The Morning After by Lisa Jackson

glance in his direction, he added, “Until the body was positively ID’d we couldn’t get a search warrant.”
    “You ID’d the body,” she said.
    “It wasn’t as official as her husband’s.”
    “So now you’re going by the book?” she asked.
    “Strictly by the book.”
    “Yeah, right. Not you, Reed.”
    “Let’s stop by her house. See if the crime scene team is there yet.” He rattled off Bobbi’s address and Morrisette managed a police U-turn at the next alley. Then they were speeding south through the historic district, past refurbished homes with high porches, wide windows and gleaming shutters, around the park-like squares with their benches, statues and lush vegetation.
    “There might be a little problem with you being on the case,” Morrisette pointed out as she lit up and cracked the window. The smell of Old Savannah wafted into the cruiser as it drew out the smoke.
    “I worked it out with the sheriff.”
    “That’s right,” McFee chimed in. The “silent one” finally spoke as Morrisette turned onto a side street.
    “Yeah, in Lumpkin County. Okano might see it differently. She’s a stickler for details.” Morrisette held her cigarette in her teeth as she negotiated a tight corner.
    Reed scowled into the night.
    “That’s the trouble with lawyers.” Morrisette checked the rearview mirror as the police band crackled. “Always on the lookout for a lawsuit.”
    “No, the trouble with lawyers is that they’re paranoid,” Reed grumbled, but he knew he was walking on thin ice. Katherine Okano, the D.A., was usually on his side and had been known to bend the rules a bit, but when she found out that he and Bobbi had been involved, she would likely pull the plug on his participation in the case. Morrisette hung a left at the next corner and drove up to Bobbi’s driveway. Several cruisers were parked on the street and crime-scene tape was being stretched across the yard. A K9 unit was included. Morrisette parked in the driveway and squashed her cigarette in the tray. All three detectives made their way through a team collecting evidence and into the house.
    Aside from the buzz of activity, the place looked the same as it had the last time Reed stepped through the door. He made his way outside, ensured that his footprints, should there be casts made, were accounted for. “What have you found?” he asked Diane Moses, who was in charge of the crime scene team in Savannah. An African-American who had fought her way through the trenches, Diane was smart and tough. The running joke in the department was that if she wanted to, she could not only part the Red Sea, but divide it into a grid.
    “Not much. Still collecting. The big news is no forced entry. But then, her car is missing. She must have met the killer somewhere, either by accident or intent.”
    “Not an accident. This murder was planned.”
    “If you say so.”
    “No one goes to the trouble of digging up a coffin just on the off chance he runs across a victim.” Nor does he address a note specifically to a cop.
    “Well, it looks like our gal was into sex and God. Fun and religion. All sorts of sex toys in the bedroom, but her reading material was spiritual. Go figure.”
    The place was being photographed and videotaped, though there was no evidence of a crime. Every part of Barbara Jean Marx’s life was about to be opened up to the public. Including questions about her relationships. His name was bound to come up.
    “Did you check her computer? E-mail? Her phone?”
    “We’re taking the hard drive with us and there were no messages left on her phone. No trace of Caller ID for the numbers coming in.”
    “You’re certain?” he asked, glancing at the phone. “No messages?”
    Diane looked up from her clipboard. “That’s what I said, no messages.”
    “What about hang ups?”
    Frown lines pulled her eyebrows together. “Nothing. Nada. The tape on the machine was empty. If she had a cell phone or a purse, we haven’t