her father’s name?’
‘Jerrod Scott.’
‘He pick her up tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bonnie admitted. ‘I was working the bar alone by then. If he did, he didn’t come inside.’
‘But you say she seemed anxious,’ Daltrey said. ‘What made you think that?’
Bonnie paused.
‘Earlier in the night she’d been joking about things, kind of chilled. But after that call … It’s hard to explain. She seemed tense. Distracted. Like she’d gotten bad news.’
Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘If I’d known she was in trouble, I’d have done something. Tried to help.’
Daltrey made notes while Bonnie pulled herself together.
She had a good technique, Harper thought, approvingly. Brisk but not unfeeling.
When Bonnie had recovered, the detective resumed the interview.
‘I’m sorry to ask so many questions. I know it’s been a long night. But I am grateful for your help, Miss Larson.’
Bonnie gave a tremulous nod.
‘Now …’ The detective referred to her notes. ‘You mentioned a boyfriend. Did you see him tonight?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was at the bar. If he came to get her, he’d usually come in for a drink and wait for her to finish.’ She paused. ‘I think they’ve been taking a break lately, anyway.’
Harper noticed the interest flare in Daltrey’s eyes.
‘What’s the boyfriend’s name?’
‘Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Wilson Shepherd.’
She offered it willingly, thinking she was helping. Harper had a feeling she wouldn’t have been so eager if she knew why the detective wanted it.
Daltrey made her spell it. When she’d finished, she said, ‘Remind me again – what time did Naomi leave last night?’
‘Just after one,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m not sure of the exact time …’
‘I can answer that,’ Harper cut in.
Daltrey shot her a steely glance.
‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘And why is that?’
‘I happened to look at the clock above the bar when she walked out,’ Harper said. ‘I noticed it was one thirty, and I thought that was early for her to go. It isn’t normal for Bonnie to be left alone to close up.’
‘There are always supposed to be two workers in the bar,’ Bonnie explained, before Daltrey could ask. ‘For security. But since Harper was there, I figured it was fine.’
After noting this down, Daltrey said, ‘If you’re right, she left the bar on College Row at one thirty, and was shot to death thirty minutes later on River Street. Do either of you have any idea what she might have been doing down there?’
Her eyes welling, Bonnie shook her head, mutely.
‘No idea,’ Harper said.
‘Meeting the boyfriend?’ Daltrey suggested.
‘Her boyfriend lives in Garden City.’ Bonnie wiped a tear away with the side of her hand. ‘Naomi lives on 32nd Street. Those are both miles from downtown.’
Daltrey’s phone buzzed. She picked it up to look at the screen.
‘All right. That’s it for now, ladies.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood abruptly. ‘Leave your numbers with Dwayne, he’ll give you mine. Let me know if you think of anything you haven’t mentioned tonight. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.’
She directed them toward the lobby. Dazed, Bonnie headed down the hall, but Harper hung back with Daltrey, who was turning out the lights in the interview room.
‘Was Naomi robbed? If she wasn’t, what happened to her phone? We know she had it before she left the bar.’
Daltrey fixed her with a cool look. ‘I don’t know why you’re still talking, McClain. I don’t give tips to turncoats.’
Harper flinched.
No matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. The detectives who’d invited her to their parties, drunk beer with her, showed her pictures of their kids, now treated her like a criminal.
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said, stiffly, and left the room.
She didn’t wait to hear Daltrey’s response. It was always the same with all of them these days.
Traitor.
Five hours later, Harper walked into the newspaper’s offices, clutching a large black coffee and blinking in the sunlight flooding through the tall windows.
After leaving the police station, she’d grabbed a few hours’ rest in Bonnie’s insanely pink spare room. She’d crept out early to go home for a shower and change of clothes before heading to work, and she felt like she hadn’t slept at all.
The newsroom was busy and loud, with twelve writers and editors all typing and talking at once.
With its rabbit warren of corridors and narrow staircases, the sprawling, century-old building was designed to be a boarding house rather than a newspaper but, despite its worn edges, there was something undeniably grand about the place. This was most true of the newsroom, with its sturdy white columns and tall windows overlooking the river.
The reporters’ desks were set in rows, overlooked by three editors’ desks at the far end of the room and, beyond them, the glassed-in office of the paper’s managing editor, Paul Dells.
Harper’s desk was midway down the row closest to the windows. She’d had this prime position since the last round of layoffs removed many of the paper’s senior writers two years ago, and left the newsroom half empty.
As soon as she set her coffee down, DJ Gonzales spun his chair around to face her. His wavy dark hair was even more unruly than usual.
‘What are you doing here this early?’ he asked accusingly. ‘I thought you burned in daylight.’
‘I’m not a vampire, DJ,’ she told him, dropping into her seat. ‘I work nights. We’ve had this conversation.’
She switched on her computer with a move so automatic she couldn’t remember doing it two seconds later and took a sip of coffee.
‘Christ, I’m tired,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.
DJ
