A Beautiful Corpse

Chapter Six

Harper jumped to her feet.

‘Copy, Unit 364,’ the dispatcher replied, in the same flat tone she’d used earlier to acknowledge another officer’s refueling break.

The waitress was walking back now, a bag in her hand, that perfect, symmetrical smile already in place.

The dispatcher put out the call. ‘All available units to the 34000 block of Abercorn to assist Unit 364 with a fugitive arrest. Be aware: Suspect is wanted for homicide. Suspect is armed and dangerous. All units Code 30.’

Code 30: blue lights and sirens.

The dispatcher was so calm, only someone who listened to this radio every day of her life could hear the tension in her voice.

Pulling her keys from her pocket, Harper turned for the door.

The waitress stepped smoothly in her path, blocking her.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ Harper said, trying to push past.

‘It’s already made.’ The waitress – her smile disappearing – pressed her back against the door handle so Harper couldn’t reach it. ‘You have to pay or I’ve got to call the cops. Eddie’s got rules.’

Harper had underestimated her. There was more to the perky girl than a smile.

She didn’t have time to argue. Frantically, she dug in her pocket, pulling out a disordered pile of bills. She shoved them in the woman’s neatly manicured hands without counting them.

‘If it isn’t enough, call the Daily News, ask for Harper,’ she told her. ‘But not for another hour. I’ve got to go.’

‘What do you want me to do with the food?’ The waitress still clutched the bag.

‘Keep it,’ Harper said.

As an afterthought, though, she grabbed the cup.

‘I’ll take the coffee.’

The waitress stepped aside. Harper ran through the door and jumped into the car, pulling out her phone.

Miles answered on the first ring.

‘I’m on my way to Abercorn,’ he said. She could hear his police scanners in the background. ‘You?’

‘Leaving now.’ She started the car. ‘I’ll call Baxter. See you there.’

As the phone speed-dialed Baxter’s direct line, she backed out into the road.

‘Emma Baxter,’ the editor answered.

Harper hated to admit it but there was something comforting about the way Baxter could always be reached when the shit hit the fan.

‘Traffic cops just pulled over Wilson Shepherd on Abercorn.’ Harper raised her voice to be heard above the scanner and the engine. ‘Sounds like he’s putting up a fight. Miles and I are en route.’

‘I’ll tell the copy desk,’ Baxter told her. ‘We’ll hold the front page. Don’t do anything stupid, McClain.’

‘Never,’ Harper said, hanging up.

Dropping the phone, she pulled out onto the parkway so fast her tires squealed.

She wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline raced into her system faster than caffeine possibly could.

A story like this was as good as eight hours’ sleep. Better even. No drug ever invented could match it.

Every cop in the city was going to the same place she was. There was no one to pull her over. The speed limit was forty-five but she hit a hundred and stayed there until she saw flashing blue lights ahead. Then she tagged along behind them.

Abercorn carved a curving path across the edge of the city before pouring into the flat, coastal countryside. At the speed she was going it only took minutes before the crowded city streets outside the Camaro’s windows dissolved into lush green suburbs, scarred by strip malls and big box stores.

The police standoff was easy to locate. A dozen patrol cars blocked the road, lights flashing.

Harper slammed the car into park and jumped out, running through the haphazardly parked vehicles.

Miles had positioned himself behind an empty squad car.

‘Have they got him?’ Harper asked, breathless.

‘They do.’ Miles squinted through the viewfinder. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’

With his Canon balanced on the roof, he was focused on a crowd gathered around a pickup truck in the distance. The patrol car that had pulled it over earlier was parked behind it, blue lights still swirling.

The doors of both vehicles gaped open.

In the flickering blue lights, Wilson Shepherd stood facing a line of police officers. He was sweating and panicked.

A silver, semi-automatic handgun glittered as he aimed it at the cops, all of whom were pointing their guns at him.

Everyone was yelling.

‘Drop your weapon! Put down the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!’

Wilson ignored their commands.

‘I didn’t do it!’ he screamed back. ‘I didn’t kill Naomi – do you hear me? Does anyone hear me?’

‘Drop your goddamn weapon! No one will hear you until you drop that weapon!’

Miles tilted the camera to look at the images on the display, a frown creasing his forehead.

‘I need to get closer.’

He looked around, his face tense. They both knew time was everything right now.

‘There.’ Harper pointed to an empty space to the left of the pickup – protected by two trees, but with what looked like a clear view.

Miles nodded, tucking his camera under his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

Ducking low, the two of them threaded between the parked patrol cars. None of the police noticed them. Everyone was too focused on the scene unfolding.

Leaning against the tree to steady himself, Miles raised the Canon.

‘That’s better,’ he breathed.

They were so close, Harper could see the panic in Shepherd’s wide, frightened eyes as he swung the gun wildly.

It was impossible to square this Wilson Shepherd with the one she’d seen sitting at The Library, waiting for Naomi and nursing a beer.

He looked ten years older. His clothes were stained and disheveled. He appeared deranged, waving that gun at the police, tears and sweat streaming down his round cheeks; snot running from his nose.

‘No, no, no,’ he kept screaming hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t me. Why won’t you listen?’

The cops weren’t in any mood to do what he wanted. They were concentrating on that gun. Shouting constant commands in a kind of hyperactive, almost hypnotic wall of sound.

Harper wondered how long their patience would last.

Not long, as it turned out.

A shadow moved, low and slow, in the darkness to the left of the pickup’s front tire.

She touched Miles lightly on the arm, pointing.

Turning the camera, he zoomed in.

Glancing up at her, he whispered, ‘SWAT team.’

They both crouched low.

It happened quickly.

Two shadowy figures leaped onto Shepherd’s back with machine-perfect timing, knocking the gun loose, and sending him sprawling.

Harper was close enough to hear the sickening slap of his face hitting the pavement.

A uniformed officer kicked the gun away. Then the others descended on him.

With four adrenaline-fueled cops on top of him twisting his hands behind his back, Shepherd was done.

Through it all, though, he repeated the same words over and over like a mantra. Sobbing them into the ground.

‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’

Miles jumped to his feet. ‘Let’s get closer.’

But the two of them had taken only a few steps from the sheltering trees when a cop, large and sweaty, wired from the excitement of the arrest, moved in on them.

‘Get back,’ he ordered.

Harper didn’t like the look of him. Cops get itchy whenever they’ve had to pull their weapons.

This one’s hand was dangerously close to his holster.

She and Miles took an automatic step back into the glow of the headlights.

To her surprise, the cop’s demeanor changed abruptly.

‘Oh, hey, Miles,’ he said. ‘I didn’t recognize you in the dark. How’s it going?’

‘I’m great, Bob,’ Miles said, keeping his hands clearly in view nonetheless. ‘Trying to get the front-page picture for tomorrow’s paper.’

‘You go ahead.’ Bob waved him on. ‘Try to stay out of their way.’

‘I’ll keep my distance,’ Miles promised.

‘Be sure and get my good side,’ Bob joked, turning sideways.

Laughing politely, Miles moved past him toward the crowd of cops who were now lifting Shepherd to his feet.

When Harper started to follow, though, Bob’s pleasant demeanor evaporated.

‘I didn’t say you could get closer.’ The warmth left his voice. ‘Traitors stay at the edge. In fact …’ He pointed behind the row of parked patrol cars. ‘Why don’t you go over there?’

‘Come on,’ Harper pleaded. ‘I won’t get in the way. Can’t you give me a break?’

Bob’s face hardened.

‘I don’t have to do a thing for you,’ he said. ‘And right now, you’re trespassing on a crime scene and failing to obey an officer. Actually, you got some ID? I’m writing you up for disorderly conduct.’

‘What?’ Harper couldn’t believe it. The cops always harassed her these days, but they didn’t go this far.

She squared up to him. ‘You can’t do that. I’m a member of the press. I have a right to be here. This is a public highway.’

His face reddened. He reached behind him to where his handcuffs hung from his utility belt.

‘That’s it. Turn around.’

Before she realized what he was planning, he grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around and shoving her roughly against the nearest car.

Harper struggled, but he was twice her size. She never had a chance. Her face was pressed hard against the glass.

‘Goddamn it,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘Let me go, you dickhead.’

Suddenly, another voice spoke over her.

‘What’s going on, Bob? Caught yourself another suspect?’

This voice was cool and steady. It was saying all the right things, but with an underlay of threat that indicated the speaker didn’t like Bob very much.

With her face still pressed against the car, Harper couldn’t see anything.

But she knew that voice.

‘Well, Detective.’ Bob sounded defensive. ‘This reporter’s trespassing on the crime scene and refusing to obey orders. I’m arresting her for disorderly conduct.’

‘You are fully within your rights to do that, Bob,’ the other voice said. ‘She’s a handful, all right. But I gotta say the chief won’t like it. Her publisher will give him a hard time. They could sue the force for illegal arrest.’

‘She ignored an order.’ Bob sounded less confident now.

‘I hear you, but if you ask me, it’s not worth the hassle,’ the voice said. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you let her go. I’ll keep an eye on her. If she causes any trouble, I’ll take her in myself. Save you the paperwork. We got a deal?’

Harper twisted her neck, trying to see what was happening, but Bob’s meaty hand still held her head against the patrol car.

‘I guess so.’ Bob gave in reluctantly. ‘You want me to cuff her?’

‘No,’ the detective said, a hint of ice in his voice now. ‘I think I can handle her.’

‘If you say so.’

Slowly, Bob relinquished his hold on Harper’s head and hands.

Freed, she spun around, and looked straight into the calm blue eyes of Detective Luke Walker.

Chapter Seven

‘Thanks, Bob,’ Luke said, his eyes still on Harper. ‘You can get back to work now.’

Seeing that his game was over, Bob trundled away with slow reluctance.

Pinioned in Luke’s gaze, Harper was so flustered she couldn’t think of anything to say.

It had been nearly a year since the two of them last spoke. And more than a year since the last time they slept together.

‘What an idiot,’ she managed to sputter, finally.

‘I think it’s fair to say nobody’s ever accused Bob Kowalski of being smart,’ Luke agreed.

He looked annoyingly good.

His hair was cropped short, and his chiseled jaw clean-shaven. Only the suit was wrong. She’d rarely seen him in anything but jeans before.

And he’d just seen her nearly arrested.

All she could think of to do, was to fume.

‘Well, he’s gone too far,’ she said. ‘He had no right to do that. I’m filing a complaint this time. This has got to stop.’

Luke didn’t reply. Instead, he studied her, a faint smile on his face.

‘What?’ she asked, touching her face self-consciously.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Seeing you like this – so pissed off. I just thought … Some things never change.’

Harper didn’t know how to reply to that.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to meet when her makeup and hair were perfect, and she was wearing a carefully chosen outfit. They’d go out for coffee and he’d be sorry he dumped her.

That was how she’d imagined this moment for the last year.

In Harper’s dream meeting, they talked easily. Forgave each other for the sins of the past. And agreed to try again.

But then, nothing about their relationship had ever been dreamlike.

Their brief, passionate affair had started when she was investigating a murder and ended when she broke into the records room at police headquarters. Luke only found out about it after she got caught.

Tainted by his connection to her, he’d felt betrayed.

He’d walked away and, as far as she could tell, never looked back.

It had been easy not to run into each other, even by accident. He worked the late shift. She was going home when he clocked on. So, what was he doing here now?

‘I thought you were still on the graveyard shift,’ she said.

‘I’m moving to evenings,’ he said. ‘Bit of a promotion.’

Their eyes met and held. The moment felt weighted down with all their history. Harper wondered if he regretted it all as much as she did.

But there was no way she’d ever ask.

Luke cleared his throat.

‘This case is something else,’ he said, turning to look at where Shepherd was now being bundled into the back of a police car. ‘Did someone tell me you knew the victim?’

‘Only a little,’ she said. ‘The dead girl worked with my friend Bonnie at the Library Bar.’

‘Oh yeah. I’d forgotten you had a friend who worked there,’ he said. ‘You ever meet this guy?’

He pointed at Wilson, who was now in the car and still pleading his innocence through the glass.

Harper shrugged. ‘A couple of times. I sure didn’t know he had any of this in him. He always seemed like a nice guy.’

‘He doesn’t seem so nice now.’ Luke’s tone was dry.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I better get a move on. My part in this little drama’s about to kick off.’

Harper’s eyebrows winged up. ‘You’re interviewing Shepherd? Isn’t this Daltrey’s case?’

‘I’m partnering with her on it,’ he told her, pulling his keys from his pocket.

Harper kept her expression neutral but her mind was racing. If Luke took on this case, they’d see each other all the time.

‘Well, for what it’s worth, Bonnie swears he doesn’t have it in him,’ she said.

‘We’ll see.’ He gave her that slow, serious smile she remembered so well. ‘It was good running into you, Harper.’

‘Right back at you,’ she said, like it was no big deal. ‘Good luck with the new shift.’

He hesitated for a second, as if there was something else he wanted to tell her.

But then, lifting one hand in silent farewell, he turned and walked away with that easy, long-legged stride she knew she would always be able to pick out of a crowd of thousands.

It was one in the morning before Harper finally finished work and headed home.

Almost twenty-four hours had passed since she first heard about the body on River Street. Her head felt light from exhaustion. She gripped the wheel hard, eyes fixed on the blurring road.

All the way, she kept going over that meeting with Luke. Thinking of the things she should have said.

When she parked in her normal spot on East Jones Street, the raised, two-story Victorian house looked still and safe.

A young lawyer had moved in to the upstairs apartment a few months ago, replacing the group of art students who had previously occupied it. The lawyer worked a lot and kept reasonable hours. No more late-night parties that left the entire house smelling of pot smoke and incense. No more strange music permeating the ceiling at all hours.

To her own surprise, Harper missed the kids. The house was almost too quiet these days.

Her keys jangled as she fitted one after another into the three, high-security locks on the solid front door.

As the door opened, the burglar alarm gave a series of shrill, warning beeps, and she punched in the four-digit code that silenced it.

She’d had the alarm fitted after her apartment was broken into last year.

There hadn’t been another incident but she was hyper-aware that the person who’d done it hadn’t been identified. And she didn’t know what he wanted or why he’d targeted her.

She crossed the entrance hall to the living room and flipped on the lights.

Hardwood floors gleamed. There wasn’t much furniture – two dark gray sofas facing each other across a low coffee table. All of it hospital clean.

The place looked a bit like a furniture showroom, in part because everything still had a sheen of newness.

Almost all her previous furniture had been damaged in the break-in. After her insurance paid out, she’d replaced the lot. Doing it that way made sense but it gave her the occasional disconcerting sense that someone else lived here. And that this was their stuff.

From the kitchen, a small shadow darted toward her.

A sleek, gray tabby rubbed itself against her ankle.

‘Hey, Zuzu,’ Harper said, bending down to stroke her soft fur. ‘Did you chase away any burglars today?’

Purring, the cat led her to the kitchen.

She pulled a can from the half-empty cupboard, found a spoon in the dish drainer from that morning and put some tuna into her dish.

As the cat ate, she pulled a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey from the cupboard and poured a double shot into a water glass.

It had been a long time since she let herself think about Luke.

She’d underestimated how much it would hurt to see him, and not be anything special to him. Just a woman he used to know.

Their conversation had been so normal. They used to have conversations like that all the time. Until they ruined it.

She swallowed the whiskey neat and poured herself another.

One drink wouldn’t be enough. Not if she was going to think about this stuff. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world.

The night Lieutenant Smith was arrested, Luke had been the one to come to her aid. After Smith shot her, it had been Luke who’d knelt over her body, trying to stop the bleeding.

She could remember every detail of that night. The fear in his voice. His hands trying to hold back the fountain of blood.

After that, though, he’d avoided her for weeks.

Finally, one day, he’d called her.

‘I’m sorry for disappearing on you,’ he’d said, far too casually. ‘We need to talk.’

He’d chosen a neutral spot – a bar neither of them frequented regularly. When she walked in and saw him sitting there, a bottle of beer untouched on the table in front of him she’d felt helpless with longing.

She could tell from the moment she sat down next to him that it was over. There were things she had to say though.

‘I wanted to thank you,’ she’d said, ‘for saving my life.’

He’d looked uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to thank me. I was doing my job.’

‘Like hell you were,’ she’d said. ‘You risked your life for me. At least let me say thank you.’

Their eyes met and she felt the connection between them like a blast of furnace heat.

A muscle in his jaw fluttered – the only sign that he felt it, too.

‘I would have been there sooner, but I couldn’t get to my phone,’ he’d said, after a long silence. ‘I got your message too late.’

She wouldn’t let him downplay his role. ‘You were there when it mattered. I’m only sorry I had to drag you into it. I know it was the last thing you wanted.’

At that, his face hardened. ‘You getting hurt was the last thing I wanted. It didn’t have to happen. You’re just so damned stubborn …’

Stopping himself, he’d reached for his beer, taking a quick swig.

‘Luke, I hope you can understand why I did what I did,’ Harper pleaded, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘I truly believed I could solve my mother’s murder if I solved that case. I only wish there was some way I could make it up to you for everything I did that hurt you.’

She leaned forward, begging him to understand. Surely anyone who knew her history would see why it meant so much to her. Who wouldn’t push the limits to solve their own mother’s murder?

He’d looked up from his beer then, studying her with those enigmatic eyes – dark blue, like a midnight sky.

‘I know you do.’ His flat tone shattered her hopes. ‘But that’s not how things work. Trust doesn’t come back because you want it to. Some things you break can’t be fixed.’

They’d talked for a while after that, and then parted, knowing it was over.

They’d barely spoken again. Until tonight.

Raising the glass to her lips in a swift, economical movement, she downed the second whiskey, waiting as it traced a line of fire down her throat to her heart.

Some of the tension in her body released. She let out a long, shuddering breath.

He’d be working her shift from now on.

Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Maybe they’d find a way to forgive each other.

But in her heart she knew that was only another dream.

Chapter Eight

The next day, Harper arrived at the newspaper at noon with no story to write.

There’d been a time when she could have called Detective Daltrey and teased a few snippets of information out of her, but those days were over.

After her conversation with Bonnie, she’d hoped Naomi Scott’s father might get in touch but, so far, her phone hadn’t rung. She’d tried his home number several times, but her calls went straight to voicemail.

She couldn’t blame him – his only daughter had died the day before. But still.

Dropping her bag next to her desk, she switched on her computer and turned her scanner on low, right as DJ walked into the room from the back hallway.