Page 139 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“No. I told you, that’s privileged information. You’ll have to subpoena me.”

“Which we will do.”

“Fine.” Adam’s lips formed a thin line.

“We’re trying to understand why your wife was killed.”

“My ex-wife. We were divorced quiet a few years back.”

“But you came down here to find out what happened to her.”

“That’s right.”

“You should have come to the police.”

Reed lifted a shoulder. “That’s the beauty of retrospect. One sees so much more clearly.”

The conversation wasn’t over, but as many questions as Reed asked, he didn’t find out much more information on Caitlyn or Kelly. Hunt wasn’t going to give the police or anyone else the material on any of the Montgomerys, and he seemed determined to camp out here at the hospital until Caitlyn was officially released. Fine. He could help fend off some of the reporters who had gathered.

Reed tossed his empty coffee cup into the wastebasket, walked out a back door and saw Nikki Gillette lurking near his police car. “Detective Reed,” she called, waving a hand. God, would she never give up?

“No comment.”

“I haven’t even asked a question.”

“Good.” He slid into his car.

“Look, Detective, the citizens of Savannah need to know the truth.”

“The Public Information Officer is giving a statement.”

“But you led the investigation. If I could have a few minutes, buy you a cup of coffee—”

“No, thanks.” He slid behind the wheel of the Crown Vic. Obviously the woman didn’t understand the word ‘no.’ But then she’d grown up privileged, the daughter of Judge Ron “Big Daddy” Gillette, a spoiled pretty girl not understanding that she couldn’t have everything she wanted. Driving off, he glanced in his rearview mirror to see her standing, arms folded under her chest, hair glinting red-blond in the late afternoon sunlight.

At the station, things were buzzing. He ducked past another reporter, Max Whatever-His-Name, the square-jawed pushy son of a bitch who reported for WKAM, by hustling up the back stairs. Reed caught up with Morrisette at his office. “What have you got?” he asked.

“Plenty.” She looked tired as hell. “They’re dredging the river in a spot between that house Caitlyn Bandeaux rented for”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“Kelly AKA Kacie Griffin. Jesus, can you imagine paying for a place for your split personality? Makes you wonder how much she really knew about herself. Anyway, a fisherman saw something in the river and we sent down divers. It’s a white Mazda with plates that match Marta Vasquez’s.”

“She inside?”

Morrisette looked him square in the eye. “Someone is.”

“Montoya know?”

“He’s already there.”

“Shit. Let’s go.”

They drove just under the speed of sound. Morrisette was at the wheel, juggling a lit cigarette, her cell phone and traffic. By the time they arrived the car had been hoisted, dripping and dirty, from the bottom of the river. A woman, so decomposed it was hard to tell much about her, was positioned behind the wheel, no doubt another of Amanda Montgomery’s victims. Hell, she’d been a sicko. Reed had seen the sterile lab with its macabre family tree. The lab had been sealed off, the crime scene team going over it for trace evidence.

Now, looking at the car, Reed figured Diane Moses’s team would be racking up hours of overtime.

Montoya was there. Back ramrod stiff as he watched the car being lowered onto the riverbank. Morrisette and Reed approached him.

“You okay?” Morrisette asked, reaching into her purse for her smokes and offering one to Montoya.

He took the cigarette and lit up. “Yeah.”

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