“We don’t want another incident,” Jamison said, and Nikki sucked in a swift breath. Pierce’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed. They both understood, and a hot surge of guilt swept through Nikki when she thought of Sylvie Morrisette, once Pierce’s partner, now deceased. The Texas-tough detective had died while trying to rescue Nikki, who had been investigating a case where she hadn’t been wanted, where she shouldn’t have been, at least in the minds of the local cops. To this day, many officers in the police department blamed Pierce’s pushy wife for the loss of one of their own.
It hadn’t been easy for Nikki.
It was much worse for her husband.
“I said, ‘I’ll wait,’” she clarified, trying and failing to hide her annoyance.
“Good.” Jamison turned his attention to Pierce. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I have to deal with the party. Naomi’s insisting on family pictures since the girls are all dressed up.” Irritated, he shoved a hand through his hair. “So far, it’s been one helluva night.”
Pierce agreed. “And it’s not over yet.”
Jamison gave a curt nod as he headed toward the rec room. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Will you contact Augustin?” he asked, referencing Pierce’s most recent partner, Sol Augustin. “I think she’s out of town.”
“Coming back tomorrow morning, but I’ll loop her in.”
“Good.” Jamison seemed satisfied. “Let’s roll.”
Pierce was already on his way outside, Nikki in lockstep.
“Billy Huber?” Nikki said once they were in the car. She remembered the name from when she’d written about a single-car accident that had taken Linda-Sue Huber’s life. Nikki had been a reporter for theSavannah Sentinelat the time. “His wife died, what? Six, maybe seven years ago?”
“Around eight, I think.” Pierce’s headlights cut through the night. “Something like that.”
He was wrapped in concentration, and she saw his face in profile, illuminated by the dash lights. In her mind, he was still startlingly handsome. Not a Hollywood he-man, but tall and lanky, with thick dark hair and light brown eyes that could glint gold when he was angry.
Of course, they were often at odds over her career. Though she was now a freelance journalist and author and no longer worked shifts at the newspaper’s office, she was always interested in her husband’s cases, and that caused friction between them. That said, they never grew tired of each other. Theirs was not one of those steady, by-the-book, everything-on-a-schedule marriages, but it worked. Sometimes their fights were mercurial, but their relationship was never, ever dull. The truth was that Nikki was in love with Pierce now as much as she’d been when she’d first set eyes on him.
Now his eyebrows were drawn together, his jaw set in granite, beard shadow evident. As she studied him, she felt a little thrill. Silly, she supposed, after all these years, but there it was.
As he drove, the illumination from the headlights of approaching cars washing over them, Pierce placed a call to his partner. When Sol Augustin didn’t pick up, he left a message and turned deeper into the low country, where traffic thinned and the woods deepened. Pierce was on his phone several times during the drive, each conversation short and clipped, while Nikki continually checked hers, searching for information on William Huber and his deceased wife.
“This must be the place,” Pierce said, spying an overgrown lane. Tree branches formed a canopy overhead, weeds and vines created hazards in the ruts of the drive, and through the brush, Nikki saw the pulsating lights of emergency vehicles. They rounded a final corner to a clearing where several police cars were parked. Portable lights illuminated an area littered with debris from last night’s storm, the ground already covered by junk of every shape and size. Under the artificial illumination, old washers and refrigerators, tools and equipment, televisions and rusting car parts were visible. Nikki even recognized the front end of an ancient Studebaker, tires included, like the one she remembered her grandfather driving before she’d entered elementary school.
A hoarder’s dream.
A fire marshal’s nightmare.
“Look at this,” she whispered, taking it all in and noticing the fire truck and EMT vehicles idling, drivers at the wheels.
In the middle of it all, surrounded by men and women in uniform, some with flashlights, was the body of a bearded man in jeans and a sweatshirt, lying supine, the back of his head impaled on the blade of a rusted garden tiller. A fallen ladder lay nearby, resting on what appeared to be part of a Whac-A-Mole display.
“Billy Huber?” Nikki asked, focusing on the dead body.
“I assume.” Pierce had cut the engine of his Jeep and was opening the driver’s side door. He paused, his eyes finding hers. “Stay put.”
“I—”
“I mean it, Nikki.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He paused for just a second, his lips tight as conversation and the sound of a barking dog drifted into the car.
“Just don’t order me around,” she insisted. “Okay? I said I’d wait, and I will.”
“Remember. This is police business.”
“Got it.” From the corner of one eye, Nikki saw the source of the noise, a shaggy shepherd, pacing on the porch and barking like crazy. “Is that dog limping?” she asked, turning to look at the animal, who was separated from the barnyard by a wire fence.