He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

considering. “From what you told me about your gut this morning, about when you stopped that white van because you thought something was off, I’m inclined to trust your instincts. I’ll call the field office in Birmingham, have them check out the conference alibi, make sure Riley was really there. Do you want to send any of your men to Alabama?”
    “No. I don’t want Riley or anyone else to hear about this, especially without any evidence. I don’t want to hurt his career or his reputation if I’m wrong. Can someone out of your Jacksonville office run a quiet investigation into Riley’s background? See where he was at the time of the other murders during the past four years?”
    “You bet. In the meantime, we could put a tail on him.”
    “It wouldn’t work,” Logan said. “I may have been born here but I moved away for over a decade. To my men, I’m still an outsider until I prove myself. Riley’s one of them, a local. None of them could keep this a secret from him.”
    “Then I’ll have one of my men tail him.”
    “Can you spare the manpower?”
    “I’ll get the manpower. If there’s even a slight chance Riley could be our man, I want to know.”
    “You don’t think I’m nuts?”
    Pierce’s mouth quirked up in a wry grin. “I think you’re desperate. I don’t think Riley has anything to do with the murders. But I’ll humor you. In a few days I’ll have proof, one way or the other.”

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    O ne of Amanda’s constant shadows opened his car door down the street from her house, apparently thinking she was about to go for a walk. She waved him back and pointed to her mailbox at the end of the driveway to let him know she was just checking the mail. He waved to let her know he understood and closed his car door.
    A white Camry turned the corner onto the street. Amanda glanced at the unfamiliar car. A flicker of unease passed through her. She hurriedly grabbed the mail, quickly noting there were only bills, not the new movie from her mail-order movie club that she’d been expecting. Maybe tomorrow. She had plenty of movies in the house she could re-watch. No big deal.
    The sound of the car’s engine was much louder now. Amanda closed the mailbox and hurried up the driveway, back toward the safety of her house. Tires squealed behind her, and she jerked around to see the Camry barreling into her driveway. She gasped and dove out of the way, hitting the ground hard and rolling onto her back as the car screeched to a halt, its front bumper narrowly missing her.
    A man holding a camera jumped out of the car, along with a familiar-looking blonde woman. Amanda’s stomach lurched with dread.
    “Ms. Stockton, Tiffany Adams, Channel Ten News,” the woman announced as the man who’d gotten out of the car shoved his camera toward Amanda’s face.
    Car doors slammed down the street. Shouts of “Police, stop!” were accompanied by the sounds of shoes slapping against the pavement.
    Amanda desperately raised her hands to hide her face, and struggled to get up with the camera so close to her. “Back off,” she bit out through clenched teeth. The man stepped back, giving her just enough room to stand, but not offering to help her up.
    “Ms. Stockton,” the blonde continued, as if nearly running someone over was nothing to worry about. “Can you comment on the recent murder of Carolyn O’Donnell? How does it make you feel to know that the man who attacked you and killed your friend may be back in town killing again?”
    Amanda’s face flushed hot as she shoved past the anchorwoman. How did they think she felt? That had to be the dumbest question ever asked and it was usually the first one out of a reporter’s mouth when interrogating a crime victim.
    When the reporter stepped in front of her, Amanda took childish relish in stepping on the toes of the woman’s designer high-heeled shoes and seeing the woman flinch. “Get off my property,” Amanda told them as she ran to the carport.
    “Hey, what are you doing? Get your hands off the camera.”
    Amanda heard the commotion behind her and knew the undercover policemen had reached the news crew. She jerked open her side door and rushed inside the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her.
    “I hate morgues.” Riley stepped into the elevator. “Even hospital morgues. They smell.”
    Logan rolled his eyes and punched the button for the parking garage level.
    “I’ve smelled worse,” Pierce said. “At least the