“Oh, God,” she whispered, as a flash of memory tore through her brain. Her throat tightened and she bit her lip. Shadows, dark and murky, flitted through her mind, but they were impossible to catch hold of, sifting through her mind as quickly as cold sand through her fingers. Charles. He’d come to her room, she remembered that, but not much of what happened once he’d slipped through the doorway and crept silently to her bed. “No. Don’t . . .” Caitlyn’s throat tightened. Her voice sounded weird, distant, as if it hadn’t come from inside her. Her lungs barely moved and she couldn’t so much as draw a breath. She leaned hard against the door to her room.
Call Adam. Let him help you.
She wanted to. Oh, God, she wanted to, but she couldn’t lean on him at every turn, not until she sorted some things out for herself. Later . . . then she’d call.
And why would you do that, Caitie-Did? You kissed him last time and you liked it, didn’t you? You’re hoping for more. You want to kiss him, hard. See if he’ll respond. Feel his touch.
No. This would be a professional appointment, she told herself as she forced herself down the stairs.
Oh, sure. Then why is your heart pumping in anticipation? Hmmm?
She could almost hear her twin’s accusations as she snapped on Oscar’s leash and took off jogging south, tried to run from the accusations burning through her mind. She stayed on the sidewalk, avoiding pedestrians, strollers, dogs and bicyclists. It was late afternoon, the sunlight losing ground to thick purple clouds that were rolling inland, chasing after her, just as her painful thoughts ran through her mind.
“Hey! Watch out!”
Caitlyn nearly stepped in front of a rickshaw pulled by a bicycle, but pulled back onto the curb just in time, jogging in place until there was a break in the traffic. A kaleidoscope of images spun ahead of her, graphic mental pictures of Josh at his desk, her mother lying dead in the hospital bed, Jamie gasping in her arms, the arrow in Charles’s chest, bedsprings bouncing in tempo to Copper Biscayne’s moans . . . Faster and faster she ran, trying to outrun the painful pictures, Oscar panting as he raced to keep pace with her. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. Faster. Her blood thundered through her veins. Her lungs burned. Her calves ached. Still she ran, her feet slapping the pavement. But no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t outrun the images; they caught up with her. She remembered kissing Adam, vamping with him and desperately wanting to rely on him; she recalled in vivid, nightmarish hues her bedroom on the morning after Josh had been killed and she’d woken up to all the blood.
A horn blasted and she realized she’d lost track of traffic.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” the driver yelled from his pickup. “Next time you might not be so lucky!”
She jerked out of the way, pulling on Oscar’s leash, nearly stumbling against the curb. Her lungs were on fire and she doubled over, gasping, her hands on her knees as she dragged in long drafts of air. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to the dog and, finding a couple of crumpled bills in her pocket, tied him to a parking meter and went into a corner quick mart, where she bought a bottle of water.
What’re you running from, Caitie-Did? Is it what happened to you or is it that you can’t face who you really are, what you’ve done?
“No,” she whispered. Outside again, she opened the bottle, took a long swallow and knelt near her pet. “Here ya go,” she said, helping him drink by holding some of the water in her cupped hand. “It’s not every mutt who gets—let’s see”—she checked the label—“oh, the finest natural spring water from the mountains of France.” She laughed and Oscar wagged his tail. “Come on, let’s hike on back. No running,” she said as a breath of wind tickled the back of her neck, chilling the beads of sweat.
She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see someone. There were other pedestrians bustling along the sidewalk, two old men in hats eyeing the sky warily as they talked, a group of people with shopping bags waiting for a bus and a woman jogging while pushing a stroller, but no sinister pair of eyes looking at her. Taking note of her surroundings, she realized she’d run much farther than she’d intended, angling through the streets without much thought. She knew where she was, but it was a long way back. “I think we’d better get going,” she said to the dog and headed toward the house. By the time she got there, maybe Kelly would have called or e-mailed back.
“Come on,” she said to Oscar and noticed how dark the sky had become. The temperature hadn’t dropped, but the air had become more dense. Traffic had picked up as commuters drove out of the city and more pedestrians filled the streets. She sensed she was being followed, but told herself that she was just being paranoid. Again. It seemed to be her new way of life . . . well, not new, but certainly more permanent. Ever since Josh’s death she’d had the skin-prickling sensation that she was being watched. Maybe even stalked.
A surreptitious glance over her shoulder and she saw no one other than bustling pedestrians heading home. No one following her. The first drops of rain fell, splashing on the pavement and sliding down her neck. The wind picked up, shimmering through the branches overhead, and pedestrians ducked inside or sprung umbrellas.
Which she didn’t have.
What she did have was nearly a mile to go. Before she got drenched. Oscar was trotting along beside her and despite her promise to him, she picked up the pace. Started jogging. The little dog was right on her heels. Faster she ran, though her legs burned. Through puddles, around curbs, the rubber soles of her running shoes slapping the pavement. She concentrated on her breathing as she ducked through alleys and under trees. As she ran by a storefront window, she thought she saw Kelly inside, but she broke stride and blinked and Kelly was gone . . . had evaporated . . . it was just her imagination. She ran on, ignoring her thundering heart and lungs that felt as if they were aflame. Sweat mingled with rainwater and ran down her face.
Through the back alleys she raced until she spied her house. Finally. She felt as if she might collapse as she rounded the corner, pushed open the gate and flew up the stairs. Picking up her wet dog, she walked inside. She found a towel in the continental bath downstairs and dried Oscar with it before giving him fresh water; then she looked in her liquor cabinet and found the makings for martinis and left them on the counter.
Dashing up the stairs, she began peeling off her clothes and headed for the shower with its still-shattered glass. She’d managed to place tape over the hole in the glass and along the cracks, but it wouldn’t last forever even though she was careful not to let the force of the spray hit it. Gratefully she stepped under the hot spray, letting the water run down her face and back. Closing her eyes, she let the hot water pulse into her muscles and refused to think how eerie it was to shower here, to sleep in her bedroom, to live in this house that had been so violated. Without the aid of sleeping pills, she doubted she would be able to rest knowing that something very, very wrong had happened here, something that she was a part of.
Somehow, some way, she had to figure out what happened. She couldn’t rely on others. Not the police. Not Kelly. Not Adam. No . . . she had to figure it out for herself. She had to unlock her memory . . . maybe hypnosis . . . Rebecca had once used hypnosis on her, and though Caitlyn hadn’t remembered what had transpired when she was under, Dr. Wade had assured her that it had been very good progress.
“I think you’ll be pleased,” Rebecca had said with a smile as Caitlyn had climbed step by step out from her hypnotic state.
“Will I?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Rebecca had looked at her watch. “Let’s just say it’s a breakthrough. I’m not sure what it all means yet. Let me do some research, but rest assured, I think you’re going to feel much better.”
There had been several more sessions of hypnosis, more evasive answers, and had Caitlyn not felt so refreshed, so much better about herself, she might have been angrier about the doctor’s reticence.
“Sounds like hogwash to me,” Kelly had told her when Caitlyn confided in her sister. “What reputable shrink hypnotizes someone and then doesn’t divulge what happens while she’s out? For all you know she could have you hopping around like a chicken with your head cut off.”
“It’s not like that.”
“How do you know?”
“I know, okay? If I was doing something really weird, I’d feel it. As it is, I just feel refreshed.”
“For the record, I think it’s mumbo jumbo. Freaky stuff, Caitie-Did. Freaky stuff.”
Had it been? Now, as Caitlyn picked up a bottle of shampoo, she wondered. And why had Dr. Wade left so suddenly without a word? Yes, she’d said she was leaving for a while to organize her notes on the book she was writing, and she’d promised Caitlyn she’d return and when she did they would resume their sessions, but she needed to do some research.
But Dr. Wade had left early. Suddenly.
Or so Caitlyn had assumed.
Now she was getting a bad feeling about it. Real bad.
What if something had happened to the psychologist? But that was foolish. Adam had said he was in touch with her. All she had to do was demand Rebecca Wade’s phone number. That was it and then . . . and then . . . whether she wanted to face it or not, she had to go to the police.
The police? Are you nuts? For crying out loud, Caitie-Did, they’ll lock you away! Don’t do anything crazy! Wait. Just wait one more day. For God’s sake, just chill.
But no matter how she tried to slow her racing heart, she couldn’t. She went through the motions of shampooing her hair and lathering her body, but her mind was racing as quickly as her heartbeat, spinning round and round. She felt the urge to pass out. She had to support herself against the wall as she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. Her knees felt like rubber.
The phone shrilled.
She shouldn’t answer it; it was probably the reporters again.
But it could be Kelly.
Or Adam.
She squeezed the excess water from her hair.
The phone jangled again.
Dripping, wrapping the towel around her middle, she forced her legs to support her as she ran across the bedroom and scooped up the phone. “Hello?” she said breathlessly, her heart still hammering as she tried to keep her towel from falling onto the carpet.
“Mommy?” a child’s voice called. It was soft. Muted . . . as if coming from a long distance.
Caitlyn nearly collapsed. “Jamie?” she whispered. Her heart jackhammered in her chest as she slowly lowered herself onto the mattress and tried to think.
“Mommy? Where are you?” So faint. So blurry.
“Jamie!” No, that wasn’t possible. Jamie was dead.
Dead!
Snatched away when she was barely three. Her jaw started to chatter. “Who is this?” she forced out. “Why are you doing this to me, you bastard?”
“Mommy?” the little voice called again. Softer this time. Confused.
Caitlyn’s heart wrenched. Her free hand clenched into a fist, fingers curling into her quilt. “Jamie!” It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. And yet. If only . . . “Honey?” she whispered, her mind spinning wildly as she lost track of time and space. “Jamie, are . . . are you there?”
Silence . . . just a hum . . . the sound of a television?
Oh, God. Caitlyn felt split in two.
She swallowed against a suddenly arid throat and forced words past her chattering teeth. “Honey? Mommy’s here. Mommy’s right here—”
Click!
The line went dead.
“No!” she cried desperately. “Don’t hang up! Jamie! Baby!” She was panicked, but she knew better. The voice on the other end couldn’t have been her precious child. Her daughter was dead. Along with all the others. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her bedroom swam in her vision and she thought she might pass out. The call had been a ghastly, cruel trick made by someone who wanted to push her over the edge.
Blindly, Caitlyn struggled to hang up the phone, slapping at the bedside table. The receiver rocked in its cradle.
Rock-a-bye baby
In the tree top
When the wind blows
The cradle will—
“No!” She sat bolt upright, the towel falling away, her damp skin exposed to the air. This was all just a bad, macabre joke. Shaking, she tried to get to her feet. Couldn’t. The room seemed darker, and she remembered the bloodstains that had smeared the walls that Saturday morning . . . the handprints on the door casings. The smears on the curtains. The sticky pool on the floor.
Her head pounded. Her heart raced.
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall
Down will come baby
Cradle and all.
Tears rained from her eyes. She couldn’t move as the blackness came and above it all, in the faintest of childish whispers, she heard her daughter’s voice.
“Mommy? Mommy? Where are you?”
Twenty-Five
In his office, a cold, congealed cup of coffee sitting on a stack of unread policies and procedures just handed down from the brass, Reed studied his list of suspects in the Joshua Bandeaux murder. Not suicide. Murder.
The list was long enough. More than long enough. He scanned the now-familiar names. All the Montgomerys were included along with the Biscaynes, Naomi Crisman, Maude Havenbrooke Bandeaux Springer, Gil Havenbrooke, Lucille Vasquez, Flynn Donahue, Bandeaux’s clients, his ex-partner, Al Fitzgerald, Morrisette’s friend Millie Torme . . .
Pretty damned much half the citizens of Savannah.
But most of them did have alibis that were confirmed. He’d had people working around the clock checking and double-checking, and he’d narrowed the field considerably to close friends and, of course, the Montgomery family. Even Millie Torme had checked out, and though she’d expressed no regret at Bandeaux’s untimely passing, she’d sworn she’d been spending the weekend with her feeble mother in Tallahassee. Which had checked out, unless all the senior citizens in Laurelhurst Adult Community happened to be consummate liars.
Millie had also indicated that Morrisette had never approved of her fling with Josh Bandeaux, had insisted that Morrisette hadn’t had her own quickie affair with the cad. But Reed, suspicious by nature, wasn’t convinced. Not with Morrisette’s track record. As far as he was concerned, the jury was still out on that one.
However, he had a new little wrinkle in the Bandeaux case. Some of the suspects who had wanted The Bandit dead would have had no reason to kill Berneda Montgomery or to make an attempt on Amanda Montgomery Drummond’s life, at least none that he knew of.
But the others?
Who the hell knew?
More than half had O-positive blood, and the department wasn’t even certain that the secondary blood at the scene had been spilled that night. Even the maid, Estelle Pontiac, couldn’t convincingly say that the few drops hadn’t been in the den earlier.
The person most tightly connected to the deceased was, of course, Caitlyn Bandeaux. She had talked to or been seen with each of the victims and potential victims within forty-eight hours of their untimely demises. She had called Bandeaux on the night he was murdered. Her car, or one like it, had been spotted at the scene by the neighbor. It seemed as if she was the person who had last seen him alive. The police had gone over Bandeaux’s last forty-eight hours and nothing had been out of the ordinary. He’d seemed normal, according to his secretary, whatever the hell that meant. Then there was the evidence. Caitlyn Bandeaux wore the kind of lipstick smudged on the wineglass in his dishwasher, she had a dog with hairs that probably matched those found in the den. Her damned blood type had been found mixed with that of Bandeaux. Her fingerprints had been found on the premises, though she had, once upon a time, lived there and visited often enough. Probably with that damned mutt of a dog. The yappy little thing had belonged to Josh Bandeaux once as well.
There wasn’t a lot of hard evidence, no murder weapon, no witness to a fight, no accusations, no DNA yet, but there was the divorce and wrongful death suit, and she did have a history of mental problems. He figured he had enough circumstantial evidence to arrest her and take the case to the grand jury, but he would like something more. A substantial link that would make the case airtight.
As for Berneda Montgomery’s death, no one suspicious had been at the hospital. But Caitlyn Bandeaux, along with her brother and sister, had been at Oak Hill, the Montgomery mansion by the river, and any one of them could have doctored the nitroglycerine tablets.
But someone else could have done it, as well. The doctor, or an intruder, a repairman or servant.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he considered bumming a cigarette from Morrisette, but fought the urge. He’d quit once before and then, after the debacle in San Francisco, had started up again. It had only taken one drag and he was hooked, doomed to the weeks of nicotine withdrawal once more when he’d quit again, just before rejoining the force here in Savannah.
He walked into Morrisette’s office and found her talking on the phone.
“. . . okay, okay, I’ll be there. Give me twenty minutes.” She hung up and rolled her eyes expressively.
“I’ve got to go home. Looks like Priscilla might have a case of the chicken pox. It’s a big panic. The sitter’s freaking out.” Morrisette was picking up her purse. “I’ll be back once I calm her down. Maybe I can find someone else . . . someone who’s not afraid of a damned virus to watch the kids. Oh, shit . . . Oh! This is
such
a pain.” She reached into her purse and scrounged in the bottom until she came up with two quarters and a ruined piece of gum. “At this rate I’ll be in the poorhouse by the end of the month and the kids’ll be rich, collecting fucking dividends on their stocks.” Wincing at her own language, she pulled another quarter from her fringed bag and dropped all three in the pencil shelf of her desk drawer. The coins joined enough change to buy beer for the department for a week—well, maybe for one round. “Don’t say anything, okay?” she asked as the quarters clinked together when she slammed the drawer shut. She tossed the stick of gum into the trash. “At least I’m trying self-improvement.”
“And for once it’s not another piercing.”
“You know, Reed,” she started, shooting him a look that had made stronger men cower, “there are other body parts that could be used for adding metal. And it’s not just a female thing. For Christmas I think I’ll get you an engraved dick stud and it’ll either say ‘This dick’s a stud’ or ‘This stud’s a dick.’ Depends on my mood. That is if you don’t piss me off. And what’s the chance of that? Zero? And piss is
not
a swear word.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she muttered irritably. “Now, did you want something or did you drop by just to yank my chain?” she asked as they headed through the reception area filled with desks and cops. Telephones jangled, pagers beeped and conversation buzzed over the hum of computers and the shuffle of feet. They walked toward an outside entrance, passing a couple of beat cops escorting a surly-looking suspect with stringy hair, dirty jeans and a don’t-fuck-with-me expression tattooed over his face. His hands had been cuffed behind his back and he reeked of booze as he struggled to walk without stumbling.
In an outer hallway, Reed said, “I was on my way to visit Caitlyn Bandeaux again. I went through her phone records. On the night Bandeaux died, she called him. Eleven-eighteen. They talked for seven minutes. Wonder what that was about?”
“Could be interesting,” Sylvie said.
“Thought you’d like to tag along.”
“Let’s get something straight. I don’t ‘tag along’ anywhere. I’m not just around for the company.”
“Prickly today, aren’t we?”
“We sure as hell are. Single parenthood will do that to you.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But it’s worse when the ex sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong. Bart’s coming over later,” she said with a smile that looked as if she’d been sucking on lemons. “I can’t fuckin’ wait.” Rolling her eyes, she shouldered open the outside door and started walking across the wet, steamy parking lot. “I’m gettin’ out of here before I say something that costs me my next month’s pay.” She was already at her little truck with its V-8 engine, standing in the dripping rain when she stopped and snapped her fingers. “Oh. Rita from Missing Persons called a few minutes ago. She was contacted by the Sheriff’s Department out in St. Simon’s Island. They pulled a body out of the water down there. A woman. In pretty bad shape. No ID that I know of. They’re checking with all the local areas where there have been reports of missing persons, and we’ve got a couple.”
“Including Cricket Biscayne and Rebecca Wade.”
Morrisette slipped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “We should have a report by tomorrow.”
“Maybe we’ll finally catch a break on this one,” Reed said, but he didn’t believe it. Not for a second.
“Yeah, right.” Sylvie yanked open the door of her little truck. She was already behind the wheel, had lit a cigarette and roared out of the lot before Reed had dashed the short distance to his car—an old El Dorado that, if he ever put some money into it, might be considered classic. As it was, with its seat covers, dents and nearly two hundred thousand miles on its second engine, it was little more than a tired old piece of crap. But it was paid for. And it still ran. His only two requirements.
He got behind the wheel and felt the old springs in the seat give. No doubt he needed another square of foam padding to shove under the seat cover, but he didn’t have the time or the inclination for restoring the thing, at least not now. For the moment he intended to show up on Caitlyn Bandeaux’s door unannounced and catch her off guard. He’d watched her place off and on, seen nothing out of the ordinary, followed her a bit, but he hadn’t had much time and felt as if he’d done a half-assed job of it.
That would change. He’d hit up Katherine Okano in the morning, find out what the holdup on the search warrant was. He had a feeling it was more about privilege than protocol. The Montgomerys were big supporters of the police department and had lined the pockets of more than their share of judges. From old Benedict to Troy, the Montgomery men had made the right kind of political contributions, some above board, others under the table. The great irony of it all was that the more the Montgomery clan greased the wheels of justice, the slower they turned.
But all of that was about to change.
He’d make sure of it.
He turned on the ignition, and his beast of a car had the balls to cough a couple of times before finally catching. “That’s better,” he muttered, realizing that the scent of Morrisette’s last cigarette clung to the interior. Figured. He couldn’t seem to get away from that woman. He flipped on the wipers and cracked the driver’s window in one motion.
It wasn’t yet twilight, but the dark clouds overhead turned the usually bright city to gloom. Trees dripped, rain pelted, people dashed and cars threw up sprays of dirty water. And it was still blasted hot enough to steam the windows. With a flip of a switch, the air conditioner roared to life, defogging the glass as he backed out of his spot and nosed out of the lot.
It only took him a few minutes to drive the short distance to the Widow Bandeaux’s place. A nice little nest, he thought, gazing up at the gracious old home all nicely redecorated to the period in which it had been constructed, sometime after the Civil War . . . or, as the locals insisted, The War of Northern Aggression. That would never fly in San Francisco, but here, where the city’s pride rested in its rich Southern history, it was a local way of thinking—or, perhaps, to some a joke.
Caitlyn’s home had been updated with all the modern conveniences, he knew. He’d been inside before. And this house in the heart of the historic district with a view of the square had cost her a pretty penny. Which wasn’t a problem. She had a lot more tucked away. He’d already checked bank statements. She made a little money at her job designing web pages, but the bulk of her income, and it looked like a lot of Josh Bandeaux’s, was the result of the investments in her trust fund. But there was something odd as well . . . big monthly disbursements that didn’t look like regular bills. Perhaps another kind of investment? Or something else?
Like what?
Blackmail?
Or hush money?
He pulled around the corner and parked on a side street a block away from Caitlyn’s house. No reason to let his less-than-inconspicious car be noticed. Jaywalking, he cut through an alley to the back of Caitlyn’s house and her garage, where he peeked through a narrow window. Though the garage was dark, he was able to make out the lines of her white Lexus.
So the lady was home.
Good.
That made his job easier. He felt a little satisfaction as he rounded the house and walked through the front gate. A squirrel, hidden in the leafy branches of a sassafras tree, had the nerve to scold him as he walked up a brick path through a small garden. “Get over it,” Reed mumbled as the squirrel launched himself from one quivering branch to the next. Things only got worse when he climbed the front steps and pressed on the front bell. Caitlyn’s ratty-looking dog went ape shit, barking like mad, as if Reed were some kind of burglar stupid enough to ring the bell.
He waited.
No one came.
But the smell of cigarette smoke wafted in the air—thin and high.
Again he rang the bell. He was sure she was home. The dog was running loose, lights were turned on and then there was the Lexus parked smack-dab in the middle of her garage. He wiped the rain from his face, silently cursed his luck and hankered for a cigarette. There were times when he still yearned for the calming effects of nicotine.
Still nothing.
“Son of a bitch.”
He nailed the doorbell again. Leaned hard and insistent.
He was about to give up when he heard the footsteps. Quick, light footsteps, tripping down stairs. A face and body appeared in the long window next to the door. A beautiful face and great body.
Intriguing hazel eyes met his and instead of the usual fear that flitted through her gaze, he found steely, angry determination. Her chin was thrust defiantly, her mouth curved into a hard-as-nails frown. Quickly she unlocked the door but barred his way in with her body. It was hard to believe, but she actually looked intimidating, or tried to. As if she’d had some positive reinforcement training along with a couple of marital arts lessons.
“Detective,” she bit out, managing a smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes.
“Mrs. Bandeaux.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I have a few more questions.”
She didn’t move. Her hair was wet and piled on her head, little makeup remaining on top of the attitude that didn’t quite fit. “For me?”