“Come on, Cliff.”
“You know the rules, some things are kept within the department.”
“But the cause of death—”
“—is off-limits to the public. End of story. You keep pushing me on this, Nikki, and we’ve got nothin’ else to talk about.”
“Okay, okay,” she agreed and ate the fry. Cliff was too valuable a source to tick off and risk never using again.
“So, the Grave Robber, you think he’s a serial killer?”
“He struck again, didn’t he? Two more bodies in one box. And that’s all I’m tellin’ you. That’s enough.”
“So it was the Grave Robber this morning.”
A serial killer! On the stre
ets of Savannah.
“Don’t know for sure, but I’d bet my mother’s life savings that it is.”
“Dear God.” Her mind was spinning. This was so much information. New information. Exclusive information. Page one again. She saw the headline: “Serial Killer Stalks The Streets Of Savannah.” And in smaller, yet bold type: “Grave Robber Strikes Again.” Tom Fink would run the story, she knew it. All she had to do was write it and it was already coming together in her head. Except that the pregnancy really bothered her. Barbara Jean Marx’s death was horrible enough, and to think that she’d been carrying a child. That was the worst. Nikki felt a moment’s regret that she would profit from the victims’ terror. She thought of Phee, her innocent little niece, Ophelia, and shuddered inside when she considered Bobbi Jean’s unborn baby. Maybe Reed’s child. Her stomach turned sour. Perhaps she shouldn’t write the story, not capitalize on another’s sorrow. But didn’t the public have a right to know, to be warned? Clearing her throat, she asked, “The victims, did they know each other?”
Cliff was eating, mopping the remains of his biscuit through his gravy. He ate the last piece and shook his head. “Can’t find a connection.” He swallowed. “Yet.”
“But you think there is one. These aren’t random?”
“He picked the victims and the already dead people…Random?” He dunked another piece of steak in the gravy and forked it into his mouth. “Nah, I don’t think so. I guess we’ll find out. Soon. The bastard won’t get away with this.”
“Are there any suspects? Persons of interest?” she asked.
“Nothing official,” he said, and she felt a trickle of dread drip down her spine. Her eyes met Cliff’s but he looked away quickly.
“Surely, Pierce Reed isn’t a suspect.”
Siebert stared out the window.
“Cliff?” she prompted, feeling a mixture of horror and excitement. Pierce Reed, having solved the Montgomery case last summer, had been nearly venerated by the public. He was a local hero here, though, she knew from her research, he wasn’t considered a saint in San Francisco. In fact, he’d been vilified by the press on the West Coast. Condemned for not being able to save the life of a woman he’d been staking out. “Is Reed a suspect?”
Siebert’s eyebrows slammed together as he focused on her again. He pointed his greasy knife at Nikki’s nose. “Be careful what you write, okay?”
“Always am,” she said and dropped a twenty onto the tabletop as she scooted out of the booth. She knew enough about the cop who had been her brother’s friend to understand that the conversation was over. She saw him pick up the money and begin to protest. “Don’t even argue with me. As you pointed out, it’s after midnight and I woke you up. Thanks, Cliff. I’ll be calling you.”
“Don’t. This is it. I’m out of it,” he hissed under his breath. The twenty in his fist, he scowled harshly at her through his lenses. Again, the wall was erected. “If this is gonna be my investigation, then you can damn well get someone else to be your snitch!”
CHAPTER 17
“You just can’t keep your name out of the papers, now, can ya?” Morrisette waltzed in and slapped a copy of the Savannah Sentinel onto his desk. Her face was red from the cold outside and she yanked off a pair of gloves. “It’s effin’ freezin’ in here. Don’t tell me the heat’s out again.”
Scanning the newspaper, Reed grimaced and felt a twinge of a headache when he saw his name in print. Page one headlines shrieked “Serial Killer Stalks Savannah.”
“Subtle, isn’t she?” Morrisette rubbed her hands together.
“None of ’em are.” He’d gotten the paper at home and read the article. Twice. Saw his name in print, along with the story that Barbara Jean Marx had been pregnant at the time of her death. Nikki Gillette’s article stated that he’d been “removed from the case due to personal involvement with one of the victims,” then surmised that a serial killer was on the loose. On his way out of his apartment, he’d dropped his copy of the newspaper into a Dumpster.
“Where the hell does that woman get her information?” Morrisette asked.
“Don’t know, but I intend to find out.”