Joanna Wayne - As Darkness Fell

Had the killer merely left the interstate and driven the twelve miles along the state highway, winding up in Prentice with the urge to kill tearing at his soul? Or was it someone Sally knew and trusted? A betrayed lover?

But if there had been a lover, the Martin family had never heard of him. Their story was that Sally had flunked out of Auburn University last semester and had come home to get her act together before returning to school. Now she was dead.

Sam had no reason not to believe the parents. Their grief seemed heartbreakingly genuine. Besides, Sam’s gut feeling was that the killer had picked Sally randomly or from some search criteria only he understood. He’d stripped her naked, but there were no signs of sexual assault.

Still, Sam was fairly sure the perp was male. The MO wasn’t that of a woman. The knife, the nudity, even the marks on the breasts all indicated that the killer was a guy, either one strong enough to overcome the victim or charming enough to have convinced her to go with him willingly.

And unless Sam had this all wrong, the guy wasn’t through with Prentice yet. Nor was he through with Caroline. Sam had no evidence to support that or even to prove that the note left on the reporter’s window was from the killer. It was all instinct. The stock and trade of any homicide detective worth his paycheck.

His mind went back to Caroline Kimberly. He’d done some checking on her this afternoon. She was new at reporting. New to Prentice, as well. Could she be…?

No. No way was she in this with the killer. And he doubted seriously she’d faked that note just to draw more attention to her reporting. Still, it never hurt to check out all the angles.

After all, his instincts weren’t infallible. Peg’s death was proof of that. He walked back to the desk and made a note to himself to call Sylvia in records tomorrow and have her run a more thorough check on Caroline Kimberly.

BY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Caroline had run out of things to write about Sally Martin’s murder, but the town had not run out of their avid fascination for details. She didn’t know if it was due more to their fear or their curiosity for the morbid, but the Prentice Times was selling twice as many papers as usual.

John was pleased with her work, but he kept pushing her for more articles. He wanted interviews with Sally’s neighbors, her family, the people she worked with, even her high-school friends. It was almost to the point where anyone who’d ever passed Sally Martin on the street could get his or her name and opinions in print.

“I’m making a Starbucks run,” Dottie said, walking through the office with pen and notebook in hand. “Who wants what?”

Dottie was their teenage assistant who came in two afternoons a week to earn extra credit for her journalism class. Caroline used her to proof copy occasionally, but mostly she filed or ran errands for John. And went for coffee for those who wanted something other than the thick black goop John brewed.

“A caramel latte,” Caroline said.

“Nonfat milk, medium?”

“You got it. I’m a creature of habit.”

“In the old days reporters all lived on straight black coffee,” John said.

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” one of the grunt reporters said. “And walked a mile in the snow barefoot to get a good story.”

That brought a rumble of laughter. Caroline went back to her typing. She was trying to stretch five good sentences from one of Sally’s friends from Auburn into half a column. She didn’t know about the old days, but being a reporter these days was tough enough.

Ron Baker stopped by her desk, which he made a habit of doing a couple of times a day when she was in the office. She usually didn’t mind. He was even newer at the paper than she was and didn’t quite fit into the camaraderie routine yet.

Fitting in was always harder for the nonreporters, but Ron was nice. Pushing fifty, a little shy, but a hard worker. His main job was seeing that the newspapers got to the carriers and the dispensers every morning, but he was a kind of jack-of-all-trades and John took advantage of all his skills. Today he was putting up some new shelves in the supply room.

Ron looked over her shoulder. “You must get tired of writing about that murder every day.”

“I wouldn’t, if there were something new to say.”

“No new leads, huh?”

“If there are, the cops are keeping the news to themselves.”

“What do you think of that detective they put in charge of the case? Sam…something or other.”

“Turner.” What did she think of Sam Turner? Now that was an interesting question. Rude. Irritable. And sexy. “I haven’t been around him enough to form an opinion yet.”

“Not doing much about finding the killer, is he?”

“Hopefully there’s more progress than we know about.”

Ron nodded. “Guess I better get back to my shelves.”

But after he left, the question of Sam Turner stayed on her mind. Maybe she should do an article on him. He was certainly fascinating in his own way. Kind of a man’s man, but there had been that minute in the park when he’d picked up on her fear and had actually seemed protective. And the way he’d looked at her when she’d first opened the door in the satin dress had been a little heated. He’d recovered fast, though.

The bottom line was that he was all business. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing when there was a killer on the loose. She just needed to remember that any interest he showed in her was all business, too.

She still had Sam’s card in her pocket, but fortunately she hadn’t had to call him to report any more contact from the weirdo who might or might not have been the killer.

But since she had his card in her pocket, perhaps she should call him. She was a reporter, after all, and he was the detective in charge. If he had new information, the public had a right to know. And this wasn’t because now that she was thinking about him, she really wanted to hear his voice or have him suggest they get together. Sure he was sexy and masculine to the core, but this was business. All business.

She pulled the card from her handbag, checked the number and punched it in.

“Sam Turner.”

“Hi, Sam.”

“Who is this?”

“Caroline Kimberly, reporter with the Prentice Times.”

“What’s wrong?”

The concern in his voice surprised her and made her feel a little guilty for calling the number he’d given her to use in case of an emergency. But she’d called, so she had to say something.

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just working on an article for tomorrow’s paper and I thought you might have a statement to make.”

“If you want a statement, call someone in PR.”

“I’ve tried that. There is no one in PR, only whoever happens to be manning the phones.” The silence grew awkward. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”

“You didn’t. I mean you did, but I don’t know when a good time would be. The only statement I can make is we haven’t made an arrest.”

“Does that mean you have a suspect, or suspects?” She was really pushing it now.

“It means I don’t have a statement except that we haven’t made an arrest.”

“Okay. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Yeah.”

The man’s conversation skills were abysmal.

“If you get any more messages,” he said, “call me immediately. It’s important that you do that. Don’t play with this guy, Caroline. He’s dangerous. Remember that.”

There was the concern again. Sam Turner was a hard man to figure.

“I promise I’ll call. I’m just your basic coward when it comes to dealing with murderers.”

“Good. Cowards have a much better chance of living to old age.”

She thanked him again, said goodbye, and that was the end of that. Feat accomplished. Results nil. Still, Sam stayed on her mind.