The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

“It’s my job to be cynical and suspicious, because they’re cynical and suspicious. You have to understand how the opposition thinks in order to stay a step ahead of them, particularly when they’re currently the ones with sole legal access to any physical evidence. The playing field isn’t level, and the rules of the game aren’t particularly fair. You have to remember that the cops are not your friends. Not at the moment, anyway.”

  “And you are?”

  “No. I’m your attorney. Friendship is far less reliable.”

  She glanced up as Jack opened the door, their gazes locking before she preceded him inside. He gathered that she found his statement odd or perhaps disconcerting, because her eyes were wide and blue. Very blue. Jack had a brief moment to wonder how he hadn’t noticed them yesterday, but then the noise from inside the station distracted her into looking forward and the moment passed.

  Jack told her to wait while he spoke with the front desk clerk, who then led them to an interview room. There they sat for at least fifteen minutes, and Jack noted his client growing more agitated with each one that passed. It was a typical interrogation technique, designed to give the person being interviewed sufficient time to become uncomfortable, to allow anxiety to gain a foothold.

  And to emphasize who was in control of the process.

  Jack reached over, lightly touched Caitlin’s bouncing knee.

  Her head jerked toward him in surprise, but then she nodded her understanding. He removed his hand and a few moments later, Donaldson and another detective walked in. Young, good-looking. Came across as a sort of squishy, new-age nice guy, making him the perfect good cop foil to Donaldson’s grumpy, disgruntled bad. Clark, if Jack recalled his name correctly, which he was fairly certain he did. He rarely forgot names, or faces.

  Or much of anything, for that matter.

  “Ms. Cavanaugh,” Donaldson said, nodding toward Caitlin. “Thank you for coming in.” The sarcasm in his tone was no doubt intended for Jack’s benefit, a suspicion Donaldson confirmed by ignoring Jack completely. “This is my partner, Detective Clark.”

  “Ms. Cavanaugh,” Clark said, offering a gentle smile that nevertheless looked like it should be gracing a magazine cover. He extended his hand toward Caitlin. When she took it, the man grasped it between both of his. “I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but it seems rather inappropriate under the circumstances. You’ve had an experience that no one should have to go through.”

  “Thank you,” Caitlin said. “I… well, to be honest, I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “Which is a perfectly normal reaction,” he agreed, and Jack saw Caitlin’s shoulders visibly relax. The detective’s demeanor – the good cop – was setting her at ease.

  Clark nodded at Jack before taking a seat across the table, but then he immediately made to stand. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if you need anything, Ms. Cavanaugh. Water? A soft drink?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Okay then.” He sat back down, and put a digital recorder on the table. Turning it on, he indicated the names of everyone present, the date, the time, and the case number. “And just so you’re aware, you’re also being recorded on video. Now,” he said in an easy tone, “we’ve got the official stuff out of the way. I want to hear your story, everything you can remember about what happened two nights ago. And please understand that no detail is too minor. It’s sometimes the most seemingly insignificant ones that give us the clues we need to figure things out. So give us as much information as you can, okay?”

  Caitlin’s gaze cut toward Jack, since he’d just given her the exact opposite advice, but she nodded in Clark’s direction. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now that we’re on the same page, I’d like you to elaborate on what you already told Detective Donaldson here about your reason for being on River Street that –”

  “In response to an interview conducted during a period of both emotional and physical distress,” Jack interrupted. “Including, but not limited to, a potential sexual assault facilitated by the administration of a potent narcotic, and the use of epinephrine to bring a severe asthma attack under control. I don’t think I need to point out that drugs of both classes have been known to cause anxiety and confusion, making the admissibility of any statement given at that point questionable at best.”

  Clark’s smile dimmed, but he tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Of course,” he agreed “which is why we’re here today. To get Ms. Cavanaugh’s statement after she’s had a chance to… recover. And in the presence of legal counsel. Now,” he returned his attention to Caitlin, who’d linked her fingers together so tightly that they now appeared to be made of marble. “How about you walk me through the events of that night as you remember them?”

  Caitlin did, albeit hesitantly, with the detective interrupting her from time to time in order to clarify something. When she reached the part of the story where she left the bar and her memory went blank, Clark drummed his fingers on the table.

  “I know women don’t take kindly to this question, but how much do you weigh, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  She darted another glance at Jack before answering. “Um, around a hundred and twenty, a hundred and twenty-five. Possibly a little less right now, as I had the flu several weeks ago and dropped a few pounds. And I haven’t really gotten my appetite back.”

  “And how many alcoholic beverages do you normally consume before you start to feel tipsy?”

  “That depends on the timeframe and whether or not I’ve eaten.”

  “Did you eat anything that night while you were waiting for your friend to show?”

  She hesitated. “No. But I also drank the wine over the course of close to an hour. I wasn’t impaired, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t drink and drive.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Well then, I’d like to thank you for doing your part in helping to keep the streets of Savannah safe. Do you drink often?”

  “Not really, no. A glass of wine with dinner, sometimes a cocktail if I’m out with friends.”

  “So you’re more of a social drinker.”

  “Yes. Although I don’t socialize very often. I’m something of an introvert, and as I mentioned, I’ve only lived here for a few months.”

  “You said you needed a change of scenery.”

  “I… yes.”

  Jack noted her hesitation, and had no doubt that Clark and Donaldson did as well. It represented a gap of some sort, and gaps needed to be filled in. The content of the filler made them potentially dangerous.

  “Generally when people need a change of scenery, they’re prompted by some sort of personal crisis.”

  Her hesitation this time was longer. “Generally,” she agreed. “Although sometimes people are just tired of looking at the same things.”

  Jack wondered if Clark was going to pursue it any further, and prepared to tell his client not to answer that particular line of questioning. Not until he had a chance to talk to her about that gap. Because he sensed that it was important.

  Clark must have sensed the same thing, because his eyes shifted very slightly toward Jack before he nodded, seeming to accept her answer. Jack didn’t buy it, of course, but he did gain a new degree of respect for the detective. He could have pushed, but pushing in this case wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere, since Jack wasn’t going to allow it.

  “How about when you’re writing,” he asked Caitlin. “Do you maybe have a drink or two then, to get the creative juices flowing? I seem to recall that Ernest Hemingway said something like write drunk…” He snapped his fingers, looking stumped.

  “Edit sober,” Caitlin supplied. “Although I personally haven’t found alcohol to be a productive mental lubricant, either for writing or editing. I prefer caffeine.”

  “My drug of choice,” Clark agreed with a friendly grin, and Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. The man’s demeanor was completely nonthreatening. He glanced at Donaldson, who was sitting back in his chair, watching
the proceedings with an almost disinterested air, letting Clark conduct the entire interview. Donaldson was the more experienced detective, so his essentially sitting on the sidelines while the backup pitcher took the mound caused the little hairs on the back of Jack’s neck to lift slightly.

  Something was up.

  “So there’s no chance that you went home that night and opened a bottle of wine?” Clark continued. “You mentioned that you’d planned on going home to work on your book after dinner.”

  “No. I mean, no, I wouldn’t have opened a bottle of wine. Not under normal circumstances, since I did plan to write. I’m not even sure I have any wine in the house at the moment.”

  “Huh.” Clark studied her for several beats before continuing. “See, the thing is, we found a bottle of wine sitting open on your kitchen counter. An empty bottle.”

  “Do you have proof that the bottle was opened last night?” Jack asked before Caitlin could answer.

  “No, no we don’t,” Clark allowed.

  “Wait,” Caitlin said. “My brother brought me a bottle of wine as a house-warming present. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Huh,” Clark repeated. “So maybe you did have some wine after you got home?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just clarifying that there was a bottle of wine. However, I would have had no reason to open it.”

  “I see. But again, the thing is, there were two glasses on the counter. Two glasses with dregs of what appears to be the same wine that was in the bottle, although we’ll have to wait for the lab results to say for sure. One of the glasses had your fingerprints on it, Ms. Cavanaugh, as well as some pretty pink lipstick.”

  “I… I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, but I sure am trying to. We found a note on your computer, a reminder of the time of your dinner date and an admonition to wear makeup. Were you wearing makeup that night?”

  “Yes. And a nice dress and heels. I hope you aren’t suggesting that has something to do with what happened.”

  “Not at all. I like to think that we’ve progressed past the dark ages when what were you wearing was considered a legitimate question when a woman was attacked. However, the question of whether or not you were wearing makeup is germane.”

  Clark pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket, laid it on the table. “And before you jump in,” he added for Jack’s benefit, “this was lying on the kitchen counter beside her purse, which had spilled a number of its contents. So it was in plain sight.” He shifted his not-quite-as-friendly-now gaze back toward Caitlin. “Is this the lipstick you were wearing two nights ago?”

  Caitlin’s mouth opened and closed. “I don’t know. It looks like mine, but…”

  “We also found a smear of lipstick in this shade on – if you’ll forgive the cliché – the collar of the man’s shirt which was lying across the chair in your bedroom.”

  Her head jerked up at that.

  “None of this rings a bell?”

  “No,” she said with emphasis. “No. I didn’t open a bottle of wine that night. I don’t… I don’t know how it got there. I didn’t… I couldn’t have… drunk it or, or done anything with that man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! Don’t you think I would remember if I’d…” But then she trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know… I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “My client has already established that she has no memory of the events of that evening after leaving The Wheelhouse.”

  “Because she thinks someone slipped a mickey in her wine,” Clark agreed. “But which glass of wine would that be? Because the lab says there was no sign of any drug in your system, which,” he held up a staying hand before Jack could protest “is normal for the narcotics that are classified as date rape drugs. It’s one of the things that make impairment in these cases such a bitch to prove or disprove, if you’ll excuse my language. However.” He stared hard at Caitlin. “Your bloodwork did show a blood alcohol level of zero point zero zero five at eight in the morning. If the only alcohol you consumed that night was one glass at the bar at approximately nine p.m., and you took nearly an hour to finish it, it should have been out of your system by that point. Given that it metabolizes at a rate of point zero one five per hour, you would have had to have had a level of point zero eight at around three a.m. Which means you must have had more to drink after leaving the bar. A good bit more.”

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her oversized dress as she drew short, choppy breaths. “I don’t remember.”

  “So you’ve claimed. Although your claim about not liking to drink alone does ring true,” he added, resting his forearms on the table and leaning forward. “Because the prints on the second glass match those of Henry Cox. The dead man in your bedroom? So it looks like you indeed had a drinking buddy that night.”

  The color that had flooded her cheeks as she began to understand the direction of the detective’s questions leached completely from her face, leaving her the color of parchment.

  “No,” she whispered, and then began to shake her head. “No. I didn’t… I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, and then glanced frantically at Jack. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  CAITLIN leaned over the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on her face. She was both embarrassed and humiliated.

  And terrified.

  Since she couldn’t do anything about the source of her terror right now, she focused instead on her humiliation. They’d given her a prescription for an oral antibiotic at the hospital, and Connie had taken her to have it filled last night. It said on the package to take it with food, but she’d been far too nervous this morning to eat, so she’d stupidly taken it on an empty stomach. Combining that with overwhelming anxiety had produced the predictable result.

  She’d thrown up on her attorney’s shoes.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to see her reflection in the mirror. Luckily she hadn’t eaten, so the contents of her stomach were mostly liquid. But Jack Wellington wore very nice shoes. Very, very nice shoes. Or rather, he had worn. She was certain he’d taken them off by now. They were probably at the bottom of the nearest trashcan.

  Caitlin glanced to the side, noting the bars on the window. Not that surprising, since it was a police station, but the shadow they cast on the floor made her shiver despite the warmth of the sun through the glass. Turning the handle to shut off the water, she forced herself to stand straight, to look herself in the eye.

  And to deal with the much larger issue facing her.

  Was it possible that in some sort of altered state she’d… behaved in a way completely foreign to her? That she’d drunk wine in her home, in her kitchen, with the man who’d later ended up dead on her bedroom floor? By her hand?

  The thought made bile threaten to rise up her throat again, but Caitlin knew she had to pull herself together. She’d been a wreck for over twenty-four hours. And while that was understandable, it wasn’t doing her any good. She’d tried thinking things through yesterday, but only succeeded in freaking herself out. And she wasn’t doing too hot today.

  But no more. She knew how to handle life-altering trauma. After all, she’d been doing it since she was thirteen years old.

  God, she missed her parents.

  But they weren’t here. No one was here except Connie and her attorney, and while it was invaluable to have the emotional support and legal advice, neither of them could clear her head for her.

  Because she felt directionless, confused, Caitlin did what she always did when she’d hit a wall in her writing. She shoved all of the extraneous bullshit aside, and started to formulate a mental outline.

  First of all, she needed to do some more in depth research on date rape drugs, figure out what was possible and what wasn’t. Could she have been conscious but supremely suggestible? And wouldn’t she remember… something if that were the case?

  That was a question for Google, and maybe a physician. But Caitlin was g
ood at research. She did loads of it for her books. And clearly, she couldn’t rely on the police to figure out what had happened and to clear her name, because it didn’t take an author to read between the lines. They didn’t believe her story, at least not in the way she’d told it. So she needed some evidence to back it up, to prove that she wasn’t lying or deliberately misleading them.

  She also needed to know what they’d discovered.

  Jack had a point about the playing field not being level, when the police were the only ones with access to the scene. The idea that they’d been in her house, gathering evidence that they clearly intended to use against her in some way made her feel violated. Not to mention that they had the results of her blood test – and presumably any others – before she did.

  The fact that they hadn’t brought up the sexual assault made her wonder what, if anything, they’d learned.

  Caitlin checked in once more with her body. She didn’t feel like she’d been raped, but then if she’d been suggestible enough to share a bottle of wine with… that man, maybe he hadn’t had to use force.

  Somehow, that idea was even more appalling. Like she’d been complicit in her own assault.

  Her fists clenched involuntarily, and Caitlin forced herself to breathe through the panic that wanted to overtake her. She didn’t have time to break down again. Not now.

  As difficult as it would be, she needed to talk to her attorney, to find out exactly what her rights were in regards to any information obtained in the investigation, particularly when it came to her own body. Hopefully they didn’t have enough evidence to charge her with anything, but she had to be prepared for the worst. The look in the eyes of that detective, the handsome one – Detective Clark – just before she’d brought the interview to a halt, indicated that he wasn’t nearly as easygoing as he seemed.

  And she was sure he held her in suspicion.

  So Caitlin would be very careful with what she said, and far less trusting.

  She knew all about misplaced trust. Unfortunately.

  At the sound of the knock, she steeled her nerves and walked over to open the door.