got back to the newsroom, already redesigning the front page to leave a huge space for Harper’s story.
In the end, the whole spread was electric: Above the fold, a large picture of Xavier standing onstage, a guitar loose in one hand. The glow of the lights brought out the amber in his soulful eyes. Beneath that, a shot of dark-clad detectives standing in front of the white beachfront mansion.
The headline read:
Musician’s Body Found—Foul Play Suspected
Inside were pictures of Cara, Allegra, and Hunter, and explanations of their relationships with Xavier, but Harper wrote nothing about Cara being a suspect. She told herself her reasons were strategic. Everyone inside that house trusted her. If she wrote about that, she’d lose them all as sources.
And friends, a small voice in her head warned.
She did tell the editor about Graff. Baxter checked the blog and found that he had already posted an article about Xavier that night. It was more or less Harper’s first article, without attribution, including lines he’d taken word-for-word.
Guess he decided he didn’t need to pay me for it after all, Harper thought.
“Plagiarism,” the editor groused. “If this paper could still afford a lawyer, we’d sue.” Closing the browser in disgust, she headed back to check the final layout with the copy desk.
Miles had gone home some time ago and, alone in the newsroom, Harper stared out the window at the river. A small boat—visible only by the red light in its bow—churned against the current to heaven knew where.
It was nearing midnight. She didn’t want to think any more about dead musicians and their friends. She wanted a drink and some conversation with someone she trusted. She called Bonnie, hoping she’d be working at the bar. But when she answered, there was no sound of music or the usual Library hubbub.
“Hey, hon. Hang on a minute.” There was the sound of muffled talking and then a door opening. “Sorry about that,” Bonnie said. “What’s up?”
“You’re not working.” Harper rocked back in her seat, planting her feet on the desk. “You want to go get a drink?”
“Can’t. I’m on a date.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s new. An installation artist. Very intense.” Bonnie yawned. “Too intense, actually. He’s been explaining his work to me for hours.”
Bemused, Harper asked, “Can he hear you saying this?”
“He’s in the bathroom. I’m not that cruel.” Bonnie’s tone changed. “Hey, tomorrow’s Saturday and I’ve got the weekend off for once. I was thinking of coming out to your beach house for some sun and fun. Would I cramp your style?”
“Never,” Harper said. “But I’m working on a big story at the moment. You probably haven’t seen the news … Xavier Rayne was murdered.”
“Oh, hell.” Bonnie sounded somber but not surprised. “Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet. And I’m going to be covering that story all weekend. If you don’t mind having the house to yourself most of the time, you’re more than welcome.”
“Perfect!” Bonnie said, serenely. “It’s supposed to be sunny. I’ll be there tomorrow with my bikini.”
“It’s February, Bonnie,” Harper said. “Bring a sweater.”
“It’s February in Georgia,” Bonnie corrected her. “I’m bringing SPF thirty.”
A male voice rumbled in the background.
Bonnie whispered. “I’ve got to go. Loverboy’s back and getting offended. See you tomorrow.”
In the quiet that followed the call, Harper scrolled through her contacts, looking for someone else to go out for a drink with. She was about to give up and go home when she suddenly remembered the text she’d received that afternoon.
She read it again.
Dig into the Southern Mafia. Look back seventeen years for the name Martin Dowell. His lawyer might be of interest.
In the rush of work, she’d forgotten all about it. On a whim, she pulled the keyboard closer and typed “Southern Mafia” “Martin Dowell” into LexisNexis, tapping her fingers on the desk as the system churned.
Anonymous tips were often dubious—people settling old scores, looking for trouble. So she expected nothing much. When the system spit out two hundred hits, her eyebrows shot up.
She leaned forward, scanning the long list of articles. It was old stuff—the most recent piece had been written thirteen years ago in the Atlanta paper.
It was a straightforward article about a man named Martin Dowell who had lost an appeal of his conviction for murder and racketeering. By that point, he’d already been in jail for several years.
There was, it seemed to her, nothing special in the piece. She read it again, looking for anything she might have missed. Any connection to her work, or even to Savannah.