Chapter 11 #2
“Just like the other one found at Billy Huber’s,” he thought aloud. “So it’s probably a number, not a letter. A five in Hebrew and the other side a five in Arabic.”
Her eyes slitted as she studied the stone. “It looks like we’ve got ourselves a serial killer. Right here in genteel Savannah.”
Reed didn’t like the thought, but he didn’t disagree.
She replaced the stone and stood. “Random victims?”
“Unlikely.”
Reed looked around the opulent house, with its neatly arranged furniture, polished antiques, and gleaming surfaces. Nothing out of place.
Except for a dead woman.
“What the hell do Billy Huber and Mavis Greenlee have in common?” he muttered.
“A killer,” she said, following his gaze and most likely his thoughts. “But who?”
“That’s what we have to figure out.”
Her eyes scanned the rest of the foyer, her gaze running up the carpeted stairs to the landing.
Had it not been for the grizzly gash in Mavis’s neck and the gun on the stairs, one might have assumed she’d tripped near the top step and tumbled head over heels to her resting spot at the base of the stairs.
But her slashed throat and the polished stone told another story.
His phone buzzed, and he expected the caller to be Nikki. Instead, he saw Jamison Kittle’s number on the screen. Reed stepped onto the porch to take the call and felt the cool of the night against his skin. “I take it you heard,” he said as he answered.
“Yeah. But I can’t believe it. Another one?” Jamison sounded gobsmacked. “Are you kidding me?”
“Not kidding.”
There was a pause before Kittle said, “I know Mavis Greenlee. I play golf with her husband. And Naomi—she’ll be devastated.
She knew Mavis from the country club and church.
God, I think the Greenlees were supposed to be at the Honeywells’ party tonight.
We were there, and Naomi mentioned it was odd that Mavis and Archer didn’t show, then she said something about them having some marital problems, but I didn’t think much about it.
I mean, who doesn’t? Then I got the call, and I phoned you to confirm.
I don’t want my wife to hear it on the news. She’ll … God knows what she’ll do.”
“I can confirm. It’s Mavis Greenlee.”
“Damn,” Kittle muttered, barely loud enough for Reed to hear over the conversation going on between two firefighters and a deputy standing near the collection of vehicles in the drive. “Same killer?” Kittle asked.
“Looks like. It won’t be confirmed for a while, but yeah, I’m guessing.”
“Keep me posted,” Jamison said. Then he added, “Better yet, I’ll be there.”
“We’ve got it handled.”
“I know. But as I said, this is personal.”
The forensic team arrived and ushered everyone out of the house and into the night. Augustin joined Reed at the top of the circular drive, and when one of the team came out with the cat in a carrier, Augustin said, “I’ll handle this” and caught up with the deputy.
Reed watched as she took the carrier and hauled it down the drive and past the open gate to her truck, which was parked across the street, its front grill just visible past one of the gateposts.
As she was returning, the van from the coroner’s office arrived and was waved through the gates so that it could be parked close to the house. A few curious neighbors tried to follow, but deputies kept them at bay on the other side of the barrier cordoning off the Greenlee house.
Within minutes, Jamison Kittle showed up, leaving his car outside the police barricade and walking up to the house.
For once, he wasn’t dressed in a suit and tie, but showed up in slacks and a long-sleeved, black T-shirt, his hair slicked back and still damp as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.
On the steps of the house, he greeted Reed, who asked, “You tell Naomi?”
“Yeah. Before she heard it on the news.” Kittle rubbed the back of his neck.
“She was beside herself. Wanted to come here with me, but I talked her out of it, and she finally agreed. Someone had to stay with the girls.” His gaze searched the exterior of the home, past the azaleas and dogwoods and planters overflowing with phlox and petunias to the brick wall enclosing the estate. “How the hell does this happen?”
“We’re trying to figure that out.”
Kittle peered through the open door and eyed the foyer of the house, where Mavis’s corpse was being placed inside a body bag. He shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said under his breath. “MO the same as the Huber homicide?”
“Yeah. But Mavis had a gun.”
“Did she?” He didn’t seem surprised as the bag was zipped and loaded onto a stretcher. “And it didn’t help?”
“No.” Reed sketched out what they knew, and together they watched as Mavis Greenlee’s body was hauled out of the house, whisked into a van, and driven away.
“We need to find this guy,” Jamison said as his phone buzzed and he checked the screen. “It’s Naomi.” He let out a breath. “I’d better go. Keep me informed,” he said again, then held up a hand to say goodbye as he started jogging back to his car, answering the call on his way.
As Kittle passed through the gates, Reed saw the first camera crew from a local television station arrive.
He wasn’t in the mood to deal with reporters. Not yet. Not until he had answers. Until then, he didn’t want to try to deflect or dodge their questions. He’d have to deal with enough of that at home.
Time to call it a night. He caught up with Augustin, who told him she wanted to check Archer Greenlee’s official statement at the station and then double-check his alibi. “I can handle it. I’ll report what I find out in the morning.”
He didn’t argue. It had been a long day, and he could do some follow-up from home.
And there was Nikki. With her ear to the ground, she probably already had heard about the new homicide and would demand answers.
It was better that he deal with her at home rather than have her show up here at the scene.
He wouldn’t put it past her.
She’d done it before. His jaw flexed as he remembered the last time, at the Beaumont estate and how Sylvie Morrisette had paid the ultimate price for his wife’s dangerous, uncompromising need to investigate.
God, he missed Morrisette, he thought, as he climbed into his Cherokee and drove away from the flashing lights and unanswered questions at the Greenlee estate.
Morrisette, like Nikki, had been a rule breaker.
Or at least someone who would bend the law to the breaking point.
For all the right reasons. Morrisette had been as tough as old leather, unconventional to a flaw, and determined to, as she so eloquently put it, “Lock those fuckers behind bars, no matter what it takes.”
He’d had a few partners since, none of whom he’d really connected with. Not like Morrisette.
Maybe Sol Augustin would change all that.
Augustin was good. Insightful. Didn’t miss much.
But there was something about her that bothered him, something he couldn’t quite name.
On paper, she was a stellar police officer.
She’d landed a four-year scholarship to college and had been consistently on the dean’s list. The same held true when she’d sailed through the police academy, and in the five years since graduating from the academy, she had proved herself.
Her work with the department had been exemplary.
She was smart but quiet, hardworking, and private.
Her thought pattern didn’t quite follow his, so she observed things he missed.
She came at every case from a different angle.
She wasn’t pushy, but held her own. She managed to always keep her temper in check and never, so far, had flown off the handle. Her emotions were always under control.
Unlike Morrisette, who had always gone off half-cocked.
In many ways, Augustin was a far better cop. More methodical. More controlled. Whereas Morrisette ran on emotion, Augustin ran on … what? He didn’t know. It seemed as if she was calm, calculating, and competent, that she relied on common sense and strategy and good old logic.
And yet …
He sensed there was something more. Something hidden. Something secret.
Don’t we all have our secrets?
Of course.
But some were more dangerous than others.
He rolled down the window as he drove through the city streets, the rush of cool Georgia air invading his Jeep, the misty glow of streetlamps lighting his way.
He caught a glimpse of the moon as he passed the park, then, just a quarter of a mile before he reached his house, he pulled to the curb.
As traffic eased by, he let his vehicle idle for a few minutes, retrieving his cell phone from his pocket to punch in a quick text:
Hey. Just checking in.
How’re things?
How about we meet this weekend?