Reed and Morrisette left the D.A.’s office together, dropped the note off at the lab, then headed back to Homicide where things were still geared up. Detectives sat at computer screens, hung onto the phone or worked on the mounds of paperwork that accompanied each case.
“I’ve got some phone calls to make. I’ll catch up with you later,” Morrisette said and peeled off to her desk.
Reed settled into his desk chair as the ancient heating system blasted him with air hot enough to bring a sweat to his brow. Outside the temperature was hovering around fifty, inside, closer to ninety. Sweltering. Like the dog days of summer. He yanked on his tie and turned toward his computer monitor. He had other cases to consider, but the Grave Robber or whatever they were going to call it was top priority. God, he hated that name—the Grave Robber. Leave it to Nikki Gillette to come up with something like that. He ignored Okano’s directive that he remove himself from the investigation. He was in it knee-deep whether he liked it or not. The killer saw to that.
Why?
What was his connection to the psychotic monster who was out ripping up cemeteries and dumping live women into occupied coffins? Not just that, but why move one coffin three hundred miles north? What sense did that make? Was it some kind of statement? A clue he was missing? He clicked on his computer screen, pulled up the Grave Robber case and brought pictures of the victims to the fore. His insides clenched as he looked at Bobbi Jean…. She’d been so beautiful and now she’d been reduced to an ashen-skinned corpse.
He looked at the other bodies, two of which were decomposing. What did these people have in common? How were they linked to him? Were they? Or was that all just smoke and mirrors? Had the Grave Robber known him…or had the creep picked Reed’s name out of the paper due to all the press he’d gotten last summer? Who knew? He was still fiddling around with the information when there was a tap at the door. Swiveling in his chair Reed spied Detective McFee filling the doorway.
“Just wanted to say bye,” the big man said.
“Goin’ home?”
“For a while. I went over all the information on the new one this morning.” His high forehead wrinkled. “Looks like we got ourselves a real nutcase on the loose. I’d like to stay, but there’s not much reason. The sheriff wants me to report in.”
“But you’ll be back?”
“I reckon. Until this case is solved, we’re all in it together.”
Reed nodded. “Need a ride to the airport?”
McFee shook his head. “Got one.” He crossed the short span of linoleum and shoved a hand across Reed’s desk. They shook. “Be seein’ ya. Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
“I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”
“I appreciate it.”
With a nod, McFee turned and headed toward the exit. Through the open door Reed watched him leave and wasn’t too surprised to see Sylvie Morrisette catch up with him. The big man visibly brightened at the sight of her and for once Morrisette had abandoned her dark visage. She actually smiled up at McFee, flirted
with him, appeared incredibly feminine. The big detective glanced over his shoulder, met Reed’s gaze, and one side of his mouth lifted almost smugly. As if to say, This happens all the time, Reed. Take notes. The quiet country-boy charm can get you into a woman’s pants faster than a bottle of Chablis.
They disappeared down the stairs and Reed picked up the phone. Cradling the receiver on his shoulder, he found the number he’d written down earlier, then punched out the digits. It had been the last call Roberta Peters had made…no, it had been the last call made from Roberta Peters’s telephone. Either she had called Phoenix, or someone else had used her phone.
After three rings, a sweet-voiced woman answered. “Hello, this is Glenda of Faith Gospel Mission. May God be with you. How can I direct your call?”
Reed identified himself, stated his business and was redirected to several different voices, none of which deigned to give him any information. All soon gave up any sign of friendliness and the “May God be with you” greeting was dropped the minute he mentioned that he was with the police. His final connection was to “Reverend Joe,” who flatly told him that they didn’t give out any information about members of the mission’s flock, then summarily hung up. Reed checked with the Better Business Bureau and the Phoenix Police Department, making inquiries about Faith Gospel Mission and specifically about Reverend Joe. According to all sources, the good preacher and his institution were clean as a whistle. Reverend Joe hadn’t been charged with so much as a traffic citation. Almost too clean. Reed didn’t trust the man right from the get-go. Didn’t like the fact that he didn’t use a surname. Maybe old Joe was enough of a celebrity with the God-fearing crowd that he didn’t need one. Like Cher or Madonna or Liberace. Just Reverend Joe.
Despite his feelings, the call was a waste and brought him to another dead end. Strike one.
He took the time to grab a Coke out of the vending machine down the hall, then put in a call to the New Orleans Police Department. He was hoping to catch up with Detective Reuben Montoya, a young buck of a detective who had worked with him last summer on the Montgomery case, but was informed by a secretary that Montoya had left the department a few months earlier. Reed was referred to a detective named Rick Bentz, whose voice mail answered and Reed remembered having worked with Bentz in the past. He would have to do. Reed left a brief message inquiring about Bobbi Jean’s brother, Vince Lassiter, then left his number and hung up.
Strike two.
He finished his Coke, answered a few calls and caught up on some paperwork, but all the while the Grave Robber case scratched at the edges of his brain. As afternoon eased toward evening, he was still turning the case over in his mind. He was missing something, he thought, something vital. The damned killer was teasing him with notes, brazenly mailing some kind of clues to him and Reed wasn’t getting it. He pulled out a yellow legal pad, clicked his pen and started making notes. He started with the notes from the killer. Though they were already being analyzed by the lab and a police psychologist and probably an FBI profiler by now, Reed decided to mentally grapple with them himself. This was his communication with the killer. His link. There had to be something in the letters addressed to him that only he would understand. He wrote down the contents of the first letter, the one he’d received at the office with the return address of Colonial Cemetery on the envelope.
ONE, TWO,
THE FIRST FEW.
HEAR THEM CRY,
LISTEN TO THEM DIE.
This had been his introduction to the case. The killer was telling him that he was going to find two victims, even though Pauline Alexander had been buried for years and had died of natural causes. The way Reed read it, the killer was taunting him, not offering any information other than that these two were the first of what were sure to be more. Both Bobbi Jean and Pauline were victims of a sort.