In murder cases, there are two ways things tend to go – either everything happens very quickly and the killer’s locked up in twenty-four hours, or the process slows to a crawl.
After that first rush of information, by Saturday it appeared the Whitney case was grinding to a halt.
The police gave Harper nothing new – Blazer refused her calls and Smith was nowhere to be found. The signs were everywhere that the investigation was losing steam – the scanner offered no new investigations at the yellow house. Nobody was taken in for questioning and police announced no suspects.
The case was growing cold.
Harper’s own investigation was moving equally slowly. DJ had found nothing on his first foray at the university – all the staff were at a memorial service for Whitney that afternoon, so there was nobody to speak to.
‘I’ll try again on Monday,’ he promised Harper as he left.
Baxter had saved a chunk of Sunday’s page one for the Whitney story. It’s hard to fill a front-page slot with a story saying ‘No new information’, but Harper did what she could.
The editor was not impressed.
‘This isn’t new, Harper,’ she’d called across the empty newsroom Saturday night. ‘It’s a reminder of everything we knew already. You might as well say, “Read Friday’s paper for the latest news”.’
‘I’m trying,’ Harper told her. ‘But if the police don’t have anything, what can I do?’
Baxter wasn’t sympathetic.
‘Do the impossible, Harper,’ she told her. ‘Or the next time Dells walks across the newsroom it won’t be to kiss your ass.’
By the time Harper pulled up outside Smith’s modern, colonial-style house on Sunday afternoon, she was determined to get him to tell her more about the case.
His house was on the southern edge of the city, in the kind of upscale new development where the front gate bears a made-up name like ‘Westchester’ in a lavish swirling font.
A long drive curved up to his ostentatious front door, flanked by topiary boxwoods the size and shape of bowling balls.
When he’d moved here from the more modest house where he and his family had lived for a decade, Harper had teased him mercilessly.
‘Your valet didn’t open the door,’ she liked to say. ‘You should fire him.’
‘I am my own valet,’ Smith would reply wearily. ‘But if I had a valet, my first order to him would be to refuse to let you in when you’re being silly.’
‘You know you love me,’ Harper would reply, breezing past him.
Today, though, it was Pat who opened the door.
‘Harper!’ she exclaimed, pulling her into a warm hug. She smelled of some honeyed perfume. ‘Right on time. Come in. Come in.’
Smith’s wife was nearly as tall as him but twice as angular, with a broad, appealing smile and bright blue eyes beneath short, practical brown hair. As she walked briskly across the ceramic tile floor she kept up a constant line of cheerful chatter, her voice echoing in the oversized, vaulted entrance hall.
‘It’s been too long. Where have you been keeping yourself? How’s Bonnie?’
‘I’ve been really busy with work,’ Harper told her. ‘There’ve been a few big stories. Oh, and Bonnie is fine.’
‘She still teaching at the art school?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
The closer they drew to the kitchen, the more the rich cooking smells made Harper’s mouth water. Pat’s cooking was legendary.
‘I’ve made chicken and dumplings with mashed potatoes and collard greens,’ Pat told her. ‘And the early peaches are out of this world, so there’s peach cobbler for dessert. It’ll be ready in a few minutes. The boys are all in the living room. Why don’t you go say hello, and I’ll bring you a glass of iced tea.’
The living room, like the rest of the house, was spacious, with four deep leather sofas arranged around a big central coffee table. Everything faced a wide-screen TV which, at the moment, showed a pitcher, spitting on a baseball.
The walls held mostly modest prints of landscape views in heavy masculine frames. Near the door, though, there was a picture of a younger Smith, shaking hands with the governor, smiling broadly as he accepted a medal for valor.
The image was hung to the right of the real thing who, clad in khakis and a neat, white polo shirt, lounged on a sofa, the newspaper in one hand, reading glasses perched on his nose. His two sons, Kyle and Scott, sat across from each other, staring at their phones.
‘Hi, guys.’ Pushing Scott’s baseball hat down over his face, Harper dropped onto the sofa next to him. ‘Stop with all the chitchat, will you? It’s exhausting.’
‘Doggone it, Harper,’ Scott complained, straightening his hat. He was thirteen – all long legs, freckles and early pimples.
At fifteen, Kyle was more self-confident than his brother. He glanced up from his phone to wave, then returned his attention to the device.
‘Who’s he talking to?’ Harper asked, nudging Scott with her shoulder.
‘His girlfriend,’ Scott told her, in a tone that conveyed ridicule and disbelief.
‘Shut up,’ Kyle said mildly.
‘Every time I mention her,’ Scott stage-whispered, ‘he says that.’
‘What’s wrong with her? Is she ugly?’ Harper stretched out her legs, propping her feet on the coffee table.
‘She is not ugly,’ Kyle said.
Snickering, Scott typed something into his phone and held it up for Harper to read. It said, ‘YES SHE IS.’
They exchanged grins.
Smith folded his paper placidly. ‘Boys, get along.’
‘Here you go, Harper.’ Pat appeared from the kitchen, holding a glass of iced tea with a sprig of mint floating cool and fresh on the top.
Taking the glass from her, Harper said, ‘Can I help at all? None of these lazy guys are offering.’
‘I’d help,’ Scott insisted. ‘But she says I get in the way.’
‘Thank you, Harper.’ Pat rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘It’s all under control.’
The first time Harper ever had dinner with the Smiths was a few months after her mother’s murder. Smith had called her grandmother and asked if the two of them would like to come over.
It was an awkward evening – the unsolved murder cast a looming shadow over every conversation. Back then, Pat was heavily pregnant with Kyle. She saved the night by asking Harper’s grandmother for baby advice and the two were soon chatting away.
Over time, Harper would learn how like her that was – Pat was a born southern diplomat, calmly diverting tricky conversations, seamlessly stopping squabbles.
Later, while Pat and Harper’s grandmother talked softly in the kitchen over cups of coffee, Harper had remained in the living room where Smith had been reading a file from work. He’d put the paperwork aside to quiz her with gentle persistence about school and her life.
‘It’s fine,’ she told him, because she didn’t know how to say that school didn’t seem to matter to her anymore, and that each day was like swimming through glue to a razor-covered shore.
Smith had missed nothing, though.
‘Anyone gives you any trouble, you come to me,’ he told her gruffly. ‘And maybe you should come over more often. Pat’s worried about you, and I don’t like her being worried.’
Over the course of the year, she started spending more time with the Smith family. After Kyle was born, she was invited frequently, ostensibly to help Smith watch the baby while Pat ran errands.
Later, she would see these reasons for her visits were contrived so Smith could keep watch over her, make sure she was surviving. Back then, though, it was just nice to feel like she was part of a family again.
By the time Scott came along, Harper was old enough to babysit. After that, she spent frequent evenings looking out for the two boys when Smith and Pat went out to police functions.
Even now, although her work at the newspaper had created some necessary distance between her and Smith, she still came over once a month or so, to catch up.
‘So.’ Smith removed his reading glasses. ‘I saw your article.’
Instantly alert, Harper glanced at him in surprise. Was he about to open the Whitney conversation himself?
‘Uh-oh.’ Looking up from his phone, Kyle grinned. ‘Did she piss you off, Dad?’
‘Of course not.’ Smith propped his feet up on the ottoman. ‘And don’t say “piss” in front of a lady.’
‘She’s not a lady,’ Scott reminded him with an eye-roll. ‘She’s Harper.’
‘That fact aside,’ Smith growled. ‘A lady is what Harper is. As I was saying …’ He rattled the paper. ‘Your piece on the shooting last night was excellent.’
Harper bit back her disappointment. The shooting last night had been nothing special – page-ten filler.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That scene was messy, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t think a .22 would make him bleed so much. I thought six people had died when I walked up.’
‘A .22 can do a lot of damage,’ Smith assured her. ‘Frankly, if you know where to aim, you can kill a man with a credit card.’
‘Where, Dad?’ Putting down his phone, Scott scooted to the edge of the sofa. ‘Where do you hit him?’
Harper shot Smith a look but he didn’t notice, warming to his subject.
‘There is an artery here,’ he said, pointing to the side of his neck, ‘and another here,’ pointing to his inner thigh. ‘Hit either of those with anything remotely sharp and the best doctor in the world can’t save you. You’ll bleed out in minutes.’
‘Wow,’ Scott breathed, wide-eyed with fascination. Even Kyle looked up from his phone. ‘Have you seen people die like that?’
‘Well …’ Smith began modestly, but he didn’t get a chance to finish.
‘Robert.’ Pat’s disapproving voice came from the doorway. ‘This is not appropriate conversation.’
Smith’s brow furrowed. ‘I think it’s perfectly reasonable if the boy wants to learn about human anatomy and criminology.’
Pat dried her hands too hard on a tea towel.
‘He is thirteen, Robert. Why can’t you argue about politics like normal people?’
‘I don’t like politics,’ Scott informed her.
His mother sighed.
‘Well. Lunch is served.’ She headed towards the dining room, her espadrilles swishing. ‘And blood is banned from the table.’
After the meal, Smith helped Pat with the dishes, while Harper and the boys played basketball outside. She’d always been able to hold her own with them, but these days Kyle was taller than her, and faster.
When he shot his third clean jump shot, catching nothing but net, Harper sagged back against the garage wall.
‘When,’ she wheezed, sweat pouring down her face, ‘did you get so good?’
‘I’m on the JV team.’ A cocky grin lit up his face. He dribbled the ball from hand to hand. ‘First squad.’
‘Crap.’ Waving for the two boys to continue, Harper backed away from the makeshift court. ‘You guys do this. I need to go have a nice quiet heart attack.’
When she walked back into the house, the air conditioning chilled the perspiration on her back, sending goosebumps down her spine.
Everything was quiet. The house – always too new, too big – felt empty.
Her footsteps echoed as she made her way down the corridor to the sunlit kitchen. The gray, marble countertops were spotless. The dishwasher hummed. There was no sign of Pat.
When she backtracked to the living room, the TV flashed images without sound. The sofas were unoccupied.
On the wave of cool air, Harper smelled the sweet, cloying scent of cigar smoke. She turned on her heel, following the smoke around the foot of the stairs to where Smith’s study door stood ajar. It was the only room in the house where Pat allowed him to smoke.
For a second, she stood in the hallway, deciding how to handle this.
Then, she tapped her knuckles against the wood and pushed the door open.
‘Lieutenant?’
Smith’s study was all dark wood and leather furniture. A deer head was mounted above the door. Its glassy eyes surveyed walls holding framed photos of the lieutenant with various dignitaries – the chief of police, the mayor. There were a few black-and-white shots of a younger version of him in uniform at crime scenes, badge on his chest, standing over handcuffed men.
A picture of Pat and the boys grinning at the camera stood on his desk, next to his laptop, which he closed when he saw her.
His cigar waved her in.
‘Who won?’ he asked, as she perched on one of the leather chairs facing his desk.
‘Kyle.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘That kid’s a ringer. Why didn’t you tell me he’d gone pro?’
There was pride in his smile. ‘He swore me to secrecy.’
They talked about the boys for a while. How Scott was doing in school. Kyle’s new cheerleader girlfriend.
They were laughing about something Scott had said at lunch, when Harper pounced.
‘Oh, hey,’ she said casually. ‘I was looking for you on Friday and couldn’t track you down. I wanted to talk to you about the Whitney case.’
Smith leaned forward to tap the ash off the stub of his smoke. When he glanced up again, his eyes were guarded.
‘Work talk isn’t allowed on Sunday,’ he reminded her.
‘I know.’
Leaning back in her chair, Harper adopted a look of apology.
‘The thing is, the case seemed to go quiet over the last few days. Is everything OK?’ Seeing the warning glint in his eyes, she added, ‘Come on, Lieutenant. This isn’t for attribution. I’m just curious.’
He examined his cigar. ‘“Just curious” gets people fired.’
With a shoulder tilt that said it was fine either way, Harper reached for a hunting magazine on the low table next to her chair, flipping through it without seeing it.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have brought it up, except Baxter’s after me to write a piece about how slow progress is on the case. You know how she is.’
Smith drew on the cigar, blowing out a puff of bittersweet smoke.
‘Emma Baxter needs to mind her own business,’ he growled.
‘Tell me about it,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve held her off for now, but when I’m back in the office on Tuesday …’
She made a helpless gesture.
‘Anyway, I thought I should warn you.’ She turned her attention back to the magazine, which bristled with weaponry. ‘Give you time to brace yourself. I think they’re planning an editorial.’
From the corner of her eye she saw Smith toying with that stub of cigar, his lips pursed.
‘Look,’ he said after a second, ‘I’m not going to deny this is a tough one. My guys don’t have much to work with. None of the neighbors saw a thing. No car was seen on the street outside. No sound of a struggle was heard.’ He paused. ‘Whoever did this – between you and me – he knew what he was doing. That scene was spotless.’
Harper put the magazine down.
‘What about the ex-husband?’ she asked, no longer disguising her eagerness. ‘Could it have been him? Is he smart enough?’
Smith studied her. There’d been a time when he loved telling her about the cases he was investigating. He’d give her all the background. Get her to guess who he thought did it.
Once she became the official police reporter, that ended. They’d had to find a middle ground between their affection for each other and pure professionalism and, up to now, they’d done that just fine. But this case was different.
Harper was involved in this case. She felt part of it.
And Smith knew it.
‘The father was at work,’ he told her after a second. ‘Rock-solid alibi. He was supposed to come in and pick up his daughter from school that day, but he got called in at the last minute.’
‘Was there a boyfriend?’ Harper persisted. ‘Someone she fought with?’
His lips tightening, Smith shook his head.
‘Come on, now. You know how much I’d love to discuss this case with you, but I simply can’t give you this information. I honestly wish I could.’
‘Lieutenant,’ she leaned towards him, ‘you have no suspects and yet you’re sure this case has nothing to do with my mother’s murder? Help me out here. I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t tell you we had no suspects.’ A hint of steel entered his voice. ‘I told you the ex isn’t one of them.’
‘But how could the layout of the crime scenes be so identical?’ she asked, the words bursting out. ‘Are you seriously telling me that’s a coincidence? That both women happened to be naked, and killed in exactly the same way, in the same room, with the same MO?’
‘That is what I’m telling you,’ he said evenly. ‘I know it’s difficult to accept, but similar murders happen.’ Seeing the look on her face, he held up his hand. ‘But you are right – the similarities are striking and I have instructed Detective Blazer to keep both cases in mind in his investigation. Nonetheless, my gut tells me it’s not the same guy.’
It wasn’t much, but at least it was something. Harper had a feeling that was all she was going to get out of him.
‘Please, Lieutenant, if you find out anything about my mother’s case – you’ll tell me, won’t you?’
The silence that followed was heavy with shared memories of bloody floors and slippery hands. Of her real father’s failures and Smith’s decision to step into his shoes, and be there for her.
‘I promise,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll tell you all I can.’
Before she could say anything else, he glanced at the cigar butt in his hand and briskly stubbed it out in the heavy wooden ashtray on his desk, waving away the cloud of smoke that rose around him.
‘I better open a window. Pat’s going to kill me.’ He jumped up to lift the sash. ‘Look, give Blazer a call when you’re back in the office. I’ll tell him to brief you on the record.’
The moment was over.