Despite the hour, Harper was in no hurry to leave. It wasn’t far to walk. But all she had at home was a cat, a bottle of whiskey and a lot of bad memories. And she’d spent enough time with them lately.
‘Rematch?’ She glanced at Bonnie, hopefully. ‘Winner takes all?’
Propping her cue against a sign that read: ‘Books + Beer = LIFE’, Bonnie walked around the table. The blue streaks in her long blond hair caught the light when she held out her hand.
‘Loser pays,’ she said, adding, ‘Also, I’m all out of change.’
‘I thought bartenders always had change,’ Harper complained, pulling the last coins from her pocket.
‘Bartenders are smart enough to put their money away before they start playing pool with you,’ Bonnie replied.
There was a break in the music as the jukebox switched songs. In the sudden silence, the shrill ring of Harper’s phone made them both jump.
Grabbing the device off the table next to her, Harper glanced at the screen.
‘Hang on,’ she said, hitting the answer button. ‘It’s Miles.’
Miles Jackson was the crime photographer at the Savannah Daily News. He wouldn’t call at this hour without a good reason.
‘What’s up?’ Harper said, by way of hello.
‘Get yourself downtown. We’ve got ourselves a murder on River Street,’ he announced.
‘You’re kidding me.’ Harper dropped her cue on the pool table. ‘Are you at the scene?’
‘I’m pulling up now. Looks like every cop in the city is here.’
Miles had her on speaker phone – in the background she could hear the rumble of his engine and the insistent crackle of his police scanners. The sound sent a charge through Harper.
‘On my way.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.
Bonnie looked at her enquiringly.
‘Got to go,’ Harper told her, grabbing her bag. ‘Someone just got murdered on River Street.’
Bonnie’s jaw dropped. ‘River Street? Holy crap.’
‘I know.’ Harper pulled out her notebook and police scanner and headed across the room, mentally calculating how long it would take her to get there. ‘If it’s a tourist, the mayor will absolutely lose her shit.’
River Street was the epicenter of the city’s tourism district – and the safest place in town. Until now.
Bonnie ran after her.
‘Give me a second to lock up,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Harper turned to look at her. ‘You’re coming to a crime scene?’
The music had started up again.
‘You’ve had four margaritas,’ Bonnie reminded her. ‘I made them strong. You’ll be over the limit. I’ve only had two beers tonight.’
Behind the bar, she opened a concealed wall panel and flipped some switches – in an instant, the music fell silent. A second later, the lights went off one by one, until only the red glow of the exit sign remained.
Grabbing her keys, Bonnie ran to join Harper, the heels of her cowboy boots clicking against the concrete floor in the sudden quiet, short skirt swirling around her thighs.
Harper still wasn’t convinced this was a great idea.
‘You know there’ll be dead people there, right?’
Shrugging, Bonnie unlocked the front door and pulled it open. Steamy southern night air poured in.
‘I’m a grown-up. I can take it.’
She glanced over her shoulder with a look Harper had known better than to argue with since they were both six years old.
‘Let’s go.’
River Street was a narrow, cobblestone lane running between the old wharves and warehouses that had once serviced tall ships, sailing for Europe, and the wide, dark water of the Savannah River.
The most photographed street in the city, it would be packed in a few hours with workers, tourists, and tour buses, but it was virtually empty now.
Most bars had closed at two a.m. and the heatwave currently underway sent everyone who might ordinarily have lingered by the river scurrying for air-conditioning.
Bonnie swung her pink pickup, with ‘Mavis’ painted on the tailgate in bright yellow, into a parking spot and killed the engine.
They could see flashing blue lights a short distance away at the water’s edge.
The sight made Harper’s heart race. It was nearly three in the morning. At this hour, the local TV channels might not have anyone on call. This could be her story exclusively.
‘Come on,’ she told Bonnie, throwing the door open and jumping out.
When her feet hit the curb, the bullet wound in her shoulder throbbed a sharp warning. She winced, pressing her hand against the scar.
It had been over a year since she’d been shot. It was rare for the wound to twinge. It usually only acted up when the weather changed.
‘You’ll be a walking barometer now,’ her surgeon had remarked jovially at one of her checkups. ‘Always be able to tell when rain is coming.’
‘That’s not the superpower I was hoping for,’ she’d responded.
Secretly, she was glad the pain was still there. The wound – which she’d sustained while exposing her mentor, former Chief Detective Robert Smith, for murder – served as a reminder to be careful whom she trusted.
Bonnie missed her pained expression – her eyes were on the police cars.
‘Damn. It really is right in the middle of everything. That’s just a couple of blocks from Spanky’s.’
Spanky’s Bar was a popular tourist joint. If the murder had happened a few hours earlier, hundreds of people could have been caught up in it.
Harper had already noticed the proximity. She needed to get down there.
‘Let’s go.’
Half-running, they hurried down a steep cobbled lane toward the river. It had rained earlier, and Harper’s shoes struggled to find traction on the slick, rounded stones.
It was darker down by the water. The breeze off the river cut a cool path through the humidity.
Harper usually avoided River Street altogether. It was mostly tourist traps and, until now, she couldn’t think of one interesting crime that had ever happened here.
Ahead, crime tape had been strung from light pole to light pole, blocking the narrow street. Flashing emergency lights lit up the jaunty flags outside the locked bars and shuttered shops.
Harper scanned the scene – the road was packed with police cars but she could see no trucks bearing the hallmarks of the local TV news stations.
Bless Miles for staying up all night listening to his scanner.
About thirty yards beyond the tape, a cluster of uniformed cops and plain-clothed detectives had gathered. They were all looking down at something Harper couldn’t see from here.
‘Look, there’s Miles.’ Bonnie pointed across the street.
The photographer stood alone at the edge of the crime tape. Hearing her voice, he turned and beckoned them over.
As always, he looked dapper in slacks and a button-down shirt. It was as if he’d been waiting for this crime to happen.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, as they walked up. ‘Is