The Night Before

  “Listen, Caitlyn—”

  Her free hand flew up to the side of her head and she spread her fingers as if ready to ward off a blow. “Never mind, strike that. I wanted to call Kelly—”

  “Kelly? Oh, for God’s sake, Caitlyn. Let’s not even go there!”

  “But—” She knew she’d made a mistake the minute she’d brought up her twin.

  “That would be just plain crazy and you know it!” His dark brows drew together. “Oh, I get it! You’re already looking for an insanity defense. Kelly.” He clucked his tongue.

  “Stop it! I’m not guilty. I’m not insane. And . . . and . . . Josh is dead,” she added, her voice cracking. “He was a bastard, okay, I know it, but . . . there was a time when I did love him.” She felt her cheeks flame at her admission. “He was my husband. Jamie’s father.”

  “Who only wanted you for your inheritance.”

  The words spilled over her like icy rain. As ugly as it was, it was the truth. Oscar let out a low whimper from his hiding spot. “Please, Troy, for my dignity’s sake, leave me a few of my illusions, okay?”

  To her surprise he crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder, but his touch was tentative, as if he were afraid that she might do something as foolish as turn to him and bury her face in his shoulder. There was hesitation in his eyes, a guardedness that never allowed her, or anyone else for that matter, too close. Two years younger than Caitlyn and Kelly, Troy, the only surviving son of their parents, had a huge burden to carry on his muscular shoulders. “It’s not that easy, Caitlyn. Your illusions tend to get you into trouble. Today isn’t the first time. It’s just the most serious.”

  “You’re right,” she admitted and felt a sliver of regret for her anger. “Look, Troy, thanks for coming today. I needed to talk to someone and I thought I could count on you. I suppose I could have called Amanda. Her office is nearby, but, well, as much of a workaholic as she is, she sometimes works at home on the weekends. Besides, she’s always so busy.”

  “And I’m not?”

  Caitlyn managed a smile, the remainder of her outrage dissipating. “You’re the boss at the bank.”

  “All the more reason for me to be there. Even on a Saturday.” But the fingers resting on her shoulder squeezed her gently, reminding her that they had a bond. “You know I’m here for you . . . I’m just not very good at the emotional support thing.”

  “That’s all that macho-male posturing you’ve been doing since you were around twelve,” she said. “You’re like a porcupine, though. Bristly on the outside, soft in the middle.”

  “And Amanda’s pure steel all the way through?” he asked, then checked his watch and scowled at the dial. “Look, I’ve really got to get back to the bank. I’ve got a client coming in soon.”

  “I know. I’ll be okay.”

  He wasn’t convinced. “Why don’t you go stay with Mom for a few days, just until the police figure out what’s going on and the vultures outside”—he hooked a thumb toward the front of the house to the windows visible past the foot of the stairs—“find other carrion to feed on.”

  “Nice analogy,” she muttered, but followed his gaze nonetheless. Through the curtains and glass Caitlyn watched the newswoman in the purple dress walk toward the van. The cameraman was stowing his gear in zippered cases.

  “Don’t be fooled. The minute those guys leave, more will show up.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Will you?” he asked, and the question resonated through the house.

  He didn’t say what he really thought, what the entire family had decided, that Caitlyn would never truly be healthy, that there would always be the past chasing her, that tragedy would forever be her companion. She’d seen her siblings exchange glances, detected their gazes staring at her only to slide furtively away when they sensed she’d caught them looking her way.

  “Caitlyn?”

  “What?”

  “You’re sure you’ll be okay here?”

  “I’ve got Oscar. He’s a fabulous companion and security system and I can pay him in dog chow,” she said lightly, but noticed the frown etching its way across her brother’s smooth brow. She let out a sigh and turned more serious. “Really, Troy, don’t worry.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I mean it.” She jutted out her jaw. Tried to look tough.

  Troy’s eyebrows rose skeptically as he reached for his jacket. “It’s impossible not to worry about you.”

  “Give it a shot, will ya?”

  He managed a bit of a smile. “You know you can call me anytime.”

  “And you’ll work me into your busy schedule?” she snapped.

  “Ouch.”

  “The truth hurts.”

  “I came today, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did,” she admitted, with the barest trace of a smile. “And I appreciate it. Really.”

  “Just promise me one thing.” His eyes narrowed on her as he slid his arms into the jacket’s sleeves and shrugged the shoulders into place.

  “Mmm?”

  “If the police stop by again, don’t talk to them. Not without your lawyer present.”

  Her good mood was shattered. The claustrophobic sensation she’d pushed aside was suddenly all over her and she felt as if she was being suffocated. She should never have trusted Troy. Knew better. “You think I killed him, don’t you?” she whispered, disbelieving. “You think I killed my own husband.” Inwardly she cringed. And what do you think, Caitlyn?

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, Caitlyn, but for the record, no. I don’t think you’re capable of murder. You have your problems—well, hell, we all do—but I don’t think you’re a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said, stung.

  “I’m just warning you, that’s all.” He adjusted his tie. “For Christ’s sake, don’t wig out on me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She folded her arms over her chest and walked him to the front door where, thank God, no reporters were camping out. But she knew that her empty front garden with its hummingbirds hovering near her feeder and a dragonfly skittering through the vines wouldn’t be peaceful for long.

  This was just the calm before the storm.

  She glanced at the sky.

  Clear and blue.

  Deceptive.

  As Troy climbed into his Range Rover, she waved and felt the burn and tightness in her wrists, the scratches that were healing . . . how in the world had they gotten there? All she had to go on were the horrifying flashes—sharp-edged bursts that sizzled through her brain like lightning bolts.

  Disjointed pieces of a dream?

  Some kind of ESP?

  Coincidence?

  Or horrific bits of a memory too terrible to remember?

  Five

  Adam Hunt picked the lock deftly. Anyone watching might have thought he owned the key to this thick wooden door because the latch sprang so easily. But he’d been careful. He was alone. No one was in the hallway of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old house that had been converted into an office building. Nobody had seen him enter silently, swinging the door closed behind him.

  Inside, the room was hot. Cloying. Dust had settled on every surface; a potted palm was brittle and dead near the window, the soil surrounding its roots bone dry. He looked around the office as he cracked a window, and the smell of Old Savannah slipped into the tiny office with its worn wooden floors and haphazardly placed rugs.

  A leather recliner, sofa and rocking chair were grouped together. Positioned catty-corner to the seating area was a tall armoire that held video equipment. Beneath the window a short, glass-fronted bookcase contained a small library on human psychoses, sexuality, morals, hypnosis and every human frailty or depravity known to man. Some of the books had belonged to him. So had the rocker. But no longer.

  His jaw clenched as he crossed to the rolltop.

  Her desk was locked.

  Of course.

  Not that it was a
problem.

  Her desk chair squeaked as he sat in it, and he noticed where its rollers had worn a path on the carpet, a small arc, so that she could turn to her computer or notes, then face her clients again. Jaw tightening, he quickly pried the desk open and rolled the top up. Inside, the cubicles and drawers of stamps, paper clips, envelopes and the like were neat. Tidy.

  Just like the woman who had so recently sat in this scarred chair.

  So where the hell are you, Rebecca? Absently he rubbed his knee. It was starting to bother him again, the result of a recent motorcycle accident.

  He turned on the computer, tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair and glared at the dusty screen as it clicked and hummed, the monitor glowing bright. He found her files, skimmed them, his lips flat over his teeth. Was it his imagination or did he smell a faint trace of her perfume lingering over the musty odor of the office?

  Wishful thinking, nothing more.

  Fingers moving skillfully, he scrolled through her patient files, getting quick peeks into the problems, heartbreaks and psychoses of patients he’d never met. Nothing caught his eye or made him think that this was the case that she was certain would change the course of her life.

  He glanced at his watch. He’d been here nearly forty-five minutes and heard the sounds of shuffling feet and scraping chairs from an office down the hall. He checked to see that he’d locked the door, so that no one searching for an office or the rest room might burst in and see him; then he crossed to the windows. From the third-floor view, he caught a glimpse of the alley below and a neighboring house. An elderly lady wearing a straw hat and dressing gown was watering her geraniums. He slid out of her view before she looked up; didn’t want to have to explain himself. At least not yet. Not until he had some answers himself.

  He’d probably have to lie to get those answers.

  So be it.

  Adam believed that lies came in differing shades, hues and textures. There were black lies and white lies and a variety of shades of gray lying in between. Some were thick and sticky, others thin and gossamer, but as far as he could remember, there had never been a good lie. And yet, he decided as he slid a pick into the locked cabinet and, with a sensitive touch he would never admit to having, sprung the simple latch, sometimes a lie was necessary.

  With a click the drawer opened.

  If a lie was necessary to get to the truth . . . was it such a bad thing?

  There is no such thing as a “white lie,” his grandmother had preached often enough. “A lie is a lie and if you can’t tell the truth, then there’s something very wrong with you.” She had looked at him with her unblinking hawklike eyes, searching for a glimmer of deceit in his gaze, and he had stared straight back at her, refusing to squirm even though they’d both known he was lying through his teeth.

  Norma Hunt had been a fair woman. When she had been unable to prove that he wasn’t telling the truth, she had been forced to pretend to believe him.

  He wondered what she’d think of her only grandson now as he opened the top file drawer, flipping through the tabs, smelling the dry, musty odor of unused documents. His fingers riffled over the names; then he closed the drawer and opened the lower one . . . and there, taking up half the space, were the documents that might help him on his quest. Thick files. Packed with notations and information:

  BANDEAUX, Caitlyn Montgomery.

  How had he missed it on the computer? Quickly he turned to the flickering screen and sorted through the files again, but Caitlyn was definitely missing in action. He did a quick cross search and found all the other patients’ records, but not one solitary entry on Caitlyn Bandeaux. A search didn’t bring up any files. He even looked through the computer’s “recycle bin,” but nothing on Caitlyn had been recently deleted.

  It was almost as if she’d never been an active client.

  But the thick paper file in his lap argued the point. And Rebecca had mentioned the name Montgomery in one of their conversations.

  He leaned back in Rebecca’s chair. Why wouldn’t the information in the paper files be transferred to the computer? He flipped through the pages and found a photograph, a snapshot of a striking woman of about thirty-five. Long red-brown hair was blowing over her eyes as she balanced a child on one hip. The little girl’s head was thrown back in laughter, pink ribbons slipping out of curly brown hair and the woman, presumably Caitlyn Bandeaux, appeared carefree. Wearing an identical white sundress to the child’s, the skirt billowing against her legs in the wind, Caitlyn stood upon the sweeping lawn of a grand antebellum house of white clapboard and brick. The sky was ominously dark with clouds, but mother and child didn’t seem to feel the threat of the impending storm.

  Adam stared at the image for a long time.

  She was one more puzzle to figure out.

  He slipped the photograph into his pocket.

  “So tell me everything you know about Josh Bandeaux,” Reed said as he dropped a slim file onto Sylvie Morrisette’s desk at the police station. Chewing gum, she looked over her shoulder, ignoring the flickering computer monitor where some of the images of Josh Bandeaux’s slumped, very dead body, were visible. “And you can leave out the part about him being a prick. I already got that.”

  “I was gonna mention that he was a smooth talker and con man. Just another example of Southern gentility gone bad.” She fingered the manila folder, laying it open. “What’s this?”

  “Preliminary autopsy report. Very preliminary. Nothing in it we don’t already know. Approximate time of death is midnight. From outward appearances it looks like he died of blood loss, maybe self-inflicted. We’ll get more information once the autopsy is completed.” He dropped into a battered side chair in her cubicle and noticed, not for the first time, how neat she kept her work space. Nothing out of place. Pictures of her family arranged on her desk, a potted fern in one corner, pens and pencils kept in an old mug with faded letters that read, “If you don’t like cops, next time you’re in trouble, call a hippie.” A denim jacket decorated with rhinestones hung from a hall tree; above it was perched a Braves baseball cap.

  “I don’t know that much about Bandeaux really.” Spying the skepticism in his eyes, she added, “Really. I wasn’t involved with him, but I’d met him, okay? What I do know was that he was married a couple of times.”

  Reed’s ears pricked up. “Caitlyn Montgomery wasn’t his first wife?”

  “Nah.” Morrisette leaned back in her desk chair and twiddled a pencil between her fingers. “The first one was named Maude. Maude Havenbrooke. Later, he hooked up with Caitlyn, who became wife number two. Then, I guess, he was gonna divorce her.”

  “Because of a potential wife number three?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “That’s the rumor. He had himself a live-in.”

  “And you know this . . . how?”

  “I checked up on him. Remember? For a friend who was interested.”

  “And her name is?”

  Morrisette hesitated.

  “This is a potential homicide investigation,” Reed reminded her and noticed her mouth tighten at the corners.

  “Millie. Millicent Torme. And she’s married, okay, so try to be discreet.”

  “Discretion is my middle name.”

  “My ass.”

  “Do you know Maude Havenbrooke?”

  “Never met her, not personally.”

  “But she’s still around?” he asked casually, thinking that Morrisette had taken a major interest in Josh Bandeaux and his personal life. Maybe she was telling the truth about her lack of interest in the deceased; then again, he wouldn’t put it past her to stretch the truth a little if it meant keeping her reputation intact.

  “Far as I know. She owns a bed-and-breakfast near Forsyth Park. Mockingbird Manor or something like that, one of those old showpiece homes filled with antiques and such. The kind where rich tourists stay when they’re in town. Word has it that she makes croissants to die for. Drizzles them with a combo of honey and homemade rasp
berry jam.”

  Reed decided to have a chat with the first Mrs. Bandeaux. “Was she friendly with her ex?”

  “Maude? Friendly with Bandeaux? I have no idea. But she remarried. A guy by the name of Springer, I think.”

  Reed made a mental note.

  “She have any kids with Josh?”

  “I’m not sure . . .” Morrisette said, then snapped her fingers and sat upright. “No, that’s wrong. I don’t think they had any kids between them, but Maude was a little older and had a kid by her first husband.”

  “Complicated.”

  “Families always are. Josh might have adopted the kid. I don’t know. As I said, I wasn’t involved.” A slight flush darkened the tops of her cheeks. “And don’t take that attitude with me. I just checked him out for Millie, who was split from her husband at the time.”

  “So Millie took up with him?”

  “Not really took up with him, or if she did, it was a fling. She and her husband were separated for a while and Bandeaux was going through a divorce. I doubt that Millie, if she did get together with him, had what he was interested in. Bandeaux liked his women rich, beautiful and willing to go down on him whenever he got the urge.”

  Reed cleared his throat. “How would you know—?”

  “I don’t, okay. But he was a player. Big time. Hung out at the strip clubs. Threw money around. This I do know. Saw him there a couple of times when I worked vice and I was involved in the raids down at the Silk Tassel or Pussies In Booties, those kind of places. Anyway, Josh hooked up with Caitlyn Montgomery and within a couple of months or so, they weren’t only an item, they were married, for Christ’s sake! Millie returned to her husband and kept pretty quiet about it. I figured he dumped her and she was embarrassed, not that she considered herself in love with him or anything. From what I understand old Josh’s charm rubbed off pretty fast once she got to know him. He and the new missus, they had a baby right away and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Resting one ankle over his opposing knee, Reed said, “I did some checking on the missus. No priors.”

  “So now you think Bandeaux was murdered?”