Chapter 37 #2
Stubbornly, Nikki had jutted out her chin and refused.
She’d hated being chastised by the grandmother she adored, and Grannie seemed to understand.
Behind her rimless glasses, her blue eyes had twinkled a bit.
“You know, honey, I was a lot like you when I was your age. Rambunctious. Daring. Always pestering my brothers. They got to do things I wanted to, but wasn’t allowed.
It wasn’t ‘ladylike,’ as your great-grandma used to say.
And I don’t want that for you. Oh, goodness, no.
You keep being rambunctious and daring and asking a million questions.
It’s important. Don’t let anyone tell you what is ‘ladylike’ or ‘not proper’ when you know better.
Be yourself, Nicole.” She’d grabbed Nikki’s small hands and given them a shake.
“You be the best, most inquisitive and curious person you can be. But also, you need to understand that there are certain … rules or laws of nature and, especially of God, that need to be revered. So … why don’t we say the Ten Commandments together, and then, when we’re done, we’ll try your pie.
” She’d nodded toward Nikki’s little tin of peaches and rhubarb and a lot of nutmeg, a blend she’d insisted upon.
The pie was burnt around the edges and appeared pathetic next to Grannie’s larger, golden offerings.
“It looks de-licious,” Grannie said. “Now, let’s start.
What’s the first commandment? Hmm? Thou shalt have what? ”
“No other gods before me,” Nikki had mumbled, still feeling chastised.
“That’s right!” Grannie was delighted. “And number two? Thou shall …”
“Make no idols.”
“Perfect!”
They continued on, and as Nikki recited, she’d begun to feel better.
In fact, those memories of flour, sugar and cinnamon, Bible verses, prayers, and laughter were some of the best of her childhood.
No matter how much trouble Nikki got herself into, she knew Grannie was always supportive.
Not that the older woman couldn’t get mad—Nikki had heard her whisper a “damn it” or “gosh darn it,” under her breath—but she always knew that Grannie had her back.
No matter how many times she had to recite the Lord’s Prayer, or the Twenty-Third Psalm, or, more often, the Ten Commandments.
She opened the Bible to Exodus, found the passage she knew so well, and read it.
As she did, she felt a little tingle of excitement along her nerves.
Exodus. In the Old Testament. Written in Hebrew.
Her pulse jumped as she carried the Bible back to her desk and compared the commandments to the notes she’d scratched on her legal pad.
Billy Huber. Number nine. She checked the commandment. Which was about bearing false witness against one’s neighbor. Hadn’t Billy lied about his neighbors?
Mavis Greenlee. Number five. About honoring one’s father and mother, and Mavis had definitely not honored her parents and left Blanche Crawford often alone, with very little care.
Nikki’s heartbeat accelerated.
Jeanne LaRoux. Number one. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” she said aloud, as she had as a child. Jeanne practiced a weird mixture of religions.
This was it. She knew it.
Except:
Naomi Kittle. Number eleven.
There was no eleventh commandment. “There are ten,” she said aloud.
She snapped the Bible closed. Was she wrong? Were the numbers purely coincidental? Some of the victims had committed other sins. Billy Huber was a thief. But the commandment against stealing, number eight, wasn’t ascribed to him; there was no other etched stone found on or near his body.
Could this all be coincidence?
No way.
And she’d heard a reference to the Ten Commandments recently. At Mavis Greenlee’s funeral, in Duke Wheelan’s remarks. By the man whom Billy Huber had borne false witness against.
Could that have been random?
She thought again about Naomi Kittle. Number 11. That didn’t make sense. In fact, it blew Nikki’s theory right out of the water.
She was missing something.
Something vital.
But, damn it, she was on to something.
She could feel it.
Granger LaRoux stuck to his story.
As he sat in the interview room, he insisted he had nothing to do with Naomi Kittle’s death, had no idea how her body had ended up on his mother’s land, then clammed up and demanded a lawyer.
“He’s guilty,” Jamison insisted. He and Pierce were staring through the two-way mirror into the room where Granger sat, arms folded over his chest, face set and hard, waiting for his attorney to show up. “Arrest him.”
“We will,” Pierce said, “but we want to get this right.”
“He’s the damned Savannah Slasher,” Jamison insisted. “Two bodies were found on his property, including that of my wife! Arrest the fucker!”
“I said we will, but we need all our ducks in a row. We want to nail him.”
“You’ve got enough evidence.”
“And he’s got alibis.”
“Break them.” Jamison jabbed a finger at the two-way mirror. “He’s guilty as sin, so do your damned job.”
“And you do yours,” Pierce snapped. “We’ll get the evidence, you build the case, but have someone else handle it. Like the DA. Okay?”
“Because you don’t think I can be objective?”
“No one does, Jamison. You’re the husband of one of the victims, and as such, you need to go home.”
“But we’ve got him. We’ve got the damned Savannah Slasher! I want a rush on this! Gather all the evidence and—”
“Go home, Jamison,” Pierce repeated sternly. He was unconvinced that Granger had killed anyone, including Naomi Kittle, and he needed to concentrate his energy on the Savannah Slasher. “Go home. Take care of your kids.”
“They’re with Naomi’s mother.” He sighed heavily, his face ashen and drawn, then closed his eyes and plowed his hands through his hair. “I still have to tell them. If they haven’t heard already. With the Internet … shit.”
“Someone else from the department can talk to Naomi’s parents. Not your kids, but—”
“No, no. It’s my responsibility.” He cast another disparaging glance at the window, with its view of the interrogation room and Granger LaRoux. “You’re right. I do need to talk to the girls and try to explain … Jesus, how do you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Pierce said honestly.
“Well, I’ll figure it out. And I’ll tell Naomi’s folks and Roxie before I go home.”
“You’re not staying with them?”
“At the condo? No.” He shook his head. “Not enough room, and I need to be at the house. I’ve got horses and cattle, and Naomi’s dogs, of course.”
“Do you need someone to stay with you? I mean, tonight was pretty brutal.”
He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I’ll be okay. I’ve been through rough times before. In Iraq.”
True enough. Jamison Kittle was a decorated war veteran who had been in more than one battle.
“But this is your wife.”
“I know. Boy, do I know. This is … I’ve lost men, but …” His voice trailed off, but he pulled himself together with an effort. “I’ll be okay.”
Pierce nodded. Jamison held his gaze for a brief second, and Pierce noticed the bruise under his eye, evidence of their earlier fight.
Jabbing his finger toward the observation window and the man beyond, Jamison said in a low, deadly voice, “You just nail this fucker.”