by Lisa Jackson
“Mrs. Bandeaux? My condolences.”
She braced herself. Expected a reporter to have crashed the funeral, thought a microphone would be thrust in front of her face as a camera clicked off quick shots for the local paper.
“Not now,” Troy uttered.
“I know it’s a difficult time, and I only stopped by because I’m a colleague of Rebecca Wade.” The voice was male. Deep. The man behind it, tall and serious. Khaki pants, loose blue sweater, dark hair longer than the current rage, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw.
Troy turned to face the intruder. “I don’t care who you are. This is a very private time. If you’ll excuse us—”
“No. Wait.” Caitlyn paused in a patch of shade. She squinted up at him through dark glasses. “You know Dr. Wade?”
“Went to school with her, then worked with her for years. I’m Adam Hunt.” He extended his hand. “She asked me to check with some of her patients while she’s away.”
“You’ve spoken with her?”
“Not recently. But I was detained a bit.” He glanced down, and for the first time she noticed that his ankle appeared to be taped. “Got into a tangle with a motorcycle. I lost.” He flashed a wide smile that warmed the cool gray of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have come here today, but you haven’t returned any of my calls and Rebecca asked me specifically to contact you. I’m . . . I’m sorry for the delay. I know that this is a particularly difficult time for you, so if you want to talk to anyone, just call me.” He pressed a business card into her hand. “I won’t keep you. Again, my condolences.”
Before she could respond, he hobbled off down a slight slope to a spot where an older-model Jeep was parked.
“What the devil was that all about?” Troy asked, tugging at his tie.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, for the record, I don’t like him. Probably got a personal agenda.”
“For the record, you don’t like anyone,” Caitlyn said and saw a shadow pass behind her brother’s eyes. “Okay, low blow. I’m sorry,” she amended. “This is just a rough day.”
“Aren’t they all?” he responded as the driver opened the door for her, and out of the corner of her eye Caitlyn watched Adam Hunt slide behind the wheel of the Jeep. “Who the hell is Rebecca Wade?”
“My shrink.”
“Oh.” Troy cast a glance at the Jeep as it drove off. “In that case, maybe you should talk to him, but check him out first. He could be a reporter with a cover story. Some of them aren’t all that trustworthy, you know. Would go to any lengths to get a scoop.”
“You really are paranoid.”
“Not me. Just realistic.” They scooted over the hot seat as the driver turned on the engine and cranked up the air conditioning. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother, Lucille, Amanda and Hannah climb into a second dark vehicle. They were on their way to Oak Hill.
“It runs in the family,” she said, joking morbidly.
“Very funny. But not through me. The rest of you, okay? Remember, I’m the sane one.”
She doubted it. But then she was beginning to doubt just about everything. The sane one? Oh, Troy, get over yourself.
As far as her family went, she’d be surprised if there was a sane one in the lot.
Atropos observed them all. The mourners of Josh Bandeaux. As if anyone really cared if he lived or died. She had watched the service, the dour expression of the preacher, the mother-in-law’s weary, unhappy expression behind her half veil, as if the funeral had been some kind of fashion show . . . and then there were the others, those illegitimate, greedy Biscaynes who’d made a public show of being a part of the Montgomery family.
Sugar. Cricket. Dickie Ray . . . their names said it all. One called something sweet when she was nothing more than a whore, the other’s nickname that of an insect that made a lot of noise and the third named for his claim to fame—the only one of the bastards who’d been blessed with a penis. And probably a minute one at that.
Atropos had seen their desperate expressions, their lust to be a part of the Montgomery family tree, to have a chance at a fortune they wouldn’t have to earn. It pleased her to know that they’d never get any of it; nor would the rest, the legitimate side of the family.
It wasn’t their fate, nor their destiny.
The strings of life had been woven and measured.
All that was left was for them to be cut at the appropriate time.
They would all have to be patient, but then they would feel the pain of Fate’s razor-sharp sheers . . . but the deaths would be appropriate, the suffering acute and specific. Because Atropos knew it wasn’t the deaths that were important. It was the dying.
Eleven
Sometimes those who appear the most innocent are the most evil.
How many times in his career had this proved true? Reed glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the black town cars that held members of the Montgomery family along with the Widow Bandeaux. He sensed that she knew more than she was saying about her husband’s death, and yet he couldn’t really figure her out. She was beautiful and sexy and at times appeared as shy as a frightened rabbit, while in other instances she’d proved herself aggressive and as tough as a wounded cat. One with very sharp claws.
His gut feeling was that he was missing something. Something important.
Driving away from the cemetery, he flipped down the cruiser’s visor. Traffic was light but the glare off the hood was harsh enough to make him squint behind his polarized lenses. He pushed the speed limit and cut through side streets, heading toward the center of town where the smell of the Savannah River crawled upward through the Cotton Exchange and Emmet Park to hang low over the city.
Caitlyn Bandeaux must’ve killed her husband, he rationalized, as he passed a horse-drawn carriage filled with tourists. The beasts, palomino draft horses in thick harnesses, plodded past historic sites while a tour guide pointed out the homes and businesses of the once-leading citizens of the city. Reed barely noticed. His thoughts were filled with Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux and her part in her estranged husband’s death. All of the evidence—no, make that most of the evidence—pointed straight at Mrs. Bandeaux. He couldn’t ignore it.
Motive. Her old man was going to divorce her for a younger woman, plus he was planning to file a wrongful death suit against her for the death of their child. Salt on an old wound. Another round of public humiliation.
Means. As frail as Caitlyn Bandeaux appeared at times, Reed was willing to bet she was smart and strong enough to drug Bandeaux and slit his wrists. Lipstick on the wineglass indicated that someone was present, presumably a woman. The matter of getting some GHB was easy—a street drug popular at rave parties.
Opportunity. Caitlyn had no alibi, nothing set in stone, at least nothing she’d offered up. They’d talked on the phone a couple of times, and she claimed her recollection of the night was “fuzzy.” Meaning she was either blotto out of her mind with alcohol or she was lying.
He’d bet on the latter.
Lying for herself? Or covering up for someone else? And if so, who?
Caitlyn’s car, or one like it, had been seen at Bandeaux’s house that night. Which propelled her to the top of the suspect list. More and more he wasn’t buying into the suicide scenario. It seemed contrived. Clunky. Out of place.
So was Caitlyn Bandeaux a cold-blooded killer? Outwardly, she didn’t seem the type.
Because there was no type.
And, face it, Reed, you’re a sucker for a pretty face and a knock-out figure.
Frowning, he stopped for a traffic light. His jaw set. His fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel.
So why not arrest her? Or get a search warrant for her house? Maybe you’ll get lucky and find the murder weapon.
But he had to tread carefully. There was the issue of her mental health; she’d been in a psych ward at least once and an innocent plea by reason of insanity would be a no-brainer for any lawyer she hired. Reed wondered
about Caitlyn’s supposed mental illness. How handy that Rebecca Wade had conveniently pulled up stakes and moved away for an indeterminate amount of time. He made a mental note to track the missing shrink down. Pronto. Her absence was just too much of a coincidence. There was a chance that even if he arrested Caitlyn Bandeaux, a sharp attorney could fall back on an insanity defense.
The light changed and he stepped on it. He’d have to talk to Caitlyn Bandeaux again and try to pin her down about her whereabouts on the night Bandeaux died. After that he’d put a tail on her. Watch what she did. And who better than himself?
After all, whether he liked to admit it or not, he enjoyed a stakeout where a beautiful woman was involved. Which posed another problem. A major problem.
As he turned onto Habersham Street, he thought fleetingly of San Francisco and another time, a night when the fog had rolled in from the bay and he’d pulled the surveillance duty. His job had been to watch a woman suspected of dealing drugs.
She’d lived in an upper story in a loft apartment not far from Fisherman’s Wharf. His jaw clenched as he remembered her undressing in an erotic dance that almost seemed as if she’d known he—or someone—was observing her. Wearing a short skirt, blouse and scarf, she’d slowly peeled off the outer layer, wiggling out of the skirt, unbuttoning her blouse, coming closer to the window, showing him more skin than was normal as she unhooked her bra and bared her breasts. Letting the scant scrap of silk fall to the floor, she’d touched her dark nipples and paraded around in the barest of panties and her scarf, then ambled up to the window, licked her lips and pulled down the shade.
Reed had seen the rest through the flimsy screen, her small shadow, then another, a much larger image, and the horrifying struggle—or had it been an embrace? Had the seductive display not been for his benefit at all, but for someone else, someone inside the apartment? Reed hadn’t taken a chance and called for backup before flying out of his building and into the street. Up five floors to her apartment where he’d kicked the door open and found her lying on the floor in front of the window. The scarf she’d used to tempt him had become her noose.
Her assailant had escaped, had seemed to vanish into thin air.
Her killer was never located.
Reed’s judgment had been questioned.
His effectiveness in doubt.
He’d taken a leave of absence and then resigned, taking the job here, in Savannah, leaving the city on the bay to start over. Here. Nearly three thousand miles away.
Or were you just running away?
Pulling into the lot behind the station, he didn’t want to think about what he’d left: a smart, sexy schoolteacher who had claimed to love him, a city he’d known and liked, a job that was intriguing and a reputation that had been tarnished. And what had he gotten here, in Savannah? A couple of failed relationships, a handful of one-night stands and a job no better than the one he’d left on the West Coast. But now he was presented the opportunity to redeem himself by tracking down Josh Bandeaux’s killer ... no matter who she happened to be.
He parked in an open slot in the lot at police headquarters, jammed his keys into his pocket and walked into the cool interior of the building. Pushing all images of San Francisco out of his head, he took the stairs to Homicide and strode into his office. It seemed airless and tight. He threw open the window and let fresh air into his over-cooled, stale-smelling box of a room, then flipped through his messages and in-box, before reading his e-mail. Then he placed another call to Mrs. Bandeaux, who wasn’t yet at home. Probably with the family at one of those gatherings of the bereaved after a funeral where everyone stands around lying about what a great guy the deceased was.
Rotating in his chair, he stared out the window to the red-brick building across the square, a restored Victorian home once owned by a rice broker. He had other cases to think about. There had been a knifing on the waterfront last week, the case still unsolved, and a domestic case where a wife, nearly beaten to death herself, claimed she hadn’t pulled the trigger of the pistol that had shot her husband. There were a couple of others as well, but the Bandeaux case haunted him, was the one that had the D.A. frothing at the bit.
Though he sensed that Caitlyn Montgomery knew a lot more than she was telling, she wasn’t alone. Not for a minute did he discount the rest of Josh Bandeaux’s in-laws. The Montgomery family history read like something out of a bad soap opera.
Reed had done some checking on his own after hearing Morrisette’s viewpoint. And she’d been right on the money. Mental illness and rumors of incest seemed to be the most common theme, but the police blotter was filled with reports over the years, complaints and citations, everything from traffic tickets to suicide and attempted murder . . . yet suspiciously few arrests, probably due to the fact that the rich Montgomery family had consistently contributed to the campaigns of the local D.A., the sheriff, several judges and just about every public official who ever ran for office. Even the governor.
But this time was different. If a Montgomery had killed Joshua Bandeaux, then he or she would pay for it. End of story.
He sensed Morrisette approach before he actually heard her, smelled a hint of perfume and cigarettes a second or two prior to the sound of her footsteps crossing his threshold as she pushed open the door he’d left ajar. The sounds of voices, phones, shuffling feet and whirring office machines in the open area of the department increased as she left the door open wide, crossed the small, crammed space and balanced one hip against his desk. “How’d the funeral go?”
“How do they all go? The preacher said some prayers, stretched the truth by saying what a saint Bandeaux was, then stuffed him into the ground.”
“Don’t sugar-coat it on my account,” she drawled. “The missus there?”
“Surrounded by her family. And the bereaved.”
“Both of them?” Morrisette asked, snapping her gum.
“Very funny. Actually, there were over a hundred in the church, about half that at the interment.”
“Anyone laughing?”
“Nah.” He felt one side of his mouth lift. “You really had it in for that son of a bitch, didn’t you?”
“ ’Course not.”
Leaning back in his chair, he lifted a doubting eyebrow.
Morrisette rolled her eyes. “I didn’t like my friend getting involved with him. Tried to talk her out of it. He was just a little too smooth. You know the type. Bad boy, playboy, rich boy, all rolled into one handsome package. Years ago he would’ve been selling snake oil.”
“That was your friend Molly?”
“Millie, and don’t try to trip me up, okay?” Her face was suddenly hard. “I don’t like being tested. Not by anyone, and especially not you!”
“I was just asking about Bandeaux.”
“Millie was going through a rough time, okay. Bandeaux showed some interest. The way I heard it . . . he was a good time on a Saturday night. But I don’t know from personal experience, so get over it.”
“All right.”
“Now, if you’re done with your sick innuendos, let’s get down to some real police work. I talked with Bandeaux’s secretary earlier this morning. According to her, nothing was out of the ordinary down at the office.”
“You believe her?”
“Don’t know why she’d lie. It’s not like she could get fired for what she says to the cops.” Morrisette picked up a pen from Reed’s desk and clicked it several times. “She didn’t seem that broken up about it. Said she’d already lined up another job. It was a short conversation. She had to get to the funeral.”
“So you had time to go if you wanted to?”
“Not really. I got a call from Diane Moses. Seems that the lab found something interesting in the bloodstains on Bandeaux’s carpet.”
“What?”
“A second type.” She grinned widely.
“Second type?”
“Bandeaux was B-neg. Kinda rare. That’s what most of the blood was, but there were traces of someone else
’s. Human blood. O-positive. So I did a little checkin’ around, called in a favor at the local hospital and guess what I found?”
He was already a step ahead of her. “That the poor widow has O-positive blood.”
“Bingo!”
“Anyone else?”
“That’s where it gets a little muddy. O-pos is common. Especially in the Montgomery family tree. Just about every Montgomery from the grandmother down to the little kid who died had O-positive, and I’m sure that a large portion of the citizens of Savannah do as well. But we can have some DNA work done and that should narrow the field a tad.”
“We’ll cross-match it with everyone associated with the victim. You order the DNA report?”
“Mmhmm. Now . . . all we need is something from Mrs. Bandeaux—a hair or some body fluids—and we’ll be in business.”
“I was going to meet with her anyway.”
“So now you have another reason.”
“Another one?”
“Oh, come on, Detective, don’t try to bull sh—pull one over on me.” Morrisette cocked her head to one side to survey him. “It’s written all over that ugly mug of yours. You find the widow attractive.”
“She is attractive,” he said carefully.
“I mean, attractive to you. If she wasn’t our A-number one suspect, you might just think about taking her out and trying her on for size.”
“Don’t think so,” Reed lied, not wanting to follow that line of thinking. “She’s a little wacky for my taste.”
“I told you not to bullshit me. Oh, darn, another quarter.” Looking disgusted with herself, Morrisette hopped off the desk. “You like ’em a little wacky. Or kinky. Maybe even a lot kinky. As long as they’re at least one step out of the mainstream. Wasn’t that the trouble with the schoolteacher? Helen? She was too square.”
Reed didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened.
“Hey!” Morrisette held her hands up to her head as if in surrender. “I’m not the one to talk about relationships. If there’s a loser within a five-hundred-mile radius, I end up dating him.”