Seconds later, Nikki recognized the sound of a lighter clicking and a deep inhale of breath. “I should never have started up again,” Janelle said into the phone. “That’s what dealing with Billy’s estate’s done to me. Sent me right back to smokin’ and drinkin’ too much. Now what was it you wanted? It’s not about that damned dog is it, cuz, I’m tellin’ ya, we got no use for him.”
“No, Arlo’s fine.”
“Oh, God, that’s right. Arlo. What a name for a dog.” Another audible drag. “So what was it you wanted, something about that LaRoux kid? Hell, he was trouble. And could you blame him? With a whack-a-doodle mother like that? Always conjurin’ up the dead, and talkin’ to spirits, and leveling curses? No wonder he’s the way he is.”
“I read a story about Granger poaching black bears,” Nikki put in. She knew now that the two men knew each other and that Granger had lied.
“Oh, that,” she said. “I remember. Kind of a big deal at the time, but to tell you the truth, Billy didn’t pay much attention to hunting laws or getting tags or whatever. He just did his own thing. He probably suckered that kid into it, but then, that boy was already on the wrong path.”
“But nothing came of it.”
“Couldn’t be proved, I guess. I was already out of the house by then, but yeah, I heard about it. And I think that was kind of the end of their relationship. Granger’s nutso mother really came down hard on him and Billy, even swore she would curse his soul or some such shit.” She inhaled again and added, “I mean, I wasn’t close to Billy, you know that, but when I did talk to him after, he never mentioned the kid again.”
“Did Granger have a problem with your dad?”
“Didn’t everybody who knew Billy?” she asked. “Look, that’s all I know.”
Nikki tried a few more questions but got no more answers, so she hung up and tried to figure out what it meant. If anything. For some reason, Granger LaRoux had lied about knowing Billy Huber as well as he did.
Why?
Did it even matter?
“Probably not,” she said aloud, but she would definitely talk to Granger.
Skimming her e-mail, she saw that Fink was demanding a new story. There was also a friendly little reminder from Ina that a new book on the Savannah Slasher would be an “interesting” premise.
“Yeah,” Nikki said aloud, “if we knew who he was.”
What was she missing? The rocks, she thought, the clue left by the killer at each scene. Significant somehow. And information only she, married to the killer, knew about, information she couldn’t use.
So far.
She wrote the victims and the numbers down.
Billy Huber, #9
Mavis Greenlee, #5
Jeanne LaRoux, #1
The carvings didn’t seem to be in any kind of order, though they were all odd numbers, etched in blood, written in both Arabic and Hebrew. Only missing the three and seven between and counting backward.
So what?
What was the killer trying to convey? Was he just taunting the police, or was there some secret code known only to him, a clue?
If so, she was lost.
She texted Pierce, asking about updates on Naomi Kittle, and waited, tapping her fingers on the desk. But, of course, he didn’t respond.
Looking up, she noticed Effie abandoning her post to go to the restroom.
Once she was out of sight, Nikki pushed back her chair and wandered over to Effie’s station, where the ice in her oversize Diet Pepsi was melting. The screen showed news across the country and the world, with one window open to the page on all things Georgia, from weather to traffic reports.
The headlines for the Savannah area were all about the Savannah Slasher, but as she skimmed the reports and listened to the news, she heard nothing new. Nor was there any information on Naomi Kittle.
“Hey! Get away from there!” Effie said, returning, her face pulled into a frown as she grabbed her stool and eyed her keyboard and screen. “You didn’t do anything, did you?”