The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  Pretty damned much half the citizens of Savannah.

  But most of them did have alibis that were confirmed. He’d had people working around the clock checking and double-checking, and he’d narrowed the field considerably to close friends and, of course, the Montgomery family. Even Millie Torme had checked out, and though she’d expressed no regret at Bandeaux’s untimely passing, she’d sworn she’d been spending the weekend with her feeble mother in Tallahassee. Which had checked out, unless all the senior citizens in Laurelhurst Adult Community happened to be consummate liars.

  Millie had also indicated that Morrisette had never approved of her fling with Josh Bandeaux, had insisted that Morrisette hadn’t had her own quickie affair with the cad. But Reed, suspicious by nature, wasn’t convinced. Not with Morrisette’s track record. As far as he was concerned, the jury was still out on that one.

  However, he had a new little wrinkle in the Bandeaux case. Some of the suspects who had wanted The Bandit dead would have had no reason to kill Berneda Montgomery or to make an attempt on Amanda Montgomery Drummond’s life, at least none that he knew of.

  But the others?

  Who the hell knew?

  More than half had O-positive blood, and the department wasn’t even certain that the secondary blood at the scene had been spilled that night. Even the maid, Estelle Pontiac, couldn’t convincingly say that the few drops hadn’t been in the den earlier.

  The person most tightly connected to the deceased was, of course, Caitlyn Bandeaux. She had talked to or been seen with each of the victims and potential victims within forty-eight hours of their untimely demises. She had called Bandeaux on the night he was murdered. Her car, or one like it, had been spotted at the scene by the neighbor. It seemed as if she was the person who had last seen him alive. The police had gone over Bandeaux’s last forty-eight hours and nothing had been out of the ordinary. He’d seemed normal, according to his secretary, whatever the hell that meant. Then there was the evidence. Caitlyn Bandeaux wore the kind of lipstick smudged on the wineglass in his dishwasher, she had a dog with hairs that probably matched those found in the den. Her damned blood type had been found mixed with that of Bandeaux. Her fingerprints had been found on the premises, though she had, once upon a time, lived there and visited often enough. Probably with that damned mutt of a dog. The yappy little thing had belonged to Josh Bandeaux once as well.

  There wasn’t a lot of hard evidence, no murder weapon, no witness to a fight, no accusations, no DNA yet, but there was the divorce and wrongful death suit, and she did have a history of mental problems. He figured he had enough circumstantial evidence to arrest her and take the case to the grand jury, but he would like something more. A substantial link that would make the case airtight.

  As for Berneda Montgomery’s death, no one suspicious had been at the hospital. But Caitlyn Bandeaux, along with her brother and sister, had been at Oak Hill, the Montgomery mansion by the river, and any one of them could have doctored the nitroglycerine tablets.

  But someone else could have done it, as well. The doctor, or an intruder, a repairman or servant.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he considered bumming a cigarette from Morrisette, but fought the urge. He’d quit once before and then, after the debacle in San Francisco, had started up again. It had only taken one drag and he was hooked, doomed to the weeks of nicotine withdrawal once more when he’d quit again, just before rejoining the force here in Savannah.

  He walked into Morrisette’s office and found her talking on the phone.

  “. . . okay, okay, I’ll be there. Give me twenty minutes.” She hung up and rolled her eyes expressively.

  “I’ve got to go home. Looks like Priscilla might have a case of the chicken pox. It’s a big panic. The sitter’s freaking out.” Morrisette was picking up her purse. “I’ll be back once I calm her down. Maybe I can find someone else . . . someone who’s not afraid of a damned virus to watch the kids. Oh, shit . . . Oh! This is such a pain.” She reached into her purse and scrounged in the bottom until she came up with two quarters and a ruined piece of gum. “At this rate I’ll be in the poorhouse by the end of the month and the kids’ll be rich, collecting fucking dividends on their stocks.” Wincing at her own language, she pulled another quarter from her fringed bag and dropped all three in the pencil shelf of her desk drawer. The coins joined enough change to buy beer for the department for a week—well, maybe for one round. “Don’t say anything, okay?” she asked as the quarters clinked together when she slammed the drawer shut. She tossed the stick of gum into the trash. “At least I’m trying self-improvement.”

  “And for once it’s not another piercing.”

  “You know, Reed,” she started, shooting him a look that had made stronger men cower, “there are other body parts that could be used for adding metal. And it’s not just a female thing. For Christmas I think I’ll get you an engraved dick stud and it’ll either say ‘This dick’s a stud’ or ‘This stud’s a dick.’ Depends on my mood. That is if you don’t piss me off. And what’s the chance of that? Zero? And piss is not a swear word.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do,” she muttered irritably. “Now, did you want something or did you drop by just to yank my chain?” she asked as they headed through the reception area filled with desks and cops. Telephones jangled, pagers beeped and conversation buzzed over the hum of computers and the shuffle of feet. They walked toward an outside entrance, passing a couple of beat cops escorting a surly-looking suspect with stringy hair, dirty jeans and a don’t-fuck-with-me expression tattooed over his face. His hands had been cuffed behind his back and he reeked of booze as he struggled to walk without stumbling.

  In an outer hallway, Reed said, “I was on my way to visit Caitlyn Bandeaux again. I went through her phone records. On the night Bandeaux died, she called him. Eleven-eighteen. They talked for seven minutes. Wonder what that was about?”

  “Could be interesting,” Sylvie said.

  “Thought you’d like to tag along.”

  “Let’s get something straight. I don’t ‘tag along’ anywhere. I’m not just around for the company.”

  “Prickly today, aren’t we?”

  “We sure as hell are. Single parenthood will do that to you.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “But it’s worse when the ex sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong. Bart’s coming over later,” she said with a smile that looked as if she’d been sucking on lemons. “I can’t fuckin’ wait.” Rolling her eyes, she shouldered open the outside door and started walking across the wet, steamy parking lot. “I’m gettin’ out of here before I say something that costs me my next month’s pay.” She was already at her little truck with its V-8 engine, standing in the dripping rain when she stopped and snapped her fingers. “Oh. Rita from Missing Persons called a few minutes ago. She was contacted by the Sheriff’s Department out in St. Simon’s Island. They pulled a body out of the water down there. A woman. In pretty bad shape. No ID that I know of. They’re checking with all the local areas where there have been reports of missing persons, and we’ve got a couple.”

  “Including Cricket Biscayne and Rebecca Wade.”

  Morrisette slipped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “We should have a report by tomorrow.”

  “Maybe we’ll finally catch a break on this one,” Reed said, but he didn’t believe it. Not for a second.

  “Yeah, right.” Sylvie yanked open the door of her little truck. She was already behind the wheel, had lit a cigarette and roared out of the lot before Reed had dashed the short distance to his car—an old El Dorado that, if he ever put some money into it, might be considered classic. As it was, with its seat covers, dents and nearly two hundred thousand miles on its second engine, it was little more than a tired old piece of crap. But it was paid for. And it still ran. His only two requirements.

  He got behind the wheel and felt the old springs in the seat give. No doubt he needed another square of foam padding
to shove under the seat cover, but he didn’t have the time or the inclination for restoring the thing, at least not now. For the moment he intended to show up on Caitlyn Bandeaux’s door unannounced and catch her off guard. He’d watched her place off and on, seen nothing out of the ordinary, followed her a bit, but he hadn’t had much time and felt as if he’d done a half-assed job of it.

  That would change. He’d hit up Katherine Okano in the morning, find out what the holdup on the search warrant was. He had a feeling it was more about privilege than protocol. The Montgomerys were big supporters of the police department and had lined the pockets of more than their share of judges. From old Benedict to Troy, the Montgomery men had made the right kind of political contributions, some above board, others under the table. The great irony of it all was that the more the Montgomery clan greased the wheels of justice, the slower they turned.

  But all of that was about to change.

  He’d make sure of it.

  He turned on the ignition, and his beast of a car had the balls to cough a couple of times before finally catching. “That’s better,” he muttered, realizing that the scent of Morrisette’s last cigarette clung to the interior. Figured. He couldn’t seem to get away from that woman. He flipped on the wipers and cracked the driver’s window in one motion.

  It wasn’t yet twilight, but the dark clouds overhead turned the usually bright city to gloom. Trees dripped, rain pelted, people dashed and cars threw up sprays of dirty water. And it was still blasted hot enough to steam the windows. With a flip of a switch, the air conditioner roared to life, defogging the glass as he backed out of his spot and nosed out of the lot.

  It only took him a few minutes to drive the short distance to the Widow Bandeaux’s place. A nice little nest, he thought, gazing up at the gracious old home all nicely redecorated to the period in which it had been constructed, sometime after the Civil War . . . or, as the locals insisted, The War of Northern Aggression. That would never fly in San Francisco, but here, where the city’s pride rested in its rich Southern history, it was a local way of thinking—or, perhaps, to some a joke.

  Caitlyn’s home had been updated with all the modern conveniences, he knew. He’d been inside before. And this house in the heart of the historic district with a view of the square had cost her a pretty penny. Which wasn’t a problem. She had a lot more tucked away. He’d already checked bank statements. She made a little money at her job designing web pages, but the bulk of her income, and it looked like a lot of Josh Bandeaux’s, was the result of the investments in her trust fund. But there was something odd as well . . . big monthly disbursements that didn’t look like regular bills. Perhaps another kind of investment? Or something else?

  Like what?

  Blackmail?

  Or hush money?

  He pulled around the corner and parked on a side street a block away from Caitlyn’s house. No reason to let his less-than-inconspicious car be noticed. Jaywalking, he cut through an alley to the back of Caitlyn’s house and her garage, where he peeked through a narrow window. Though the garage was dark, he was able to make out the lines of her white Lexus.

  So the lady was home.

  Good.

  That made his job easier. He felt a little satisfaction as he rounded the house and walked through the front gate. A squirrel, hidden in the leafy branches of a sassafras tree, had the nerve to scold him as he walked up a brick path through a small garden. “Get over it,” Reed mumbled as the squirrel launched himself from one quivering branch to the next. Things only got worse when he climbed the front steps and pressed on the front bell. Caitlyn’s ratty-looking dog went ape shit, barking like mad, as if Reed were some kind of burglar stupid enough to ring the bell.

  He waited.

  No one came.

  But the smell of cigarette smoke wafted in the air—thin and high.

  Again he rang the bell. He was sure she was home. The dog was running loose, lights were turned on and then there was the Lexus parked smack-dab in the middle of her garage. He wiped the rain from his face, silently cursed his luck and hankered for a cigarette. There were times when he still yearned for the calming effects of nicotine.

  Still nothing.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He nailed the doorbell again. Leaned hard and insistent.

  He was about to give up when he heard the footsteps. Quick, light footsteps, tripping down stairs. A face and body appeared in the long window next to the door. A beautiful face and great body.

  Intriguing hazel eyes met his and instead of the usual fear that flitted through her gaze, he found steely, angry determination. Her chin was thrust defiantly, her mouth curved into a hard-as-nails frown. Quickly she unlocked the door but barred his way in with her body. It was hard to believe, but she actually looked intimidating, or tried to. As if she’d had some positive reinforcement training along with a couple of marital arts lessons.

  “Detective,” she bit out, managing a smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes.

  “Mrs. Bandeaux.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a few more questions.”

  She didn’t move. Her hair was wet and piled on her head, little makeup remaining on top of the attitude that didn’t quite fit. “For me?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t move. “I think they’ll have to wait. I don’t want to answer any unless I have a lawyer present. And he’s not here right now.”

  Smart-assed bitch. “It’s just about your phone records.”

  She dropped the smile. “Didn’t you understand me? I’ve been advised not to speak to you without my attorney. So I don’t think we have anything to discuss tonight.” With that she slammed the door in his face. Through the window he watched her disappear into the back of the house.

  What the hell was that all about?

  He pressed the bell and waited. The dog went crazy again.

  No one came.

  Damn it all to hell. He felt like a fool standing on the damn porch like an unwanted suitor. “Come on, come on,” he said under his breath. “I know you’re in there.” He glanced at his watch. What the hell kind of game was she playing?

  He jabbed hard on the bell again.

  And waited. Checked his watch again. Three minutes passed, then five.

  “For the love of St. Mary.” If only he had the damned search warrant, he’d break the door down. The dog was putting up enough of a ruckus to wake the dead in the next block. Christ, what a disaster. Another jab on the bell.

  She suddenly reappeared, though as she opened the door, he noticed she’d changed her demeanor along with her clothes. She’d let her wet hair fall to her shoulders, and she looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was standing on her porch. She’d taken the time to change from jeans, sweatshirt and bad-ass attitude into a fluffy white robe cinched tight at her small waist. He caught a glimpse of cleavage, then kept his eyes on her face. “Oh, Detective,” she said, seeming confused, tucking the wet strands of her hair behind her ears. She didn’t bother trying to smile and looked as if she could sleep for a million years. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear the bell. I—I was in the shower . . . I’d been caught in the rain earlier and . . .”

  “Your dog was barking his head off.”

  “He does that a lot. And the water was running. I was upstairs and . . .” She stopped short as if she realized she was rambling. “Was there something I could do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask you questions. Remember?”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “About Mother, I assume, but I already answered them at the hospital. Were there more?” With a shaking hand, she brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes, and she looked suddenly vulnerable. Undone. As he would had expected a woman to appear if she’d just lost her mother.

  “Not yet. I’m here about your husband’s death.”

  “Oh.” One hand fluttered to her throat and she clutched the lapels of her robe, closing the gap.

  “Your phone recor
ds,” he said, hoping to jog her memory, but she stared at him blankly and he wondered if she was stupid, confused, or acting. What better way to avoid a murder rap than to plead temporary insanity? With her history, the insanity defense was a given.

  “What about my phone records?”

  “They prove that you called your husband that night, talked for about seven minutes, then went to visit him.”

  “No. Wait a minute. They prove someone used my phone—right, my phone? Not my cell?—and then someone visited him after that time. Not necessarily me.”

  “I have an eyewitness who saw your car there.”

  She stared at him hard. “Did you come here to arrest me?” she asked suddenly, and he noticed that she looked pale and drawn. Sick.

  “No. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Until I speak with my lawyer. Or have him present. I could call him if you’d like to wait.”

  “That would work.”

  She opened the door and he followed her inside to the kitchen. “Could I get you some coffee . . . or . . .” She glanced at the counter, where a half-full bottle of gin, a smaller flask of vermouth and a jar of olives were gathered around two stemmed glasses. A drink had been poured, and, from the looks of the empty toothpick resting against the side of the glass, half consumed. “I’m expecting company,” she explained and frowned at the open back door. She pulled the door shut. “If you’d like a martini . . .”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “I figured.” She managed what was the ghost of a smile, then reached for the telephone with one hand and picked up a business card she’d laid on the windowsill over the sink. Growling and snorting his disgust, the dog settled in beneath the table, head resting on his paws, distrusting gaze ever vigilant, never once leaving Reed.

  Caitlyn punched a series of numbers, then stood on the other side of a bank of cupboards, fingers tapping nervously on the counter as she waited. She glanced at Reed and shook her head, then said into the phone, “This is Caitlyn Bandeaux. I’m a client of Mr. Wilder’s. Would you please page him and have him return my call? I’m at home.” She added her phone number and hung up. Looking at Reed, she confided, “His office is closed for the day. I don’t know when he’ll phone. So let me answer your one question. If you’re asking me about calling Josh on the night of his death, I don’t remember it. I already told you everything I do recall about that night.”