Page 42 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Lying for herself? Or covering up for someone else? And if so, who?

Caitlyn’s car, or one like it, had been seen at Bandeaux’s house that night. Which propelled her to the top of the suspect list. More and more he wasn’t buying into the suicide scenario. It seemed contrived. Clunky. Out of place.

So was Caitlyn Bandeaux a cold-blooded killer? Outwardly, she didn’t seem the type.

Because there was no type.

And, face it, Reed, you’re a sucker for a pretty face and a knock-out figure.

Frowning, he stopped for a traffic light. His jaw set. His fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel.

So why not arrest her? Or get a search warrant for her house? Maybe you’ll get lucky and find the murder weapon.

But he had to tread carefully. There was the issue of her mental health; she’d been in a psych ward at least once and an innocent plea by reason of insanity would be a no-brainer for any lawyer she hired. Reed wondered

about Caitlyn’s supposed mental illness. How handy that Rebecca Wade had conveniently pulled up stakes and moved away for an indeterminate amount of time. He made a mental note to track the missing shrink down. Pronto. Her absence was just too much of a coincidence. There was a chance that even if he arrested Caitlyn Bandeaux, a sharp attorney could fall back on an insanity defense.

The light changed and he stepped on it. He’d have to talk to Caitlyn Bandeaux again and try to pin her down about her whereabouts on the night Bandeaux died. After that he’d put a tail on her. Watch what she did. And who better than himself?

After all, whether he liked to admit it or not, he enjoyed a stakeout where a beautiful woman was involved. Which posed another problem. A major problem.

As he turned onto Habersham Street, he thought fleetingly of San Francisco and another time, a night when the fog had rolled in from the bay and he’d pulled the surveillance duty. His job had been to watch a woman suspected of dealing drugs.

She’d lived in an upper story in a loft apartment not far from Fisherman’s Wharf. His jaw clenched as he remembered her undressing in an erotic dance that almost seemed as if she’d known he—or someone—was observing her. Wearing a short skirt, blouse and scarf, she’d slowly peeled off the outer layer, wiggling out of the skirt, unbuttoning her blouse, coming closer to the window, showing him more skin than was normal as she unhooked her bra and bared her breasts. Letting the scant scrap of silk fall to the floor, she’d touched her dark nipples and paraded around in the barest of panties and her scarf, then ambled up to the window, licked her lips and pulled down the shade.

Reed had seen the rest through the flimsy screen, her small shadow, then another, a much larger image, and the horrifying struggle—or had it been an embrace? Had the seductive display not been for his benefit at all, but for someone else, someone inside the apartment? Reed hadn’t taken a chance and called for backup before flying out of his building and into the street. Up five floors to her apartment where he’d kicked the door open and found her lying on the floor in front of the window. The scarf she’d used to tempt him had become her noose.

Her assailant had escaped, had seemed to vanish into thin air.

Her killer was never located.

Reed’s judgment had been questioned.

His effectiveness in doubt.

He’d taken a leave of absence and then resigned, taking the job here, in Savannah, leaving the city on the bay to start over. Here. Nearly three thousand miles away.

Or were you just running away?

Pulling into the lot behind the station, he didn’t want to think about what he’d left: a smart, sexy schoolteacher who had claimed to love him, a city he’d known and liked, a job that was intriguing and a reputation that had been tarnished. And what had he gotten here, in Savannah? A couple of failed relationships, a handful of one-night stands and a job no better than the one he’d left on the West Coast. But now he was presented the opportunity to redeem himself by tracking down Josh Bandeaux’s killer ... no matter who she happened to be.

He parked in an open slot in the lot at police headquarters, jammed his keys into his pocket and walked into the cool interior of the building. Pushing all images of San Francisco out of his head, he took the stairs to Homicide and strode into his office. It seemed airless and tight. He threw open the window and let fresh air into his over-cooled, stale-smelling box of a room, then flipped through his messages and in-box, before reading his e-mail. Then he placed another call to Mrs. Bandeaux, who wasn’t yet at home. Probably with the family at one of those gatherings of the bereaved after a funeral where everyone stands around lying about what a great guy the deceased was.

Rotating in his chair, he stared out the window to the red-brick building across the square, a restored Victorian home once owned by a rice broker. He had other cases to think about. There had been a knifing on the waterfront last week, the case still unsolved, and a domestic case where a wife, nearly beaten to death herself, claimed she hadn’t pulled the trigger of the pistol that had shot her husband. There were a couple of others as well, but the Bandeaux case haunted him, was the one that had the D.A. frothing at the bit.

Though he sensed that Caitlyn Montgomery knew a lot more than she was telling, she wasn’t alone. Not for a minute did he discount the rest of Josh Bandeaux’s in-laws. The Montgomery family history read like something out of a bad soap opera.

Reed had done some checking on his own after hearing Morrisette’s viewpoint. And she’d been right on the money. Mental illness and rumors of incest seemed to be the most common theme, but the police blotter was filled with reports over the years, complaints and citations, everything from traffic tickets to suicide and attempted murder . . . yet suspiciously few arrests, probably due to the fact that the rich Montgomery family had consistently contributed to the campaigns of the local D.A., the sheriff, several judges and just about every public official who ever ran for office. Even the governor.

But this time was different. If a Montgomery had killed Joshua Bandeaux, then he or she would pay for it. End of story.

He sensed Morrisette approach before he actually heard her, smelled a hint of perfume and cigarettes a second or two prior to the sound of her footsteps crossing his threshold as she pushed open the door he’d left ajar. The sounds of voices, phones, shuffling feet and whirring office machines in the open area of the department increased as she left the door open wide, crossed the small, crammed space and balanced one hip against his desk. “How’d the funeral go?”

“How do they all go? The preacher said some prayers, stretched the truth by saying what a saint Bandeaux was, then stuffed him into the ground.”

“Don’t sugar-coat it on my account,” she drawled. “The missus there?”

“Surrounded by her family. And the bereaved.”

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