“Dude, I’ve probably had a thousand people in and out of here. You expect me to remember one pasty chick?”
“Drank pinot noir, if I recall correctly. That’s probably not your usual. And her hair is a really distinct shade – kind of a silver blonde.” It was… lovely, actually. Jack imagined that with some makeup and decent clothes – both of which she’d indicated she’d been wearing – Caitlin Cavanaugh might be rather memorable, indeed.
Danny glanced down the crowded bar and then lowered his voice. “So what if I did?”
“If you did, it would be helpful of you to tell me what you recall about her behavior.”
“Her behavior?” Danny snorted. “Like, was she dancing on the bar? Or using bad language? Are you her dad or something?”
Jack’s expression must have convinced Danny that that wasn’t the best track for him to take, because he whipped the towel from his shoulder and started wiping up the beer he’d spilled on the bar top. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Says who?”
“Says the two cops who came in here last night, asking about the same chick. She sat right where you’re sitting, by the way.”
Jack nodded toward the camera mounted above the bar. “Do you know if they looked at the footage from the night she was here?”
“That camera is pointed at the till, which is what the owners care about. Making sure we’re not stealing. It wouldn’t have shown her.”
So Danny’s testimony was likely all they had to go on.
“What did you tell them? Ignore him,” Jack said when Danny glanced down the bar to where the other bartender was shooting him a dirty glance. “I’m a paying customer.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Danny grumbled. “I told them that she sat here for maybe like an hour. Nursed her wine. I was about to ask if she wanted a nipple. Didn’t say much.”
“So she didn’t talk to anyone?”
“Ordered her wine. Told me she was still doing fine every time I asked. Said please and thank you. She might have said a couple words to whoever was sitting next to her, but I didn’t notice who that was, or if it was more than one person. People were in and out. Saw her on her phone a few times, looked like she was texting. She caught my attention as she was leaving, paid her tab and left a nice tip. Very nice. Said she was sorry for taking up the bar stool for so long. That’s probably why I remember her. Well, that and the fact that her hair was like you said. Distinct. The glasses gave her a kind of librarian vibe, but she had a decent rack.”
Jack’s brows rose slightly at that, because he’d certainly never noticed that attribute. Of course, she’d been wearing oversized scrubs and a truly awful beach cover up the two times he’d seen her, so he could be forgiven for his lack of observation. Not to mention that she was his client, so her rack was none of his business.
“Was she alone when she left?”
“Far as I noticed. Didn’t see anyone follow after her, either, and didn’t notice any guys acting sketchy. Dudes are pretty much wallpaper to me unless they’re, like, wearing a clown suit or something. Cops asked those questions, so I assume you want to know, too. And she seemed okay, not stumbling around or anything.” He hesitated. “She did spill her purse though. When she went to take her wallet out to pay, a few things fell out. She bent over to pick them up and then when she sat back up she braced her hand on the bar and did that sort of deep breath thing people do when they feel a little lightheaded.” He demonstrated.
Jack watched the other man’s chest fall and rise. “You seem to remember all that pretty clearly.”
“I just went over it with the cops last night.” Danny shrugged. “And her dress was a V-neck. When she bent over…” Danny curved his hands in the air in front of him to indicate breasts. “Like I said. She had a decent rack.”
Jack felt an unaccountable urge to punch him. “You’re a disgusting human being, Daniel Garland.”
“What?” He threw his hands up, defensive. “You asked.”
“So I did.” Jack took the folded bill he’d palmed when he came in, slid it across the bar. “That should be enough to cover my tab. And to make you forget I was here, should anyone ask.”
Danny’s eyes widened when he looked at the denomination, but then he nodded. “So, what did this chick do?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Got it. Hey, you didn’t drink your beer,” he said when Jack stood up.
“Your powers of observation continue to impress.”
Jack made his way out of The Wheelhouse, adjusting his ball cap as he stepped into the bright sunlight. Danny’s story essentially backed up Caitlin’s – at least up to the point where she left the bar. He imagined they would keep digging, trying to find someone who’d seen Caitlin and Henry Cox in contact with one another. If not inside the restaurant, then somewhere between its doorstep and her car. Unless they could dig up a prior association between the two – and Jack would put Evan on researching that, just to be safe. He didn’t like surprises in court.
Anyway, unless they could dig up a prior acquaintanceship of some sort, Cox had to have followed her once she left the Wheelhouse. The detectives would of course attempt to insinuate that meeting was where they mutually agreed to return to Caitlin’s house for after-hours entertainment, but Jack needed to prove that Caitlin hadn’t been consciously aware of what was happening. It was a fairly common scenario in cases involving date rape drugs and strangers in bars – they slipped something in a woman’s drink, waited for its effects to begin to kick in, followed or offered to “help” them outside, where they often “helped” them into a waiting vehicle and then drove them somewhere to assault them. But since Caitlin woke up in her own home, with her own car parked in its usual place, that indicated she must somehow have managed to get herself home, and her attacker followed her. Otherwise, how would he know where she lived?
Unless, of course, she wasn’t just a random target. Which circled back around to her having encountered him – even if she wasn’t aware of it – at some previous point.
Jack’s jaw set. The wineglasses were a problem. He’d have to wait for the autopsy results to see if Henry Cox had ingested alcohol – and how much. He couldn’t deny that their presence in the kitchen, along with the empty bottle of wine, appeared damning. Not that things couldn’t have taken a turn for the worse even if Caitlin had invited Cox back to her house and shared a few drinks with him. Self-defense was still very much a viable plea if the man had become aggressive or violent. An invitation did not mean consent for anything beyond that to which she expressly granted permission.
But it did conflict with her story.
It was conceivable that the man had forced Caitlin to drink it, if she’d been in a conscious but highly suggestible state due to her wine being spiked at the bar. Why he would bother when she was already at his mercy wasn’t clear, but then people did seemingly nonsensical things all the time. Especially people with fetishes or certain rituals that they needed to play out. From what Jack knew about criminal psychology, there was a type of rapist that often attempted foreplay, and acted as if they were in a relationship with their victim. Something to do with power… power reassurance, he thought. He’d have to look it up. And he’d tell his investigator to run a background search on Henry Cox as soon as possible. Seeing if he had any priors of a sexual nature was the first order of business.
Jack rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable with the image of what Caitlin might have been subjected to before fighting back. He’d heard far worse during his career, but that still didn’t make it easy to consider. One of the reasons – and the one he least liked to admit – that he avoided girl next door types is that they made him feel protective. He blamed it on his mother, who’d drilled the whole southern gentleman thing into him from the time he could walk. Open doors, pull out chairs, help old ladies carry their groceries to their car. Come to the aid of anyone who was smaller or physically less capable than you, regardless
of gender. Given that Jack was six-four and very fit, that encompassed a hell of a lot of people.
He was self-aware enough to realize that he tended to rebel against his childhood training in the form of dating women who were assertive and independent and would spit on him if he acted like they were in any way in need of his assistance. It was also easier for him to remain emotionally detached that way, as he didn’t have to feel guilty for not worrying overmuch about their welfare.
He did that often enough in his career – championing the vulnerable – although most people didn’t see it that way. But then most people assumed that anyone who faced a criminal trial must be guilty, since the cops couldn’t get it wrong and the prosecutors were the “good guys.” And while some of his clients were certainly not angels – and an occasional few were downright evil – Jack also represented people who were in danger of being chewed up by a system that was far too often about arrest quotas and win/loss records and political image and corruption than it was about justice.
And so in the interest of justice, Jack tried to balance the scales.
He didn’t need to play the protector in his private life, too.
Jack stopped walking, much to the annoyance of the couple who’d been following along behind him. They both shot him dirty looks as they moved past, but he was too busy trying to figure out his own mind to care.
Why was he equating concern for his client with not wanting to date women whom he felt the need to care for and protect? Those were two separate and distinct issues. Defending Caitlin – and feeling empathy for her plight – was his job. That had nothing to do with his personal affairs.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple just as his phone beeped, and Jack wiped it away before fishing his phone out of his pocket. The text let him know that Caitlin’s townhouse was clear for her to return. They’d collected all the evidence.
What they did with it remained to be seen, but Jack would proceed as if he expected it not to go in Caitlin’s favor.
Because something told him there was far more to this case than there’d first appeared.
“I feel sick,” Caitlin said, looking through the Land Rover’s windshield at the back of her townhouse. The windows were dark, making it look like a black hole in comparison to her neighbors’. Especially since the street light appeared to be out. She could just make out the crime scene tape stretched taut across the door, sealing the place like a tomb.
“If you’re going to throw up, roll down the window. I happen to love these shoes.”
Caitlin shot her a look. “I never should have told you about that, Connie.”
“Like you’ve ever been able to keep a secret from me? And you don’t have to do this. Just because the cops are finished doing their cop thing doesn’t mean you have to go inside. We can go back to the hotel, or go get a drink. Go to the beach for an evening stroll. Hell, we can catch a plane to Thailand and stroll the beach there if you want to.”
Caitlin laughed her disbelief. “Oh yeah. I should definitely flee the country. That won’t look suspicious at all. Not to mention that my passport’s inside. And last minute airfare is astronomical.”
She sighed. “I have to go in, at least to get some of my things. Jack said I can pick up my purse tomorrow. I guess he must have raised a stink, because Detective Donaldson acted like he didn’t plan on giving it back to me any time soon. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m some kind of black widow killer.”
“Asshole,” was Connie’s opinion.
“The detective? Or Jack?”
“In this case the cop,” Connie said. “Although I imagine your attorney can be a grade A asshole when he puts his mind to it. He gives off that vibe. Of course,” she added with an eyebrow wiggle “I’d be willing to overlook it, considering he’s also a grade A prime hunk of man.”
Caitlin shook her head. “That’s why you ended up dating so many creeps. You always liked the dark, dangerous alphas. Especially the ones who had problems with authority.”
“Nothing better than a bad boy,” Connie agreed softly, staring out the window for several moments. But then she turned her infectious smile on Caitlin. “Except for your brother, of course. He made me see the error of my wayward choices.”
The corners of Caitlin’s mouth lifted. Lance was about the furthest thing from a bad boy you could find. In fact, he was probably dangerously close to being stodgy, despite the fact that he was only thirty-four. He’d had responsibility thrust upon him at a very young age, and it settled somewhat heavily on his shoulders.
But that’s one reason she was so happy about the unexpected romance that had bloomed between her brother and her best friend. They balanced each other. Lance kept Connie grounded, and Connie forced him to have fun. If Caitlin were being honest, she’d once feared that her childhood friend would end up in a very bad situation one day given her tendency toward things and people that weren’t good for her, but ironically she was in an incredibly stable relationship with a man who treated her like gold.
It was oh-so-cautious Caitlin who’d picked the wrong man. And who was in a very bad situation.
“Let’s get this over with,” Caitlin said.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea? What if it… I don’t know, triggers memories or something.”
“I don’t think that’s likely to happen, but if it did, I’d welcome it.”
Connie hesitated. “Even if the stuff you remember is bad?”
“Even then. I can’t tell you how awful it is not to remember what happened. A man died, Connie.” She swallowed to clear the thickness from her throat. “I killed him. And I don’t know why.”
“Because he was a pervert,” Connie said heatedly. “Who deserved everything he got.”
Caitlin sighed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. Let’s just hope the police see it that way.” She pulled on the door handle stepping from the car on legs that wanted to tremble, that wanted to run the other way.
But she leaned on the door for only a few moments before closing it.
Caitlin glanced at her car, which was parked in its assigned spot along the private alley that served as the block of townhomes’ collective driveway. She then walked the few steps it took to bring her alongside it.
It looked the same. She didn’t know why she thought it would be different, that maybe it would be parked crookedly or… something, but it looked just like it did every other time she drove home.
Why couldn’t she remember doing so? The idea of her driving through the streets of Savannah in an impaired condition made her stomach lurch. What if she’d had an accident? Harmed someone?
Of course, if she’d had an accident, she wouldn’t have made it home. And none of this would have happened.
Caitlin lifted the handle to discover that it was locked. Something else she never failed to do, given that her car remained parked on the street at all hours. Since her car keys were presumably in her purse, which was still in the custody of the police, Caitlin returned her attention to the house.
“I’m afraid,” she said. Even though admitting it made the task before her seem less insurmountable, she started to tremble anyway. But then she felt warmth at her side, and a hand on her shoulder.
She turned and met Connie’s gaze.
“I can go in for you. You can wait right here while I get your stuff.”
“I love you,” Caitlin said. “You know that?”
Even in the near dark she could see Connie’s dark eyes beginning to fill. Her friend blinked several times in rapid succession. “Yeah. I do.”
Caitlin straightened her shoulders. “I need to do this.”
“Well then,” Connie switched on a flashlight that she’d probably pulled from Lance’s glove box. Like a Boy Scout, her brother believed in being prepared. “Let’s go.”
Holding hands with her oldest friend, Caitlin climbed the two steps to her covered back porch. Sheltered by the outside wall to her eating nook on one side and by her neighbor’s on the other, it forme
d a cozy little space protected from prying eyes. Not that she’d noticed any of her neighbors at their windows, watching her, but she was sure it would happen eventually. There goes Caitlin. She stabbed a man to death, you know. Seemed like such a nice, quiet girl, but then they’re always the ones…
“Get out of your head,” Connie told her. “Just do what you have to do.”
“You’ve always been a lot better at that than I have,” Caitlin said.
“Well, you’re a writer. I’m a sales manager. We’re more practical.”
“Right.” Caitlin let go of Connie’s hand and retrieved her spare key from inside the grinning ceramic garden gnome beside the door.
“I can’t believe you still put that thing where people might see it.”
“Hey. I made it for my mom when I was ten.”
“Doesn’t make it any less fugly.”
“You’re trying to distract me by insulting my artwork, aren’t you?”
“Only if it’s working.”
Caitlin stared when Connie illuminated the black dust covering the doorknob, but pushed aside her hand when she tried to take the key. “No, I can do it.”
She pulled aside the crime scene tape, attempting to slide the key into the lock with fingers that were far from steady. Her hand slipped once, but she finally managed to turn the deadbolt.
Caitlin could just make out the black powder covering various surfaces, but now that she’d seen it on the door she was mentally prepared. However, she wasn’t nearly as ready to acknowledge the open drawer. Or the knife she knew was missing, since she’d stepped on it upstairs.
Stabbing was such a violent means of killing someone. Not that a gunshot was any less fatal, but it seemed more palatable to her somehow.
And what exactly had her life come to that she considered shooting a man palatable? Despite the often violent nature of her books, she herself was a pacifist. She didn’t even kill spiders, for God’s sake.
She turned to find Connie lingering in the doorway. With her dark hair and dusky complexion, she was little more than a shadow behind the beam of the flashlight. “Are you okay?”
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