Page 83 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Yeah, I think Amanda’s right. We need to talk to Cricket Biscayne to begin with and then have another chat with our favorite widow.”

“I’ll call on Cricket—Jesus, what’s with these people? If you were named Copper, would you name your kids Cricket and Sugar? I mean, I know they’re nicknames, that Cricket is really Christina and Sugar is Sheryl, but you’d think, by the time they were adults, they would have started calling themselves something a little more sophisticated . . . classy. Sugar’s a stripper and Cricket’s a flake of a hairdresser who can’t stay in one shop for more than a month or two at a time.” She slapped the heel of a hand to her forehead. “Forget I said that.”

Her pager went off. “Shit, if this is my babysitter—” She pointed a finger at Reed. “Don’t even say it—I know. I’ve got the quarter already.” She was looking at the readout on her pager. “Oh, fu–fudge. It’s Bart. Probably another reason he can’t make the child support. I wonder what it is this time? His truck broke down? He lost another job? He’s a little short. Crap! Every damned month!” She took off down the hall swearing a blue streak and Reed, still thinking about Amanda Montgomery and her claim about the attempt on her life, decided to pick up his faxes.

There were several, none yet from Amanda Montgomery, but the one that caught his attention was from the detective in New Orleans, Montoya. It was a photograph and description of Marta Vasquez. The picture was grainy black and white, but showed a pretty woman with short, dark hair, nose that turned up just a bit and wide, sensual lips. Reed couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her and how, if in any way, it could be connected to the Bandeaux case. According to the information, Marta had a scar on her abdomen from an appendix surgery and a tattoo of a hummingbird on her ankle. She’d been a student off and on and had recently worked at an insurance company before quitting suddenly with no explanation.

A lot like Rebecca Wade, Caitlyn Bandeaux’s shrink.

Coincidence?

Unlikely.

Marta Vasquez was the daughter of Lucille Vasquez, maid, housekeeper, and general nanny for the Montgomery brood. So Marta would have known the Montgomery children. He frowned. She’d disappeared . . . that was all anyone knew. No one had seen her for six months. He stared at the picture as he walked back to his office where his phone was ringing loudly.

“Detective Reed,” he said, tossing all the faxes into his already overflowing in-box. First things first.

Cricket was the last one in the shop. Her final client, a rich woman who “would have died” if she hadn’t been able to make an evening appointment, had left, driving away in a new Cadillac and finally satisfied with a foil weave of no less than seven colors and a difficult cut that had taken nearly three hours. Cricket looked at the dirty towels piled high on the washer, but figured Misty, the girl who started at some

ungodly hour—eight? Nine? It didn’t matter. Misty, with her irritating bubbly personality, fake boobs, and unending case of the giggles, could damned well wash and dry the towels.

Crap, this job was getting the better of her. On her feet all day listening to women bitch about their husbands or their kids.

But they weren’t really complaining, Cricket knew, hearing it in the tone of their voices; they were proud of their spouses or their brats, the “oh, woe is me, long-suffering wife and mother” act, was just for show. Cricket put up with it because it was part of the job and there was usually a tip involved, though some of the women were so tight they squeaked.

Cricket’s muscles ached and she cracked her neck as she swept up around her station at the salon, swabbed out the sink, then hung her apron on a hook near the back door. Her Coke was where she’d left it by the color-mixing sink. She picked it up and took a sip from the straw. Caffeine, that was what she needed. Well, and maybe a shot or two of tequila . . . or maybe a joint. Maybe all three. Her tips for the week would buy a couple of drinks and maybe an ounce or two of weed.

She walked outside to the stoop where she and the other girls smoked. Against Maribelle, the owner of the shop’s orders, they’d leave the back door open and stand outside for a quick hit of nicotine.

Now, as she locked up, Cricket fished in her purse for a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Only one filter tip left in the crumpled pack. And the cigarette was kind of broken. Shit. She managed to light the damned thing as she walked down the lane that cut between two main streets. Basically, it was an alley cluttered with dumpsters, crates and strictly enforced no-parking zones. Maribelle insisted the girls park a block over, allowing every tiny parking space for the clients.

Not that Cricket gave a rat’s ass where she parked.

Maribelle also hinted that she should get a percentage of the beauticians’ tips. Yeah, right. What a stingy old bat. Cricket had half a mind to quit. She finished her Coke and tossed the empty cup into a Dumpster. The night was thick and dark and hot, no sign of stars or a moon, just street lamps offering an eerie glow and attracting insects. A mosquito or no-see-um was bothering her.

Cutting behind a gas station, she slapped at the mosquito, and the aches that had been with her most of the day seemed to melt away. In fact her legs were rubbery, not working quite right. And her vision was fuzzy. She was working too hard. That was it, way too hard.

With more difficulty than usual, Cricket found her little hatchback where she’d left it, under a street lamp, only the light tonight wasn’t working right, flickering on and off, and the street was deserted. Not that it mattered, she thought thickly. God, what was wrong with her? She’d unlocked the car when she heard a footstep, sensed someone behind her. Without much concern, she looked over her shoulder and saw something, a figure—man or woman—crouching behind an old station wagon.

She slid into the car and caught the heel of her shoe on the door frame. “Crap,” she muttered, but found she didn’t really care. Her vision was really blurry now and . . . and she couldn’t sit up straight, was half in and half out of the car, unable to punch the key into the ignition. Jesus, what was going on? It was if she was drugged as if someone had what . . . doctored her Coke?

She heard footsteps and rolled one eye back to see the figure dashing across the lane . . . it was a woman and she seemed familiar . . . someone who would help her. Cricket tried to speak, attempted to hold on to a clear thought as the woman in black drew nearer. Help me, please, she tried to say, but couldn’t form the words. They died in her throat as she recognized the stranger.

What was she doing down here? Why? Had she been waiting? Expecting her? Oh, God. Sudden, blinding truth hit Cricket like a ton of bricks. She noticed the woman’s tight-fitting gloves and white slash of a smile.

Like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.

Or worse. This smile was cold, the eyes gleaming in anticipation. She reached into her purse and withdrew a small glass jar, which she flashed in front of Cricket’s eyes. In the glow of the interior light she saw them. Insects, all sorts and kinds were packed inside, desperately crawling up the sides of the jar, thin legs and wings and antennae moving, pulsing against the glass, segmented bodies crushed against each other. They scrambled over each other, fighting to the top of the heap, as they tried to escape.

“Friends of yours?” the woman inquired, her gaze menacing as she rolled the vial between her gloved fingers. “I think so.”

In that instant, Cricket knew she was going to die.

Twenty

You shouldn’t be here.

Her own voice taunted Caitlyn as she switched off the ignition and listened to the engine of her car die, then tick as it cooled. The wind was brisk, rattling the branches of the live oaks and stirring the fronds of the thick shrubbery.

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