The argument with Baxter was infuriating. And the worst part was, the city editor wasn’t wrong. If Anderson’s alibi held up, Harper didn’t have a story at all.
What she didn’t understand, though, was what Baxter had said about Charlton. What had she meant about a “private war” between the owner and Dells?
She wasn’t about to ask. Not until they’d both calmed down.
Baxter had disappeared, anyway. Probably outside for a smoke.
Harper still had the day’s crime to cover, but first she made a call to Savannah Memorial Hospital. If Anderson had been taken there the night of the stabbing, there should be a record of it.
When she got the hospital press officer on the phone, however, the woman was far from helpful.
“All information related to patients is private,” she said.
“I’m not asking for any information about him,” Harper pointed out. “I’m asking if he was in your hospital last Tuesday night.”
“All patient information,” the woman repeated evenly, “is private.”
“Can’t you give me a yes or no?”
“All information…” the woman began.
Harper hung up.
The hospital wasn’t going to help.
She’d have to find another way.
A few hours later, Harper drove back to police headquarters for the second time that day.
The lobby was much emptier now than it had been earlier.
Alone at the front desk, night desk officer Dwayne Josephs was watching a baseball game on a small television.
“Hey Harper.” He glanced at his watch. “Things must be quiet out there if you’re hanging around here.”
“It’s dead,” Harper said. “If someone doesn’t get shot soon the front page will be blank.”
“That would be a pity,” he commiserated.
She leaned against his desk.
“Dwayne.”
He looked at her, his brow furrowing.
“I need a favor.”
A hint of caution entered his expression. Doing favors for Harper had nearly cost him his job the summer before.
But all he said was, “Okay…?”
“Could you pull me a crime report from last week?” she asked, adding hastily, “It’s nothing big. Just a stabbing last Tuesday at around eleven o’clock, near City Market. I missed it the night it happened or I’d already know everything about it.”
His wide smile reappeared.
“Oh, sure. That’s an easy one. I thought you were going to ask for something hard.”
Dwayne turned to his computer. He typed for a couple of minutes, searching through last week’s forms.
“I think I got it.” He glanced at her. “Victim name of Anderson?”
Harper nodded. “That’s it. Can you print me a copy?”
A few minutes later, Harper sat in her car at the edge of the police parking lot, reading the report of Anderson’s mugging.
As Daltrey told her, it took place shortly after eleven, around the corner from the busy City Market area. The description of the crime was straightforward.
“Victim was walking on Congress Street when two black males approached him, demanding money. Victim produced wallet and phone. One suspect yelled ‘Too slow, bitch’ and stabbed him with a bladed object. The two suspects fled the scene on foot. Victim was transported to Savannah Memorial Hospital by EMS.”
In the space for the victim name, the officer had written Peyton Anderson. Clear as day.
It fit Daltrey’s description of the events perfectly.
And Harper didn’t buy it.
She’d covered a lot of muggings over the years. Hundreds of them. Knives were almost never involved.
Why would any self-respecting mugger use a knife that could so easily be turned against him? Guns were a dime a dozen on Savannah’s rougher streets. And much more reliable if a victim decided to fight.
Also, “Too slow, bitch”?
That sounded like something from a TV show.
And yet, if Anderson was taken to the hospital then someone must have stabbed him.
But who? And why was he lying about it?
She was stuck. Anderson had his alibi. And with the hospital refusing to cooperate, there was no way to disprove it.
She needed advice. And there was one person whom she’d trust to give it.
She grabbed her phone and scrolled until she found the name she wanted.
“Tell me there’s a murder somewhere,” Miles said, by way of hello.
“Nope,” Harper said. “All of Savannah’s criminals have expired from the heat.”
“I guess it’s the unemployment line for you then,” he replied.
It wasn’t a good joke, given what was going on at the paper.
“Hey, I need some advice,” she said. “You busy?”
Fifteen minutes later, Harper pulled into the sheltered parking lot behind a bank on Congress Street.
They often met here, late at night, when things got quiet. It was shielded on all sides by a high hedge, which blocked them from prying eyes. But it was right in the middle of downtown, very handy if trouble kicked off.
Miles drove in about two minutes later, pulling up so his car was next to hers, parked toe-to-tail, so the driver-side windows faced each other.
Harper rolled her window down. Warm night air flooded in, chasing the air-conditioning to the corners.
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for doing this.”
“I’m thrilled by the distraction,” he told her, his smile a flash of white in the shadows. “What’s happening?”
“It’s the Peyton Anderson story,” she told him.
“Ah.” He didn’t look surprised.
Talking slowly at first, but then faster, she told him where her investigation had reached. When she got to the part about Dells’s involvement, and Baxter’s warnings that she should be careful, Miles blew out a breath between pursed lips.
“Ah dammit,” he said. “This is not good.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What did Baxter mean about me getting caught in Dells’s war?”
“It sounds to me like Dells is taking on MaryAnne Charlton and the board, and he’s using your story to do it,” he said. “Peyton Anderson’s father has been on the newspaper board of directors for years, so I can almost see his logic. Almost.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
He gave a bitter smile. “You’re the one writing the story.”
“Writing the story is my job.”
“Be that as it may, a fight’s brewing and you are smack dab in the middle of it,” he said. “Charlton wants layoffs and Dells doesn’t. Your article could bring down one of Charlton’s buddies on the board of directors. Getting rid of Anderson would leave Charlton weaker, and Dells might be able to work some sort of a deal with the other board members to get what he wants.”
The pieces fell into place.
Now Harper understood why Baxter had been so angry.
“And Charlton could stop all this by getting rid of Dells. Or getting rid of me.”
“You’ve got it,” Miles said.
“Well, Charlton might as well save her energy. At the moment, I can’t break Peyton Anderson’s alibi.”
“If he was really in the hospital when Scott got herself shot?” Miles shook his head. “It’s hard to argue with that.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’ve read the report and it doesn’t jell for me. Feels off.”
“Feels off how?”
She described the stabbing. What Anderson told the police his attacker had said.
Miles made a face.
“Well, I’ll admit it sounds a little unlikely.”
“How do I prove it?” she asked. “The hospital spokesperson won’t even confirm that Savannah Memorial Hospital exists.”
He snorted a laugh.
“Yeah. Hospitals aren’t big talkers.” He thought for a second. “Have you talked to Toby? He might know someone with access.”
At the mention of the paramedic, Harper sat up straighter. “Why didn’t I think of Toby? His wife works there one day a week. She might know someone who could help.”
“There you go. Hospitals won’t talk.” He reached for his thermos of coffee. “But doctors gossip like teenagers.”
From somewhere in the distance she heard raised voices. The sound of someone honking angrily. Leaning on the horn.
It was a hot night. Tempers were rising.
“What do you think I should do about Dells?” She turned back to Miles. “I don’t want to get dragged into anything.”
“You need to mind your p’s and q’s,” he told her. “Keep Baxter involved—sounds like she wants to protect you if she can.”
All signs of humor were gone now from his long, lean face. He looked deadly serious.
“Dells is playing a dangerous game right now. If he’s not careful, he’ll run out of road. Charlton is not someone you want to mess with. My advice? Do what you would do if you were writing about anyone else. Work through that alibi. If the Anderson kid lied, write it the way you see it. Don’t worry about the games the bosses are playing. But be right.
“Or they will hang you out to dry.”