All the reporters raised their hands at once.
Blazer pointed at Josh Leonard from Channel 5.
Josh held a gray fabric-covered microphone in his hand. “Can you tell us whether you have any suspects at this time?”
Blazer’s reply was immediate. “None that I’m willing to talk about.” He pointed to an out-of-town reporter nearby. “You in the blue.”
“Thank you, Detective. What kind of gun was used in the shooting?”
“We’re looking for a twenty-two-caliber handgun,” Blazer said.
For ten minutes, he went around the room answering questions, revealing nothing much more than Harper knew already, avoiding every opportunity to identify suspects. She made a few notes—the gun size was new, if nothing else. But she needed to get one of the detectives alone and ask about the fight on the night he’d died.
When the press conference ended, she pushed through the crowd to the door, hoping to grab Blazer or Daltrey before they disappeared in their offices, but Jon Graff stepped in front of her, blocking the way.
“That was interesting, wasn’t it?”
Harper gave him an incredulous look. “Why are you talking to me?”
“There’s no need to be rude,” he chided. “I’m just trying to make pleasant conversation with the locals.”
She didn’t have time for this. “You know what?” she said. “You need to learn how to write a story without stealing other people’s work. Then they might talk to you.”
“That’s a serious accusation. I hope you can back it up.” His smile had a vicious edge.
Her patience snapped. She took an aggressive step toward him, hands balling into fists. “Oh I can back it up, you little piece of—”
“Harper.” It was Julie Daltrey’s voice. She and Luke walked up together. “You got trouble?”
Before Harper could answer, Luke rounded on Graff, shouldering in front of him. “You need to back off.”
“Who is this man?” Daltrey demanded.
Ignoring Luke, Graff turned to her and held out his hand. “I’m Jon Graff from L.A.B.”
Daltrey looked at his hand like it was trying to bite her. With a shrug, he dropped it back to his side.
“I do not know what L.A.B. is,” she told him. “And I don’t want to.”
Luke towered over him. “You need to be in the meeting room with the rest of the press or out of this building. Now.”
Graff didn’t budge. He seemed to find the whole scene amusing. “Here you are again, Detective, with Miss McClain. First I see you together in a bar late at night, looking cozy. And now here, where you work. Does your boss approve of all this togetherness?”
Harper shot a sideways glance at Daltrey. The detective’s expression didn’t flicker. Without a word to Graff, she turned to a uniformed patrol officer who was standing nearby. “Officer, could you escort this member of the press from the building? Please make sure Dwayne knows not to let him in again. His credentials are withdrawn.”
“You got it.” The tall, heavyset cop stepped next to Luke. The two of them hemmed Graff in.
“Come with me, sir.” He made “sir” sound like an insult.
“What are you going to do?” Graff asked Daltrey. “Have me taken to the city limits? You can’t stop me reporting.”
“You can do whatever you want within the law,” Daltrey said. “But come back in this building and I will put you in jail.”
Giving in to the inevitable, Graff allowed himself to be guided down the hallway. “This is ridiculous,” Harper heard him complain. “I’ll want your badge number.”
“You can have it outside.” The cop pushed open the security door leading to the lobby.
When they were gone, Harper turned to Luke and Daltrey. “Thank you. I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault the little creep has a thing for you.” Glancing at Daltrey, Luke explained, “He’s been harassing Harper since he got to town. I ran him through the system last night. He’s got quite a history. Arrests and convictions for trespassing, drunk and disorderly, stalking…”
“Let the watch commander know this guy’s making a nuisance of himself,” Daltrey told him. “Tell him to bring Graff in if he does anything we might construe as illegal.” She turned to Harper. “He shows up anywhere he shouldn’t be, call my cell.”
Harper gave her a grateful look. She didn’t like that anyone had to protect her. But it was good having detectives on her side.
Daltrey glanced at her watch. “Well, we better roll. Someone’s got to fight all the crime.”
“Hey, wait, before you go, I wanted to ask you guys something.” Harper followed the two of them as they headed down the hallway. “Do you know anything about Cara and Xavier fighting the night he died? A neighbor told me she heard them.”
“Yeah, we know something about that.” Daltrey kept it vague, but a slight smile told Harper there was more she wasn’t saying.
The other reporters were pouring from the room now, and Harper lowered her voice. “What do you think? I don’t think Cara’s capable of it. She doesn’t seem the type.”
Daltrey and Luke exchanged a look. Neither of them replied.
“What?” Harper looked back and forth between them. “What am I missing?”
“The clue’s in the bullets,” Daltrey explained. “A twenty-two’s a woman’s gun. Small and light. Easy to shoot.”
That’s the thing about detectives. They don’t care what you do for a living or how pretty you are. They care which gun fits in your hand.
“Doesn’t mean she did it,” Luke cautioned. “Just means it could have been her. Could have been anyone. A child can hold a twenty-two.”
“Yeah but, is Cara your main suspect?” Harper pressed. “And if not, who else are you looking at?”
“Now see, this is why I’m always saying you should become a cop,” Daltrey told her, amiably. “Because then we could tell you these things. But for now, no comment.”
With that, she turned to walk away. Luke followed her a few steps and said something Harper couldn’t hear. Daltrey kept going as he turned back.
When he reached Harper, he spoke quietly. “I was going to text you but I thought it would be better to tell you in person.”
His expression was serious.
“I made some calls this morning. Martin Dowell got out of prison three weeks ago.”
16
Luke’s words sent ice through Harper’s veins.
“Where is he?” she asked, trying not to panic. “Is he in Atlanta? On parole?”
“I don’t know,” Luke said. “All they would tell me was he’s out. Everyone’s tight-lipped about where he’s gone.” His face was dark. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“I don’t like how secretive everyone’s being about this one,” he said. “Cops share this stuff with other cops. Always. But nobody will tell me a thing.”
Someone called his name from the end of the hall. He lifted his hand in acknowledgment.