Page 23 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Reed laughed as her phone shrilled, then walked back to his office. He didn’t want to think what a shrink would make of his partner.

Or Caitlyn Bandeaux, if Morrisette’s information was correct. He tried to work around his gut feeling that Caitlyn Bandeaux was the prime suspect in the death of her husband. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was involved.

He’d learned from Bandeaux’s maid that Caitlyn, estranged or not, was a regular visitor to his house, had once lived there and probably still had a key since Band

eaux hadn’t bothered to change his locks. A woman had been with Bandeaux that night if the glasses in the dishwasher were to be believed; the lipstick was a pink color that was similar to the one that she’d worn today, though without tests, the similarity could be coincidental. There were hundreds of shades of pink lipstick, possibly thousands. Most of all, she didn’t have an alibi, at least one that would hold up it court. He’d thought during the interview this morning that she’d been shocked and bereaved, but also holding back, keeping a secret. He’d met enough liars in his years as an investigator with the San Francisco Police Department to spot one.

But this could be a suicide, don’t discount that. Not yet. He snapped on his desk lamp. He’d bet a month’s salary that Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux wouldn’t pass a polygraph test if he administered one to her right now.

She was lying about last night; Reed was sure of it.

He just had to figure out why.

Six

The telephone jangled.

Caitlyn, thinking the caller might be her sister, dashed into the kitchen. Almost tripping over Oscar, she snagged the handset and noticed the lack of a name and number on Caller ID. “Hello?”

“Hi. Is this Caitlyn Bandeaux?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.

Caitlyn was instantly wary. Every muscle in her body tensed. “Yes.”

“I’m glad I caught you.” The voice was friendly. Had a “smile” to it. Which made Caitlyn all the more cautious. This wasn’t the day for smiling, disembodied voices cozying up to her.

“My name’s Nikki Gillette, and I’m with the Savannah Sentinel. I know you’re going through a rough period right now, and I’d like to offer my condolences about your husband.”

Oh, yeah, right. “Let me guess,” Caitlyn said, trying to control her temper as she leaned a hip against the kitchen counter. “You’d like an interview. Maybe even an exclusive.”

“I thought you’d like to tell your side of the story.” Now there was an edge to Nikki’s voice.

“I wasn’t aware there were ‘sides’ and I’m not sure there is much of a story.”

“Of course there is. Your husband was a very influential man, and the police seem to think he was either the victim of homicide or a suicide. I thought you’d like to set the record straight.”

“My husband and I were separated,” she said, then immediately wished she’d held her tongue. Her personal life wasn’t anyone else’s business.

“But you were still married.”

Caitlyn didn’t reply.

“Every marriage has its ups and downs,” Nikki Gillette cajoled, using a tone usually reserved for women’s confidences.

The ploy didn’t work. Caitlyn’s back was already up. “That’s right and it’s private, so let’s stick with the ‘no comment.’ ”

“But—”

It was time to end this. “Listen, Ms. Gillette. I have nothing more to say. Please, don’t call again.” Caitlyn slammed the receiver down before the woman could argue with her. The phone jangled instantly. “Damn it all.” She picked up the receiver, hung up and then let the answering machine take any other messages. Even Kelly’s. If her sister were to call, she’d leave a message or Caitlyn would recognize her cell number on Caller ID, or, if all else failed, Caitlyn would drive out to her place by the river and try to track her down. But she was getting desperate. For God’s sake, Kelly, call me. She poured herself a glass of iced tea, took a sip then slid into a chair at the kitchen table and held her head in her hands. What had happened last night? How had she dreamed that Josh had been killed? How had all the blood gotten into her room? Her head throbbed, the ice melting in her barely touched glass. She remembered driving downtown and parking just off Emmet Park on River Street. Yes . . . she was certain of it. She closed her eyes, trying to relive the night before. Her headache thundered. Distorted images of the city at night spun crazily through her mind.

Neon lights.

Boats on the river.

A crush of people on the street.

Vaguely, in bits and disjointed pieces, she remembered crossing a street against the light as some taxi had careened around the corner and blared its horn. She’d ducked past the Cotton Exchange and down the cobblestone walk to the river. Wending her way through people on the crowded sidewalk, past shops, the smell of the slow-moving river ever present, she’d gone into a bar . . . The Swamp, one she’d never been in before. Why had Kelly asked her to meet there, then not shown up? Or had she? Why couldn’t she remember?

Had she somehow ended up at Josh’s house?

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