13

Clutching her phone in her hand, Harper raced across the barroom to where Daltrey and Luke had been standing minutes ago. But they were no longer there.

She stood on her toes, trying to see above the crowd, but there were too many people. She grabbed a chair and climbed on top of it to survey the room.

All the detectives were gone.

Hopping down, she pushed her way through the crowds to DJ, who was regaling the choir with reporting stories.

She grabbed his arm without warning.

“Here’s my assistant,” he announced.

“We need to go,” she urged, her voice tight.

“She’s so demanding,” DJ told the choir, waving good-bye as Harper pulled him across the bar by his sleeve.

“What’s going on?” he asked as they rushed out into the night. “It better be good—I think I was about to get a date with five cute Christian girls.”

“The cops are letting Wilson Shepherd go,” she explained without slowing her pace. “That means they don’t have enough evidence to charge him. The whole case is up in the air and there’s two hours until deadline.”

“Day-um,” he said. “Where are we going now?”

“I need to find the detectives. They just left.”

She stopped outside the door, looking up and down the short lane. But it was empty.

This must have been what Blazer was telling Jerrod Scott when she saw them. The two of them had probably left then. The other detectives, though, had only just gone, because she’d seen them minutes ago.

“They must have gone to the station,” she said.

She ran to the Camaro, which she’d parked a block down from the bar, glancing back to see DJ hurrying after her.

“I have to go find them,” she said. “Do you want to come with me or stay with your choir girls?”

“Are you kidding?” He opened the passenger door. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since I lost my virginity.”

“Well, buckle up.” Harper gunned the engine and slammed it into gear, pulling out from the curb with her tires squealing.

Grinning broadly, DJ clutched the handle above the door. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the roar of the engine.

“This is exactly what I thought your beat was like.”

They tore across the city, taking every shortcut Harper knew, and pulled up in front of police headquarters eight minutes later with a screech of brakes. Leaving the car in a well-indicated fire zone, Harper jumped out and ran to where Miles stood by the front door, his camera in one hand.

“Has he come out?” Harper asked. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“Not yet,” Miles told her.

“Hi, Miles.” DJ walked up to join them.

“DJ.” Miles gave him a bemused look. “Nice to have you join our merry crew.”

“I’m only here because badges turn me on,” DJ explained.

“Have Daltrey or Walker come in?” Harper asked. “I lost them at the bar.”

“No, but Lieutenant Blazer came through here fifteen minutes ago, looking like he was ready to kill someone with his bare hands.” Miles paused, looking through the glass door into the station. “Hold on. We’ve got action.”

Stepping to one side, he raised his camera.

On the other side of the thick, smudged glass, Harper could see a small crowd gathering. Wilson Shepherd was in the middle. A cluster of police officers moved around him, going through the official steps of release.

A black Ford pulled into the lot and stopped behind Harper’s Camaro.

Looking over her shoulder, Harper saw Luke and Detective Daltrey get out of the car. They’d just begun to walk toward her when the station’s doors swung open, and Shepherd stepped out, flanked on either side by uniformed officers.

The last few days seemed to have diminished him. He looked small and exhausted.

As Miles moved in to get his shot, Shepherd stared at him blankly.

Harper stepped into his eye line. “Wilson.”

His head swung toward her. The skin on his round face looked gray, and he had several days’ growth of whiskers.

“Wilson, did you hurt Naomi?” she called. “Are you the killer?”

His face crumpling, Shepherd turned as if to run back inside the station, but the two cops grabbed him.

“This way,” one of them said, pulling him to the left.

Until then, Harper hadn’t noticed the taxi parked on Habersham Street, behind the shielding branches of an oleander bush.

With the two officers half helping, half dragging him, Shepherd stumbled to the car. Harper, Miles, and DJ followed.

“I swear I didn’t hurt anyone,” Shepherd said, in belated response to Harper’s question. “I swear.”

Before he could say more, the cops maneuvered him into the backseat and shut the door behind him. The taxi sped away right as a Channel 5 van tore into the parking lot.

“Too late,” DJ noted, with pleasure.

Leaving him with Miles, Harper walked over to where Luke and Daltrey stood beside their car.

She kept her focus on Daltrey.

“Why are you letting Wilson Shepherd go?”

“We have no comment at this time,” Daltrey said.

“Is he on bail?” Harper persisted. “Or has he been released due to lack of evidence? Did you arrest the wrong man?”

Daltrey fixed her with a hard stare. Luke avoided her gaze.

Harper held up her hands. “Come on, guys. I’ve spent twenty-four hours assuring the taxpayers of Savannah that the killer is in custody. Now you let him go. Give me something here. Are you still sure he’s your guy?”

“McClain, I know you’re doing your job but I need you to tread lightly right now,” Daltrey warned her.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Harper was exasperated. “I can’t not report that Shepherd’s been released. And when I tell my editor this, she’s going to want to know why.”

Daltrey stepped toward her—she was shorter than Harper but when she was angry she seemed much taller.

“You were at that service, McClain. You saw how destroyed that girl’s father is. I want to solve this case. I intend to do justice by Naomi Scott.” Her eyes flashed. “I need you to stay out of my way.”

Harper bit back a harsh reply.

Forcing a measured tone, she said, “That is what I want, too.”

She looked at Luke, whose lips were pressed in a tight line. “But you have to give me something to work with here. And Channel Five is heading this way, so they’re going to ask the same question. Do you still think Shepherd’s the killer? Tell me what you think, and I can take it from there.”

Turning to Daltrey, Luke said, “I think you should talk to her.”

Daltrey glared at him, but he held his ground.

“You know I’m right.”

After a long, icy pause, Daltrey turned back to Harper.

“On the record: Shepherd has been released without charge while the investigation continues.” She paused for a long, tense moment before continuing in a quiet voice. “Off the record: We haven’t got the physical evidence we need to charge him with the killing. But I still believe he’s our guy. We’re going to take it slow and steady and bring him back in.”

At his van, Channel 5 reporter Josh Leonard was draping microphone cable across his shoulder and tucking a camera under his arm. He kept glancing at them urgently.

“What about Jim Fitzgerald, though?” Harper asked. “I understand you questioned him today.”

Luke and Daltrey exchanged an incredulous look.

“How the hell do you know about that?” Luke asked her. “We haven’t even written up our report yet.”

“It’s my job,” Harper said.

“Unbelievable.” Daltrey leaned back against the car, her arms folded. “Look, McClain, we’re going through the criminal history of everyone close to the victim. Fitzgerald’s name came up because of allegations filed against him two years ago. And all of that is one hundred percent off the record.”

“You don’t really think Fitz would do it, do you?”

Neither of them responded, but the look Daltrey gave her said she thought anything was possible.

Leonard slammed the Channel 5 van door and began running toward them, laden with equipment. He looked uncharacteristically flustered.

Harper thought about her conversation with Peyton Anderson at the bar. His odd, flirtatious intensity.

“What about the Anderson kid?” she asked. “Did you look into him? Jerrod Scott said Naomi had a problem with him.”

“And that’s my cue.” Daltrey lifted herself off the car and headed for the station. After a second’s hesitation, Luke followed.

“What?” Harper stood behind them. “You won’t even talk about it?”

Josh was only a few feet away now.

“You want to take on the Anderson family? Knock yourself out,” Daltrey told her without breaking stride. “I don’t need that kind of heat. I know who my killer is.”

Josh skidded to a stop in front of Harper. Despite his rush, his blow-dried hair was perfect.

“Dammit,” he said, looking at the detectives’ receding backs. “What’d I miss?”

“Not much.” Harper patted him on the shoulder and turned back to her car. “It’s been a quiet night.”