She tried to look aghast.
‘Said they were tryin’ to trip him up.’ Dwayne warmed to his topic. ‘Make him say something wrong. Get him in trouble. Said there’s a killer out there who’s a professional and they ought to be worried about that instead of wastin’ his time.’
Harper’s heart jumped. She had to look away so he wouldn’t see the excitement in her face.
‘A professional?’ She pretended to dig in her bag for something. ‘In Savannah? Is he crazy?’
Dwayne didn’t notice the tight edge to her voice.
‘He ain’t crazy,’ he assured her. ‘Everyone’s sayin’ it. No fingerprints. No footprints. No DNA.’
Harper pulled out her lip balm as if that was what she’d been looking for all along. Her eyes glanced off of his.
‘So they don’t have any suspects at all?’
It was a step too far. Dwayne paused, biting his lower lip.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, suddenly cagey. ‘You’d best ask Detective Blazer.’
His brow lowering, he took a step back from the counter.
‘Yeah, I really should.’ She kept her tone easy, meticulously applying the lip balm and then dropping it in her bag. ‘Is he in?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s at the morgue.’
This was fine with Harper. There was no point in talking to Blazer. He’d give her nothing. But someone else might help.
‘What about the lieutenant?’ she asked.
Relief suffused Dwayne’s features. He hated to tell her no.
‘He’s in his office,’ he said. ‘I’ll buzz you through.’
She headed for the security door. ‘Thanks a lot, Dwayne.’
It was after seven and the long, narrow hallway, busy during the day with uniformed police carrying files, dispatchers heading off to get coffee, and detectives strolling to interview rooms, was quiet.
As she walked, Harper worked through the information Dwayne had unknowingly revealed.
A professional killer? What did that mean? A hitman? Or just someone who’d killed before?
And if it was the latter, why couldn’t it be the same person who killed her mother fifteen years ago?
Smith’s door was near the end of the hallway. The lights glowed softly through the frosted-glass window as Harper approached.
He wasn’t usually in this late. The Whitney case must be keeping him busy.
She knocked once.
‘Enter,’ he called gruffly.
When she stepped in, she saw surprise on his face. Closing the folder on his desk, he set a paperweight – a heavy bronze golf ball – on top of it.
‘Harper.’ He didn’t sound thrilled. ‘I figured you’d be busy writing up that homicide.’
‘I am. That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to you.’
He gave her a warning look.
‘Now, listen, you know I can’t help you with an active investigation …’
She held up her hands. ‘I know. But still. There’s something I need to ask you.’
Without waiting for an invitation, she closed the door and sat in one of the chairs facing his desk and leaned toward him.
‘The girl I saw you with today – Camille Whitney – is she OK?’
Some of the sternness left his expression.
‘She’s fine, Harper. You know we’ll look after her.’
She did know. She knew exactly what would happen to Camille now. How police would try to keep her distracted, plying her with soft drinks she didn’t want and coloring books she was too old for, until social workers and family could spirit her away to some inadequate kind of safety.
‘Is that all you wanted?’ Smith asked, when she didn’t speak again.
‘I just …’ she paused, looking down at the notebook in her hand. ‘Seeing her today. With you. It was so similar to what happened. Back then.’
Smith shifted the golf-ball paperweight across the folder.
‘I thought the same thing when I saw her,’ he said gruffly. ‘My first thought was it was too much like you.’
‘Lieutenant, do you think …’ Harper paused, gathering her courage. ‘Did it look to you like the same person who killed my mother, killed Marie Whitney?’
An odd look crossed Smith’s face then. A kind of visceral shock – as if she’d slapped him.
‘What the hell kind of question is that?’
His deep baritone voice was the low, ominous rumble of thunder in the distance.
‘Could you answer it?’ Harper looked at him pleadingly.
Smith shook his head.
‘Harper, no. Trust me – all those two crimes have in common is a girl coming home from school.’
His tone was firm – irrefutable. But she knew that wasn’t true at all.
She wasn’t sure how to play this. She couldn’t explain what she knew without revealing she’d seen the crime scene. And then he was going to want to know how exactly she’d managed that.
But she didn’t have much choice.
‘Are you sure? Whitney was found in the kitchen, right?’ She tried to sound confused but not challenging. ‘Naked and lying on the floor. Stabbed repeatedly. Lieutenant, that’s exactly like my mother.’
His eyes widened. She could sense him preparing an argument, so she launched into all the questions that had filled her mind in the last two hours.
‘What kind of knife did he use? Was it the same kind used on my mother? Have you compared the cases? If it’s the same guy, why—’
‘Harper stop.’ Smith’s big, craggy face reddened. ‘How the hell do you know where the body was found? None of those facts have been released to the press and I’ll be damned if Blazer told you. That man would sooner kiss a rattlesnake than talk to a reporter.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she argued. ‘What matters is whether the same person killed Marie Whitney as—’
‘Enough,’ he snapped, cutting her off again. ‘You don’t get to ask the questions. I do. Now, you have somehow accessed information you should not have about
