There was a good chance her father knew more about Reed than she did.
Nikki scowled as she dimmed her lights for an approaching car. She didn’t like asking “Big Ron” Gillette for any favors. Never had. Wouldn’t do it.
Sure you would, Nikki-girl. You’d do anything for the right story.
She could almost hear her older brother taunting her, which was impossible as Andrew had been dead a long time. Her internal temperature seemed to drop as another car whooshed past and her wipers slapped the rain from the windshield.
Andrew, the star athlete.
Andrew, the exceptional student.
Andrew, groomed to follow his illustrious father’s footsteps.
Andrew, dead from a fall from a deck thirty feet above the ground.
Andrew, body broken, blood-alcohol level in the stratosphere, traces of ecstacy and cocaine swimming in his veins.
Andrew, a victim of an accident. Or had it been suicide?
Coincidence that only the week before he’d been turned down for law school by Harvard, his father’s alma mater.
Nikki set her jaw. Squinted into the night. It had been eight years since her elder brother’s death and still it lingered, a dark veil appearing when she least expected it. She shook off the old feelings of disbelief and despair as her little car shot past a milepost sign indicating Dahlonega was still nearly a hundred miles away.
She pulled into the next gas station/mini mart she came across and filled her tank. Inside, the acne-faced kid behind the counter looked about fourteen, but sold the guy in front of her a six-pack as if he’d done it all his short life. As she grabbed a Diet Dr. Pepper from a cooler, she overheard the customer, an unshaven guy in his late sixties with unruly gray eyebrows and a couple of teeth missing say, “What’s all the fuss up ta Blood Mountain?”
The kid rang up the sale, snagged the proffered bills and handed out change. “Don’t really know that much ’bout it, but a couple of hunters got spooked, one ended up fallin’ or bein’ pushed down a ravine. Got himself life-flighted to Mason General in Atlanta.”
Nikki, edging past the Cheetos, was all ears.
“I heard the police are crawlin’ all over the place. That they’re findin’ graves up there.”
The kid wasn’t about to show any interest. He lifted a shoulder and handed the customer his change.
“Ye-ep, old Scratch Diggers claims that they’ve already dug up two bodies.”
“What would Scratch know?”
“A lot. His wife works police dispatch.”
“Scratch talks too much.”
“Fer sure. But he usually gets his facts straight.”
Two bodies—maybe more. So what did that have to do with Pierce Reed?
Nikki picked up a package of Doritos and a magazine, then perused the pages as if she were interested in the latest celebrity gossip. All the while her ear was trained on the conversation.
But it was over. The old guy was ambling toward the door with its quaint bell and high-tech video camera mounted over the jamb. “See ya later, Woodie. Say hi ta yer folks.”
“I will,” the kid promised as the bell rang and the customer left.
Nikki made her way to the checkout stand. “Is that true?” she asked, feigning innocence as she searched through her handbag for her wallet. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about. Are there really some bodies buried on Blood Mountain?”
“I don’t know. I was watchin’ the news a little while ago”—he hitched his chin toward a small black and white TV tucked beneath the counter. The reception was bad, the image of a reality show grainy—“and there was some news about graves being found up there, but the report was, how do they say it, ‘unconfirmed by police sources.’” He offered her a country-boy smile and added, “But as my daddy always said, ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’”
“Isn’t that the truth?” she agreed as she found a five and he made quick change. “How far is that from here?”
“Hour, maybe an hour and a half,” the clerk said as he bagged her items.
And in that time Norm Metzger and half dozen local news teams would beat her to the punch. She climbed into her car and eased onto the highway before gunning it. So the police weren’t talking. That wasn’t a surprise. Maybe she could get lucky. If Cliff Siebert would only tell her why Pierce Reed had been sent to the scene, then she’d have a new angle, possibly one she could use with Reed. She tapped her fingers on the wheel and bit her lip as she drove. Somehow, she had to get an exclusive with the reticent detective. There had to be a way to get to him. There always was. She just had to figure out how.
“You said you were lovers.” Sheriff Baldwin had been leaning over the coffin. His back popped as he straightened. Mist was rising around them, rain threatening, and the cold mountain air seeped into Reed’s bones.
“We had been. It was over.”
“When?”
“The last time I saw her was a couple of months ago. I broke it off.”
Baldwin was interested. He shifted from one foot to the other and in the eerie fake light from the kliegs his eyes narrowed.
“Why’s that?” The sheriff cast another look into the coffin. “Good-lookin’ woman.”
Reed felt a muscle in his jaw jump. “Let’s just say it was because of her husband. Jerome Marx. A businessman in Savannah—import/export, I think. He didn’t approve.”
The sheriff drew air between his teeth. “She was married?”
“She didn’t think so. He did. Took offense to my being involved with his wife.”
“Don’t blame the man,” Baldwin muttered. “You didn’t know she was hitched?”
“She claimed she was separated, that the divorce was just a formality, was supposed to have been final any time.”
“You didn’t check? It’s all a matter of public record.” Those dark eyes drilled into him.
“No.”
“You trusted her.”
“I never trusted her.” But he hadn’t been able to resist her. Some men relied on booze to get them through. Others used drugs. Or cigarettes. Pierce Reed’s Achilles’ heel was women. Usually the wrong kind. Always had been, probably always would be. He glanced down at Bobbi and his stomach soured.
“Guess we’ll have to notify Marx. Have him come up and ID the body.”
“Let me talk to him.”
The sheriff hesitated, glanced at Detective McFee and Deputy Ray Ellis, all the while tugging thoughtfully on his lower lip. “Don’t see what that would hurt, especially since he’s already in Savannah. But you’d better take someone with you seein’ as you know the vic. McFee,” he said, nodding toward a huge man whose face was hidden by the brim of his hat. “You accompany the detective back home.”
“Fine.” Reed didn’t care who tagged along, but he sure as hell wanted to see the look on Jerome Marx’s face when he was handed the news that his wife had been buried alive.
“Hey!” a voice shouted from beyond the lights. “We’ve got company. The press is here.”
“Great,” Reed muttered under his breath as he noticed headlights through the trees. The last thing they needed was a media circus up here.
“Keep ’em away from the scene,” Baldwin ordered, his scowl as deep as Reed’s. To McFee, he said, “Let’s give Reed a look at the other body. The one below.”
Careful to disturb very little, the big man gently lifted Bobbi’s head with his gloved hands.
In the klieg’s glow, a partially decomposed face stared up at them, a macabre skull with features that were indistinguishable, only a layer of thin gray hair curled tight and what had once been a blue dress indicated that the body below had once been an elderly woman.
Reed shook his head and clenched his teeth. It wasn’t the rotting woman that bothered him; he’d seen bodies in all stages of decay, but the thought that Bobbi had been awake, aware that she was being buried alive along with a cadaver caused bile to rise up his throat. What kind of sicko would do this? Who knew that he and Bobbi had been lovers? Who cared enough and was twisted to the point that they would do this?
Jerome Marx.
Why else address the note to Reed and leave it in the coffin?
But why would he bury her atop the other woman—who the hell was she?
And surely he would know if he put a note in the coffin addressed to Reed that he would become the prime suspect. Jerome Marx was many things, many bad things, but he wasn’t stupid.
The sheriff rubbed his jaw, scraping the stubble of his beard, while in the distance the dogs howled plaintively. “When we’re done here, I think we should go back to the office and you can give me a statement.”
By the time Nikki Gillette pulled into the Dahlonega office of the sheriff’s department, it was late, after nine
P.M.
She’d been on the road for hours and her bones ached. Her stomach rumbled, her head pounded and she still hadn’t figured out how to get to Pierce Reed. Worse yet, she wasn’t alone. Several news vans were camped out in the department lot, more parked along the street. And her heart sank when she recognized not only Norm Metzger, but Max O’Dell from WKAM, a Savannah television station. There were other reporters as well, some from Atlanta and a couple of others she knew but couldn’t name. Whatever had happened up on Blood Mountain was shaping up to be the story of the week.
Some way, she had to get the inside track.
Norm spotted her and climbed out of his car. “What’re you doing up here?”
“Same as you.”
“Mike put you onto the story?” he asked, arching an eyebrow above his rimless glasses. The photographer had slid from behind the passenger side and joined a growing throng of reporters huddled around the police station.
“I just thought I’d come up and check things out,” she said.
“It’s a pretty long trip for a joyride,” Norm observed.
“I was interested, okay?”
“So you found out about the bodies.”
“Yeah.”
“And that Pierce Reed was called up here.”
She nodded as Norm pulled on a pair of gloves. “He doesn’t like you, you know.”
“He doesn’t like any reporters.”
“But you in particular. You really got on his nerves during the Montgomery case.”
“Is that right? Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. I saw the way he bristled every time you approached him.”
“He’s a bristly kind of guy.”
“Especially when you’re around.” The main door to the sheriff’s department opened and Sheriff Baldwin along with several detectives, including Pierce Reed, appeared on the concrete steps.
The sheriff, without the aid of a microphone, asked everyone to “Listen up.” The shuffling, whispering and general speculating stopped and everyone poised, pen, recorder, or pencil in hand. Cameras were pointed at the group of officers. “We’re all tired here, and I suppose you are, so I’m going to make this short. This afternoon there was an emergency call to 911. It sounded like a hunting accident involving two youths. When we got to the scene, we life-flighted one of the young men to Mason Hospital in Atlanta, while the other one gave us a statement. The two had found what appeared to be a grave up near Blood Mountain, so we went up to investigate. Sure enough we found a grave and not one, but two bodies. At this time, pending ID of the bodies and notification of next of kin, we’ll give out no further information, but we are looking into the situation as a possible homicide. That’s all.”
But the reporters wanted answers. Several began shouting at once.
“Sheriff Baldwin? Do you expect to find any more bodies?”
“How long had the victims been there?”
“Why did you call in a detective from Savannah?”
“Is the hunter going to survive?”
“I said, that’s all,” Baldwin reiterated in a voice that was firm and bordered on belligerent. He looked weary but determined as he raked his gaze along the crowd. “We’ll have more information in the morning. For now, you all best get some rest.” He waved off any more questions and disappeared inside. Nikki edged closer and thought she caught Reed’s eye, but if he saw her, he made no sign of acknowledgment, no indication that he recognized her. The door swung shut behind him and lest any reporter be so bold as to follow, a deputy was posted at the door.
“So, now what?” Norm said, sidling closer.
“Now, I guess, we wait,” Nikki said, though she had no intention of sitting around and waiting for parceled-out information. Not when she lived only a few streets away from Pierce Reed.
“Two bodies in one coffin?” Sylvie Morrisette wrinkled her nose as she flopped into one of the side chairs in Reed’s office the next morning. Her platinum hair seemed even more spiked than before and there was the faint, ever-present smell of cigarettes that wafted across the desk. “That’s a new one. Someone couldn’t afford his own accommodations?”
“Hers,” Reed clarified, not amused at her attempt at humor. He wasn’t in the mood. He’d spent half the night in northern Georgia knowing that the sheriff and a couple of the detectives considered him a suspect, then had grabbed a couple hours of sleep before walking nearly comatose through the shower and landing behind this desk around six-thirty. He was surviving on coffee, Tums and Excedrin. A half-eaten doughnut was in his wastebasket, the only reminder of his last meal. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
“One of the vics is Barbara Jean Marx. The other is still a Jane Doe.”
“Barbara Jean Marx?” Morrisette’s eyebrows puckered together, showing off her most recent silver stud. “I’ve heard the name somewhere.”
“Married to Jerome Marx until recently.” He gritted his teeth at the thought of how easily she’d lied to him and how he’d so willingly believed her. “Marx owns an import/export business downtown. I thought I’d go pay him a visit and give him the news personally.”
“You know him?” Morrisette asked as she scrounged in her purse and dragged out a piece of gum. “Cuz it seems like you do.”
He hesitated. Decided he may as well confide in her. “I knew Bobbi Jean. We were involved.”
“And
you’re
going to talk to the ex? Isn’t that against department policy?”
“A detective from Lumpkin County—Davis McFee—will be with me.”
Morrisette lifted an eyebrow. “You got yourself your own police escort?”