She picked Miles up in front of his apartment building ten minutes later. He lived at the dicey end of River Street—far from the paddlewheel boats and praline shops that were hallmarks of tourist Savannah. The warehouse conversion was surrounded by industrial buildings and empty lots. Harper hated going there at night—it sent her crime radar off the charts. But it had a hell of a view and he’d got it for a song.
Miles set his camera bag carefully in the back and climbed into the passenger seat. Harper was soaked, her hair in wet tangles. By contrast, he looked pristine in a snazzy black raincoat over a crisp button-down shirt with a burgundy print. He kept his dark hair cropped short, and he was always clean shaven. He brought style to every crime scene.
“How much do we know?” he asked, buckling up.
On the way out to the island, she filled him in. She had to take it slow: the road was nearly flooded in places.
When she’d given him the basics, he fell silent for a moment before saying, “Tell you what, if Xavier Rayne’s dead it’s a goddamn shame.”
Harper glanced at him, surprised. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” he said. “But I’ve been following his career since he started out, singing at open-mic nights around town when he was a teenager. He always had talent but, in the last couple of years, he found his voice.” He sounded almost reverent. “He’s the real deal. Two years at Juilliard on a full scholarship. Dropped out to go pro. His new album is something else.”
She should have known Miles would be all over this. He loved music, and had a professional’s affinity for spotting new talent in the area.
“He’s probably just passed out on someone’s couch,” she told him.
“Maybe.” Still morose, he looked out the window at the marshes. “Or else he’s feeding crabs.”
The Tybee Island police headquarters was a low clapboard structure near the beach. The street was quiet as the two of them hurried up the wide sidewalk to the front door. The rain had eased a little, but a cool breeze blew in hard off the ocean. The air smelled of brine.
Inside, pale light flooded through wide picture windows into an airy, open-plan space that felt for all the world like a luxury real-estate office. There was no one in the lobby. The reception desk was unmanned.
Harper looked around, bewildered. She’d never seen a police station that wasn’t teeming with activity at this time of day.
She stood on her toes, calling into the office behind the front desk. “Hello?”
A chair, which she’d assumed to be empty, twitched before it rolled back, revealing a woman in her thirties with short, blond hair.
“Oh my heavens,” the woman said, getting up. “You startled me. I didn’t realize anyone was there.” Her apologetic smile was outlined in pink lipstick, matching her pink cardigan. Her gaze swung from Harper to Miles and back again. “Can I help you?”
“We’re from the Savannah Daily News.” Harper held out her press pass. “We’d like to see the crime report on Xavier Rayne.”
“Oh yes.” The woman grew serious. “Tom Southby told me you might come in. I’ve got it right here.” She picked a folder up off the desk and slid it across to them, already open to reveal an official form. “It’s such a shame. That poor young man. I hope he’s okay.”
Harper and Miles bent over the document, which set out the case in stark, emotionless terms.
Missing person: Michael Xavier Rayne.
Age: 24
Height: 6ft
Weight: 160
Race: Mixed
Hair: Black
Eyes: Hazel
Last seen: Approx. 0200 hours
Last known location: 6 Admiral’s Row
Last seen: Individual had been drinking heavily at his residence for several hours. Individual announced he was going to the beach to write music. Housemates report seeing him walk to the beach with guitar and bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Housemates say they fell asleep after that point. When they awoke, individual had not slept in his bed. When he did not answer his phone or respond to messages, they searched the house and nearby beach. At approximately 1200 hours they contacted PD to report missing person.
Page two had a few additional details: basic information about the scene—house in good repair, no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle.
At the end was a final entry.
Reporting persons: Hunter Carlson, Cara Brand, Allegra Hanson.
All of them listed the Admiral’s Row address as their home. Harper wrote down all three names before