They agreed upon a restaurant and then Caitlin stood, with Jack following suit. He started to shake her hand but somehow ended up coming around the desk instead, walking her to the door. They both reached for the handle at the same time, their hands connecting with the sort of jolt one usually associated with static electricity.
Caitlin stared at the place where their skin touched, and then jerked her head up so that her gaze clashed with his. In hers he saw the sort of shocked awareness that would be reflected in his own if he weren’t the type of man who’d perfected a poker face long ago.
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” he said.
“Yes,” she said and then cleared her throat. “Of course.”
“And Caitlin? I want you to be prepared for the likelihood that the police in Atlanta will be contacting you soon.”
“Altanta?” She looked distressed. “Why… oh. Of course. If Detective Clark was in contact with them about Ryan’s murder, he probably gave them my name.” She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. “Thank you. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.”
Jack wanted to apologize for dealing her another blow, but instead he opened the door for her, watching as she strode toward the stairs. Part of him willed her to glance over her shoulder, so that he could watch her eyes widen again if nothing else. They were very expressive, those eyes. And revealed probably more than she would like. Instead she seemed to pick up the pace, her hair swinging in a silky curtain against her shoulders when she turned the corner at the end of the hall.
Which was, of course, for the best.
Jack’s brows drew together. Many considered him ruthless when it came to getting his way, and there was a significant degree of truth in that. He set a goal, he did whatever it took to reach it. He saw something he wanted, he acquired it.
The problem, he realized with no small degree of displeasure, was that he’d never before wanted something that he really couldn’t have.
CHAPTER NINE
DETECTIVE Phil Donaldson didn’t like to form theories before the physical evidence had all been gathered, because evidence – and occasionally a stroke of luck or a bit of theatrics on the part of the prosecuting attorney – were what convinced juries to return a guilty verdict. He’d seen other cops make broad assumptions right off the bat and then try to twist or downright fabricate the evidence to fit their pet theory. Sometimes that ended up in the wrong people getting arrested, or worse, convicted. Appeals occasionally righted that wrong, but other times innocent people lost years of their lives rotting in prison for crimes they did not commit while the actual culprits went free. There were folks who might suppose that cops didn’t care overmuch about that sort of thing, since after all, they were just the first step in the legal chain that eventually formed the leg shackle. The district attorneys and juries were as much to blame.
But despite the opinions of those folks, Phil did indeed care about seeing that the right person paid for any given crime. Particularly when that crime was murder.
But sometimes, sometimes a particular story stank enough that he could smell it even without the benefit of evidentiary backup. And the tale Ms. Cavanaugh had woven carried a particularly strong aroma.
“So you’re telling me that this ex of Miss Cavanaugh’s, Ryan Fasteland, was stabbed to death two weeks ago. In his own home. With a knife from his kitchen drawer.”
“Looks that way,” Jeremy agreed, stifling a yawn. He’d been up all night, following the trail of crumbs that started with the book page left on Caitlin Cavanaugh’s windshield and wound back to the corpse of her ex-boyfriend in Atlanta. But instead of appearing disheveled, his partner only looked more attractive. Phil was the one who more closely resembled a corpse, and he’d gotten a solid eight hours.
“No sign of forcible entry, so the working theory is that he knew his killer. His estranged wife is wanted for questioning,” Jeremy added “but they haven’t been able to locate her.”
“So Wellington wasn’t totally full of shit.” Phil drummed his fingers on his thigh.
“Well, I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit. But in this particular instance, there is at least sufficient reason to believe that Ms. Cavanaugh’s ex’s estranged wife might indeed be a whack job.”
“Did the Atlanta PD say anything about Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“No. They knew that part of the Fasteland’s marital strife originated from an alleged affair of his, but I guess he kept it on the down low when it was happening so that none of his and his wife’s mutual friends found out. They didn’t have a name to go with the reported girlfriend.” Jeremy waggled his eyebrows. “Until now.”
Phil crossed his arms, resting one hip on Jeremy’s desk. “I still can’t help but feel like this is some sort of red herring. We’ve got an alleged affair, alleged stalking, and an alleged threat, all without any sort of verification. No police reports to back up her story. We canvassed the neighbors last night, and no one saw anyone approaching Ms. Cavanaugh’s car during the time in question – not that surprising since the street light is conveniently out. There were no fingerprints on the paper – the book page. None on the wiper blade. Not even a damn print on the door handles. So again, we’ve got a convenient allegation – especially since the woman in question is already wanted in potential connection with a similar crime – with no concrete evidence to either prove or disprove it.”
“So you think Wellington is intentionally misdirecting us?”
“I don’t know, although I sure as hell wouldn’t put it past him. I just know that something is fishy.” He looked at Jeremy. “Wouldn’t you expect Ms. Cavanaugh’s prints to be present on the door handles of the vehicle she drove the night of Henry Cox’s murder?”
Jeremy considered. “Unless the prints contradicted her story. Maybe she did bump into Cox elsewhere, invited him back, but since she was rather drunk – which her blood alcohol level the following morning suggests – she let him drive.”
“So she wiped the car clean but left the glasses and empty wine bottle on the counter?”
“I’m tired,” Jeremy said, running his hand over his stubbled cheeks. “And my brain isn’t working quite as efficiently as I like to believe it does under normal circumstances. But I agree with your assessment that something is fishy – which I guess makes sense since we’re talking about red herrings. We need some more concrete, physical evidence to go on. You think we have enough to swing a warrant on her car?”
“Wellington wouldn’t let us search the interior last night. Since it was locked he argued that it couldn’t contain any evidence that would apply to whoever left the note on the windshield. And as he pointed out, we have nothing placing Henry Cox inside the vehicle.” Phil mulled it over. “But I’ll work on it.”
“Speaking of Cox, I’ve got some information. But first I want to talk about this.”
He slid an evidence bag across the table. Phil picked it up. “A towel?”
“The towel Ms. Cavanaugh allegedly used to wipe her face after she vomited. Yeah, I know,” Jeremy said when Phil glanced at him in disgust. “But tell me what else you notice.”
Phil shifted the bag. “Lipstick.” When Jeremy continued to look at him expectantly, Phil said “So?”
“At first I thought it wasn’t a big deal either. Women wipe makeup all over towels all the time. Or at least my girlfriends do. But then I considered the state of her bathroom – very neat – and the fact that she had to remind herself to wear makeup, as that little note on her computer suggests. Now maybe she could have wiped it earlier, before she went out, except that the lab found traces of vomit mixed in with the lipstick. That means she was wearing it at the time she threw up.”
Phil raised a hand. “I know you’re going somewhere with this, but first let me point out that this was an awfully quick turnaround time for the lab.”
Jeremy lifted a shoulder. “I called in a favor.”
“More like made puppy eyes at one of the techs.”
“Anyway,” Jerem
y said, ignoring him “I don’t know why this particular detail bugged me, but it did.”
“Because you’re more aware of lipstick than most guys due to the fact that you so often have it smeared on your various body parts?”
Jeremy shot him a retiring look. “Are you finished with the smartass remarks? Because I can wait.”
“By all means.” Phil said magnanimously. “Carry on.”
Jeremy watched him skeptically for a second, but Phil knew when to back off. As tired as his partner was, his sense of humor was a little lacking.
“We’ve got lipstick on the wineglass,” Jeremy continued “and lipstick on the collar of Henry Cox’s shirt. If she was kissing him, there was presumably lipstick on him, as you so recently pointed out. So how does she still have lipstick on her mouth?”
Phil shrugged. “It’s one of those smudge proof deals?”
“Then it wouldn’t, by definition, have smudged.”
“She reapplied it?”
“The tube was sitting downstairs on the kitchen counter, next to her purse.”
“So she reapplied it when she picked up the knife.”
Jeremy shot a finger toward him. “Which certainly doesn’t indicate that she felt immediately threatened, if that’s the case. It does suggest a certain level of pathology, however, to reapply one’s lipstick as one is retrieving a deadly weapon for future use.”
Phil laid the evidence bag back on the table before rubbing his hand over his face. “You think she’s lying.”
“I think something is off. And because it’s off, I’d say we have sufficient reason to question her again.”
So did Phil. “I’ll contact Wellington, since you were the one who stayed up all night.”
“I think I got the better end of that bargain.”
Phil only grunted. “What did you find out about Cox?”
“You might want to pull up a chair.” Jeremy said, before leaning back in his own. “Because this story is starting to get good.”
AT this point, Caitlin wasn’t sure whether to scream and shake her fists or to sit down on the sidewalk and cry. Her car wasn’t here. The police impounded it. Her neighbor, the same man into whose arms she’d run naked and screaming on the morning this waking nightmare began, had just told her all about the tow truck showing up earlier.
“Thank you, Mr. Fisher,” she managed to say without any additional theatrics. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
His faded brown eyes were sharper than they appeared. “You’re in quite a pickle, young lady, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.”
“I don’t know what all happened at your place the other night, but I do know that you’re a nice girl who hasn’t caused anyone a lick of trouble since you’ve been here. Keep to yourself, but you’re friendly when you do cross paths with those of us who’ve been around here a while. Always a smile and a wave, and you even helped Mrs. Casey across the street the time she got caught in the rain coming home from the store. You brought her your umbrella and carried her grocery sacks. Not a lot of young people think that much about old people, but you do. You’re a nice girl.” He nodded decisively. “And I told those police detectives that.”
“Thank you,” Caitlin repeated, now struggling with tears of gratitude. Her emotions were all over the place. “I appreciate that.”
“You need to borrow my car? It’s old, but it still runs pretty good. Kind of like me.”
“I appreciate that, more than I can say. But my meeting is just a couple blocks from here, and to be honest, I’m hoping the walk will give me a chance to clear my head.”
The furrows on his forehead deepened. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well.” He shuffled his feet, and looked back toward his porch, where he’d been sitting when the cab dropped her off a few minutes earlier. “You be careful now. Okay?”
“I will.” Acting on impulse, Caitlin reached out and gave the old man a hug. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
“Ain’t nothing,” he said, shuffling his feet again. “I guess you best be gettin’ on, if you’re walking. You don’t want to be late for your meeting. Damn lawyer will probably charge you overtime and make you pay for his lunch to boot.”
Caitlin found herself smiling. Jack certainly gave the impression of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to do just that. But then she remembered that burst of… whatever it was that had arced between them. Her smile faded. The very last thing she needed right now was to be bursting around her lawyer.
After bidding Mr. Fisher farewell, Caitlin started off down the street. As this was a private access alley to the back of the block of townhouses, there was no sidewalk. She looked down at the notice which she’d found on her door, explaining that her vehicle had been impounded and giving the address of the towing company. The reason for the impound was listed as used in the commission of a crime followed by the qualifier DUI. So the cops were using the fact that she’d been involuntarily drugged before driving herself home against her.
Anger bubbled in her veins like a toxic soup. She’d overheard Jack specifically telling Detective Donaldson that he had no justification for searching the interior of her car. Obviously, the detective had gotten creative. Caitlin reached into her bag for her cell phone. She needed to call Jack to tell him about this latest development. Surely, since she hadn’t been charged with DUI, they couldn’t use it as justification. Didn’t people have to at least be officially arrested for something in order for it to be held against them? But then she remembered something about civil asset forfeiture that she’d researched for one of her books. Some states allowed police to seize property from people even without charging them for a crime. But that was limited to the drug trade, wasn’t it? Or was involuntarily ingesting an illegal drug enough basis to use that excuse?
Her head hurt from trying to figure out the legal implications, or maybe that was just the molten lava-like anger which had replaced her blood finally pumping into her brain. Who knew?
Either way, she figured she had an attorney for a reason, and that was a question best answered by him.
Caitlin came to the end of the alley, and located Jack’s number, which she’d entered into her old phone’s contact list before she’d left his building. But she hesitated before hitting send. Again, that little arc of awareness entered her thoughts. So maybe Connie hadn’t been imagining the attraction. Caitlin had been extremely preoccupied to say the least, but even in her emotionally chaotic state she’d finally picked up on it. She mulled over the fact that her first instinct upon learning about her car was to call him. Not her brother. Not Connie.
Jack.
“Because he’s your lawyer, you idiot,” Caitlin voiced aloud, and then rolled her eyes as she went through with the call. She glanced down the street before crossing toward the sidewalk, shifting her purse to her other shoulder. But because she hadn’t zipped up the outer pocket after rummaging through it at the police station, the movement caused her keys to spill to the pavement.
“Damn it,” Caitlin muttered, squeezing the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she took a step back and bent down to retrieve the keys.
The sound of squealing tires caused her to look up just as the car shot forward.
JACK noted a potential parking space only feet away from the front door to the restaurant, as well as the driver of the car coming from the opposite direction who seemed to have set his sights on the same spot.
“Sorry buddy,” Jack murmured, shifting gears as he stepped on the gas. “Not gonna happen.”
The efficiency of his high-performance engine coupled with his competitive nature meant that he was already sitting in the space by the time the other car went past. The driver blew his horn, flipping Jack the finger. Jack waved.
It was easy to be gracious when you were the victor.
Jack’s phone rang just as he was opening his door, and he glanced at the readout. Caitlin. He experienced a surge of pleasure,
followed by the ridiculous thought that he hoped she wasn’t canceling on him. Shoving that thought out the door ahead of him, he answered the call.
“Hello, Caitlin. I’m just pulling up.”
A sort of static greeted him, one punctuated by muffled noises that Jack thought sounded like traffic. “Caitlin?”
When he again got no vocalized response, Jack pulled his leg back into the car. “Caitlin, I’m afraid we must have a bad connection.”
But something, some instinct, kept him on the line. And when he heard what sounded like someone muttering Oh my God over and over, Jack practically shouted into the phone. “Caitlin! Are you okay?”
There was a scraping sound, followed by heavy breathing. “Jack.”
“Caitlin,” he said as if to confirm that it was indeed her, even though he knew it was. Not only was it her number, but he recognized her voice, despite the fact that it was shaky. “What’s wrong?”
“A car…” she sounded bewildered. “I think it tried to run me over.”
A thin layer of ice seemed to form over his skin, a sensation Jack recognized as cold fury. “Where are you?” He looked through the windshield, seeing if he could locate her visually. She must be near the restaurant. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. I… yes. Mostly. My phone screen is cracked. Oh. Yes, I’m okay. Thank you,” she added, clearly addressing someone else. Jack could hear a male voice in the back ground. “I… whoa. Guess I’ll just sit here for another moment. No, please. There’s no need to dial nine-one-one. I’m on the phone with my attorney.”
“Caitlin,” Jack repeated, concern breaking through the ice. “Where are you?”
“Ah, my house. The alleyway behind it. I was walking to the restaurant to meet you because the police impounded my car.”
The air around him chilled so quickly that Jack was surprised he couldn’t see his own breath. “Do you feel safe where you are?”
“I think so. Yes. A couple more people have come over and… shoot. I think someone is calling the police after all.”
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 72