Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane #1)(13)

Harper takes a deep breath. “Captain, I think it’s time you told me about the Lloyd Claymore files.”

Silence drags out as he considers; then he says: “I need to know I can trust you.”

“Of course, sir.”

He picks his words carefully, as if he’s tiptoeing around a land mine.

“When I was handed this position, my predecessor told me about a series of murders that took place over the years.”

“Claymore alluded to them . . .”

“What did he say?”

“He said you’d tell me the truth,” Harper says.

Morelli sighs. “Me and Claymore go way back. I was his partner, a couple of years before he retired. Never said a word about any of this. It was only when I got this job that I was let in on our department’s dirty little secret.”

He reaches inside his desk drawer and hands her something.

Harper looks at it—a small brass key. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s the key to a legacy, and it’s high time that it was brought out in the open. When I took this office, my predecessor told me about a locked filing cabinet downstairs. It’s the only one down in the basement no one has access to. In there, you’ll find everything you need. You have to understand, Detective, that I was told in no uncertain terms: exposing these murders for what they were could seriously harm the town and everyone in it. Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past.”

“Who told you?”

“These are powerful people, Detective. Old money. They’re not going to let the murders of a few black girls get in the way of their own affairs.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you act on what you knew anyway?”

Morelli says, “There were other considerations . . . threats against myself, against my family.”

“From the people enabling this cover-up? Why not come forward about what they’re doing?”

“Things are a little different out here than they are in San Francisco, Detective.”

Harper weighs the key in her hand. “We swore an oath to protect the innocent, to see that justice is served to the full letter of the law . . . and here we are, hiding the truth, holding back the course of justice.”

Morelli rubs his tired eyes. “I know these murders will never end. And I can’t go on any longer, living with the guilt. The injustice of it all goes against everything I joined law enforcement for. It’s time something was done to bring these to light. I’m just sorry it took me this long to find the courage.”

“You realize I need to bring Stu Raley in on this?”

“Of course; I trust Raley,” Morelli says. “I thought it was all over with. Yet . . . here we are.”

“Here we are,” Harper repeats, shaking her head with distaste.

“Don’t judge me for protecting my family, Detective. If the truth had gotten out, these people might have come after my wife, after my kids. But I can’t sit on my hands any longer. It’s time I started making things right.” Morelli fixes her with a hard glare. “The murders were covered up. Details changed about the circumstances of their deaths. Little things, enough to make them appear to be unconnected. No mention of the crowns he leaves on their heads, for one thing. But now you know the truth. And this is your chance at cracking this case.”

Harper gets to her feet, eager to get down in the basement and start digging. “Keep this between you and Raley, okay? At least until the time is right. We don’t need media attention drawing our focus away from what’s important—finding the sick son of a bitch who’s killing these girls. Everything else can be handled after.”

“Yes sir,” Harper says.

“Right. Don’t let me hold you back any further. Let’s get out there and catch this bastard,” Morelli says, waving her off. He turns to the pile of papers on his desk that awaits his attention. “Good hunting.”

As she walks away from his office, Harper can’t help but feel a chill run down her spine. There are people with so much influence, with such a stranglehold over the town, that they have kept these murders covered up for so long. To what lengths will they go for what they think is the good of the town?



The basement—or dungeon, as the cops often call it—consists of rows of rolling shelves. By cranking a wheel on the edge of the unit, you move the shelf across, allowing access to its contents. The shelves have laminated printouts on the ends, with the contents of each mobile stack listed alphabetically and by category. On the other side of the basement are rows of old filing cabinets, and down one end is a caged-off area for sensitive evidence. A senior officer holds the key to the evidence lockup, and everyone has to be signed in and out.

“I don’t get the subterfuge,” Stu says, peering left and right. They’re the only ones down there. “I mean, what’s it all about, huh?”

“You’ll see.”

She instructs him to try opening the cabinets. One by one they attempt to yank them open, succeeding every time. Stu arrives at the last cabinet and tries it. It won’t budge. “Hey . . . sucker won’t open.”

“This must be the one.”

Harper slides the key into the lock and opens it up. The top and middle drawers are completely empty. Only the bottom holds anything—a dozen or so files, held together like a Christmas present with white twine.