard to square the dark street from the night before with this bright, busy scene. It took a few minutes to find what she was searching for.
In the end, it was the ragged white remnants of crime tape that guided her, fluttering from the base of the lampposts.
From there, the crime scene was easy to find. Discarded latex gloves lay at the curb, along with other medical detritus, overlooked in the hasty clean-up in the dark.
The cobbles were damp – someone had hosed them down, trying to wash the evidence away. But blood stains everything it touches.
The darker stones showed clearly where the body had fallen.
She turned a full circle, oblivious to the tourists jostling her as they passed.
It didn’t make sense. Why had Naomi left The Library in the middle of the night and come here? Was she meeting her boyfriend, as the police suspected, only to be shot dead? And if so, why here of all places?
This was a crazy place for a murder.
Half an hour later, Harper parked the Camaro in a shady spot on a narrow lane on the other side of downtown.
Tucked away not far from the Savannah College of Art and Design, College Row was quiet and dingy during the day, littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The short alley served no purpose except to hold two bars and a small clothes shop, known for its quirky T-shirts.
The lights were off in the Library Bar when she walked up. Its sign – an open book with a martini glass perched on it – was unlit.
When she tried the door, Harper found it locked.
‘Hello?’ she called, knocking on the door. ‘Is anyone in there?’
No response. She knocked again, raising her voice.
‘Hello?’
This time, something inside stirred. She heard footsteps shuffling across the room.
After a minute, the door opened a crack.
A rumpled, lived-in face peered out at her.
Harper barely recognized Jim ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald, the bar’s jovial owner. Normally, he was a natty dresser, with a penchant for tweed jackets, turned-up cuffs and crisp, white shirts. Today, he wore a flannel shirt and wrinkled slacks, his thick, graying hair waved wildly.
‘We’re closed right now,’ he told her, and began to shut the door.
Harper moved quickly, angling her body so it would have been rude – if not impossible – to close the door on her.
‘Hi, Fitz,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I’m a friend of Bonnie’s. Harper McClain, from the newspaper?’
For a moment he didn’t react, but then recognition dawned.
‘You’re that police reporter,’ he said. ‘The one who got shot.’
Even from here, she could smell the medicinal tang of vodka on his breath.
‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘Look, I hate to bother you at a time like this, but I need to ask you a few questions about Naomi Scott.’
‘Oh, lord. I don’t know.’ He peered at her blearily. ‘Would you want to print this?’
‘I need someone who knows her to talk to me about the kind of person she was,’ she said, avoiding his question. ‘I only met her a few times, but I know she was a smart, kind person. I need someone to tell me who she was so people who never met her can understand.’
He studied her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I don’t know if her family would want me to talk.’
‘You’d be doing them a favor,’ she told him. And this, at least, was the truth. ‘They know how wonderful their daughter was but talking to me will be hard for them right now.’
He hesitated, leaning hard against the door, one hand still poised to push it shut.
‘I’d really appreciate your help.’ Harper held his gaze steadily.
Finally, he took a step back.
‘I guess you better come in. We’re letting the air out.’
Harper followed, closing the door behind her.
Inside it was dim and cool. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and beer.
Fitz shuffled to the bar and climbed unsteadily onto a stool in front of a tall glass filled with ice and clear liquid.
Harper perched on the stool next to his.
‘I can’t understand it.’ He turned to her, his face haunted beneath that tangle of hair. ‘She was right here last night.’ He pointed across the bar to the empty space in front of the bottles. ‘She was fine. Now, they say she’s dead.’
Ice rattled as he lifted the glass and took a long, shaky drink.
It was ten thirty in the morning. If he was already drunk, Harper couldn’t imagine what he’d be like a few hours later.
She needed him to talk quickly before he passed out.
‘What can you tell me about Naomi?’ she asked. ‘What was she really like?’
‘Oh, everyone who knew her will tell you she was a great kid.’ He stared into his glass. ‘And it’s true. Hard worker. Smart as hell. Always smiling. People came in here just to see her smile, I swear. And ambitious as hell. I thought she’d be president someday.’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘Who would do this to her? Can you tell me that much at least?’
He seemed genuinely grief-stricken.
To an extent, this fit with what Harper knew of him. She didn’t encounter Fitz often – he didn’t tend to hang around on the late shift, and she rarely arrived at the bar before one in the morning. But Bonnie always described him affectionately.
‘Fitz is everyone’s dad,’ she’d told Harper once. ‘He worries about me more than my own father does.’
Still, Naomi had only worked at the bar a few months. Harper was a little surprised at the intensity of his reaction.
‘Were you close to Naomi?’ she asked. ‘Did you know her family well?’
‘I met her dad a few times when he came to pick her up.’ He reached for his glass. ‘Can’t say I know him particularly well. But he’s a good man.’ He took a long drink, the ice rattling in his glass, before adding, morosely, ‘This’ll kill him.’
‘I know the police are on this,’ she told him. ‘They want to get this guy.’
‘They better get him.’
Reaching across the counter he swiped up a bottle from the other side and poured himself an unhealthy measure.
‘Can you tell me anything else about her?’ she asked.
He waved his glass.
‘Her mom passed a few years ago. Her dad’s a cab driver.’ He’d begun to slur his words. ‘She was an only child – she and her father were very close.’
He slapped his hand hard on the bar. ‘Dammit. This doesn’t make sense. I keep thinking someone will come in here and tell me it was a mistake. For a minute, that’s what I thought you were here for.’
‘What about her boyfriend?’ Harper asked. ‘Wilson Shepherd, isn’t that his name?’
‘Wilson?’ His gaze sharpened. ‘What about him?’
‘How long had they been together?’
‘A year maybe?’ He rubbed his face, his hand rasping across his unshaven jaw. ‘Poor old Wilson.’
‘The police think he did it,’ she told him, watching for his reaction.
‘What?’ His head jerked up, eyes wide in a drunken pantomime of shock. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘They’re looking for him now.’
‘Then they’re nuts.’ He was angry. ‘No way. They were crazy in love. He wouldn’t hurt Naomi.’
But the first hint of uncertainty had entered his voice. They both knew crazy in love people hurt each other all the time.
‘Did they ever fight?’ Harper asked. ‘Fall out over anything?’
‘Hell, I don’t know.’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m not the one she’d talk to about that. But she seemed happy with him. Except –’
He paused, thinking.
‘Except what?’ Harper pressed him.
But he wouldn’t be hurried. He gripped the glass tight, and rattled it, lost in his thoughts.
‘It’s probably nothing, but I’ve been going over it all in my head – trying to think of anything – something I should have noticed,’ he said, peering at her. ‘Only thing I can think of was something that happened a couple weeks ago. Struck me as strange. Seemed like nothing at the time, but now …’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘It was a busy night. A Saturday. Naomi was helping Bonnie at the bar. Everything was fine, and then out of nowhere she came over to me and said she had to go right now. I wouldn’t have noticed, but she seemed real upset.’
Harper’s brow creased. ‘Did she tell you what happened?’
‘Sort of. We were packed. It was midnight. I mean, where could she have to go at midnight? I asked if she could at least stay half an hour. And she begged me – literally begged me. “Let me go, Fitz. I have to.” In the end, I gave in. Couldn’t stand to see her so upset. She was shaking. It was like she was scared or something. She ran out the door like the devil was on her tail. Didn’t even stop to take her apron off.’
‘Did you ever find out what she was scared of?’ she asked.
The lines in his craggy face deepened.
‘She was off the next three days. By the time she came back to work, I had other things on my mind.’ He looked at her. ‘You know how it is. You lose track.’
‘But after that she was fine?’
He made a vague gesture. ‘She seemed fine. Maybe a little more distracted than usual. But I figured it was school keeping her busy.’
Harper thought it over. ‘Are you saying that you think she was scared of Wilson?’
He glowered at her.
‘I’m saying I don’t know what happened but she was scared.’ He reached for his glass again. ‘Ah, hell. Why’m I yelling at you? It’s my own damn fault. If I’d thought to ask what was going on – why she was so scared that night – what was going on in her life … If I’d paid more attention …
‘She might still be alive.’
Chapter Five
After talking with Fitz, Harper went back to the newsroom to update her article and work the phones. The story moved quickly. At noon, the police formally identified Wilson Shepherd as a suspect on the run.
At a hastily convened press conference that afternoon, the police chief described him as ‘armed and dangerous’. In a message delivered directly to the news cameras, the chief asked Wilson to turn himself in.
‘Do it for your family,’ the chief said seriously. ‘Nobody else needs to get hurt.’
With the TV stations all in overdrive, several false reports came in of sightings around the city, but by eight o’clock that night, when things finally quieted down, his location remained unknown.
It was still four hours until the paper’s final deadline, but Harper had done all she could for now. She’d worked eleven hours straight on precious little sleep, and the exhaustion was taking its toll.
She stretched the tight knots in her shoulders and looked around blearily. The newsroom had emptied without her even noticing. Through the tall windows, the last rays of the sun were fading to rose and gold as she glanced at her watch, her brow creasing.
She’d been so busy there’d been no time even to check in on Bonnie.
She grabbed her phone.
Bonnie answered on the first ring.
‘Harper! You sneaked out while I was asleep, like a bad date.’
‘Hey.’ Harper fought a yawn. ‘You needed your sleep.’
‘If I’d been conscious I would have thanked you for looking out for me,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m sorry I lost it when you were working.’
‘Don’t apologize. It was a shock seeing her there.’
‘I still can’t believe it.’ Bonnie sounded somber.
Harper hated to give her more bad news – but she had to know.
‘Have you been following the case? Do you know what’s happening?’
‘I heard about Wilson, if that’s what you mean.’ Bonnie let out a long breath. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Harper. He’s such a nice guy.’
Harper made a dismissive gesture. ‘Nice guys kill, too.’
That came out more sharply than she’d intended.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I’ll bet it has,’ Bonnie said. ‘Listen, Fitz has closed the bar for a couple of days. So, I’m around if you need me.’
‘I spoke to him today,’ Harper told her. ‘He was incredibly drunk.’
‘Yeah …’ Bonnie sighed. ‘He sounded sloshed when he called. I don’t blame him. Wouldn’t mind being drunk myself right now. I just wish I understood what the hell Naomi was doing down on River Street. When she left the bar, she said she was going home. I’ve been thinking about it all day. The way she left in a big hurry. Like she was late for something. What could she be late for in the middle of the night?’
This sounded strikingly similar to the story Fitz had told her about another night when Naomi left early, in a rush.
Harper straightened. ‘Did she say anything to you when she left? Was she meeting Wilson Shepherd?’
‘All she said was she needed to go right away; something had come up. She was really urgent about it.’ She paused. ‘The only thing was, thinking back, it seems to me that … I don’t know. Something didn’t feel right.’
‘What do you mean?’ Harper picked up a pen.
‘Maybe I’m adding this to my memories because I know what happened later,’ Bonnie cautioned, ‘but she seemed jittery. Like, she was trying to be normal but she was nervous. Almost like she was scared of something.’
Her words mirrored Fitz’s, precisely.
‘You know, Fitz told me a similar story earlier today. The same thing – Naomi leaving on a busy night, without warning. Being scared. He said it happened a few weeks ago. Do you remember that?’
‘No.’ Bonnie sounded surprised. ‘I must not have worked that night. He didn’t mention it to me.’
‘He said he more or less forgot about it after that night. But something was going on in Naomi’s life. Someone scared her. And they scared her enough that she kept it to herself.’
Harper paused, the pen hovering above a blank sheet of paper.
‘Did she ever tell you she was afraid of Wilson? Did they fight?’
‘She never said anything like that,’ Bonnie said. ‘I always thought they were happy. But, like I said last night to that detective, Wilson hasn’t been around much lately. I thought they were taking a break because school and work were so busy.’
Harper considered this. ‘Maybe Wilson didn’t want to take a break.’
‘You think he was mad enough about a break to kill the girl he loved?’ Bonnie was skeptical.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.’
‘I just don’t see it,’ Bonnie said. ‘He’s not the type.’
‘They’re all the type.’
‘God, Harper. You’re so cynical,’ Bonnie chided. ‘This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘This is why I’m still alive,’ Harper replied without missing a beat.
As she spoke, she wrote one word in her notebook and underlined it: Motive.
‘The thing is, if it wasn’t Wilson, who was it?’ she asked. ‘There’s no way she was caught up in drugs or gangs, is there?’
Bonnie gave a husky laugh. ‘Oh, hell no, Harper. Naomi was a Girl Scout. I could hardly get a beer down her.’
Dropping the pen, Harper rubbed her forehead.
It just didn’t make sense. Girl Scouts did not go to River Street at two in the morning to get themselves shot.
It was becoming clearer that Naomi had secrets. She’d kept them well. And somehow it had gotten her killed.
‘Look,’ Harper said, ‘if you think of anything else, let me know.’
‘I will,’ Bonnie promised, adding as an afterthought, ‘Oh, God, I almost forgot to mention. I went to see Naomi’s dad. He wants to talk to you.’
Harper nearly dropped the phone.
‘You met her father? I’ve been trying to reach him all day.’
‘Yeah, I went to his house to give him my condolences. I couldn’t reach him on the phone,’ Bonnie said. ‘His address was in our records at the bar – Naomi still had her pay slips sent there. He told me he turned his phone off because it won’t stop ringing.’
Harper didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’d called Jerrod Scott at least five times today without success. And Bonnie had just walked right in.
‘What’d he say?’ She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice.
‘Yeah. He’s real upset about Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Says there’s no way it was him, but the cops won’t listen. I told him he should talk to you. I gave him your number. I hope that was okay.’
Harper could have kissed her.
She’d dropped the hottest interview in town right in her lap.
When she hung up the phone, Harper climbed to her feet.
It had been twelve hours since the last time she ate anything more substantial than a candy bar. Her stomach felt hollow.
Shoving her scanner and phone into her bag, she headed across the empty newsroom.
Baxter was at her desk, typing furiously, her face creased with concentration. Dells had finally gone home a couple of hours ago.
‘I’m going to grab some food,’ Harper announced. ‘It’s gone quiet.’
‘Could you keep your phone on, for a change?’ Baxter’s tone was peevish. ‘I will personally fire you if I can’t reach you.’
‘You sweet talker,’ Harper said, heading out the door.
There was no point in arguing. They both knew Harper would keep everything turned on tonight.
The guard glanced at her without interest as she pushed the button that unlocked the double glass doors and stepped into the dark street.
Outside, the muggy evening air hit her like a warm, soft fist. Even this late, it wasn’t cool. Night merely took the edge off the heat.
The streets were quiet at last. The air carried the faint syncopation of music from one of the River Street bars, which were filled at this hour with people whose nights involved something other than murder.
Harper had parked her ageing red Camaro in front of the newspaper building, and the engine started with a pleasing rumble. The car had nearly a hundred and thirty thousand miles on the meter but Harper kept it in mint condition.
She loved only a few things in this world and her car was one of them.
As she drove, she kept the window down, hoping the fresh air would revive her. The scanner propped in a holder on the dash buzzed and crackled with a constant stream of information. Her mind sorted through the noise for anything about Wilson Shepherd.
After years of listening to it non-stop, the codes used by the police were second nature to her.
‘Unit 498.’ A voice said.
The dispatcher replied after a second. ‘Unit 498, go ahead.’
‘Unit 498, I’m at the Code 5 on Veterans.’
Code 5 – car accident, Harper translated to herself.
‘Everybody’s pretty shook up,’ the cop said, in a deep southern drawl. ‘Better send a Code 10 to check them out.’
Code 10 was an ambulance, and Harper honed in on his voice for a minute. But he never came back to ask for backup.
She was hungry and tired, and she wasn’t about to go out to a wreck where everyone was shaken up. She needed more than that.
‘Death and destruction,’ she murmured to herself, as she pulled the car into the parking lot at Eddie’s 24-Hour Diner. ‘I don’t get out of bed for less.’
When she walked in the door, a bell jangled merrily but nobody could hear it above the Everly Brothers blasting from the stereo.
Eddie’s was a retro diner, with vinyl and chrome booths, and waitresses with perky ponytails wearing high-collared blouses and tight jeans.
Harper signaled to one, who bounded up to her, dark hair swishing.
‘Can I get you a table?’
Her bright eyes skimmed Harper’s face, and took on a sympathetic glint. It occurred to Harper that she must look like hell. Her hair hadn’t been brushed since she left the house this morning.
