A Beautiful Corpse. Christi Daugherty

far end of the room and, beyond them, the glassed-in office of the paper’s managing editor, Paul Dells.

      Harper’s desk was midway down the row closest to the windows. She’d had this prime position since the last round of layoffs removed many of the paper’s senior writers two years ago, and left the newsroom half empty.

      As soon as she set her coffee down, DJ Gonzales spun his chair around to face her. His wavy dark hair was even more unruly than usual.

      ‘What are you doing here this early?’ he asked accusingly. ‘I thought you burned in daylight.’

      ‘I’m not a vampire, DJ,’ she told him, dropping into her seat. ‘I work nights. We’ve had this conversation.’

      She switched on her computer with a move so automatic she couldn’t remember doing it two seconds later and took a sip of coffee.

      ‘Christ, I’m tired,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

      DJ rolled closer. ‘Were you up all night on this murder everyone’s talking about?’

      Harper waved her coffee in affirmation.

      He didn’t try to disguise his envy. DJ worked the education beat. He found Harper’s work endlessly glamorous.

      ‘Sounds like a juicy one. It was all over the TV this morning. You’re going to own tomorrow’s front page.’ His tone was wistful. ‘I can’t believe some chick got capped right in the middle of River Street.’

      ‘I can’t believe people still say “capped”,’ she replied.

      ‘Is it out of fashion?’ DJ sounded surprised. ‘I thought it was cutting edge.’

      ‘Harper.’

      At the sound of Emma Baxter’s sharp bark from the front of the room, DJ spun his chair back toward his desk with pinpoint precision, and ducked behind his computer screen as if it were a shield.

      The city editor strode across the room, her blunt-cut dark hair swinging against the shoulders of her navy blazer. Dells was right behind her.

      ‘Crap,’ Harper whispered.

      The managing editor usually didn’t get involved in the crime beat. But this one must be big enough to attract his attention.

      ‘What’ve you got on River Street?’ Baxter asked as she neared Harper’s desk. ‘Why does Miles say you know the victim?’

      Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw DJ’s head bob up.

      ‘I don’t really know her. I just happened to be in the bar where she works last night,’ Harper explained, glancing at Dells.

      ‘Perfect,’ Baxter snapped. ‘Do me a first-person, emotional account – “A Brush With Death”. It can run alongside your main piece on the shooting.’

      Dells stepped forward. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a dark-blue suit with a crisp white shirt that looked like it cost more than her car, and a pale blue silk tie. His dark hair was neatly styled.

      ‘What do we know so far?’ he asked. ‘The TV stations haven’t got much.’

      ‘The dead woman is Naomi Scott – a second-year law student.’ Harper flipped open her notebook. ‘Seemed to be your basic all-American girl. Left work at one thirty, died of two gunshot wounds. Found with her purse but not her phone. Cops aren’t saying if it was robbery. Nobody knows what the hell she was doing down by the river.’

      ‘Do we know who her family is?’ Dells asked. ‘Are they locals?’

      ‘I think so,’ Harper said. ‘Her father’s Jerrod Scott, I’m trying to track him down now.’

      Baxter peered at the half-empty notebook. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

      ‘Come on.’ A defensive note entered Harper’s voice: ‘I was in the police station half the night.’

      ‘We’re holding most of the front page for this,’ Dells told her. ‘The TV stations are going to be all over it.’

      ‘I’ll start making calls,’ Harper said.

      ‘Good.’ Baxter’s tone was brisk. ‘I want to know who this girl was. If she was so perfect, how’d she end up dead in the street at two in the morning? Call the mayor’s office. Ask her what she’s going to do about people getting shot in the middle of the damned tourist district.’

      Dells headed back to his office. Baxter followed, turning so fast her jacket flew off one bony shoulder.

      Her last words floated behind her like a cluster bomb: ‘Do it fast. We need something for the website, now.’

      When they were gone, DJ swung around to look at Harper, brown eyes wide behind smudged, wire-framed glasses.

      ‘Dude. You drank in her bar and then she died?’

      Harper nodded.

      He looked impressed. ‘Tell me something – do you ever think you might be cursed?’

      Shooting him a withering glance, Harper logged in to her computer.

      ‘I’m busy, DJ.’

      ‘I’m only saying it’s worth a thought,’ he said, spinning back toward his own desk.

      It was a bad joke but, as Harper hurriedly checked out the stories about the shooting on the local TV station websites, she found herself thinking about it, nonetheless. After all, Naomi wasn’t the first murder victim in her life.

      The first murder victim had been her mother.

      Harper had discovered her body on the kitchen floor when she was twelve years old. That still unsolved homicide set off a chain of events that led to her close relationship with the police.

      It had also led to everything that happened last year, when Lieutenant Smith was convicted of a murder that had mirrored her mother’s killing in every way.

      Breaking that story – and becoming part of it when she was shot by Smith – had raised Harper’s profile; ensuring her position at the newspaper, even in these shaky financial times.

      Still, Baxter wasn’t one to stand on history. She needed a steady stream of juicy crime stories to anchor the front page. Even without police cooperation, Harper could provide that. She had her ways. She knew the system better than anyone.

      As long as she could keep the headlines coming, her job was safe. She hoped.

      Picking up the phone, Harper dialed the mayor’s office number. It rang five times before an assistant answered.

      ‘Thank you for calling Mayor Cantrelle’s office, how can I help you?’

      ‘This is Harper McClain at the Daily News. I’d like to ask the mayor some questions about the shooting on River Street last night.’

      ‘She’s in a meeting.’ The assistant’s tone indicated she wasn’t the first to call. ‘I’ll ask her to get back to you.’

      ‘Make it quick, would you? We’re in a rush.’

      ‘As I said,’ the assistant sounded unmoved, ‘she’s in a meeting.’

      While she waited for the mayor to call her back, Harper opened an internet search engine and typed: ‘Naomi Scott’.

      A flood of false returns filled her screen. A blogger with 40,000 Twitter followers dominated, along with a Chicago attorney.

      When she added ‘Savannah’ to the search, though, she found what she was looking for.

      It was a social networking site for students at the Savannah State College. The picture on Naomi’s page was arresting. Her shoulder-length black hair hung loose in waves. Her unblemished skin, high cheekbones and huge, cinnamon eyes gave her an ethereal beauty.

      Harper stared