Chapter 39
Nikki couldn’t sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Naomi Kittle’s body hanging from a crossbeam, blood crusted at her nostrils, her skin a sickly shade of gray. And when her eyes were open, her mind was racing with thoughts of stones, and odd numerals, and the silver SUVs.
Pierce, too, had been restless. When he’d given up on sleep, thrown on his clothes, and gone back to the station, she, too, had gotten up and climbed up to her office.
Sometimes in the wee morning hours, when she was all alone and the house was quiet, the outside dark and still, she found that she could think more clearly.
Usually, she’d nurse a cup of coffee and let the caffeine help clear the cobwebs from her mind, but it was way too early for that. She was still holding out a slim hope that she might catch a few winks later, and she didn’t want a jolt of caffeine fouling up any chance of sleep.
Once in her desk chair, she skimmed her e-mail and found the report she’d gotten from Jill at the station, a copy of the registration for the silver SUV she’d viewed in the church lot on the day of Mavis Greenlee’s funeral.
The owner of record was the All Christian Church, and the person who’d signed for it was none other than Reverend Westin Stark.
But she hadn’t noticed the vehicle being parked in the lot on the night she’d visited Westin. She’d looked. He’d driven something else. What was it? A blue sedan—like a Toyota, maybe, or a Honda. It didn’t matter; it hadn’t been following her.
Nor had the silver Ford Expedition that the church probably used for hauling people or supplies, delivering meals to the housebound or the like.
Maybe Westin Stark wasn’t the only driver of the vehicle.
Maybe someone associated with the Birds of Paradise or one of the elders had the keys or borrowed the Ford for church business.
Maybe Westin wasn’t the bad guy she thought he was. There was a chance he had really reformed and was a true believer.
She reminded herself that the Expedition she saw parked in the church lot might not be the vehicle she thought had been following her.
“Give it up,” she told herself, physically exhausted yet wired, her amped-up brain not in sync with her weary body.
She could take a sleeping pill and knock herself out for a few hours, then start again later in the morning. With a clear head, she might be able to figure out what she was missing. If only she could catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
She still had the impression that there was a religious angle to the murders. Something to do with the numbers … in Hebrew and Arabic. That was a clue. Why bother etching the numbers two different ways? The killer was trying to tell the police something. Taunting them.
She left her office and went downstairs. Lily and Phee’s room wasn’t quite dark, the flickering light from the TV visible beneath their door, but that didn’t mean they were awake. More likely Lily had fallen asleep with the remote in her hand.
As for Nikki’s daughter, Chloe was sleeping soundly, tucked into her skirted crib, her blanket wadded near her feet.
Sleep tight, Nikki thought, but didn’t dare whisper the words for fear of waking her daughter, as she adjusted the blanket, which, of course, would be kicked off again before morning.
After double-checking that all the doors were locked, she made her way upstairs again and found her sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet, a prescription she barely used.
Even though the medication was past its pull date, and probably not as effective as it once was, she filled the glass by the sink with water, told herself, “Bottoms up,” and washed the pill down with a swallow of water.
Now, if it worked, in twenty minutes she’d be dead to the world, and when she woke up, she’d be refreshed and ready to take on the world again, her emotions under control, her mind clear enough to figure out exactly what it was she was missing.
Wouldn’t it be great if she could unmask the damned Savannah Slasher? Not only could she help the police to get the monster off the streets, but she would get her exclusive for the paper and have the story for her next book.
Yawning, feeling the effects of the sleeping pill taking over, she tumbled into bed and was only vaguely aware of Arlo curling up in his dog bed near the window.
As slumber overtook her, the questions still spun in her mind, the faces of the victims, their names intertwined, floating in and out of her consciousness.
Why were they targeted?
What did the rocks and numbers mean?
How did All Christian Church connect to the murders?
As she drifted off, she remembered Mavis Greenlee’s funeral and everyone who spoke and the fact that Duke Wheelan brought up the Ten Commandments. She’d memorized them once, long ago, when she was in the sixth grade. What had she learned in Vacation Bible School?
She tried to think, to remember the passages from Exodus, but her thoughts swirled, and the commandments were jumbled in her drowsy mind.
Thou shalt have no gods before me … Thou shalt not make any graven image … thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy god in vain … Remember the Sabbath day … Honor thy father and thy mother … Thou shalt not steal … Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor …
Much as he hated it, Reed had to agree with his partner.
It certainly appeared that Jamison Kittle had taken his wife’s life, then staged the scene at Jeanne LaRoux’s hut in the swamp.
And yet it didn’t fit. Not all of it.
He said, “You’re not suggesting that Jamison Kittle is the Savannah Slasher,” he said, as he heard more cops walking through the hallway outside their office. Men, their voices low, discussing some ball game.
“Nope,” Sol replied with a shake of her head. “But I sure as hell think he killed his wife and set it up so that we’d think the murders were linked, that she was another one of the Slasher’s victims.” Her expression was cold. Calculating. “And you do, too.”
He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Because the evidence was stacking up against Jamison.
They’d discovered that Jamison was the beneficiary of his wife’s substantial insurance policies.
They’d found Naomi’s burner phone, deep in a hidden compartment in her Mercedes, and had seen how often she’d contacted Knox Quinlan.
In his initial interview, Knox had not only made a statement, but his alibi, of being at his brother’s house with the brother, his wife, and children, had proved to be airtight.
Reed planned to interview the man again, but he seemed devastated and horrified at Naomi’s bizarre and untimely demise.
And that was the thing. To Reed’s knowledge, never once had Jamison Kittle shed a tear for his wife. At least not that Reed had seen. Jamison had seemed sad, even appeared grief-stricken, and looked to be emotionally unraveling. But no tears had fallen
Reed had tried to give him a pass, telling himself that Jamison, an army veteran who had seen action, witnessed war, and lost friends could have an iron grip on his emotions. Jamison was the chosen son, taught by a strict father who believed in stoicism and rarely showed his own feelings.
But Reed didn’t buy it.
Nor did Sol.
“The trouble is,” she was saying, “he did a piss-poor job of trying to connect Naomi’s murder to the others, to make her look like another victim. There are just too many inconsistencies.”
“He didn’t know about the nature of the blood.”
“No, he killed her before we found out what it was made of. But it was like he was rushed and tried to take advantage of the fact that we had a psycho running around the area doing these bizarre killings.” She cracked her neck and stared out the window to the dark night beyond.
“My guess is that he killed her, maybe even by accident, and then he panicked and tried to cover it up.” Her smile was as cold as an arctic blast. She met his gaze in the watery reflection of the glass. “That’s what they say, you know.”
“That it’s not the crime. It’s the cover-up.”
“Amen.”
Reed ignored the bile rising in his throat. He had to face the truth, no matter how painful it was.
“But you already had this figured out.” It wasn’t a question.
“I didn’t have all the evidence,” he said.
“Not the differences in the blood on the stones, and I had no idea that Naomi had had her tubes tied, but even so, everything was pointing to Jamison.” He rubbed his face as if he could scrub away the truth, but all night long, he’d come back to the same grotesque theory that Jamison Kittle, the man who could never lose, whose political ambitions were evident, would never have accepted the public humiliation that his wife was in love with another man.
“Okay, then.” Sol reached for her sidearm and checked it. “Wha’d’ya say, Detective?” She pushed back her chair. “Let’s go get him.”
From his hiding spot across the street, he surveyed the house.
Nikki Gillette’s home was situated on a large lot across the street and catty-corner from Forsyth Park. Aside from an upper-floor window, the house was dark, everyone inside presumably asleep.
The warm night was quiet, just the occasional sound of a car engine passing over the steady chirp of crickets.
The husband, the cop, had left.
And had been gone for a while.
He’d lucked out on that count.
Having the cop out of the house would make things easier.
He’d watched Detective Reed drive out of the garage earlier and had waited to make certain the Jeep didn’t return, that he wasn’t out going to the store for some middle-of-the-night emergency whatever.
So far, he hadn’t come back.
No surprise, there, he thought. Detective Pierce Reed was busy these days.
The Savannah Slasher had seen to that. He felt more than a little bit of pride, of satisfaction that he’d foiled the police, then quickly dismissed the feelings, as this was not about him nor his ego. What he did, he did for God.
And it was time to get to work.