The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He frowned. “But yet you just downed the equivalent of a few shots. And you’re still taking antibiotics?”

  She looked at him and sighed. “Yes. And you’re right. I should eat. But I don’t feel up to dealing with people. How do you feel about room service?”

  “I think that sounds like a plan.”

  They placed their individual orders, and then Caitlin, feeling slightly woozy, asked Jack if he wanted to sit down. He swept out an arm, offering her the sofa. To her surprise, he chose the chair to her left.

  “Ainsley tells me you had a good talk.”

  “We did. I felt really comfortable with her. She’s nice, but I get the impression she takes no prisoners.”

  “She’s a force of nature,” Jack agreed. “Just like her dad before her. I interned with him during law school.”

  Caitlin took a sip of the water she’d poured to balance out the alcohol. “Did you always want to be a defense attorney?”

  “I wanted to be where the action was,” he said. “And that’s criminal law, if you believe the entertainment industry. And I wanted to make a significant amount of money, so that meant the prosecutor’s office was out.”

  Caitlin found herself slightly disappointed by his answer. Not that there was anything wrong with wanting to have a job that interested you, or that paid well. But it seemed a bit… self-serving.

  He leaned back in his chair, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. “You know, I can tell by your face – you have a very expressive one, in case you weren’t aware – that you’re not impressed. Not by the suit, which we’ve previously discussed, or the trappings of money. You mocked my kitchen.”

  “I’m sure the surgical staff who designed it did their best.”

  He barked out a laugh. “See?” he raised his glass. “I like that about you. You look sweet, but you’re saucy. And I think you’re better at banter than you give yourself credit for. I said I went into criminal law for excitement and money, and that was true at the time. But because you’re not impressed, and because you’re a writer and therefore able to appreciate this sort of thing, I’m going to tell you a story. You up for that?”

  Caitlin’s heart gave one hard beat. “Yes.”

  After one final drink he sat his glass on the table beside the chair. “In part due to the fact that I interned for Thomas Tidwell – who was one of the best defense attorneys in the state before his wife got sick and he moved to Colorado for the legal access to medical cannabis – I landed a position, albeit a very low position, at a prominent law firm. And even though my position was very low, I was an arrogant son of a bitch. I’d graduated at the top of my class, I was young, I was attractive. The world was my oyster. I spent quite a few months doing grunt work, which didn’t sit well with me but was nonetheless to be expected. By the time my boss assigned me a case in which I got to be the principal defense counsel, I was beyond ready.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I’m delighted you think so. My client was a college junior, football player – he was there on a scholarship – busted for having drugs in his car. Bad enough, but when you add resisting arrest and assaulting an officer, he was in a fair amount of trouble. But I wasn’t really focused on what was on the line for him. Not when this was my first chance to really show what I could do. The kid said the drugs weren’t his – of course, they all say that. But he went on to add that the arresting officer set him up. According to him, he’d hooked up with this girl he met in a bar, and as it turns out, this girl is a local cop’s live-in. The boyfriend pissed her off, so she went out drinking, looking for a good time, to get revenge. He was that good time.”

  “And the cop blamed your client.”

  “His territory had been tread upon, hadn’t it? And more than that, his pride. But this was great! I had an opportunity to not only show that my client was innocent of the charges laid against him, I could implicate a dirty cop, too. Pretty dramatic stuff, right? However, it’s real dicey going up against an officer of the law when it’s their word against yours. Nine times out of ten, the jury is going to believe the badge. It’s how we’re conditioned as law-abiding citizens. Knowing this, I tried to get the girlfriend to talk to me. Waited for her to show up at the grocery store where she worked, approached her as she was getting out of her car. Startled her, and when she flung up her arms, she somehow knocked her sunglasses off her face. She had a black eye.”

  “The boyfriend beat her.”

  “Seemed pretty clear to me. Of course, I thought this was great, because that made our case a little stronger. As long as I could convince her to testify.”

  “Something tells me she wouldn’t.”

  “Of course not. She was terrified. But see, I did have witnesses who’d seen her dancing and flirting with my client, who’d seen her leave with him that night. Long story short, I developed sufficient evidence to request a subpoena. And since she and the cop weren’t married, there was no legal reason for her to avoid testifying. My client had zero history of drug use, plenty of character witnesses, nothing in his system, no previous trouble with the law. We could have gotten him off with little more than a slap, but he would have lost his scholarship and likely his position on the team. And more than that, I wanted a big win. I wanted courtroom glory.” Jack paused, and ran his hand over his face. “I didn’t get the big win, because the charges ended up being dropped. They were dropped because the arresting officer killed his girlfriend in a fit of rage, because she was going to testify against him. She was right to be terrified.”

  “That’s awful.” Caitlin’s heart went out to the dead girl, and to Jack, who obviously still carried the burden of misplaced guilt. “But Jack, you have to know that what happened is not your fault. You were just doing your job.”

  “It’s not my fault. That blame lies solely with the bastard who killed her. But the thing is, these people weren’t real to me at the time. They were chess pieces on my board, to be moved around in order to orchestrate my victory. It was a game.”

  She studied his face. “But you don’t think it’s a game anymore.”

  “I think that there are real people with real lives behind every case that comes across my desk. And while I still want that win, and I still try to keep an emotional distance, I’m very cognizant of the responsibility.”

  They both looked up at the knock on the door. “That’s likely room service, but let me check.” As he stood, his knee bumped the table, dislodging a padded envelope. “Sorry.”

  He bent over, handed it to her.

  Caitlin watched him walk toward the door, considering what he’d told her. It explained a lot about why Jack was the ethical man she’d discovered him to be – and a lot more compassionate than she’d initially given him credit for being.

  Feeling responsible for a person’s death, even if the circumstances were out of your control, was something she guessed you never quite got over.

  Caitlin considered. Had he told her that so that she wouldn’t feel so… alone? Of course, he hadn’t actually taken the life with his own hands. She had.

  Caitlin glanced down at her hands again, still unable to picture them holding that knife, and then she noticed the envelope. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she read the address label. It looked like it had come by courier from the corporate office in Atlanta, addressed to Lance. He must have picked it up at the front desk.

  She tucked it beside her on the sofa.

  “Ready to eat?” Jack said as he closed the door behind the room service waiter.

  “Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “PENETRATING renal trauma, resulting in Grade Four vascular injury. The knife entered the body and was retracted, partially severing the renal artery. The resultant loss in blood volume led to cardiovascular collapse. In layman’s terms, he bled out.”

  Phil stood beside his partner as the assistant medical examiner pointed to the relevant parts of Harold Cox’s bod
y so that they could see the extent of the fatal injury.

  “You’ll notice the jagged nature of the wound,” she went on. “Created when the victim reached around to pull the knife from his body. He twisted it.” She demonstrated the motion. “Nicking the artery as he did so. If he’d left the blade in place, there’s a chance he would have survived the injury. Given prompt medical attention, at any rate.”

  “How do you know he pulled the knife out?”

  “The angle of penetration differs from the angle of retraction. Usually when a person strikes someone with a blade their arm follows the same trajectory up as it does down.” She mimicked a stabbing motion. “Even if they twist the knife, it’s going to come out toward their dominant arm, which in this case, appears to be the right. However, the knife was removed on an angle that suggests it was pulled to the left and slightly down. Consistent with the victim reaching around behind his back in order to pull it out.”

  “So you’re saying he pretty much killed himself?”

  “He certainly didn’t stab himself multiple times, but yes, as far as causing the damage which ultimately led to his death. More interesting, as far as your investigation goes, is the pattern of the knife wounds themselves. The first strike is here, on the upper back.” She pointed to the spot. “The blade struck the right scapula, glanced off, and therefore that wound was shallow. The second strike is here, passing through the right biceps from bottom to top.”

  “Like he raised his arm in self-defense.” Jeremy mirrored the movement with his own arm. “As he was turning around.”

  “Or rolling over,” Phil pointed out.

  “Which is probably more likely,” the pathologist agreed. “Given the downward angle of penetration. The victim was half an inch over six feet. If he were standing at the time of the attack, that would make his assailant considerably taller.”

  “The final blow once again came from behind, right?” Jeremy clarified. “The one that went into his kidney. And he was found on his back beside the bed. So if I’m following this correctly, he would have been on the bed… maybe kneeling? When the first blow hit him. He throws up his arm as he’s turning around, gets stabbed the second time, and then falls or rolls off the bed, onto his stomach. The assailant strikes him once more in the kidney. He reaches around, pulls the knife out himself – using his left hand because his right biceps has just been stabbed – and then rolls onto his back, where he proceeds to bleed out.”

  “The pattern of his injuries suggests that’s the likeliest scenario, yes.”

  Jeremy looked at Phil. “Stabbing someone in the back doesn’t sound much like self-defense.”

  No, it didn’t. But there were still several things that bothered Phil. “The fingerprint findings on the knife are also consistent with him pulling it out himself. But it bothers me that we didn’t find another set of prints. Specifically Caitlin Cavanaugh’s.”

  “So she wore gloves.”

  “And if you’re trying to make it look like you killed a man in self-defense, wouldn’t the presence of gloves indicate premeditation? Kind of self-defeating, don’t you think?”

  “Lots of people make mistakes when they’re staging a crime scene.”

  “Even a novelist who has studied a thing or two about criminal investigation? There was hardly any sign of a struggle in that bedroom, and the one thing that did indicate a physical altercation – the knocked over lamp – was replaced on the table and wiped down. Why the hell would you do that if your goal was to make it look like you were in a life or death struggle?”

  “Maybe she’s not as smart as she thinks she is. Maybe the fact that she was more than half lit at the time of the murder – and her blood alcohol level confirms that – impaired her ability to think things through.”

  Phil tilted his head. It was a fair point.

  “I collected the samples for the toxicology report,” the pathologist interrupted their debate. “Has the lab gotten back to you yet?”

  “No,” Phil said. “You have something to contribute?”

  “Only that the victim showed numerous signs of long term drug and alcohol abuse, including cirrhosis. The lab will be able to tell you what substances might have been in his system at the time of death, but I know there was some question as to whether or not he was clean. In short, no. If the knife hadn’t done it, he was well on the way to killing himself anyway.”

  Phil nodded. “Thanks. We appreciate your time.”

  Jeremy yanked off his tie as they emerged from the stale, frigid air of the morgue into the sticky Savannah night. Then he used it to blot his forehead. “For every answer we get, it seems like we end up with three more questions. I feel like we’re chasing our own tails.”

  Phil couldn’t disagree. “I think we need to take a harder look at just how well Harold Cox knew the Cavanaughs.”

  “And what sort of dirt he might have had on them? Maybe a blackmail attempt gone bad, since Cox was a druggie with no ostensible income aside from family charity. Unless, of course, he was selling as well as using.”

  “You said there was an article in an Atlanta publication about how well their medical device company was doing, right?”

  “I did indeed.” His partner paused in the shadows of a live oak, rendering him nearly invisible except for the faint sheen of moonlight on his light hair. But Phil could hear the renewed interest in his voice. “So maybe Cox saw Caitlin in that bar, followed her outside. Hey, how you doing? Long time no see. And she invites him back to her place for a drink, some catching up.”

  “And he springs his real intentions on her. Pay up if you want me to shut up.”

  “And she panics,” Jeremy added. “Because maybe this dirt is something she really doesn’t want to get out. So she feigns sweetening the deal. Invites him up to her bedroom. Waits until he’s naked and vulnerable, crawling onto the bed. And then she kills him. But pretends to have no memory of events.”

  It was plausible. “There are still some discrepancies. And we need to figure out how her ex-boyfriend’s murder is connected. Or if it’s just a coincidence.”

  “I say she’s using it, and the fact that the Atlanta PD still can’t find the wife, as a red herring. That threatening note on her windshield could have come from anyone.”

  Phil tilted his head and looked back at the stars winking through the sprawling limbs of the tree overhead. The theory still had some flaws, and there were plenty of questions that still needed answers, but it gave them something to go on.

  Jeremy’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “We’re getting closer. I can feel it.”

  Phil wished he could still feel that sort of excitement. Any more, seeing the worst of humanity just made him tired.

  Unwrapping a piece of gum and sticking it in his mouth in lieu of the cigarettes his doctor told him he was no longer allowed to smoke, Phil gestured for Jeremy to start walking.

  Harold Cox hadn’t been a model citizen, but he still deserved justice.

  JACK studied Caitlin over the rim of his water glass. “Did you always want to be a writer?”

  She paused in the act of putting a French fry in her mouth. “Um, no. When I was little I wanted to be a mermaid. Since I can’t hold my breath for more than a minute, however, that dream has gone unrealized.”

  Jack smiled. “Damn biology.”

  “Always holding us back from our aspirations. That and physics. I also went through a brief spell of being convinced that I could fly. A sprained wrist when I jumped out of a tree quickly disabused that notion.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you’ve always had an active imagination.”

  She smiled her agreement. “Pretty much.” But the smile faded, and she dragged her French fry through some ketchup, although Jack didn’t think she intended to eat it. It was more a prop at this point. “I didn’t put my imagination into words on paper until after my parents died. It became a way for me to have control, when so much else was out of my control.”

  “I get that,” J
ack said. “Although I can’t imagine losing my parents.”

  “You’re close with them?”

  “Yeah. My whole family is pretty tight knit. It was a pain in the ass sometimes growing up, being the oldest of five kids. Sometimes I felt like they expected more out of me than they did my younger siblings, and I heard Keep an eye on your brother more times than I can count. But looking back, I wouldn’t trade it. Seems like you and your brother are close.”

  “Part brother, part standin dad. All rock.” She sat the soggy fry aside. “I feel terrible about the stress I’m causing him right now. He has enough on his plate, what with the company expanding and he and Connie’s wedding. And the never-ending power struggle with Theresa.”

  “You said there’s some dispute over taking the company public?”

  “Theresa pushes for, because she wants the money. She lives an expensive lifestyle, and that doesn’t count Peyton’s problems. Lance is against, because he doesn’t like the idea of being beholden to shareholders whose only stake in the business is financial. He’s a big believer in sweat equity, although he gives me a pass. I’m useless as a salesperson, have no scientific or medical knowledge, and I rely on an accountant because my brain does words, not math. Unless it’s legal jargon,” she said with a rueful smile. “That’s pretty much a foreign language.”

  “Hence the reason for attorneys. We’re uniquely cursed with the ability to both spew and decipher grandiose bullshit.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. But yes, our parents left equal shares to both of us. And while I’m grateful for the financial cushion it’s provided me over the past several years, quite frankly I’m ready to wash my hands of it. Being the rope in a tug-of-war is no fun.”

  “They each try to persuade you to see things their way?”

  “It wouldn’t matter what I think, except that I have a vote. The deciding vote, unfortunately, since whoever I throw my weight behind will win the debate. That’s why I’ve been talking to Lance about him buying out my shares. I don’t want to be in the middle.”