The Night Before (17 page)

“If you’re sure.”

“I am,” she said, but it was a bald-faced lie. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Not one damned thing.

“Okay, so tell me about your grandmother, Evelyn.” Adam offered Caitlyn a reassuring smile, showing just the hint of his teeth, then glanced down at his notes again as he picked up the legal pad. “You mentioned her and your lapses of memory just about in the same breath.”

“That’s right,” Caitlyn said, and her voice seemed to reverberate in her head. That cold, dark morning had stretched into an eternity. “What I was about to say was that even though I sometimes don’t remember things, I’ll never forget the night Nana died because I was locked in the room with her, sleeping in her bed. I woke up and she was there—icy cold, just staring at me. I freaked, I mean really freaked. I screamed and cried and pounded on the door, but her room was located over the carriage house, away from the other bedrooms, and the windows were covered with storm windows. No one missed us. No one heard me.” Her throat tightened, and her voice cracked as she remembered curling into a ball near the closet and sucking on her thumb. “No one came for a long, long time.”

“This damned case—and I’m not including damned in the swear-word piggy bank,” Morrisette announced as she slung her purse over her shoulder and hurried down the back steps of the station. Reed was half a step ahead of her. “This damned case just gets screwier and screwier.”

“Amen.” He’d been thinking the same thing. Too many people had a connection to Josh Bandeaux. Too many people hated him. Too many women had been involved with him. Too many pieces of evidence didn’t fit. He’d talked to Diane Moses and was supposed to meet with her later to sort through her theories on the evidence the crime scene team had collected.

On the first floor, he shouldered open the door to the parking lot. It was late afternoon, and the station’s shadow crawled across the rain-washed asphalt, but despite the recent shower, the temperature was still hovering somewhere near ninety. He didn’t want to take a stab at how high the humidity was. He was sweating by the time he reached the car. “Tell me what you’ve got. I’ll drive.”

“I’ll drive.”

Reed flashed her a smile as he unlocked the door to the cruiser. “Next time, Andretti.”

Scowling at his smart-assed reference to a race-car driver, she slid inside. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“I know you will.” He twisted on the ignition and wipers, letting the blades slap away the remaining raindrops. Morrisette leaned against the passenger door as he backed the cruiser out of its slot. “Okay, we know that the wife had reason to hate Bandeaux’s guts, but he had a few more enemies. Not only business types, but ex-girlfriends by the dozen.” He slid a glance her way.

“Oh, don’t even go there, okay? I’m not an ex-girlfriend. And Millie’s
not
a suspect. Jesus, Reed, I wish I’d never said anything!”

“I would have found out anyway.”

“Of course you would have,” she said sarcastically. “A crackerjack detective like you.”

He winced as he pulled out of the lot and headed past Colonial Cemetery. Sylvie Morrisette was one of the few people in Homicide who knew about his botched stakeout in San Francisco. “Does Jesus count as a swear word?”

“I was praying, all right.”

“Sure.”

“Damn it all to hell. There’s another thing I wish I wouldn’t have said anything about. You’re worse than my kids.”

“Is that possible?”

“Very funny. I have
great
kids.”

“They’re not teenagers yet.”

“And what would you know?” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You know, I get damned sick of every dam—er, stupid single cop on the force offering me up advice on my kids. I’ve got it waxed.”

“If you say so.”

“They’re
great
kids,” she repeated.

“No argument here,” he said, hoping her motherly feathers would soon be unruffled. They were going to be spending a lot of time cooped up in the car together today, so it would be best not to start out irritating each other. Reed wanted to double-check a few alibis and witness reports for the night of Josh Bandeaux’s death. First on the agenda was Stanley Hubert, Bandeaux’s neighbor who reported spying a white car in the driveway. Next he hoped to catch Naomi Crisman, Josh’s elusive girlfriend, and finally he planned on visiting Oak Hill to talk to a few members of the Montgomery clan, see what they had to say about the man Caitlyn had married.

It all could prove interesting.

“You’ve totally tossed out the idea that Bandeaux offed himself?” Morrisette asked, scavenging in her bag until she found a mutilated pack of gum.

“Pretty much.”

“So whoever killed him just did a half-assed job of covering their tracks?”

“That’s the way it looks,” Reed said, easing onto the narrow street where Bandeaux’s house stood. He pulled into a spot near the curb and cut the engine. “But then, looks can be deceiving.” As Morrisette plopped the gum into her mouth, he climbed out of the car and made his way up Stanley Hubert’s walk. She was only half a step behind.

He’d barely punched the doorbell when there was a gruff bark from inside and the door swung wide.

“I saw you pull up,” a stiff-backed man admitted as they flashed their badges. A graying bulldog stood bristling at his side.

“We’re looking for Stanley Hubert.”

“You found him. Come in, come in.” Hubert was probably in his late seventies or early eighties, wore thick glasses, a panama hat and seersucker suit. He stepped out of the way, and the grumpy dog with a grizzled muzzle let out a raspy growl. “Hush, General,” Hubert commanded, then poked at the dog with the tip of his cane. “Ignore him,” he said to the officers. “He’s just upset that you ruined his nap. Come on out to the back porch. We can talk there.”

Hubert whistled to the dog. Then, using his cane, he headed toward the back of the house. Through a door scratched to the point of losing its stain, they walked outside to a verandah completely encircled by a six-foot brick wall. Birdhouses were suspended from the limbs of a giant oak tree planted in one corner of the enclosed yard while ivy climbed tenaciously up the uneven brick and mortar of the fence. “Sit,” Hubert suggested and they all took seats around a glass-topped table. A few drops of rain still lingered on the smooth top. “What can I do for you?”

Reed said, “We just want to double-check some facts about last Friday night.”

Hubert was only too glad to comply. His story hadn’t changed an iota. Around eleven-thirty, just after watching the local news, he’d walked outside with the dog. He’d seen a white car, one that seemed identical to the Lexus Caitlyn Bandeaux drove. He’d recognized the make because Caitlyn had been driving the same car before she’d moved out of the house next door a few years back. He hadn’t actually seen the driver as he’d smoked his cigar and waited for his dog to “do his business” that night, but Hubert was ready to testify that the car was identical, if not the very car owned by Josh Bandeaux’s estranged wife.

“I’d hate to take the stand against her,” he admitted, fishing inside his jacket for a cigar. “I like that woman. She’s . . . troubled, I’d guess you’d say, but a decent enough person. Always managed to wave and smile at me when she lived next door and oh, did she love that little girl. A shame about Jamie.” Hubert let out a sigh and some of the starch seemed to fade from his muscles. “That child was the glue that held that marriage together and even she wasn’t enough in the end.” He adjusted the brim of his hat against the sun. “I don’t understand it, you know. I was married for forty years before the Good Lord took my Aggie. I would’ve given my right arm and probably my left for a few more years with her and today . . . most marriages are thrown away before they’ve even begun. A shame, that’s what it is, a damned shame.” He snipped off the end of his cigar and scowled. From the corner of his eye Reed caught Morrisette, four times divorced, tensing.

“Did you ever talk to Mr. Bandeaux?” she asked, masking her irritation. “Did he seem depressed?”

Hubert scoffed. “You mean, do I think he’d commit suicide? I doubt it. Seriously doubt it. Stranger things have happened, I suppose, but he didn’t seem the type to end it all. Not Josh Bandeaux. He was just too interested in self-preservation. ”

“But you think his wife would kill him?” Morrisette kept pushing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, do you?”

He frowned, studied the end of his unlit cigar as he fumbled in his suit pocket for a slim gold lighter. “I wouldn’t think so, no. But . . . sometimes when a person’s pushed too far, he or she will go to extreme lengths, take matters into their own hands, do things they or anyone else never thought they were capable of. I’ve seen it time and time again. I was career military before I went corporate. I’ve seen some men I’d thought were weak overcome incredible odds and watched other stronger, bigger men crumble into a heap when they were called upon to do something they couldn’t. It’s just damned hard to say.”

They’d learned nothing new, but Reed felt confident in the witness as they finished the interview. Hubert promised to call the police if he thought of anything else that might be relevant; then, with General huffing ahead, he’d escorted both detectives through the front door. Hubert was older, his glasses thick, but he was as sharp as a tack. Reed doubted that Stanley Hubert, retired major and nuclear engineer in private business, made too many mistakes.

“So Caitlyn was here,” Morrisette observed, chewing her gum thoughtfully as they walked next door. “She just doesn’t remember it.”

“Seems like.”

“That’s way too flimsy and way too handy of an excuse if you ask me.”

Reed wanted to argue, but couldn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get on Morrisette’s bad side again. That happened on a daily basis and was just part of dealing with her. But he couldn’t argue with her logic. Not when it mirrored his own.

They walked through the iron gate leading to Bandeaux’s front door. The yellow crime scene tape had been stripped away and a silver Jaguar was parked in front of the garage.

“Somebody’s home,” Morrisette observed halfway up the walk when the front door banged open.

Naomi Crisman flew down the steps, her hair billowing away from her sculpted, worried face and the skirt of her wraparound dress opening with each long stride. She nearly barreled into Morrisette. “Oh!” She stopped short. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you . . .” Her expression changed instantly when she recognized them as cops. Annoyance drew lines in her forehead and pulled her finely arched brows together. “Detective Reed.” She inclined her head and adjusted the strap of her purse, seeming to pull herself together in the same motion. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Just answer a few more questions.”

“I thought we went through this.”

“Just double-checking some facts.” Reed flashed her a disarming smile as slow-moving traffic eased down the narrow street in front of the house. “Can we talk inside?”

Naomi made a big show out of checking her watch, then sullenly walked into the house without nearly the enthusiasm she’d felt while bolting out the door a couple of minutes earlier. “This place gives me the creeps,” she admitted, leading the detectives to the right of the staircase and into a cozy parlor that was directly across the foyer from Bandeaux’s den.

Statuesque but small boned, Naomi Crisman had a knock-out figure with big breasts, tiny waist and well-rounded hips. Her hair was streaked several colors ranging from dark brown to white-blond and cut in fashionable layers that accented her high cheekbones and large eyes.
A body that women would kill for,
Reed thought and noted that she showed off the whole package in the shocking pink dress and five-inch heeled sandals. Not the usual mourning attire for a grieving girlfriend. It seemed Naomi was already moving on.

Once inside the parlor, she motioned to a couple of Queen Anne chairs for the detectives, chairs that were upholstered in the same sage green print as the drapes. She stood in the archway to the foyer, her arms folded under her breasts, her lips pursed in irritation. “I’ve answered tons of questions already,” she said as Reed took out his notepad and Morrisette switched on her recorder and placed it on the table.

“I know, just a couple more. To clarify things,” Reed said. “Let’s start with your boyfriend’s wife.”

“Which one?”

“The one he was still married to, Caitlyn Montgomery.”

“Oh,
her
.” Naomi made an impatient sound. “The nutcase.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because she’s crazy. It’s a matter of record. Come on, you
do
know that.” When neither one of them responded, she rolled her eyes. “Check the local hospitals. According to Josh, she was in and out of mental hospitals or psych wards or something. She’s tried to commit suicide at least once, maybe more, and every time she seemed to get better, you know, like mentally—if you really can, I don’t know about that—she ended up regressing again. She’s a lost cause. Once a fruitcake, always a fruitcake.”

“How about her relationship with the deceased?”

“ ‘The
decease?’
Oh, for crying out loud, is this some kind of cheesy courtroom drama? ‘The deceased.’ Josh would love that.”For a second her attitude faded and sadness stole over her features, as if she actually had cared for Bandeaux. “Their relationship wasn’t great, okay? He was divorcing her and suing her for their kid’s wrongful death, so how good do you think it was?” She rolled her eyes as if she were speaking with morons.

Reed tried not to get angry, but he felt Sylvie’s temper rising with each of Naomi’s sarcastic comments. He was content to let Ms. Crisman rant. Sometimes suspects said more in their commentary than they did when actually answering a question.

“Was he going to marry you?” Reed asked.

“Of course! Why do you think
she
was so upset?”

“She was still in love with him?”

“Oh, who knows with her? Probably. Ask her.” For the first time Naomi cracked the barest hint of a smile. “Lots of women were in love with him.” Her gaze slid to Morrisette, and Reed felt his partner begin to seethe.

“Where were you on the night he died?” Morrisette asked calmly as she popped her gum.

“I’ve already answered this. I was visiting friends on the island.”

“St. Simons Island?”

“Yes. They have a place on the water down there. I had a little too much to drink and didn’t want to risk the drive home, so I spent the night in their guest room.”

“And you can verify that you were there all night?”

“God, yes! I thought I already explained what I was doing. I was staying with Chris and Frannie Heffinger. I have their phone number if you need it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do I, like, need a lawyer or something? Am I a suspect?”

“We’re just working things out”.

“Then arrest Caitlyn, okay? We all know she did it. She’s still got keys to the place, for God’s sake and Josh was divorcing her. I already told you that she is totally mental. Really, this isn’t rocket science.”