The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,12

was dressed in hunting camouflage.

“Get a grip,” she told herself, trying to control her anger, while her heart thudded, her pulse in the stratosphere. She had to focus.

Her heart still thudding, she tamped down her anger and kept driving, hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t run into Reed.

She sent up a quick prayer that she would be able to investigate before her husband found out, because, of course, he would.

And then all hell would break out.

Oh, well. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been through all this before. She and Reed, they’d manage.

Right?

But now it’s not just the two of you. Remember? She smiled and cast a quick glance into the rearview mirror. Her green eyes sparkled at the thought of her pregnancy. After suffering two heartbreaking miscarriages, she was now ten weeks pregnant, the furthest she’d ever carried a child, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do anything to hurt her chances of carrying this precious life to term.

So she’d be super careful.

But really, her kind of investigating didn’t have to be physical.

But she caught a glimmer of indecision in her gaze and looked back to the road ahead. She was getting close to the lane leading to the old estate.

It’s now or never.

* * *

Reed eyed the basement of the old Beaumont mansion from the bottom step. Now the place was crawling with cops. Photos were being snapped, measurements taken, the area swept for fingerprints and trace evidence, the bodies pulled from their resting place under the medical examiner’s watchful eye. He and Morrisette moved between the crates, boxes and piles of junk, careful not to touch anything.

“Find anything else in there?” she asked one of the crime scene investigators as they made their way to the opening in the wall where the bodies had been discovered.

“Who is that? Morrisette? You’re standing in my shot.”

Morrisette and Reed backed up a step.

“Great. Now, could you give us a second?” Tanisha Seville, the videographer, was peering through the lens of her camera, focusing on the entrance to the crypt. “Damn.” To an assistant standing near a huge lamp, “Any way you can get more light in here? All I’ve got are shadows. It’s like a damned dungeon in there.”

Reed agreed.

Morrisette said, “We’re just checking to see if you discovered anything else.”

“Well, check after we’re done.” Tanisha was known for not mincing words. Just like Morrisette, though they couldn’t be more physically different. Whereas Morrisette was short and wiry, her skin lined from years growing up under a harsh Texas sun, Seville was tall and big-boned with smooth mocha-colored skin, springy black hair she didn’t bother taming and eyes that flashed when she was irritated. Like now. Ignoring the detective, she leaned into her camera and slowly panned the area.

Carter caught Reed’s eye.

“So far, only two bodies located.”

“That’s more than enough,” Morrisette muttered.

“Let’s hope it stays that way.” Reed didn’t want to see the body count going up, didn’t want to think that this once-grand estate had become a dumping ground for a serial killer. But what about that empty depression in the crypt? Had a third victim escaped? Would they find more skeletons when they began to dig? What the hell had happened here in this dingy, forgotten cellar filled with years of discards now illuminated by the eerie glow of temporary lights?

They talked with a couple of the techs, found out nothing more and watched grimly as the skeletons were painstakingly withdrawn from their resting spaces.

“This is something you just can’t unsee now, can ya?” Morrisette swept her gaze over the small bodies before they were bagged. “Gonna be with me for effin’ ever. As long as I live. C’mon. Let’s get outta here.” She was already heading for the stairs.

Outside, the air was still heavy with the smell of the river, but they’d left the pervasive scent of rot in the basement, thank God. Reed noted it was late afternoon, not a breath of wind to stir the air, the heat oppressive. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he took the call from the department. “Reed.”

“Yeah, it’s Delacroix,” a female voice stated, and he remembered the woman, a relatively new hire and junior detective. Auburn hair, medium build, serious beyond her years. “I’ve got a rundown on the phone number who called 911 about the bodies at the Beaumont estate. A guy by the name of Bruno Cravens.”

Reed was familiar with the name. “Goes by Bronco,” he said, remembering the small-time hustler who had been busted time and again for burglary,