by Lisa Jackson
“Where do you usually keep your car?” he asked.
“In my garage at my house. I live out at Quail Run. It’s a gated community, complete with security guard.”
“When’s the last time you drove the car?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Three weeks ago. It’s a sports car, and I only use it once in a while. I usually drive my Mercedes. The TR is just for fun, a convertible.”
“Who else drives the sports car?”
“Just me.”
“What about your husband?” Morrisette asked.
Amanda shook her head. “Never. Just me.”
“But he has access.” Sylvie Morrisette wasn’t about to back down.
“Yeah, he even has a key so that he can move it if he has to or wash it. But trust me, Ian didn’t sabotage my car!”
“Then who did?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”
“You have anyone over to your house lately?”
“No . . . well, not really.”
“What do you mean not really?” Morrisette countered. “Either someone was there or not.”
“What I mean is no one I don’t trust. My brother, Troy, and my sisters Caitlyn and Hannah have each been over . . . and my friend, Elisa.”
“How about since the time you last drove the car. When was that?”
“Two . . . no, more like two-and-a-half weeks ago. I had to go pick up some paperwork I’d left at the office, so I drove into town, then came directly home.”
“So who’s been to your house since?”
Amanda scowled. “I don’t know. Some friends, neighbors, workmen. I had some maintenance done on my air conditioner and a chimney sweep come to clean out the flues.”
“Did they go into the garage where your Triumph was parked?”
“I suppose so. I don’t really know.”
Reed said, “It would be helpful if you made a list of everywhere the car has been and the names of everyone who had access to your garage over the last two-and-a-half weeks. I’d also like copies of the last couple of invoices from the shop who did the work on your car, including if you went to one of those quickie lube places.”
“I’ll get those for you.”
“Good.” Reed and Morrisette asked more questions, and she gave a rundown of the events leading up to the accident, how the brakes had failed.
Amanda gave them a list of names of the people who regularly worked for her—the lawn service, the maid, the neighbor next door who had a key to the house—and promised to get the other information they’d requested, but she wasn’t satisfied. “You know, I’d check out Cricket Biscayne if I were you.”
“She called 911 for you.”
“So I heard, but I’m sure you already know that there’s a lot of bad blood between my family and hers.”
“The way I hear it, you’re all part of one big extended family.”
Amanda bristled. “That’s not how I see it, and it seems pretty damned coincidental that she’s the person who sees me lose control of the car. You know the Biscaynes are white trash, and I don’t care if that’s not PC or that my grandfather was involved with their grandmother. They’re just a bunch of lowlifes with their hands out. It wasn’t just a lucky set of circumstances that Cricket was following me.”
When the interview was over, Amanda left a business card with her home and office numbers printed on it. “You can reach me at either number,” she said as Reed clicked off his recorder and she, wincing, slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder. “I’ll fax you the invoices you wanted along with a list of the people who work for me, or who have been to the house and seen the car, with their addresses and phone numbers.”
“I’ll look for it,” Reed assured her. The lady was nothing if not efficient.
“Good.” She started for the door but hesitated. “Thanks,” she added, as if it was an afterthought, then left, sweeping out the door and through the cubicles.
“She gives new meaning to the word bitch,” Morrisette observed, not seeming to care if Amanda Drummond was out of earshot. “Jesus, did she climb all over us or what?” Morrisette glared through the open door. “You know what? She just about made me want to turn coat.”
Reed raised an eyebrow.
“After that, I’m thinking of joining the other team. Anyone who’s trying to get rid of her is my kind of guy.”
“Or gal,” he thought aloud. “She said her sisters had been over.”
“Oh, wait a minute. I see where this is going. You think Caitlyn Bandeaux slid under the Triumph and snipped the brake lines? Are you nuts? Have you ever seen one of those cars? They’re just a few inches off the ground, and I don’t think Mrs. Bandeaux is the mechanical type. Whoever did this would have to know what he—or she—was doing. Nah, Reed, you’re way off base with this one.”
Reed wasn’t convinced. “I want what’s left of the car dusted for prints, and we need to see the area where it was parked. Check and see if any brake fluid had dripped onto the garage floor or anywhere else she may have parked it, and as I told her, I want to see the mechanic’s records.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, I think Amanda’s right. We need to talk to Cricket Biscayne to begin with and then have another chat with our favorite widow.”
“I’ll call on Cricket—Jesus, what’s with these people? If you were named Copper, would you name your kids Cricket and Sugar? I mean, I know they’re nicknames, that Cricket is really Christina and Sugar is Sheryl, but you’d think, by the time they were adults, they would have started calling themselves something a little more sophisticated . . . classy. Sugar’s a stripper and Cricket’s a flake of a hairdresser who can’t stay in one shop for more than a month or two at a time.” She slapped the heel of a hand to her forehead. “Forget I said that.”
Her pager went off. “Shit, if this is my babysitter—” She pointed a finger at Reed. “Don’t even say it—I know. I’ve got the quarter already.” She was looking at the readout on her pager. “Oh, fu–fudge. It’s Bart. Probably another reason he can’t make the child support. I wonder what it is this time? His truck broke down? He lost another job? He’s a little short. Crap! Every damned month!” She took off down the hall swearing a blue streak and Reed, still thinking about Amanda Montgomery and her claim about the attempt on her life, decided to pick up his faxes.
There were several, none yet from Amanda Montgomery, but the one that caught his attention was from the detective in New Orleans, Montoya. It was a photograph and description of Marta Vasquez. The picture was grainy black and white, but showed a pretty woman with short, dark hair, nose that turned up just a bit and wide, sensual lips. Reed couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her and how, if in any way, it could be connected to the Bandeaux case. According to the information, Marta had a scar on her abdomen from an appendix surgery and a tattoo of a hummingbird on her ankle. She’d been a student off and on and had recently worked at an insurance company before quitting suddenly with no explanation.
A lot like Rebecca Wade, Caitlyn Bandeaux’s shrink.
Coincidence?
Unlikely.
Marta Vasquez was the daughter of Lucille Vasquez, maid, housekeeper, and general nanny for the Montgomery brood. So Marta would have known the Montgomery children. He frowned. She’d disappeared . . . that was all anyone knew. No one had seen her for six months. He stared at the picture as he walked back to his office where his phone was ringing loudly.
“Detective Reed,” he said, tossing all the faxes into his already overflowing in-box. First things first.
Cricket was the last one in the shop. Her final client, a rich woman who “would have died” if she hadn’t been able to make an evening appointment, had left, driving away in a new Cadillac and finally satisfied with a foil weave of no less than seven colors and a difficult cut that had taken nearly three hours. Cricket looked at the dirty towels piled high on the washer, but figured Misty, the girl who started at some
ungodly hour—eight? Nine? It didn’t matter. Misty, with her irritating bubbly personality, fake boobs, and unending case of the giggles, could damned well wash and dry the towels.
Crap, this job was getting the better of her. On her feet all day listening to women bitch about their husbands or their kids.
But they weren’t really complaining, Cricket knew, hearing it in the tone of their voices; they were proud of their spouses or their brats, the “oh, woe is me, long-suffering wife and mother” act, was just for show. Cricket put up with it because it was part of the job and there was usually a tip involved, though some of the women were so tight they squeaked.
Cricket’s muscles ached and she cracked her neck as she swept up around her station at the salon, swabbed out the sink, then hung her apron on a hook near the back door. Her Coke was where she’d left it by the color-mixing sink. She picked it up and took a sip from the straw. Caffeine, that was what she needed. Well, and maybe a shot or two of tequila . . . or maybe a joint. Maybe all three. Her tips for the week would buy a couple of drinks and maybe an ounce or two of weed.
She walked outside to the stoop where she and the other girls smoked. Against Maribelle, the owner of the shop’s orders, they’d leave the back door open and stand outside for a quick hit of nicotine.
Now, as she locked up, Cricket fished in her purse for a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Only one filter tip left in the crumpled pack. And the cigarette was kind of broken. Shit. She managed to light the damned thing as she walked down the lane that cut between two main streets. Basically, it was an alley cluttered with dumpsters, crates and strictly enforced no-parking zones. Maribelle insisted the girls park a block over, allowing every tiny parking space for the clients.
Not that Cricket gave a rat’s ass where she parked.
Maribelle also hinted that she should get a percentage of the beauticians’ tips. Yeah, right. What a stingy old bat. Cricket had half a mind to quit. She finished her Coke and tossed the empty cup into a Dumpster. The night was thick and dark and hot, no sign of stars or a moon, just street lamps offering an eerie glow and attracting insects. A mosquito or no-see-um was bothering her.
Cutting behind a gas station, she slapped at the mosquito, and the aches that had been with her most of the day seemed to melt away. In fact her legs were rubbery, not working quite right. And her vision was fuzzy. She was working too hard. That was it, way too hard.
With more difficulty than usual, Cricket found her little hatchback where she’d left it, under a street lamp, only the light tonight wasn’t working right, flickering on and off, and the street was deserted. Not that it mattered, she thought thickly. God, what was wrong with her? She’d unlocked the car when she heard a footstep, sensed someone behind her. Without much concern, she looked over her shoulder and saw something, a figure—man or woman—crouching behind an old station wagon.
She slid into the car and caught the heel of her shoe on the door frame. “Crap,” she muttered, but found she didn’t really care. Her vision was really blurry now and . . . and she couldn’t sit up straight, was half in and half out of the car, unable to punch the key into the ignition. Jesus, what was going on? It was if she was drugged as if someone had what . . . doctored her Coke?
She heard footsteps and rolled one eye back to see the figure dashing across the lane . . . it was a woman and she seemed familiar . . . someone who would help her. Cricket tried to speak, attempted to hold on to a clear thought as the woman in black drew nearer. Help me, please, she tried to say, but couldn’t form the words. They died in her throat as she recognized the stranger.
What was she doing down here? Why? Had she been waiting? Expecting her? Oh, God. Sudden, blinding truth hit Cricket like a ton of bricks. She noticed the woman’s tight-fitting gloves and white slash of a smile.
Like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.
Or worse. This smile was cold, the eyes gleaming in anticipation. She reached into her purse and withdrew a small glass jar, which she flashed in front of Cricket’s eyes. In the glow of the interior light she saw them. Insects, all sorts and kinds were packed inside, desperately crawling up the sides of the jar, thin legs and wings and antennae moving, pulsing against the glass, segmented bodies crushed against each other. They scrambled over each other, fighting to the top of the heap, as they tried to escape.
“Friends of yours?” the woman inquired, her gaze menacing as she rolled the vial between her gloved fingers. “I think so.”
In that instant, Cricket knew she was going to die.
Twenty
You shouldn’t be here.
Her own voice taunted Caitlyn as she switched off the ignition and listened to the engine of her car die, then tick as it cooled. The wind was brisk, rattling the branches of the live oaks and stirring the fronds of the thick shrubbery.
“I know, but it’s Jamie’s birthday,” she said aloud as she stared up at the house. Three stories of red brick, trimmed in white, accented with narrow, paned windows and black shutters, the house stood quietly, its lights glowing warmly in the darkness.
Jamie’s house. Caitlyn’s throat was thick as she conjured up her daughter’s cherubic three-year-old face But she didn’t cry. Had wept her buckets of tears years before. Quickly, before the morbid thoughts got the better of her, she pocketed her keys and slid from behind the steering wheel of her Lexus.
The night was warmer than she’d expected, the air a gentle kiss on her cheeks as she made her way up the walk to the wrought-iron gate. She thought it would be locked, but the latch gave way and the old hinges creaked. Mist rose from the ground like smoke, swirling at her feet and wafting eerily through the lacy branches overhead. In front of the home that used to be hers, her doubts mushroomed and she second-guessed herself. She was alone. But then she always had been, hadn’t she? One of seven children, but alone. A twin, but alone. Married, but alone. A mother and now alone.
The wind was gusty, tugging at her hair, hot as midday, though it was night. She was vaguely aware of the sound of a car’s engine as it drove past and the yapping of a neighbor’s dog over the sound of the steady, painful drumming of her heart.
It was now or never.
Either she was going to face Josh or let the marriage die.
Forcing starch into her spine, she walked along the brick path just as she had hundreds of times during the short span of her marriage. Up the three steps to the wide front porch, where baskets of petunias hung and the scent of honeysuckle was strong. She raised her fist to rap on the door, but it was open, hanging ajar.
An invitation.
Don’t do it! Don’t go in there! She heard Kelly’s voice as surely as if her sister were standing next to her in the shadows.
Seduced by a sliver of light spilling onto the dark porch from the cracked door, she stepped inside, her footsteps echoing on the smooth marble foyer with its twenty-foot ceilings. The grandfather clock began to chime over soft music playing from hidden speakers . . . something haunting and classical, coming from the den.
She stepped over the threshold and saw him, slumped over the desk, one arm flung over the edge of the desk, blood dripping from his wrist, pooling onto the plush pile of the carpet.
“Josh!” she cried as the phone began to ring.
One ring. She stared at the phone on the desk near Josh’s head.
Two rings. Oh, God, should she answer it?
Three rings.
Caitlyn’s eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding wildly, her skin soaked in sweat. She was home. In her own bed. But the horrid image of her husband lying dead across his desk still burned through her mind.
Josh dead in his den with the wrongful death papers, the wine and open verandah door. She knew without asking to see photos of the crime scene that she’d duplicated it in her subconscious. But how? Unless she’d been there? Unless she’d actually witnessed his death? But that was impossible. It had to be!
The phone blasted. She scrabbled for the receiver. “Hello?” she wh
ispered.
Nothing.
Her skin crawled.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Not a sound. Not even a dial tone.
Terrified, she slammed the receiver down. Dear God, what was happening? She wiped a trembling hand over her forehead.
What she’d experienced was just a bad dream. A really bad dream.
So who had called at three-fifteen in the morning?
Who had refused to answer?
A wrong number?
Forcing herself to calm down, she took several deep breaths. Oscar was lying at the foot of her bed, yawning and stretching. “Come here,” she said, patting the pillow next to her, and he slowly inched upward to curl against her. There was something calming in stroking his bristly fur, in listening to the whirring of the ceiling fan moving overhead.
The bedside phone rang again.
What now? Every muscle in her body tensed.
Reaching blindly, she snapped on the light and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
No answer.
“Hello?”
Her heart was hammering as she waited, though she heard shallow breathing.
“Who is this?”
Nothing. No response.
Her skin crawled . . . was there the faint hint of music in the background? Why wasn’t the person answering? She hung up the receiver and checked Caller ID. Unknown caller. That much she’d already figured out. She rubbed a hand over her forehead. The phone jangled again.
Damn! She started. Looked at the Caller ID before answering. Troy’s number. She picked up. “Hello?”
“Caitlyn. It’s Troy. I know it’s late and I hate to call you, but I think you should know that Mom’s on her way to the hospital. It’s her heart.”