The detectives’ office was a few doors from the end. When she reached the unmarked door, she stopped, steeling herself. There is nothing on the planet more intimidating than walking into a room full of detectives.
She knocked on the door briskly, opening it without waiting for a response.
The room was crowded and badly in need of a paint job. The chilly air had a permanent smell of sweat and stale coffee. Eight desks were arranged along scuffed walls that had once been white. Only three were occupied.
Detective Roy Davenport gawked at her from the nearest desk. Detective Shumaker, the most senior detective in the room, sat a few seats away. Next to him was Luke Walker.
“Well, hell. I didn’t know we were due a visit from the fourth estate,” Shumaker drawled. His voice sounded amused but his eyes were alert.
“Sorry to intrude,” Harper said. “I was hoping to find Julie Daltrey.” She glanced fleetingly at Luke, who watched her with a guarded expression.
“She’s out,” Davenport offered. Tall and angular, with a heavy country accent, he was the newest detective on the team. “Won’t be back for an hour at least.”
“Damn.” Harper sighed. “I don’t suppose any of you know anything about that missing-musician case out at Tybee?” She let her gaze fall again on Luke, but he was looking away.
“Nobody here knows anything about anything,” Shumaker assured her. “We are the dumbest people in this building. I’d have thought you’d have gathered that by now, McClain.”
He was a bearlike man with a beer belly that peeked through the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt. The fluorescent lighting glinted over the pale pate visible beneath his comb-over.
Harper didn’t like him at all, but she forced an easy tone. “Well, I’m sorry to intrude. If you see Daltrey, would you tell her I came by? I’m just looking to touch base.”
“Ooh, now, I don’t need to know anything about what you’ve been touching.” Shumaker wrinkled his nose. “What you ladies get up to is no business of mine.”
Swallowing a sarcastic response, she left hurriedly, closing the door behind her. As she did, she heard Shumaker say something quietly and give a mean laugh.
Harper couldn’t care less what Shumaker thought. As she walked downstairs her thoughts were about Luke. And whether the rumors she’d been hearing were true and he had a new girlfriend.
The thought was an empty chasm she didn’t want to walk into.
The two of them had known each other since they were twenty. They’d been friends first, and then lovers. Now, she didn’t know what they were. For months, they’d hardly spoken—ever since he’d told her he wanted to get back together, and she’d declined. She didn’t like life without him but the on-again, off-again roller coaster they’d been on was too painful. She couldn’t see a way for them to keep trying and not damage each other.
Reporters and cops were oil and water. Police were forbidden from dating journalists, and vice versa. It all made sense to her. And yet she still thought about kissing him every time she saw him.
Downstairs, she stopped to say good-bye to Darlene before heading out to her car. She was nearly to the Camaro when someone called her name.
Luke was loping across the parking lot toward her.
He was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders and sandy-brown hair that tended to get too long. He had eyes the color of the midnight sky. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at him without feeling like someone just punched her in the chest.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I’m working on that missing-musician case.” He stopped next to her car, hands in his pockets. “I couldn’t say anything in front of Shumaker. What’d you want to talk to Julie about?”
“Oh, nothing much. I wondered if there was anything new.” She kept her tone as casual as his. “Tybee Police don’t know much. Are the boats still out? Have they found anything?”
“We haven’t really had a chance to get to work on it yet,” he said, not answering her question. “We only picked the case up this morning.”
“What’re you thinking?” she asked. “Was he just drunk and stupid? Or did something else happen? Drug deal gone wrong?”
He paused as if he wanted to tell her something, but all he said in the end was, “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
She didn’t hide her exasperation. “Come on, Luke. I got more out of Blazer. Give me a break.”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “I’m sorry. When Julie comes back I’ll find out more. If there’s anything to talk about, I promise I’ll give you a call.”
He leaned against the car, watching her with those eyes. “So how’s it going, anyway? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah.” Suddenly awkward, she glanced down at her dusty boots. “Oh, you know. The usual.”
Have you got a girlfriend now? She imagined asking him. But she couldn’t. Because, what if he said yes?
“You still out on Tybee?” he asked.
“For now. I’ve got to move in a few weeks. The landlady needs the house.”
“Where’re you going to go?”
She shrugged. “No idea. It’s just weird, you know? I don’t know if it’s safe to have my life back. Or if I should stay scared forever.”
His phone beeped and he glanced at the screen.
“We should talk about this before you do anything,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “I’ve got to get back right now—I’m working on about five cases. Can I call you later?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”
As he headed back toward the station, she called after him, “And let me know about that musician.” He lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning around.
She got into the car and ordered herself not to watch him go. She hated how happy his offer to call her made her. It was stupid to be happy. Nothing would ever work between them. They’d tried twice and all that came of it was pain and confusion. She knew she’d hurt him when she’d refused to get back together. And she knew she didn’t have the right to miss him.
But she missed him all the same.
With a sigh, she shifted into gear, pulling out of the parking space. She was almost to the exit when her phone buzzed in the dashboard holder. The message was from an unrecognized number. She stopped the car so she could read it.
Dig into the Southern Mafia. Look back seventeen years for the name Martin Dowell. His lawyer might be of interest.
Harper’s brow creased. What the hell was that about?
She turned the phone over as if it might reveal answers.
Maybe it was a wrong number. But she didn’t think so. That phrase “dig into.” That was for a reporter. That was for her.
She quickly typed, Who is this?
She waited for several minutes, but no one replied. It was probably nothing. Her number was on the newspaper website and she often received tips. Most of them were bogus.
If she had the time, she’d look into it later. Seventeen years ago made this an old story.
Still, as she pulled out onto Habersham Street, something about the text bothered her. It was so specific. But there wasn’t any time to think about it. Right now, she had a missing musician to find.