Page 119 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

He refilled his coffee cup in the lunch room, nodded to a couple of beat cops. Still studying the report, he jockeyed his way through the cubicles as he made his way to his office. The minute the details of Rebecca Wade’s death leaked out, the press would be over this like crows on roadkill. There would be concern and talk about a serial killer, a murderer focused on people associated with the Montgomery family. It was probably task force time, and the FBI would be called in. Which might not be such a bad idea. There were always the jurisdiction squabbles, of course, a few power struggles, but for the most part he didn’t mind the feds.

Reed had worked with Vita “Marilyn” Catalanotto, the local field representative, before. She was all right, if a little pushy. Well, maybe a lot pushy. Transplanted from the Bronx in New York. Which explained a lot. Christ, it seemed lately that he was surrounded by female cops. All that equal-opportunity crap.

Office machines hummed, and phones rang outside his door. Someone told a non-PC joke that he caught the end of, and there was a ripple of laughter in the cubicles near a bank of windows. He didn’t pay much attention. Had too much on his mind. All surrounding the Montgomery killings.

Caitlyn Bandeaux’s daughter, mother, father, husband and now shrink were dead—along with a sprinkling of siblings. The way it looked, it was just plain dangerous getting too close to the recently widowed Mrs. Bandeaux.

Hearing footsteps nearing his open door, Reed looked up. A tall, determined man was steamrolling straight for him. His features were even, his skin a hue that hinted at his Latino heritage, his chin, beneath a dark, neat goatee, set. “You Reed?” he asked, his dark eyes serious, a diamond stud winking in one ear. It was hot as hell outside, and yet the young buck wore all black and leather. From first glance, Reed would have pegged him as a tough, but there was something beyond his swagger, an earnestness in his expression that suggested otherwise.

“That’s right.” Reed straightened.

“Reuben Montoya. New Orleans P.D.” Montoya flipped opened his wallet, and Reed took a cursory glance at the badge. It looked authentic. “I heard Lucille Vasquez left town.” Mont

oya stuffed his badge into an inner pocket of the jacket.

“That’s right,” Reed said, waving the younger cop into a side chair. “But she turned up at her sister’s place in Florida. You’re looking for her daughter, right? Marta?”

Something flashed behind the dark eyes, and his lips drew white against his teeth. “She’s been missing for six months.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Yeah,” Montoya admitted. “A good friend.”

“She’s not with her mother, and Lucille doesn’t know where she is, nor, for the most part, does she care. She’s got a bad case of wounded maternal ego. I talked to her last night. She’s got no clue where her daughter is.”

“You’re certain.”

“I’d bet my badge on it.”

“Hell.” Montoya’s lips pursed and he fidgeted at the pocket of his jacket as if searching for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. “I checked around with missing persons and heard there was a Jane Doe found down in the water near St. Simons Island.”

“And you thought it might be Marta. How’d you hear that so fast?”

“I made it a point to.” He was brash. Cocky. Reed couldn’t help but like him. “I’ve got dental records with me.”

“With you?” This was beginning to sound strange.

“Copies. But they’ll do for a match.”

“Are you a little too involved in this one?” Reed asked.

“Some people might think so. But they’re wrong.”

“Maybe you should back off. Put some perspective on the case. Besides, the Jane Doe isn’t Marta Vasquez.”

“No?” Relief slumped Montoya’s broad shoulders. “You’re sure?”

Reed tossed the report across the table. “Yep.”

Montoya scanned the pages, his expression hardening as he read the autopsy report on Rebecca Wade. His face grew darker than before. “Sick bastard, isn’t he?”

“Or she.”

“A woman?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Who cuts out her victims’ tongues.”

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