Page 97 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Detective Reed? Can I talk to you a minute?”

He checked his watch, more to make a point than to note the time. “Sure. Come in.” He waved her inside.

She was a pretty woman and wasn’t afraid to flaunt her assets. A tight T-shirt sprinkled liberally with sequins stretched over impressive breasts and was cropped short enough to show off a nipped-in waist. Her long legs were accentuated by platform sandals and shorts that barely covered her ass.

“It’s about my sister, Cricket. You wanted to talk to her and I blew you off. Well, the truth of the matter is that I haven’t seen or heard from her for a couple of days. That, unfortunately, sometimes happens, but . . . with all that’s been happening lately, I’m worried.”

“Have you called her friends? Boyfriends?”

Sugar nodded and he noticed that her hair barely moved. Platinum blond, it feathered around her face and down her shoulders.

“Have you filed a missing persons report?”

“No. I thought I’d talk to you first.”

“I’m listening.”

She sat in a side chair and crossed her long legs. “I’m not going to bore you with family history. You know that we’re related to the Montgomerys and that they’ve been having a passel of trouble. That’s why you were at the house the other day. You also know that we’re suing the family for part of our grandfather’s inheritance.”

“He died a long while ago. Why sue now?”

“Because it’s all caught up in trusts with provisions and all. Some of it was distributed, but some wasn’t. It’s held until all of his children and their spouses are dead.”

Reed perked up his ears.

“So it’s just a matter of time. Both of his legitimate children, Cameron and Alice Ann, are dead already, as is Berneda and my mother, who was . . .”

“His illegitimate daughter.”

“Ugly word, illegitimate,” she muttered, and her foot started to swing, bobbing up and down, the heel of her sandal slapping her foot. “Anyway, we hired an attorney, Flynn Donahue, to help us claim what we think is our rightful share of the estate.”

“What does this have to do with Cricket?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve been getting some threatening calls at home. At first I wrote them off. I work at a club downtown, and there’s a certain amount of risk involved. Weirdos who follow you home or get your number or address. I’m pretty careful, don’t give any information out, and neither does the owner of the

club, but there are ways around that. If a creep really wants the information and has any brains at all, it’s just a matter of bribing one of the employees or taking down my license plate information or whatever. The point is that these recent calls, they’re not the usual ‘I’m gonna give you what you really want, baby’ type of calls. They’re . . . darker somehow.”

She wasn’t looking at him any longer, but staring at the floor and rubbing her arms. “Evil . . . that’s the right word. They feel evil. Not just some horny old bastard getting his rocks off by talking to a dancer, no . . . this is different.” She lifted her face to stare at him and he saw that she was scared. Really scared. She swallowed hard. “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid that the creep who called might have gotten to Cricket.”

Twenty-Four

“Detective Reed, is it true that Berneda Montgomery was murdered while she was a patient at this hospital?”

Reed was just climbing out of his cruiser when he saw that pain-in-the-ass reporter, Nikki Gillette, barreling his way. She was wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt and running shoes, and he figured she must’ve camped out here at the back side of the hospital while most of her contemporaries were setting up shop near the main entrance.

“No comment.”

“This is the second homicide and third attempted, if you count what happened to Amanda Montgomery’s vehicle, to occur in two weeks. What does that mean to you?”

“It means two people are dead. One’s not.” She didn’t seem to get his drift and kept up with him as he walked briskly to the back door. She had to half jog to keep up with him, but keep up she did. Well, hell, she was in good shape—make that great shape with her trim, athletic body. She was short, with the figure of a runner and a tight little ass. Add to that wild strawberry-blond hair and a dusting of freckles she didn’t try to hide with makeup and you got trouble. Big-time trouble. She was looking at him through dark lenses, and her pert little mouth was knotted in frustration. But she didn’t give up. Not Judge Ronald “Big Daddy” Gillette’s little girl. It wasn’t in her genetic makeup.

“But do we have a serial killer on the loose in Savannah?” she asked.

“No comment.”

“Look, Detective—”

“No, Ms. Gillette, you look. I’ve got a job to do and I don’t have time for any of this bull. Got it? When and if we have a statement, you can talk to the Public Information Officer. He’ll be more than glad to fill you in. Until then, I’ve really gotta go.” The glass doors parted and he walked inside, surprised she didn’t follow. He jogged up two flights of stairs to the third floor, where another female lay in wait. It just wasn’t his day.

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