‘but could you give me a little information for the morning paper so I can get out of your hair? Names of the victims? Number of suspects?’
‘Our investigation has just begun.’ Blazer recited the familiar words in a tone that said he saw right through her. ‘It would be premature to say anything at this time. We’re still identifying the deceased and have not yet notified next of kin. Now, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the scene immediately.’
Clearly, he wasn’t in a giving mood.
Still, Harper gave it one more try. ‘Detective, is this part of a drug war? Should local residents be concerned?’
Rocking back on his heels, Blazer studied her with an interest she didn’t like.
‘McClain, a few small-time scumbags stepped on the turf of some bigger scumbags and they got a lesson in why that’s a bad idea. Why don’t you put that in your rag?’
She opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off.
‘It was a rhetorical question. I have no official statement at this time. Now, kindly get the hell out of my scene before I have you arrested.’
Harper knew better than to argue. Holding up her hands in surrender, she backed away.
When she made it back to the ambulance, Miles was leaning against it casually, checking his shots on the camera screen.
‘Blazer’s lead detective, so I’ve got nothing,’ Harper announced glumly. ‘That man hates me like a canker sore.’
Straightening, Miles motioned for her to follow him back towards the Mustang.
‘I shot the lead paramedic’s wedding two months ago,’ he said quietly, when they were a safe distance away. ‘Gave her a cheap deal. She owed me a favor.’
Harper grabbed his arm. ‘You got an ID on our dead guy?’
‘More than that.’ He held up a crumpled piece of paper. ‘I’ve got it all. Melissa had a wonderful honeymoon. She was very chatty today.’
‘You hero.’ Harper mock-punched his arm. ‘What’ve we got?’
Miles squinted to read his own writing.
‘Our dead guy is Levon Williams, nineteen, recent graduate of Savannah South High School – played for the baseball team. Hell of a hitter, I’m told. Also, apparently, an up-and-coming heroin dealer. The two wounded victims are his known associates. Suspects are three black men, slim, two are average height, T-shirt and jeans, one is short and stocky, wearing a bandanna around his neck. All are late teens to early twenties. Suspected members of the East Ward gang.’ He handed Harper the page. ‘It’s all here.’
Harper scanned the paper quickly, seeing nothing that said page one. As soon as they reached the Mustang, she called Baxter to give her the bad news.
‘Damn it,’ the editor said when she’d heard the rundown. ‘Get back here and write it up for page six. It’s better than nothing.’
Miles started the engine as Harper ended the call.
‘Page six?’ he guessed.
Harper folded the paper and put it in her pocket.
‘Buried in the weeds.’
He shrugged. ‘You win some, you lose some.’
Turning the wheel, he began to pull out of the parking space, before braking hard to let a white van creep by. The words ‘COUNTY CORONER’ were emblazoned on the side in sepulcher black.
‘The iceman cometh,’ Miles murmured.
Harper barely looked up. She was scribbling notes for the piece she needed to write when she got back.
When the van passed, Miles turned the car around with neat precision. They’d only gone a short distance, though, when a breathless voice suddenly filled the car.
‘Unit five-six-eight in pursuit of suspects from Broad Street.’
Harper’s pen froze.
Miles lifted his foot from the accelerator.
They both looked at the scanner.
‘Copy unit five-six-eight,’ the dispatcher responded calmly. ‘Please verify: Are these the suspects from the shooting on Broad?’
‘Affirmative.’ The man was panting, his voice shook. He was running.
‘Three males heading south on foot on Thirty-Ninth Street,’ he shouted. ‘Two tall. One short with a bandanna.’
In the background, Harper could hear the dispatcher typing the information into her computer, her fingers quick and light on the keys. It was Sarah tonight on dispatch – she recognized the voice. She was good.
‘All units. Backup required for unit five-six-eight in pursuit of shooting suspects heading south on Thirty-Ninth.’
Sarah’s voice was so unemotional she might have been reading a cake recipe.
Harper turned to Miles. ‘That’s five blocks from here.’
‘Copy that.’ He shifted gears and hit the gas. The Mustang responded, tires squealing. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he turned towards Thirty-Ninth.
‘Let’s get ourselves on page one.’
As they drove through the dark streets to find the suspected killers, Harper stared out the window, tapping her pen impatiently against her notebook. They didn’t have much time. Even if this went smoothly, Baxter would have to delay the last edition.
Ordinary people might have been thinking about the victim back at the crime scene – his short life ended in a violent instant. But her mind had already moved on. Now, she just needed to know who killed him.
It had always been like this. Murders didn’t bother Harper. They fascinated her.
She knew everything about the mechanics of homicide. She knew what the detectives were doing now, and the coroner’s office. How the victim’s family would be informed, and how they would react when they learned. She knew how the machinery of government would kick into gear and consume the lives of everyone involved.
She knew, not because she wrote about it, but because she had lived it.
When she was twelve years old a murder had destroyed her world. She could trace her career, her life and her obsessive interest in crime back to that single day, fifteen years ago.
Some moments get imprinted on your mind so thoroughly every breath of it stays with you forever. Most of these are bad moments. Harper could walk through every second of the day her mother died any time she wished. She could place those hours in a mental reel and play them like a film. Watch herself, so small and quick,
