Christi Daugherty - A Beautiful Corpse

This sounded strikingly similar to the story Fitz had told her about another night when Naomi left early, in a rush.

Harper straightened. ‘Did she say anything to you when she left? Was she meeting Wilson Shepherd?’

‘All she said was she needed to go right away; something had come up. She was really urgent about it.’ She paused. ‘The only thing was, thinking back, it seems to me that … I don’t know. Something didn’t feel right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Harper picked up a pen.

‘Maybe I’m adding this to my memories because I know what happened later,’ Bonnie cautioned, ‘but she seemed jittery. Like, she was trying to be normal but she was nervous. Almost like she was scared of something.’

Her words mirrored Fitz’s, precisely.

‘You know, Fitz told me a similar story earlier today. The same thing – Naomi leaving on a busy night, without warning. Being scared. He said it happened a few weeks ago. Do you remember that?’

‘No.’ Bonnie sounded surprised. ‘I must not have worked that night. He didn’t mention it to me.’

‘He said he more or less forgot about it after that night. But something was going on in Naomi’s life. Someone scared her. And they scared her enough that she kept it to herself.’

Harper paused, the pen hovering above a blank sheet of paper.

‘Did she ever tell you she was afraid of Wilson? Did they fight?’

‘She never said anything like that,’ Bonnie said. ‘I always thought they were happy. But, like I said last night to that detective, Wilson hasn’t been around much lately. I thought they were taking a break because school and work were so busy.’

Harper considered this. ‘Maybe Wilson didn’t want to take a break.’

‘You think he was mad enough about a break to kill the girl he loved?’ Bonnie was skeptical.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.’

‘I just don’t see it,’ Bonnie said. ‘He’s not the type.’

‘They’re all the type.’

‘God, Harper. You’re so cynical,’ Bonnie chided. ‘This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘This is why I’m still alive,’ Harper replied without missing a beat.

As she spoke, she wrote one word in her notebook and underlined it: Motive .

‘The thing is, if it wasn’t Wilson, who was it?’ she asked. ‘There’s no way she was caught up in drugs or gangs, is there?’

Bonnie gave a husky laugh. ‘Oh, hell no, Harper. Naomi was a Girl Scout. I could hardly get a beer down her.’

Dropping the pen, Harper rubbed her forehead.

It just didn’t make sense. Girl Scouts did not go to River Street at two in the morning to get themselves shot.

It was becoming clearer that Naomi had secrets. She’d kept them well. And somehow it had gotten her killed.

‘Look,’ Harper said, ‘if you think of anything else, let me know.’

‘I will,’ Bonnie promised, adding as an afterthought, ‘Oh, God, I almost forgot to mention. I went to see Naomi’s dad. He wants to talk to you.’

Harper nearly dropped the phone.

‘You met her father ? I’ve been trying to reach him all day.’

‘Yeah, I went to his house to give him my condolences. I couldn’t reach him on the phone,’ Bonnie said. ‘His address was in our records at the bar – Naomi still had her pay slips sent there. He told me he turned his phone off because it won’t stop ringing.’

Harper didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’d called Jerrod Scott at least five times today without success. And Bonnie had just walked right in.

‘What’d he say?’ She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice.

‘Yeah. He’s real upset about Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Says there’s no way it was him, but the cops won’t listen. I told him he should talk to you. I gave him your number. I hope that was okay.’

Harper could have kissed her.

She’d dropped the hottest interview in town right in her lap.

When she hung up the phone, Harper climbed to her feet.

It had been twelve hours since the last time she ate anything more substantial than a candy bar. Her stomach felt hollow.

Shoving her scanner and phone into her bag, she headed across the empty newsroom.

Baxter was at her desk, typing furiously, her face creased with concentration. Dells had finally gone home a couple of hours ago.

‘I’m going to grab some food,’ Harper announced. ‘It’s gone quiet.’

‘Could you keep your phone on, for a change?’ Baxter’s tone was peevish. ‘I will personally fire you if I can’t reach you.’

‘You sweet talker,’ Harper said, heading out the door.

There was no point in arguing. They both knew Harper would keep everything turned on tonight.

The guard glanced at her without interest as she pushed the button that unlocked the double glass doors and stepped into the dark street.

Outside, the muggy evening air hit her like a warm, soft fist. Even this late, it wasn’t cool. Night merely took the edge off the heat.

The streets were quiet at last. The air carried the faint syncopation of music from one of the River Street bars, which were filled at this hour with people whose nights involved something other than murder.

Harper had parked her ageing red Camaro in front of the newspaper building, and the engine started with a pleasing rumble. The car had nearly a hundred and thirty thousand miles on the meter but Harper kept it in mint condition.

She loved only a few things in this world and her car was one of them.

As she drove, she kept the window down, hoping the fresh air would revive her. The scanner propped in a holder on the dash buzzed and crackled with a constant stream of information. Her mind sorted through the noise for anything about Wilson Shepherd.

After years of listening to it non-stop, the codes used by the police were second nature to her.

‘Unit 498.’ A voice said.

The dispatcher replied after a second. ‘Unit 498, go ahead.’

‘Unit 498, I’m at the Code 5 on Veterans.’

Code 5 – car accident, Harper translated to herself.

‘Everybody’s pretty shook up,’ the cop said, in a deep southern drawl. ‘Better send a Code 10 to check them out.’

Code 10 was an ambulance, and Harper honed in on his voice for a minute. But he never came back to ask for backup.

She was hungry and tired, and she wasn’t about to go out to a wreck where everyone was shaken up. She needed more than that.

‘Death and destruction,’ she murmured to herself, as she pulled the car into the parking lot at Eddie’s 24-Hour Diner. ‘I don’t get out of bed for less.’

When she walked in the door, a bell jangled merrily but nobody could hear it above the Everly Brothers blasting from the stereo.

Eddie’s was a retro diner, with vinyl and chrome booths, and waitresses with perky ponytails wearing high-collared blouses and tight jeans.

Harper signaled to one, who bounded up to her, dark hair swishing.

‘Can I get you a table?’

Her bright eyes skimmed Harper’s face, and took on a sympathetic glint. It occurred to Harper that she must look like hell. Her hair hadn’t been brushed since she left the house this morning.

The waitress was young – her scarlet lipstick annoyingly perfect.

She had no idea yet how hard a day could be.

‘I need food to go,’ Harper told her. ‘A turkey sandwich, no mayo, and fries. And the biggest coffee you’ve got, as black as you can make it.’

‘You got it.’ Pulling a pen from behind her ear, the girl scribbled the order down.

‘Take a seat,’ she chirped. ‘I’ll get it out to you in a jiffy.’

When she’d disappeared into the kitchen, Harper sat on a padded bench by the door.