Page 120 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Appears as such.”

“Hell.” Montoya finally took the proffered chair. “I’ve had experience with some really bad dudes. A couple of guys into really sick shit. One called himself Father John and the other one went by The Chosen One. Serial killers. Both had a weird religious/sadistic bent.”

“Our killer tends to pick people close to a wealthy family in town,” Reed said and decided Montoya might look at this case with fresh eyes. Experienced eyes. Reed had read of the serial killers who had haunted New Orleans last year. Serious psychos. Montoya had helped Detective Rick Bentz bring them down.

“I was going to drive down to St. Simons in an hour. Check this out.” He motioned to the report Montoya was skimming.

“Mind if I ride along?” Montoya asked.

Usually Reed would have declined. But he figured he could use all the help he could get. Whoever was taking potshots at the Montgomerys was upping the ante. The deaths were coming at rapid-fire speed. “Might not be a bad idea,” he said, then added, “Our latest victim isn’t going to look so good, you know. She’s been in the water a while.”

“I got no problem with that.”

Reed leveled a gaze at Montoya and the New Orleans cop didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as bat an eye. He’d be okay. After all, he’d witnessed some pretty grisly crime scenes with the killers he’d chased down.

“You’re on.”

“How is Rebecca Wade connected with the Montgomery family?”

Reed filled him in, told him about the Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux connection just as the clip of fast-paced footsteps in the outer hallway heralded Morrisette’s arrival. She flew into the room with a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile pasted on her lips. “Guess what I’ve got!”

“Besides a serious attitude problem?”

“Watch it, Reed, or I might not give you the legal document you’ve been waiting for. Signed by his holiness himself, the Honorable Ronald Gillette.”

“You got a search warrant?” Reed was already reaching for his jacket.

“Signed, sealed and now”—she slapped the damned paper onto his desk—“officially delivered.”

“Let’s go.” Reed was around the desk. He motioned to the visitor. “Detective Sylvie Morrisette, this is Detective Reuben Montoya of the New Orleans Police Department.”

“On loan or permanent?” she asked, sizing up the younger cop. Jesus, what was the matter with her? She’d already had four husbands, and from the swift change in her demeanor, it was obvious that she was looking for number five. No matter how much she protested the fact. As a seriously confirmed bachelor, he didn’t understand her need to waltz up the aisle with just about anyone she’d ever slept with.

“Montoya’s looking for Marta Vasquez.”

“As in Lucille, the Montgomery maid’s daughter?” she asked.

“One and the same.”

“Thought so.” Sylvie nodded, agreeing with herself, her blond spikes immobile on her head. “So maybe you want to come along,” she invited.

“Already invited,” Reed said as they snaked their way downstairs. He was hoping Montoya could shed some light on Lucille’s quick departure. It seemed suspicious, and yet his gut told him the old lady wasn’t their killer.

“it’s possible Marta’s disappearance could be connected to your case,” Montoya thought aloud.

“Maybe, Reed allowed. Didn’t believe it. As far as he knew, Marta didn’t have any connection to the Montgomery clan aside from her mother. “But I think she’s not close enough to the family. Whoever is doing this seems to concentrate on people who are related.”

“Except for Rebecca Wade—if that murder is a part of it,” Morrisette said, her interest turned from the newcomer to the job at hand as Reed held the door open for her. Behind her shades, her expressive eyes rolled at his act of chivalry and he thought she uttered, “Oh, save me,” under her breath as she and Montoya walked outside into the heat. She said to Montoya, “You can ride with us and Reed’ll fill you in.”

While you ogle the merchandise, Reed thought, but kept it to himself. It didn’t matter. What did count was that finally, thanks to the search warrant, he’d get to look through Mrs. Bandeaux’s closets and find out for himself what skeletons she’d hidden away.

“. . . so I don’t want you to talk to anyone without representation,” Marvin Wilder said, escorting Caitlyn to the door of his office. He was a short man whose girth possibly exceeded his height, and his shock of white hair made a sharp contrast to his deep country-club tan. His golf trophies exceeded the legal diplomas hung on the richly paneled walls.

Caitlyn didn’t feel much better than she had before the appointment, and any hopes she’d had of getting what she knew off her chest were quickly put aside by the attorney.

“Let’s not give the police anything more to work with, not until your memory returns. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone. Not the police, not the press, no one.”

“What about my family?” she asked. “Or my psychiatrist?”

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