Chapter 26
Granger LaRoux was no hero.
He’d had more than his share of problems with the law.
As Nikki sat at her favorite desk in the darkened newspaper office, the computer monitor serving as her main light source, she went through his rap sheet to discover offenses including poaching and getting into bar brawls.
The most significant charge was one filed by a girlfriend; however, it was eventually dropped.
From what Nikki could piece together, the girlfriend had been the attacker, with a weapon—a screwdriver—that she’d managed to put through Granger’s left hand.
As far as she could tell, Granger had no connection to Billy Huber or Mavis Greenlee, nor did they with his mother. Granger had some social media accounts, but the victims, oddly, did not.
Nor did Jeanne LaRoux have a criminal record.
She’d been a recluse and had practiced some kind of mixture of religions, pagan and Christian, but hadn’t been in trouble with the law or even been in a spat with any of her neighbors.
Nikki had done a story on her in the past, and since that time, Jeanne LaRoux hadn’t been in the news.
But someone had known about her.
And targeted her.
And murdered her.
“Who?” she said aloud, drumming her fingers on the desk as she thought.
The newsroom was quiet at this time of night—just two techies, who manned the incoming feed from the Internet, making certain that the Sentinel’s website and social-media accounts were up to the minute—but everyone else was gone.
She glanced at Fink’s office, now dark, then turned her attention back to her screen.
What did a lone hoarder, a Savannah socialite, and an isolated woman who claimed to be a sorceress have in common? Why would someone target them? For a second, she considered the fact that their deaths might be random, but it seemed unlikely. The stones with their numbers were the connection.
But how?
And why would they be polished and etched on two sides with numbers in Arabic and Hebrew?
What was the point of that … if there was one.
She leaned back in her desk chair, ignoring the headache building at the base of her skull.
She knew she was missing something, something vital, but then she didn’t have all the evidence; she was driving somewhat blind.
The police had more information, of course, and though she’d gotten more info than some other reporters, she felt hamstrung. And frustrated.
She was getting nowhere fast.
Shutting down her station, she dropped by the website area, where Effie Savoy was sipping from a giant-size coffee drink.
Effie, a sourpuss with ever-changing hair color, didn’t bother to smile as Nikki approached. No surprise there; they’d never gotten along. They tolerated each other. Coworkers? Yes. Friends? Never.
“Anything new on the murders?”
Effie peered up at Nikki over the tops of her new glasses; the frames were pale green, almost the same shade as her hair.
“Couldn’t you look it up yourself?”
“You get it first.”
“What do you want?”
“Anything on the Jeanne LaRoux homicide.”
Sighing, Effie set down her drink, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Isn’t your husband investigating? Why don’t you ask him?”
“He’s not here. You are.”
“Fine.” Effie typed in some information, and a news clip from the local station showed on the screen.
A woman reporter in her late twenties was standing near the cordoned-off area of Jeanne’s property and staring into the camera to report on “another local murder,” saying that police hadn’t discounted the possibility of a serial killer stalking the streets and the area around Savannah.
Nikki noted that police were asking for the community’s help, that if anyone had seen anything suspicious, they should call the authorities.
And blah, blah, blah.
“You could have found this yourself,” Effie pointed out. “Oh, wait … looks like the story’s been picked up in Atlanta.” She paused, brought the information up on the screen. “They’re calling the killer the Savannah Slasher. That’s new.”
Nikki read the data over her shoulder, and Effie, after a few more quick searches, said, “That’s it. So far.” She picked up her drink again.
“Thanks.” Nikki headed outside, where the night was just starting to cool, a soft April breeze floating through the quiet streets.
A few cars drove past the old brick warehouse where the Sentinel was located, headlights offering passing illumination, while crickets chirped from the steps and shrubbery.
Walking across the parking lot, she sensed, rather than saw, someone nearby.
And yet, at first glance, there was no one.
She glanced around, searching the area. Nothing.
Just your nerves, she told herself. That’s what you get for spending your days investigating murders and—
Was that a footstep?
She whirled.
Reached into her purse.
Scrabbled.
Her fingers located her keys.
But she saw no one.
The parking lot was empty.
Still …
Nerves strung tight, she kept walking, her gaze moving around her. The brick building where the newspaper office was located loomed upward, some windows lit and a streetlamp on the corner offered soft, ethereal light. A few cars drove past.
The city was quiet.
Nerve-rackingly so.
All in your head.
No one else around. And yet, she felt eyes upon her. Unseen eyes.
Hairs on the back of her arms lifted.
The back of her neck tingled.
She started for her car again. Faster. Across the lot.
A footstep.
Crap!
She was almost to the Subaru.
More footsteps.
Faster.
Running!
A flash of movement in the corner of her eye.
A dark figure was racing toward her.
All in black. Head to toe.
Running fast!
She hit the door-unlock button.
The car beeped, and its lights blinked on, and in the darkness, she saw that the Subaru was already damaged, something scratched into the driver’s side.
The rush of footsteps stopped.
She yanked on the door handle.
Saw her assailant haul back.
Something hurled through the air.
She ducked.
A rock the size of a baseball whizzed past her head.
Crash!
The rock hit the windshield hard and bounced back.
A thick web of jagged cracks sizzled through the glass.
“Hey!” Nikki yelled, her heart jumping.
The dark figure took off.
Fast.
No longer running at her, but away.
“Hey!” she shouted again, moving forward, telling herself that if he had a gun, he would have already shot at her. “You! Stop!”
Too late.
Whoever it was darted through the row of untended shrubbery separating the parking area from the street. She followed, running, hurrying to catch up, her eyes on the spot where he’d disappeared between a copse of live oaks and crepe myrtles.
Be careful, she warned herself, heart pounding, her gaze scouring the thicket, but coming up empty.
A car rolled past, and she caught the glint of metal as light swept across the building face and shrubbery.
In that second, she saw movement, something glinting. Instinctively she crouched. Her attacker appeared on the far side of the hedgerow.
On a bike.
She raced forward, but it wheeled away, furious pedaling giving way to the smooth hum of an engine as the attacker engaged the electric bike, sped up, and disappeared around a corner.
“Damn.” She ran back to her car, hopped in, and took off after him.
Visibility was inhibited by her ruined windshield, but she drove fast, into the street and down the alley into which he’d disappeared.
At the far end, past the dumpsters and parked cars, she came to a cross street.
One way. Not that her attacker would have cared.
But she saw no hint of the bike in either direction.
She drove carefully along the street, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one riding a motorized bike through the historic district, no bike left unattended.
What she did see, as she passed by a glass storefront that reflected weakly from a streetlamp, was an ugly message gouged into her passenger door in huge letters:
COP KILLER
Her heart froze.
Guilt cut through her soul.
The letters were jagged and uneven.
But the meaning was clear.
This wasn’t a random act of violence.
Whoever had done this was targeting her.
Just as was done in the parking lot.
For Sylvie Morrisette’s death.
“Got it,” she said under her breath as she turned a corner and drove home.
Once home, she showed Pierce the damage, and he swore under his breath. “It’s Toby.”
“Toby Yelkis?” A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach as they stood in the garage beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The gouged paint looked far worse here than it had when she’d caught just a glimpse of it in the reflection of the storefront.
“Who else?”
“I don’t know, but there are tons of other people,” she argued.
“Anyone in the department, for starters.” She didn’t want to believe that Sylvie Morrisette’s son was behind the damage, that he was so broken, so angry that he would take a knife or key or screwdriver to her car.
Her heart ached for the kid, and she argued in his defense, even though, deep down, she conceded Pierce was probably correct.
“Doesn’t look like the kind of thing someone I work with would do.” He looked at her with a “Come-on, Nikki, get real” expression.
“Well then, how about friends of Morrisette or other family members?”
“Priscilla? She’s in college. Lives downtown.”
“No, no, not her daughter,” she said, knowing he was baiting her. “But—think about this—what about her sister? You said she had a sister.”
“And two brothers, all who live far away.” His troubled gaze held hers. “They wouldn’t.”
“Well, then maybe one of her ex-husbands? How about Bart, the father of her kids? She thought he was the worst.”
“Too juvenile, even for him. For any of them. And they all are in Texas, just like that song. Except for Bart. But why would Bart take the risk?”
“Because he’s unhinged,” she argued, though it was a losing battle. She was arguing against herself.