She should quit completely. Tell Fink to take a hike or worse. She was seething, but she tamped down her fury. For now she needed to … let it go. There was something to be said for revenge being served up cold … well, if she could, she’d ram an iceberg of rage right down his throat. But … but …
But better to write the best damn story she could come up with and offer it to a rival paper. Maybe one in Atlanta. Or Charlotte, oranywhere!
She had some ideas, but they hadn’t gelled, and she didn’t have enough information to create the piece she was planning. Yet. And she couldn’t go behind Pierce’s back. Nor could she give up on a story. She thought of the rocks that had been left at the scene, polished stones with numbers inscribed on them, but she’d only learned of the first one because she’d been at Billy Huber’s place when they’d discovered the stone under his body. From Pierce, she’d heard about the second one, found on Mavis Greenlee, but she’d been sworn to secrecy until such time as Pierce told her she could write about it. For now, the police were keeping that piece of evidence hidden from the public, something only they and the killer knew about, to weed out the people who called in and claimed to be the perpetrator.
She really, really wanted to tell Fink to shove it, to take his bad mood and get out of her face, but she held her tongue and gathered her things. She’d spent two hours going through old newspaper stories, learning about Mavis Greenlee, who had cultivated her public persona to reflect a Savannah socialite with Christian values who dedicated her life to helping others, while neglecting her own mother and making enemies. But unlike Billy Huber, Mavis Greenlee had no criminal record, nor any civil lawsuits leveled against her.
What was most disturbing was what she’d found out about her own father and how her family was linked to Mavis.
Big Ron was long dead, the affair decades past, and her mother was capable of a lot of things, but … what? Hiring a psycho to murder an old rival? And what about Billy Huber? Why kill him? To throw off the police?
In that vein, her thoughts turned to Kyle, her ghost of a brother, who had suddenly reappeared in their mother’s life and who’d admitted to working for Mavis’s husband. What was that all about? she wondered. Gathering her things from the desk and seeing Fink, now wearing his driving cap as he stormed out of the office, she nearly running into Roy on the way out.
“What did I tell you?” Roy asked as he reached Nikki’s desk, then glanced over his shoulder to the far door swinging closed behind Tom Fink. “Guess he’s not getting any.”
“What?”
“Well, Celeste dumped him, just last week.”
“Again?”
“Um-hm. And I heard that his wife had finally had enough. Kicked him out.”
“And possibly scratched his car?”
Roy gave an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows?”
“Oh, God, you didn’t do it, did you?” She was already starting for the exit.
“Moi?” he said, motioning to his chest in mock horror. “You know me better than that. I wouldnevermar anything vintage. Not even a muscle car.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Not my style.”
“If you say so,” she called over her shoulder, but she wondered what actually lay beneath Roy’s overtly perfect facade.
“Oh, for the love of God,” she muttered, angry with herself as she took the stairs to the first floor and walked into the afternoon sunlight. Now she was second-guessing Roy. And her brother Kyle. And just about anyone else she came into contact with. Running in circles on this damned case was getting to her, that was it. And then she saw Tom Fink’s Corvette as he wheeled out of the lot, the ugly messageMan-whorescratched into the otherwise pristine paint.
Chapter 18
“You’re not my father, so just back the fuck off!” Toby said, irritated that Reed had found him loitering on the steps of the red-brick apartment building where his sister was living. Dusk was approaching, the streetlights were beginning to wink on, and the courtyard where Reed had caught up to the boy was empty.
And Reed wasn’t in the mood to be berated.
Not by the kid.
Not by anybody.
After a long day of chasing down leads, sorting through anonymous tips that had come through the department, and dealing with the brass who wanted answers about the two homicides and wanted them now, he didn’t have time for any bullshit from anyone.
He probably shouldn’t have tracked the kid down.
But he felt obligated, especially after the call from Sylvie’s sister, Claire, who lived in Texas but was concerned about her nephew. “I just want to talk to you,” he said calmly.
“I got nothin’ to say to you!” Toby looked him up and down, glowering at him.
“Don’t you?”
“No!” Gone was the Mohawk of a few years back, replaced by longhair curling around his ears and a scraggly, wannabe beard. Nearly eighteen, he was dressed in a wrinkled T-shirt and baggy shorts. He was still lean, but filling out a bit in the shoulders and now was almost six feet tall. He would have towered over his petite, hard-edged mother had she still been alive and was a few inches taller than his sparkplug of an old man, Sylvie Morrisette’s ex, Bart Yelkis.
“I heard you moved out.”