Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane #1)(6)

He hands her a printout. Harper reads from it. “Alma Buford.”

“That’s her,” Dudley says. “I asked Albie to contact the parents. Do you want to bring them in here or do the interview at their place?”

“Here. Are you okay picking them up?”

Dudley almost grimaces. “Yeah,” he says with obvious displeasure.

“Okay,” Harper tells him. “Use tact when you break the news to them. It’s going to hit them hard.”

“Tact is my middle name,” Dudley says, walking off before she can say anything else.



An hour later, Art Buford’s eyes are shot through with red. His wife, Didi, holds his hand, rubbing back and forth with her thumb. Using her other hand, she dabs at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, soaking up the tears that spill out.

This time, Harper is alone. She convinced Stu and Albie that there was no need for them to join her, that having the two of them throwing questions at Alma’s parents might be overkill.

“We thought maybe she stayed at a friend’s,” Didi says, her voice cracking with emotion. “If she didn’t turn up by midday, I was going to call the police.”

“Lately, we’ve had some problems with Alma . . . ,” Art says. He looks sidelong at his wife, who gives him a nod of the head to go on. “Drinking and such with her friends. You think that might be something to do with it?”

“We’re not ruling anything out,” Harper says. It’s one more thing for her to look into. “You could both try to think of some names for us. Friends she spoke about, who she hung around with . . . any feuds or fallings out. Anyone who might hold a grudge. Maybe boys’ names that cropped up. It’d be a big help.”

Not telling them we are looking for a male killer, but seeing what they can remember that might point us in the right direction. Did the killer know Alma? Or was she selected the way a hunter tracks deer and chooses one to meet its maker?

Didi starts to sob. “She was such a good girl. I know we had problems lately, but apart from that, she stuck to her books, kept her head down . . .”

“Come here,” Art says, putting an arm around her as she holds the hankie to her face.

Harper pushes a box of Kleenex across the table toward Didi. “There’s some more in there. Okay?”

“Thanks,” Didi manages.

“I want you both to know that we’re not taking your daughter’s death lightly. We will explore every avenue available to us, anything that will offer insight as to why she died.”

“The detective said she was found dead, that she’d been laid out . . .”

“Mister Buford . . . your daughter was murdered. We are looking for a killer.”

Didi shakes her head, trembling all over. “Murdered . . . ,” she whispers in a thin, reedy voice. Her husband holds Didi against his side as she sobs, burying her face in the plaid material of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Harper says. This is not the first time she has had to do this. If she can’t catch a break in the case soon, she knows it won’t be the last either.

Art fixes her with a cold look. “Find him,” he growls. “Find whoever killed my daughter.”

Before she can catch herself, Harper says, “I will.”



Captain Morelli unwraps a hard candy and pops it into his mouth. The sun is sinking outside, casting all of Hope’s Peak in deep shadows. Orange light cuts through the blinds in Morelli’s office, throwing itself at the back wall in thick contrasting bars of brightness and shadow.

“What do we know about our victim?” Morelli asks Harper.

“Alma Buford. Seventeen. Raped and strangled. Semen matches what we have on record already. Samples taken from under Alma’s fingernails also match. It’s the same guy.”

Morelli sucks the candy. “Right.”

“We’re waiting on toxicology, but I suspect it’ll come back the same thing. DXM to incapacitate her.”

“Okay.”

“Sir, this sick bastard will strike again. His behavior shows psychopathic traits.”

“I know,” he says grimly. Harper frowns and watches Morelli pick up a file from his desk. He hands it to her.

“What’s this?” Harper asks.

“A case.”

“If you didn’t notice, I already have a pretty big one on my hands.”

“Listen to me for a minute, Detective.” Morelli holds her gaze. “Many moons ago, I remember there being a girl found up at Wisher’s Pond. Twenty-four years old, I believe. Anyway, everything about that case bears more than a passing resemblance to your two girls.”

Harper opens the file. She reads the name at the front: “Ruby Lane?”

“The lead on that case is still around. Lives in a retirement home now, if I’ve heard right,” Morelli says. “Might be worth you going to see him. See what he has to say. If this killer is a psychopath, he had to start somewhere. Could be this case has historic implications.”

“Okay . . . I’ll get on it first thing in the morning. Can’t very well go pounding on the doors of a retirement home this late at night,” Harper says, miffed.

Morelli stands by the window, framed by the fiery light and thick bars of shadow.

“Be sure you do, Detective.”