The Night Before (3 page)

She began to calm. The house felt empty. She checked the laundry room and kitchen, where morning light was beginning to filter through the windows, and the dining alcove with its view of the back courtyard. Everything was in its place.

Eerily so.

Except it looks like Charles Manson held a party in your bedroom while you were sleeping
.

She heard a sharp bark.

Oscar!

She saw him through the bay window, a scruffy mutt scratching at the back door. She nearly collapsed in relief. “How did you get out here?” Caitlyn scolded kindly as the scrappy terrier-mix stood on his hind legs and pawed frantically at the glass. The sound she’d heard. She unlatched the door and he flew into her arms. Ruffling his coarse mottled fur, she wondered if she’d left him out by mistake. Had she come home, let the dog out, then, because she’d had one or two too many Cosmopolitans, wandered upstairs and forgotten him?

“What happened last night?” she asked the little dog as she set him on the floor, then opened a can of dog food and scraped the contents into his bowl while he turned in quick tight circles. “You’re not half as glad to see me as I am to see you,”she assured him as she set his bowl on the floor. Tail whipping frantically, he plunged his nose into the dish and ignored the fact that she patted him on his head. He’d been Jamie’s dog, named after her favorite
Sesame Street
character, Oscar the Grouch, for his rumpled fur. “See . . . we’re okay,” she said, but had trouble believing it herself.

The smell of the dog food made her stomach quiver. She rocked back on her heels. What the hell had she done last night? Where had all the blood come from? Her bedroom looked as if something or someone had been diced to ribbons there. But she remembered nothing after going to the bar—what was the name of it? The Swamp. Yeah, The Swamp. She’d sat in a booth for a long time waiting for her twin sister, Kelly, to show up.

She’d noticed the bartender staring at her from time to time. Probably because he thought it odd that she’d ordered two drinks—a Cosmo for her and a dry martini for Kelly, which, if she remembered correctly, she’d swilled down when Kelly had pulled one of her usual disappearing acts.

But aside from tackling both stemmed glasses and sucking the pimento out of three olives before chewing them, she remembered very little. Too little.

It had been noisy . . . loud hip-hop music at odds with the conversation and laughter and . . .

Like a razor slicing through flesh, a quicksilver image passed through her mind. She was in the foyer of the house she’d decorated—the paintings of thoroughbreds adorned the walls, the grandfather clock stood guard at the foot of the stairs. The heels of her shoes tapped across the marble as she crossed to the open door of the den. The sound of classical music lured her to open the door and find her estranged husband looking up at her with sightless eyes, blood pooling beneath his desk chair.

Caitlyn gasped. Why would she think of Josh now? The image of his white, lifeless face flashed in front of her eyes again. Why would she envision him dead?

And because he was going to sue you for wrongful death. Of your child. Your baby.
“Stop it!” She’d had a dream. No big deal. No harm done. She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, twisted it open and drank half of it down only to feel it coming back up again. Fast. She doubled over the sink.

She threw up. Over and over. Until the dry heaves took over and she was wringing wet with sweat.

But she couldn’t. Dr. Wade had moved recently. So Caitlyn was fresh out of psychiatric help. Great. She hadn’t bothered trying to find another therapist. Didn’t want one.

Until now.

Why? Because I had a nosebleed? Because I might have . . . in my drunken state . . . tried to slash my wrists?

Again. You might have tried
again, that nagging voice in her brain reminded her.

“No!” She glanced down at her arms and frowned. That other incident was a long time ago.

She didn’t want to think of that. Not now.

First things first. She had to pull herself together. Calm down. Get a major grip. She needed to make sure the house was locked, then clean herself up and tackle the mess upstairs. But first sheed call Kelly. Find out what had happened.

A new fear gripped Caitlyn, and she frantically punched out the numbers to Kelly’s cabin at the river, her “hideaway,” as she called it. The phone rang. Once. Twice. “Come on, come on. Pick up!” The phone jangled a third time. Caitlyn leaned against the counter and willed her twin to answer. A fourth ring and then a distinctive click. “Hi–you reached me, but I’m not here. Leave your number!” She heard a flat beep as the recorder clicked on.

“Kelly? Kelly? Are you there? If you are, pick up. Now . . . it’s Caitlyn . . . I need to talk to you. I mean, I really need to talk to you . . . about last night. Please, call me back ASAP.” She hung up slowly and tried not to panic. With a trembling hand, she pushed the hair from her eyes. Was Kelly going out of town again? She had a business trip planned, but when?

Caitlyn’s heart was racing. Faster and faster.
Think, Caitlyn, think!

Kelly’s cell phone! She dialed, then waited, silently counting the rings as she prayed her sister would pick up. One. Two. Three. Oh, no. “Please answer.” Voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached Kelly’s cell. Leave a message.”

Just calm down.
The answering machine beeped. “Kelly, it’s Caitlyn. Give me a call. It’s important.” She hung up and considered driving out to her sister’s cabin. But what good would that do? What good at all? If Kelly was around, she’d call back.

Or would she?

Sometimes Caitlyn wasn’t sure.

“Who the hell is Josh Bandeaux?” Pierce Reed asked.

Sylvie Morrisette, his partner, was speeding along East Bay Street as if they were in the Grand-damned-Prix. “You mean besides being a major prick?” Her eyes hidden behind wrap-around shades, Morrisette slid a glance his way.

“Yeah, besides that.”

She sighed through her nose. “Sometimes I forget what a greenhorn you really are. Cute, but a greenhorn.” With her spiked blond hair, athletic body and sharp tongue, Sylvie was as tough as her snakeskin boots and as prickly as a saguaro cactus. From the moment Reed had been paired up with her, he’d won looks of condolence from the other men in the department. “Lived your life in a goddamned vacuum,” she added in her West Texas drawl. A transplant from El Paso, she had fifteen years on the Savannah police force. To his six months. Aside from a short stint here twelve years earlier, Reed had spent most of his adult life on the West Coast, most recently San Francisco. He’d left San Francisco on bad terms, but managed to land a senior detective position here. If Sylvie resented his status, she had the good sense not to show it.

Lights flashing, tires squealing, she took a corner too fast and nearly swung into the oncoming lane.

“Hey, let’s get there in one piece.”

“We will.” She managed to keep the cruiser on the pavement as the driver of a new pickup passed and looked about to flip them off when he realized he was dealing with cops and kept his middle finger from springing to attention.

“So fill me in.”

“He’s just one of the wealthiest son of a bitches in the city, maybe even the state. Grew up with a silver spoon wedged between his gorgeous Georgian teeth and married into more money. Big-time gambler. Made and lost fortunes but always came out of each thorny deal smelling like a damned rose.”

“Until last night,” Reed reminded her.

“Yeah. Last night I guess his luck ran out.” She blasted her way through a red light. “Dead at forty-two. Possible suicide.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“But you don’t buy it.”

“No way, José. I had the misfortune to meet the prick a couple of times. He donated money to the department. Any charity we hosted, he was certain to show up in an Armani suit with a big check in hand.” Her lips twisted downward. “Then he’d have a few drinks and the next thing you knew he’d be pinching some cutie’s ass. A real charmer, our Josh.” She smiled without a hint of humor and floored it through the next yellow light. “The fact that he was married didn’t stop him from making a pass at anything in a skirt.”

“The wife find his body?”

“No, they’re separated. Shit!” She braked hard, then swerved around a delivery truck double-parked. “Asshole!”

“So Bandeaux wasn’t divorced?”

“Not quite. Now I guess he won’t ever be.” She cranked on the wheel and the cruiser flew down an alley, barely missing a Dumpster and sending papers that hadn’t quite made it into the bin flying. With a bump they were on another side street and careening into the heart of the historic district. “Think of all the money Caitlyn Bandeaux will save on lawyer’s fees. Not that she needs to worry.”

“You said she was wealthy.”

“Beyond wealthy. She’s a Montgomery, as in Montgomery Bank and Trust, Montgomery Cotton, Montgomery Estates, Montgomery-every-damned thing. Some distant descendent from a Civil War hero, I think. At least that’s what her granddaddy, Old Benedict Montgomery, claimed before he died.”

“Shit.” Even he’d heard of
those
Montgomerys.

“Exactly.”

Reed made a quick mental note as the cruiser tore through the city streets. Estranged wives were always suspects. Even wealthy ones. “She live nearby?”

“Not far.”

Convenient.

“Any kids?” he asked.

“One. Dead. Died a couple of years back. Only three or four years old, I think. It was bad.” Sylvie scowled as the police band crackled. “From what I hear, Caitlyn, that’s Bandeaux’s wife, nearly went around the bend when the kid died. Josh blamed her and maybe she did herself. I even heard a rumor that she tried to kill herself. Anyway, there’s a whole lot of secrets in that family and a whole lot of hush money’s been spent to hide ’em. Let me tell you.” She snorted derisively.

“You know a lot about the Montgomerys.”

“I suppose.” Her jaw slid to the side and she checked the rearview mirror.

“A hobby of yours?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve done my share of research. Bandeaux was always skirting the law. I did a lot of looking into his professional and personal life because there were rumors that he had ties to the mob.”

“Did he?”

“I couldn’t find any, but I did find out a lot about him.”

He waited. She pressed on the lighter and found a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights on the dash. “You may as well figure this out and fast, Reed. Savannah might look like a big city, but she’s a small town at her soul.” He didn’t respond. Had already learned that silence worked best with Morrisette, and he sensed there was more to the story.

He was right.

“Oh, hell, I suppose you’re gonna find out anyway.” With a steely, humorless grin, she said, “My ex, Bart, worked for Bandeaux for a while.” Reed had met Bart Yelkis, a tall, brooding man with some Native American in his blood.

Morrisette shook out a cigarette and passed a delivery van in one motion. “The reason we got divorced?” Sylvie hesitated a second as the lighter clicked. She cracked the window, then managed to light up, driving with one hand and never slowing for an instant. “Well, there were tons of ’em. Tons. But the one that everyone believes is that I had an affair with Josh Bandeaux.” She let out a jet of smoke. “For the record, it’s not true. My taste in men might be lousy, but it’s not that lousy.”

Reed didn’t comment. Didn’t know what to believe. He wasn’t good at reading a woman’s mind—hell, who was?—but his gut instinct told him that Sylvie-tough-as-snakeskin-Morrisette was stretching the truth. How much he wasn’t certain. But it gave him a bad feeling. A real bad feeling.

 

 

“Shit.” Kelly clicked off the recorder after listening to Caitlyn’s panicked message. What was it with Caitlyn? She was always getting herself into trouble. Big trouble. And always expecting Kelly to bail her out. God, what a basket case!

Angrily, Kelly hit the replay button and sank into her desk chair as Caitlyn’s terrified voice repeated the message.

Damn it all to hell.

Sighing, Kelly hit the erase button.

“I bet,” Kelly muttered under her breath. She wasn’t surprised. Nor did it take a brain surgeon to guess that left to her own devices, Caitlyn had gotten herself into another mess. So what else was new?

Suddenly she was cold to the bone, though the temperature was a sweltering ninety-plus. Kelly rubbed her arms as she stared out the window of her little cabin. Sooner or later Caitlyn would end up in the looney bin. Unfortunately, this time, it could be permanent. Kelly couldn’t keep saving her. The trouble was, Caitlyn was falling apart. Again. Just like so many of the damned Montgomerys. Like it or not, Kelly realized that a lot of the members of her family weren’t playing with full decks . . . not even by half.

The Montgomery curse.

Shoving her hair from her eyes, she walked barefoot across the living area of her cabin to the French doors, which opened to a small deck overlooking the river. Outside the air was hot, cloying, just the way she liked it. She watched an egret glide over the sluggish water near the dock and felt the late-morning sun on her face. Leaning against the railing, she thought about her sister. Her first instinct was to climb into the car and drive like a bat out of hell to Caitlyn’s place, to placate her and soothe her as she always did when these situations occurred, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. Far from it. What was the psychobabble word they used for it these days? Enabling. That was it. She could try to allay Caitlyn’s fears, help her . . . but, truth to tell, she was sick to death of it.

Because Caitlyn was messed up. Always had been. Always would be. Not that Kelly blamed her, she thought, sliding her sunglasses onto her nose to watch a fishing boat move slowly upriver. Caitlyn had been through a lot. Even when they were kids . . . oh, the secrets Kelly knew about her twin. Even Caitlyn didn’t realize that Kelly understood the root of her demons; probably better than Caitlyn did herself. Hadn’t Kelly warned her about marrying Josh? Only about a million times. But had Caitlyn listened? Oh, noooooo. She’d been in love. So much in love. Trouble was, it had been with a snake.

And Caitlyn had been pregnant to boot.

For a while things had been okay. And then there was the baby. Kelly felt a familiar pang of regret as she conjured up Jamie’s impish face. So sad. Leaning against the railing, she watched the egret take off in a spread of snowy wings.

God, Caitlyn had loved that child. Who could blame her? Jamie had been adorable. As beautiful as her mother and as charming as her dad. Kelly scowled down at the dark, slow water as it lapped at the pilings under the dock. She hated to admit it, but Josh could be as tempting as the very devil. And Caitlyn’s hasty marriage had been all right for a while—if not perfect, at least tolerable. Even during the separation. Until Jamie had gotten sick . . . Poor baby. Kelly swallowed hard and her eyes burned as she fought tears. Hell, she’d loved that little girl. Almost as much as Caitlyn had. Almost as if the baby had been her own. Probably because she knew she’d never have any children. It just wasn’t in the cards. She sniffed and walked back inside to scrounge through her purse looking for a cigarette. No luck. The pack was empty. She tossed it into the trash near her desk and saw a picture of her niece sitting near the phone. Big smile, twinkling blue eyes, chubby hands clasped in front of her as Jamie, at two and a half, sat in the shade of a magnolia tree. Kelly picked up the silver frame and her eyes filled with tears.

Caitlyn had never gotten over Jamie’s death, not even with the help of that shrink, Rebecca What’s-her-name—Wade, that was it. Dr. Rebecca Wade. Well, she wasn’t the only one. Kelly frowned darkly and set the photo back in its resting place. Thinking about Dr. Wade reminded her that Caitlyn, soon after Jamie’s death, had almost overdosed on sleeping pills.

On purpose?

With Caitlyn, who knew?

And now Caitlyn was all knotted up about the divorce. From Josh Bandeaux, the lowlife. The man couldn’t keep his hands off women. He’d even had the nerve to come on to
her,
his wife’s twin, for crying out loud! What was that all about? She and Caitlyn were identical, so what was the thrill in that? Well, the being identical was literally only skin deep. Their personalities were acutely dissimilar. Night to day. Caitlyn was more shy, more intellectual and Kelly the emotional firecracker, the “party girl.” Besides, Josh Bandeaux would bed anything that moved.

Kelly glanced at the telephone. Caitlyn had sounded desperate. Whether she wanted to or not, Kelly would have to go over to her twin’s home and calm her down. She flopped onto her suede couch and stared at the open door. But she couldn’t face it right now. She knew what Caitlyn wanted to discuss. For the moment, she’d let Caitlyn chill. What was there to say about last night? Caitlyn had downed one too many Cosmopolitans—maybe more than one too many.

End of story.

Well, not quite.

But as much as anyone needed to know.

 

 

Morrisette crushed out her cigarette and stood on the brakes. The cruiser slid to a stop inches from the police barricade surrounding Bandeaux’s house. Several police cars and the crime scene team’s van were already parked at odd angles on the street and in the alley. A wrought-iron fence and lush shrubbery encircled a tall brick house with long windows, green shutters and a wide front porch. A couple of uniformed cops were posted outside, yellow crime scene tape roped off the area, and curious neighbors peeked from behind drawn curtains or more blatantly from their own front yards.

Reed was out of the cruiser before Sylvie cut the siren. The outside temperature was soaring, the humidity thick. Sweat prickled Reed’s scalp as he pushed open the gate and flashed his badge. Morrisette caught up with him just as a van from one of the local television stations rolled up.

“Vultures at two o’clock,” she warned.

“Keep ’em out,” Reed growled to one of the cops as he hitched his chin at the reporter and cameraman spilling from the white vehicle splashed with WKOK’s logo.

“You got it.” The young cop crossed his arms over his chest, dark eyes severe as they focused on the reporters.

Reed walked through the open front door, eyeing the refurbished old manor. Careful to disturb nothing, he followed the sounds of voices across the marble floor of the foyer, where expensive rugs muffled his footsteps, paintings of ancient thoroughbreds adorned the walls and a sweeping staircase that split at a landing beckoned visitors upstairs. Through an open doorway he spied the den. Reed’s gut clenched as he viewed the scene.

The victim, presumably Bandeaux, sat slumped over his desk, his hands dangling at his sides, blood pooled on the thick white carpet in a dark puddle. A gloved officer was gingerly picking up what appeared to be a pocketknife found directly under the victim’s right hand. The blade was dark with dried blood.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Morrisette whispered.

The criminologists had done a quick walk-through, taking notes while photographers and videographers had taken pictures, an artist had sketched the scene, preserving it for later examination and, if Bandeaux’s death proved to be because of foul play, for use in court. Provided they caught the guy. Now the members of the team with their kits and tools were setting up for a more intense search and evidence gathering.