The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty

computer when the writer at the desk in front of hers rolled his chair back and swung around to face her.

      ‘Hey.’

      Harper glanced at him. ‘What’s up, DJ?’

      David J. Gonzales earned his nickname after announcing that his newspaper byline must include his middle initial.

      ‘It’s an important part of my name,’ he’d explained earnestly, to anyone who would listen.

      At twenty-three years old, and on his first-ever newspaper job, he had no idea why this was so hilarious to the paper’s hardened old-timers.

      At first they’d referred to him as David J in all circumstances. ‘Is David J coming?’ ‘Have you seen David J?’

      Over time, that shrank to his initials, and he’d been DJ to everyone at the paper ever since.

      ‘Baxter’s looking for you,’ he said. ‘Where you been?’

      An unruly mop of thick, dark hair overshadowed his glasses and round, jovial face.

      ‘Cop shop.’

      ‘Huh. She said she tried to call you.’

      ‘Oh crap. Did she?’ Harper dug through her bag until she found her phone. The message on the screen blinked an accusation.

       Ten missed calls.

      ‘Balls. I forgot to turn the ringer on.’

      ‘Again?’ DJ shot her a look. ‘She’s going to kill you.’

      ‘Good. At least that’ll give me something to write about,’ she said snappishly.

      Half-standing, she looked to the front of the room, but the city editor’s desk was empty.

      She sat down again. ‘What does she want?’

      DJ shrugged. He’d missed a spot shaving and the dark whiskers stood out against his tawny skin like a fingerprint.

      ‘Dunno. She’s on the warpath about something.’

      ‘Yeah, but that’s every day.’

      ‘True.’ Seeming to notice her suddenly, he took in the dark circles under her eyes and her unhealthy pallor. ‘You look terrible. What’d you get up to last night?’

      Harper typed her login – a machine-gun rattle of keys.

      ‘Demon alcohol is destroying my life,’ she informed him solemnly. ‘I need to find Jesus.’

      DJ grinned. ‘My mom knows where he is if you’re really looking for him. She also has an excellent lock on the Virgin Mary’s location.’

      With that, he shoved his chair forward and around in a surprisingly accurate move that propelled him precisely as far as his own desk.

      DJ was only four years younger than Harper, but they were four really long years. When he’d first started at the paper, he was like the kid brother she never wanted, and she’d blamed Baxter bitterly from day one for putting his desk next to hers. He was so needy – constantly asking questions. It drove her crazy.

      Gradually, though, he’d got better at his job and, although she couldn’t put her finger on when it happened, at some point she’d decided she liked him after all.

      Pulling out her notes, she began typing up a quick report of the day’s smaller crimes. These would go on page six, in a box unimaginatively called ‘The Crime Report’.

      ‘McClain.’ Baxter’s voice cut across the hum and buzz of the room.

      ‘Present.’ Harper lifted her hand.

      Baxter marched over to her desk – her hair bone-straight, her angular features set in tight lines. She moved so fast her jacket swung around her thin frame when she stopped at Harper’s desk.

      ‘I had an agitated call from the deputy police chief this afternoon,’ she announced. ‘Seems you got too close to the action at that homicide last night. Is this true?’

      As she spoke, the ambient noise in the room dipped subtly.

      Harper leaned back in her chair, calculating her chances. Even after years at the paper, she found it impossible to tell when Baxter was really pissed off. The woman had to be a nightmare at the poker table.

      ‘I guess I did,’ she conceded. ‘That bullet missed me by inches.’

      The room was very quiet now. DJ swiveled slowly around to watch.

      Baxter’s hand dropped onto Harper’s shoulder in a movement that could either have been a pat or a punch.

      ‘Good work,’ she barked. ‘That’s what I like to see. Initiative.’

      The noise in the room returned to normal.

      ‘Get me another front page like that and I’ll give you a raise.’ Baxter spoke loud enough to ensure the whole room could hear.

      Behind her back, DJ gave Harper a thumbs up.

      ‘A raise? Isn’t that one sign of the apocalypse?’ Harper heard someone ask in a pseudo-whisper.

      When the editor had returned to her desk, DJ slid closer.

      ‘That reminds me. I meant to tell you your story was awesome today,’ he said. ‘That picture, too.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve got the best beat. I never get to write that hero shit.’

      DJ was on the education beat. The most exciting thing he got to write about was a new dormitory at the college.

      ‘The hours suck,’ she pointed out kindly.

      ‘True.’ He spun around again and returned to his desk.

      She didn’t know how he could do that so many times a day without making himself puke.

      Harper’s copy of the day’s paper still lay on her desk. Idly, she picked it up. Miles’ photo took up most of the space above the fold, with her story running underneath it.

      Because of the darkness, and the way Miles had widened the aperture so he could shoot at night without a flash, the photo looked almost black and white. The barrel of the gun was pointed right at the camera. Above the shooter’s bandanna, his young, jaded eyes stared at the reader with unconstrained loathing.

      It was intimate. Intimidating. It grabbed you by the throat and demanded to be noticed.

      ‘Hell of a shot,’ she muttered.

      Then she tossed the newspaper aside and got back to work.

       Chapter Eight

      That night was blessedly uneventful – Harper spent most of it at her desk, listening to the low rumble of the scanner and trying to stay awake.

      At midnight, she went straight home and collapsed in bed. She was asleep in seconds.

      The next day, she woke after noon, ravenous, the last remnants of the hangover finally gone.

      Following a quick shower, and a scan of her emails, she headed out for breakfast. She was sitting alone in a red vinyl booth in Eric’s Diner eating one of the ‘fresh burgers’ advertised in vivid neon out front when Miles called.

      Stuffing a French fry in her mouth, she hit the answer button.

      ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

      ‘I’m at a crime scene on Constance Street. I think you better get down here.’ His voice was low but intense.

      ‘What’ve you got?’

      Even as she spoke, she was wrestling her scanner out of her bag; switching it on. A confusing tangle of police voices hissed into the air.

      A