by Lisa Jackson
“The wife find his body?”
“No, they’re separated. Shit!” She braked hard, then swerved around a delivery truck double-parked. “Asshole!”
“So Bandeaux wasn’t divorced?”
“Not quite. Now I guess he won’t ever be.” She cranked on the wheel and the cruiser flew down an alley, barely missing a Dumpster and sending papers that hadn’t quite made it into the bin flying. With a bump they were on another side street and careening into the heart of the historic district. “Think of all the money Caitlyn Bandeaux will save on lawyer’s fees. Not that she needs to worry.”
“You said she was wealthy.”
“Beyond wealthy. She’s a Montgomery, as in Montgomery Bank and Trust, Montgomery Cotton, Montgomery Estates, Montgomery-every-damned thing. Some distant descendent from a Civil War hero, I think. At least that’s what her granddaddy, Old Benedict Montgomery, claimed before he died.”
“Shit.” Even he’d heard of those Montgomerys.
“Exactly.”
Reed made a quick mental note as the cruiser tore through the city streets. Estranged wives were always suspects. Even wealthy ones. “She live nearby?”
“Not far.”
Convenient.
“Any kids?” he asked.
“One. Dead. Died a couple of years back. Only three or four years old, I think. It was bad.” Sylvie scowled as the police band crackled. “From what I hear, Caitlyn, that’s Bandeaux’s wife, nearly went around the bend when the kid died. Josh blamed her and maybe she did herself. I even heard a rumor that she tried to kill herself. Anyway, there’s a whole lot of secrets in that family and a whole lot of hush money’s been spent to hide ’em. Let me tell you.” She snorted derisively.
“You know a lot about the Montgomerys.”
“I suppose.” Her jaw slid to the side and she checked the rearview mirror.
“A hobby of yours?”
“Not exactly. But I’ve done my share of research. Bandeaux was always skirting the law. I did a lot of looking into his professional and personal life because there were rumors that he had ties to the mob.”
“Did he?”
“I couldn’t find any, but I did find out a lot about him.”
He waited. She pressed on the lighter and found a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights on the dash. “You may as well figure this out and fast, Reed. Savannah might look like a big city, but she’s a small town at her soul.” He didn’t respond. Had already learned that silence worked best with Morrisette, and he sensed there was more to the story.
He was right.
“Oh, hell, I suppose you’re gonna find out anyway.” With a steely, humorless grin, she said, “My ex, Bart, worked for Bandeaux for a while.” Reed had met Bart Yelkis, a tall, brooding man with some Native American in his blood.
Morrisette shook out a cigarette and passed a delivery van in one motion. “The reason we got divorced?” Sylvie hesitated a second as the lighter clicked. She cracked the window, then managed to light up, driving with one hand and never slowing for an instant. “Well, there were tons of ’em. Tons. But the one that everyone believes is that I had an affair with Josh Bandeaux.” She let out a jet of smoke. “For the record, it’s not true. My taste in men might be lousy, but it’s not that lousy.”
Reed didn’t comment. Didn’t know what to believe. He wasn’t good at reading a woman’s mind—hell, who was?—but his gut instinct told him that Sylvie-tough-as-snakeskin-Morrisette was stretching the truth. How much he wasn’t certain. But it gave him a bad feeling. A real bad feeling.
“Shit.” Kelly clicked off the recorder after listening to Caitlyn’s panicked message. What was it with Caitlyn? She was always getting herself into trouble. Big trouble. And always expecting Kelly to bail her out. God, what a basket case!
Angrily, Kelly hit the replay button and sank into her desk chair as Caitlyn’s terrified voice repeated the message.
“Kelly? Kelly? Are you there? If you are pick up. Now . . . it’s Caitlyn . . .
Damn it all to hell.
Sighing, Kelly hit the erase button.
I need to talk to you about last night.
“I bet,” Kelly muttered under her breath. She wasn’t surprised. Nor did it take a brain surgeon to guess that left to her own devices, Caitlyn had gotten herself into another mess. So what else was new?
Suddenly she was cold to the bone, though the temperature was a sweltering ninety-plus. Kelly rubbed her arms as she stared out the window of her little cabin. Sooner or later Caitlyn would end up in the looney bin. Unfortunately, this time, it could be permanent. Kelly couldn’t keep saving her. The trouble was, Caitlyn was falling apart. Again. Just like so many of the damned Montgomerys. Like it or not, Kelly realized that a lot of the members of her family weren’t playing with full decks . . . not even by half.
The Montgomery curse.
Shoving her hair from her eyes, she walked barefoot across the living area of her cabin to the French doors, which opened to a small deck overlooking the river. Outside the air was hot, cloying, just the way she liked it. She watched an egret glide over the sluggish water near the dock and felt the late-morning sun on her face. Leaning against the railing, she thought about her sister. Her first instinct was to climb into the car and drive like a bat out of hell to Caitlyn’s place, to placate her and soothe her as she always did when these situations occurred, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. Far from it. What was the psychobabble word they used for it these days? Enabling. That was it. She could try to allay Caitlyn’s fears, help her . . . but, truth to tell, she was sick to death of it.
Because Caitlyn was messed up. Always had been. Always would be. Not that Kelly blamed her, she thought, sliding her sunglasses onto her nose to watch a fishing boat move slowly upriver. Caitlyn had been through a lot. Even when they were kids . . . oh, the secrets Kelly knew about her twin. Even Caitlyn didn’t realize that Kelly understood the root of her demons; probably better than Caitlyn did herself. Hadn’t Kelly warned her about marrying Josh? Only about a million times. But had Caitlyn listened? Oh, noooooo. She’d been in love. So much in love. Trouble was, it had been with a snake.
And Caitlyn had been pregnant to boot.
For a while things had been okay. And then there was the baby. Kelly felt a familiar pang of regret as she conjured up Jamie’s impish face. So sad. Leaning against the railing, she watched the egret take off in a spread of snowy wings.
God, Caitlyn had loved that child. Who could blame her? Jamie had been adorable. As beautiful as her mother and as charming as her dad. Kelly scowled down at the dark, slow water as it lapped at the pilings under the dock. She hated to admit it, but Josh could be as tempting as the very devil. And Caitlyn’s hasty marriage had been all right for a while—if not perfect, at least tolerable. Even during the separation. Until Jamie had gotten sick . . . Poor baby. Kelly swallowed hard and her eyes burned as she fought tears. Hell, she’d loved that little girl. Almost as much as Caitlyn had. Almost as if the baby had been her own. Probably because she knew she’d never have any children. It just wasn’t in the cards. She sniffed and walked back inside to scrounge through her purse looking for a cigarette. No luck. The pack was empty. She tossed it into the trash near her desk and saw a picture of her niece sitting near the phone. Big smile, twinkling blue eyes, chubby hands clasped in front of her as Jamie, at two and a half, sat in the shade of a magnolia tree. Kelly picked up the silver frame and her eyes filled with tears.
Caitlyn had never gotten over Jamie’s death, not even with the help of that shrink, Rebecca What’s-her-name—Wade, that was it. Dr. Rebecca Wade. Well, she wasn’t the only one. Kelly frowned darkly and set the photo back in its resting place. Thinking about Dr. Wade reminded her that Caitlyn, soon after Jamie’s death, had almost overdosed on sleeping pills.
On purpose?
With Caitlyn, who knew?
And now Caitlyn was all knotted up about the divorce. From Josh Bandeaux, the lowlife. The man couldn’t keep
his hands off women. He’d even had the nerve to come on to her, his wife’s twin, for crying out loud! What was that all about? She and Caitlyn were identical, so what was the thrill in that? Well, the being identical was literally only skin deep. Their personalities were acutely dissimilar. Night to day. Caitlyn was more shy, more intellectual and Kelly the emotional firecracker, the “party girl.” Besides, Josh Bandeaux would bed anything that moved.
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!”
Reed cocked an eyebrow. “Just how well did you know him?”
“I knew of him, okay? Of him. And well enough to guess that he wouldn’t have wanted to mess up his Brooks Brothers shirts with a damned jackknife.” She cast a disparaging look at the bloody weapon.
Reed did his own mental inventory. She had a point. From all outward appearances, Josh Bandeaux’s life seemed enviable; but that didn’t necessarily mean the guy hadn’t killed himself. Reed was keeping all of his options open. “What do we know?” he asked one of the cops who’d been called to the scene.
“Not much. Bandeaux seemed to be working on this.” He pointed to a legal document peeking out of a manila folder, then slowly, using a pencil, flipped the file open.
“What is it?”
“A wrongful death suit,” Moses said, frowning as she scanned the legalese. “Looks like Bandeaux was going to sue his wife for the death of their kid.”
“Lovely.” Morrisette rolled her eyes. “Now, that sounds more like Bandeaux.”
“How’d the kid die?” Reed asked.
Diane lifted a shoulder, “Beats me.”
Reed looked at Sylvie.
“Don’t know,” she admitted, her eyebrows drawing together as she tried to recall the incident.
“We’d better find out. Anything else?” Reed asked the cop.
“No forced entry—if we’re lookin’ at murder. The front and back door are locked, the windows shut, except for a couple upstairs, but the side doors, there”—he motioned at the open French doors in the office—“they lead to a veranda.”
“Dust ’em,” Reed said automatically.
“We will, Detective.” Diane Moses was still bristly. “Along with everything else. I know how to do my job.”
“Oops,” Sylvie whispered as Diane walked around the desk. “Touchy, touchy. I believe some professional toes have been stepped on.”
“I heard that, Morrisette,” Moses muttered, but was too busy with the photographer to get into it.
“What else do you know?” Reed asked the officer.
“Just that the radio was playing, tuned to some classical station. We talked to the cleaning lady, Estelle Pontiac—yeah, I know, like the car—she called nine-one-one this morning after coming into the house and discovering the body. Was really freaked out. He was cold by the time the EMTs arrived, been dead since sometime last night. Officer Spencer talked to one neighbor”—he checked his notes—“Stanley Hubert, lives next door to the north. Hubert says he saw a white compact roll in around eleven and then take off half an hour or so later. Hubert didn’t get the license plate, but he thinks he’s seen the car here before. He claims it looks like the one Mrs. Bandeaux drives.”
