Free Pretty Dead by Anne Frasier

eleven.”
    “So when would you say you and she . . . hung out?”
    He didn’t answer.
    “I’m betting the samples we took from her mouth and stomach would match your DNA.”
    Her words had the expected effect. “About ten o’clock,” he said. “She gave me a blow job, I paid her, and she left.”
    “Paid her with crack cocaine? Because according to the autopsy report, she had coke and meth in her system.”
    “Does it matter how she was paid? I thought this was about murder, not drugs.”
    “I’m trying to let you know that we have enough to lock you up.” But not enough to hold him long. She didn’t tell him that. “And I’m trying to let you know that I’m willing to forget about that if you help us.” She produced her card and handed it to him. “Here’s my number.”
    He checked it out, smiled to himself, and tucked the card inside his jacket.
    “This is serious, you know,” she said. Tyrell had been polite to her. She got the sense that he respected women, all things considered. “Girls are being killed in the most brutal way. You don’t want that, do you?”
    “Hell no.”
    “So if you hear anything or see anything, call me.” She directed her voice toward the driver. “Pull over, please.”
    Their speed didn’t change.
    “Pull over,” Tyrell said, repeating Elise’s command. This time the big guy responded and stopped the car. Elise opened her door and stepped out. “Call me night or day,” she said.
    “You like the symphony?” Tyrell asked. “I got season tickets. Good seats. I’ll wear a suit and tie.” He nodded at some thought in his head. “I look really fine when I get slicked up. And you could do your hair and wear some kind of red strapless dress. We’d make a good-looking pair.”
    “Not gonna happen.”
    “For old time’s sake?”
    “Not gonna happen.”
    He gave her a smile. “I’m not used to being turned down.”
    “I’ll bet you aren’t.”
    “What the hell was that all about?” David asked once she was back in the surveillance car with him and they were driving in the direction of the police station. “From my front-row seat, that appeared awfully chummy.”
    “Old school buddy. Used to go by the name of Harold Freeman, but he reinvented himself as Tyrell King. We reminisced a little. He asked me to the symphony.”
    From the backseat came the sound of Jay Thomas’s scratching pen. Once again she’d forgotten about him.
    “My God, this town is weird.” David drove on in silence, then seemed to have an alarming thought. “Are you going?”

CHAPTER 10
    C aroline Chesterfield adjusted her backpack and headed down the dimly lit street in the direction of home, her legs aching from standing on concrete for five hours. Such was the life of a waitress. Such was the life of an estranged child. But at least the scent of jasmine brought her a soft sense of comfort, and the dark and quiet were welcoming after the noise and overstimulation of the bar.
    She considered herself a good girl, although other people had a different opinion. Her father, for instance. But she was no slouch. She’d been accepted to Harvard. Harvard! Wasn’t that enough? she asked herself as she crossed the dark street. Wasn’t that as good as actually going? An acceptance letter from freakin’ Harvard?
    “He’s holding you back,” her mother had told her, talking about Caroline’s boyfriend. “You can be anybody, do anything. Why stay in Savannah? Why go to SCAD when you could go to Harvard?” In her mother’s soft Southern voice, the word “SCAD”—as the art school was known both in and outside of Savannah—somehow managed to convey just the right amount of polite disdain.
    Her parents had never taken Caroline’s interest in art and music seriously, always treating it like a hobby. Oh, isn’t that cute? The verbal equivalent of a pat on the head. They wanted her to be a doctor or a lawyer or whatever other prestigious occupation could be pulled from their