Page 9 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Kelly glanced at the telephone. Caitlyn had sounded desperate. Whether she wanted to or not, Kelly would have to go over to her twin’s home and calm her down. She flopped onto her suede couch and stared at the open door. But she couldn’t face it right now. She knew what Caitlyn wanted to discuss. For the moment, she’d let Caitlyn chill. What was there to say about last night? Caitlyn had downed one too many Cosmopolitans—maybe more than one too many.

End of story.

Well, not quite.

But as much as anyone needed to know.

Morrisette crushed out her cigarette and stood on the brakes. The cruiser slid to a stop inches from the police barricade surrounding Bandeaux’s house. Several police cars and the crime scene team’s van were already parked at odd angles on the street and in the alley. A wrought-iron fence and lush shrubbery encircled a tall brick house with long windows, green shutters and a wide front porch. A couple of uniformed cops were posted outside, yellow crime scene tape roped off the area, and curious neighbors peeked from behind drawn curtains or more blatantly from their own front yards.

Reed was out of the cruiser before Sylvie cut the siren. The outside temperature was soaring, the humidity thick. Sweat prickled Reed’s scalp as he pushed open the gate and flashed his badge. Morrisette caught up with him just as a van from one of the local television stations rolled up.

“Vultures at two o’clock,” she warned.

“Keep ’em out,” Reed growled to one of the cops as he hitched his chin at the reporter and cameraman spilling from the white vehicle splashed with WKOK’s logo.

“You got it.” The young cop crossed his arms over his chest, dark eyes severe as they focused on the reporters.

Reed walked through the open front door, eyeing the refurbished old manor. Careful to disturb nothing, he followed the sounds of voices across the marble floor of the foyer, where expensive rugs muffled his footsteps, paintings of ancient thoroughbreds adorned the walls and a sweeping staircase that split at a landing beckoned visitors upstairs. Through an open doorway he spied the den. Reed’s gut clenched as he viewed the scene.

The victim, presumably Bandeaux, sat slumped over his desk, his hands dangling at his sides, blood pooled on the thick white carpet in a dark puddle. A gloved officer was gingerly picking up what appeared to be a pocketknife found directly under the victim’s right hand. The blade was dark with dried blood.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Morrisette whispered.

The criminologists had done a quick walk-through, taking notes while photographers and videographers had taken pictures, an artist had sketched the scene, preserving it for later examination and, if Bandeaux’s death proved to be because of foul play, for use in court. Provided they caught the guy. Now the members of the team with their kits and tools were setting up for a more intense search and evidence gathering.

“He slit his wrists?” Reed asked. Using his pen, he carefully pushed Bandeaux’s sleeve up his arm to reveal the ugly slashes on the inside of one arm.

Morrisette visibly paled.

“Looks that way to me, but I ain’t the coroner,” a photographer said. Reed glanced around the room, noting that the door to the verandah was open, the shades drawn, the carpet showing tracks from a recent vacuuming.

“You’re still not buying the suicide?” Reed asked Morrisette, and she slowly shook her head. Her lips were rolled over her teeth and she clicked her tongue. “I just don’t think it was Bandeaux’s style,” she said as the M.E. arrived.

Gerard St. Claire was brusque, short and balding. Pushing seventy, he was still fit and shaved what was left of his white hair about half an inch from his scalp, so that he had what Sylvie had referred to as the “high-fashion toothbrush look.” He smelled faintly of cigarettes and formaldehyde and was all business. “Nothing’s been disturbed?” he asked as he always did.

“Nothing. We were waitin’ on you,” Diane Moses responded automatically. The same words passed between them at every scene. Forced to work together, they kept things professional, but their personalities were oil and water. “We’ve just done the preliminary walk-through to get a feel for the scene. Once you do your thing, we’ll tear the place apart.” She was being sarcastic, as usual. As the lead crime scene investigator, she was in charge and she knew it. Black, bossy and smart as a whip, she didn’t believe in handling anyone with kid gloves. Not even St. Claire. He glared at her through rimless glasses and she glared right back. “At first glance it looks like a suicide.”

“No way.” Sylvie still wasn’t convinced, even with the evidence coagulating on the thick nap. She shoved her sunglasses onto her head, making the spikes even more pronounced.

“Maybe he had financial worries,” Reed suggested. “We already know that his marriage was on the rocks.”

“Bandeaux loved himself too much to slice and dice himself,” Sylvie insisted as she threw the deceased a final glance. “I did research on this guy, remember? Handsome bastard, wasn’t he?” She sighed as she took in Josh Bandeaux’s strong chin, high forehead and sightless brown eyes. “A shame.”

“So you think he was murdered?” Reed asked.

Morrisette nodded and her lips pinched together. “I’d bet on it. For one thing, there won’t be too many people in town grievin’ for our boy here.” She lifted one slim shoulder. “Josh made himself more than his share of enemies, that’s for sure.”

“We got a suicide note,” one of the cops who’d been called to Bandeaux’s place offered up. “It’s still in the computer printer, right here.” He motioned toward the low filing cabinet situated behind the desk. Reed scanned the note without touching it.

No one can help.

“Oh, give me a break,” Sylvie muttered under her breath. “As if he was at the end of his rope. No effin’ way. Bandeaux wasn’t one to overdramatize.”

“Maybe he was depressed.”

Sylvie rolled her eyes expressively. “Oh, sure, because life here sucks so bad. The guy only had one BMW. But he did have a Range Rover and a Corvette, some race horses, this little place and a house in St. Thomas on three lots with a private bay. Yeah, he was certainly a prime candidate for Prozac.”

Diane swallowed a smile as the M.E. looked over what was left of good old Josh. Morrisette, shaking her head at the image of Josh Bandeaux offing himself, scanned the room with its cherry wood and leather furniture, state-of-the-art computer, expensive stereo equipment and a glass humidor filled with cigars that were probably worth more than a beat cop made in a week. “The ‘poor me’ routine is a little hard to swallow!”

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