Page 103 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

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.

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