by Lisa Jackson
“Can you tell me anything else about her?”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Tons. She’s the interesting one. The adventurous one. The bright one. She was always getting me and Griffin, my friend growing up, into big trouble. Now she’s a buyer for Maxxell’s. Isn’t around as much as I’d like and she . . . she and the family don’t get along.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of the boating accident. She not only blew through a big chunk of her trust fund but she nearly killed me and herself.” Caitlyn tore at the corners of her tissue.
He waited and she bit her lip. There were some things that were private.
“Caitlyn?” His voice was so close, a whisper that changed the cadence of her heartbeat. Which was absolutely foolish. She smelled soap and some kind of aftershave, a musky scent that disturbed her on a very basic and female level. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” he asked, and for a moment she wanted to curl up against him and cling to him.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” she admitted, shredding the Kleenex.
He waited. “Whatever you think. It’s your decision.”
She expected him to touch her, to pat her on the shoulder or give her a hug. And she wanted him to. Just the feel of a man’s concerned touch. She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the spark of something dangerous, then it quickly disappeared. Adam pushed up from the couch as if realizing that being in such close proximity to her was a mistake, that there was something perilous about being so close to her, and he returned to his desk chair.
She’d come so far, she couldn’t back off now, Caitlyn decided. She was here because she needed help. No matter what else, she had to get better, and Adam was going to help her. Come hell or high water. She drew in a deep breath. “Kelly made some charges a few years back. Right after the boating accident. About my older brother, Charles. That he . . . well, he used to come into her room and . . .” She let out the breath that she didn’t realize she was holding. Shuddering, her stomach roiling at the thought, she said, “. . . that before he died, he’d molested her.”
Adam didn’t move. “Do you believe her?”
Slowly she nodded. Remembered Charles as he had been. Ten years older. Trusted. Her father’s favorite. Her stomach twisted so hard it cramped.
“Because?”
She felt the hot rush of tears burning behind her eyes but wouldn’t release them, refused to shed one single drop.
“Because he molested you, too.”
She nodded again and she couldn’t stem the flow as the memories of hearing footsteps outside her bedroom door, listening in horror as the doorknob turned, dying a thousand deaths as he crossed the room, nearly silently. But she’d heard every muffled step, smelled him, the scent of sourness—whiskey, she now knew—mingled with the dirty musk of male sweat. Sometimes, when the moon was just right and the curtains were open, she saw his shadow stretching forward, dark, angular, and foreboding as it crawled across the carpet and up the wall. She had squeezed her eyes shut tight, her body rigid, as she tried to feign sleep. Her hands had fisted in the sheets and she’d prayed. No, God, no . . . please don’t let him do this!
Then he had touched her, his hands trembling, his breathing a raspy pant. She had cringed and cowered, begged and cried, but he’d never stopped.
“Caitlyn?”
Startled, she opened her eyes and saw Adam kneeling in front of the couch. She was in his office—Rebecca’s office. What had happened was long ago, in a past she kept locked away. Her face was wet and she was trembling.
Adam’s head was at the same level as hers. She hadn’t heard him approach. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, sniffing and wiping at her nose.
“You don’t have to be. What happened to you is criminal.”
Again tears collected in the corners of her eyes. “It—it happened a long time ago. I was seven . . . maybe eight. He was ten years older.”
“But it never really goes away,” he said kindly and sat on the couch next to her again. This time he wrapped one strong arm over her shoulders. “I think this is enough for today.”
She swallowed hard and leaned into him, smelled the slight scent of his aftershave. It was probably a mistake to touch him, to become too close, but she rationalized it by telling herself she believed she could trust him, believed the official degrees lining the walls, believed that Rebecca Wade would not have recommended her to someone who would take advantage of her.
How do you know Rebecca actually recommanded him? All you have is his word.
That much was true. But for now, it was enough.
“Before I go knocking on Caitlyn Bandeaux’s door again, let’s go over what we’ve got,” Reed said as Morrisette slid into the opposite side of a booth at a local bar. Smoke was heavy in the air, voices hushed, laughter sprinkling conversations. A couple of guys were shooting pool near the back, and the television over the bar was tuned into a Braves’ game. Atlanta was up 3 to 1 over Cincinnati, but it was only the bottom of the third inning
A waitress ambled over and took their orders. Morrisette ordered a patty melt with a Diet Coke, and Reed opted for a cheeseburger with fries. He was officially off duty, so he decided on a Budweiser. “Okay, what do you know? Top to bottom, what the hell’s going on with that family?”
“I know a lot. I’ve been doing a lot of checking. I mean a lot. And most of it ain’t pretty. My gut instinct tells me they’re all frickin’ nuts. Every last one of ’em. And more than just minor league loco. We’re talkin’ the majors here. And they’re cursed, too. Or at least it seems like it. Just one catastrophe after another. The father, Cameron, died in a car wreck about fifteen years ago. He lost control of the wheel on his way to St. Simons Island and ended up in the swamp. Hurtled through the windshield. He was drunk out of his mind at the time, his seat belt failed and bam-o, right through the glass. He was pretty messed up, broken ribs, femur, jaw and pelvis and punctured lung—and get this—his right testicle was completely severed.”
“What?”
“Yep. Never found.”
“How could that happen?”
“A freak accident. They think glass.”
“From the safety glass of the windshield?” He didn’t buy it.
The waitress deposited their drinks and promised to bring the sandwiches soon. As she left, Morrisette tossed the straw in her drink onto the table and took a sip. “Old man Montgomery was a car enthusiast. Loved older ones and he was driving one of his toys. An old model Jaguar. Before safety glass.”
“Bad luck,” Reed observed, taking a sip of his beer. He was getting a bad feeling about this.
“And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Morrisette took a long swallow from her Diet Coke just as the Braves scored, drawing a shout of approval from a fan perched on a stool at the bar. Morrisette glanced at the television, then continued. “A few years later the eldest son gets it. Another ‘freak accident.’ Now how many of those can one family have without it being freak anymore? Anyway, the family was up in West Virginia at their hunting lodge. For Thanksgiving. Charles is out hunting. Ends up with an arrow in his chest. Guess who found him?” She took another swig of the Diet Coke. “Caitlyn.”
“Mrs. Bandeaux?”
“Yep. She’d been out playing and gotten lost. Claims to have stumbled upon him, and he was nearly dead. She pulled out the arrow, and good old Chucky boy didn’t make it.”
“How old was she?”
“About nine or ten, I think.”
“Jesus.”
“The doctor, a quack by the name of Fellers, was there. Nothing he could do, he claims, with the arrow being yanked and all. Too much trauma. Too much blood loss.” With a lack of enthusiasm, the waitress put down their platters. Reed got her patty melt, and his burger was slid beneath her nose.
Morrisette switched the plates. “How the hell can they screw up every time?” she asked loudly enough for the bored-looking waitress to hear. “It’s not like we’re a big group. There’s only t
wo of us, for Christ’s sake, and it’s not as if the place is busy.”
“Maybe she does it just to bug you.”
“Well, it’s working.” She found a plastic bottle of catsup on the table and squirted a long stream of the red condiment over his fries. Somehow it reminded Reed of Bandeaux’s wrists. Cut at odd angles, leaving streams of blood. Morrisette plucked one fry from the pile and took a bite. “I love these things. Never order ’em. Too fattening.”
“Help yourself,” he said.
“Didn’t think you’d mind. This way neither one of us overeats.”
“And I pay for it.”
“Even better.” She snagged another fry, dredged it through the pool of catsup and said, “There’s something else no one mentions much and maybe it’s nothing, but one of the kids died of SIDS. He was the kid born between Troy and Hannah . . . is that right? Yeah. Parker. He’d be in his mid-twenties if he’d survived.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty bizarre, but then what isn’t in this case? Doc Fellers was the attending physician and he’s a bonafide quack, would have done anything to cover up something indiscreet in the family. And don’t forget there’s the mental illness angle of the whole Montgomery clan. The great-aunt was pretty much retarded—and yeah, I know that’s not politically correct, but she was so slow she had to be placed in one of those fancy-schmancy homes. Anyway, somehow she ends up falling down the stairs and breaks her neck. No one saw the accident, that’s what it was ruled, but a few of her friends—now, remember, these so-called friends are patients in the looney bin, too—claim she might have committed suicide. She was depressed—well, duh, who wouldn’t be?—and had talked about death quite a bit.”
Morrisette plowed into half of her patty melt. Reed had yet to take a bite.
“What about Caitlyn?”
“You think she might have pushed her aunt down the stairs?”
“No, but there’s a thought. I was wondering if we can get a court order to have her shrink’s files opened. You ever locate her—Dr. Wade?”
“Nope.” Morrisette scowled as she chewed. “It’s almost as if she was planning a trip, then didn’t go. I’ve requested her phone, cell phone and credit card statements. Got one from a local bank. Dr. Wade made a reservation at a pretty expensive resort in New Mexico, never arrived, never called and lost her deposit.” Reed listened and tore into his burger. “The last couple of purchases she made were at an outdoor store in town for hiking boots and some other athletic gear. Over the Internet she ordered some books and maps. They were delivered, but by the time they arrived, she’d disappeared. The landlady has them.”
“Maps of where?”
“Arizona, New Mexico and Southern California, just where she was planning to go.”
“Where’s her car?”
“Gone.”
“What about her office?”
“Haven’t got that far yet, but I’m working on it.” She stole another French fry. “You think this is connected with Bandeaux’s death?”
He didn’t know, but he didn’t like it. “Seems like a helluva coincidence that Caitlyn Bandeaux’s shrink goes missing a few weeks before her estranged husband’s death.”
“You really want to nail her, don’t you?”
“I just want to clear it up.” He took another bite of his burger. Washed it down with beer. He’d nearly convinced himself that Caitlyn was the killer, but something held him back. Something didn’t quite feel right about it. “The D.A.’s on my ass.”
“She’s on everybody’s ass. Up for reelection this fall. But we have to tread carefully with the Montgomerys. They have a habit of buying off judges and senators and the like. It keeps their records clean. You know the rumor that the grandfather was banging his secretary, Mary Lou Chaney. She had a kid by him, Copper Chaney. A real wildass. She, Copper, ended up marrying a local tough, Earl Dean Biscayne, and they had three kids.” Morrisette swiped at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin, then finished her drink. “Copper was killed when her single-wide caught fire because she was smoking in bed and her husband, Earl Dean, disappeared around the same time. Some people think he caused the fire, others think that he was already missing when Copper died, but what is really interesting is that Copper had herself an affair with Benedict’s legitimate son, Cameron.”
“Caitlyn’s father?”
“Yep.” Morrisette signaled to the waitress with her empty glass. “So she was really screwing her half-brother.”
“If it’s true.”
“Welcome to the South, baby.”
“Give me a break.”
“You’re right. We don’t have the corner on incest around here.”
Reed was bothered just the same. Morrisette was a smart-ass, but she was a good cop, did her job. “Did Montgomery have an alibi for the trailer fire?”
“Ironclad. At home with the wife, Berneda, or so he claims.”
“What does she say?”
“That he was there, according to her statement, but she’s had all kinds of health problems for years. The woman’s a walking pharmacy. Who knows if she even slept with the guy. My guess? She said what she had to. Kept the press at bay and her husband off the hot seat. I doubt if we’ll ever know what really happened.”
“Would you all like another Diet Coke?” the waitress said as she wended her way through the empty tables.
“Yeah.” Morrisette nodded.
“How ’bout you?” she asked Reed. “Another Bud?”
“That would be good.”
“It’ll just be a minute.” She managed a smile for Reed and ignored Morrisette.
“She’s got the hots for you,” Morrisette observed, watching the leggy waitress saunter back to the bar where two men in baseball caps, work shirts, blue jeans and cowboy boots had taken stools.
“How do you know it’s not the hots for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it was the way her eyes said, ‘fuck me’ when she looked at you.”
“Maybe she was just playing hard to get.”
Sylvie actually smiled as the two new guys checked the score on the television before carrying their drinks to a pool table and racking up. “She’s not my type. I like big blondes with even bigger tits.” She winked at Reed. “Give me an Amazon any day of the week.”
“You’re sick.”
“So they say, but not as sick as the Montgomerys. Get this. I think Hannah, that’s the youngest sister, might have been seeing Bandeaux, too. May have even given him some money. Her trust fund doesn’t really kick in until she’s twenty-five, but she’s got a shit-load of dough anyway. I’ve been trying to talk to her, but so far, I’ve run up against the ol’ brick wall. Only been able to leave messages. And she’s not the only member of the extended family that had a financial stake with our deceased. Remember the name Dickie Ray Biscayne, one of Copper’s kids? He did some work for Bandeaux, too, but nothing ever recorded on the books. Just provided security for the prick, kind of a low-class bodyguard.”
“Didn’t do a very good job,” Reed observed, but was thinking hard. The damned Montgomerys and Biscaynes were too interlaced. “This is worse than a nighttime soap.”
“Are you kidding? It’s worse than a daytime soap.” Morrisette finished her sandwich just as the Reds scored and the man at the bar muttered an obscenity and ordered another beer in disgust.
The door to the bar opened and Reed noticed Diane Moses bustle inside. Not a hair out of place, her expression forever harsh, she glanced in their direction. “Look at this, we just got lucky. Maybe the crime scene can shed some light on this.”
Morrisette waved her over.
Nodding, Diane held up one finger, then paused at the bar long enough to order a glass of wine before carrying it to their booth. “I suppose you want me to give you the definitive clue to crack the Bandeaux case,” she said, scooting in next to Morrisette.
“That would help.” Reed finished his beer.
&nb
sp; “Have you talked to His Highness?”
“St. Clair?”
“That would be him.” Diane took a sip of her wine and scowled. “Just a minute. They poured me vinegar here, and I’m not in the mood.” She walked to the bar, had a heated conversation with the bartender, and returned with another glass of merlot. “Much better,” she said after taking an experimental sip and sliding into the booth next to Morrisette.
“You guys find anything new in the evidence collected at the Bandeaux scene?” Reed asked.
“Just got all the results of the chemicals in his body. I faxed it over to you. There was alcohol, GHB, traces of Ecstacy and get this . . . traces of epinephrin, as if he managed to get to his allergy kit and inject himself.”
“Before he or someone slit his wrists.”
“Yep.”
“So it appears that Josh got high with Ecstasy and maybe had some wine with a friend, but the wine was the wrong kind, the kind that put him into shock. Someone definitely switched the labels. But he used the allergy kit, gave himself a shot of epinephrin, and, just when he thinks he’s home free and not gonna die, he types up a suicide note on the computer, then slits his wrists.”
“Or the friend does just to throw us off.”
“After having watched Bandeaux save himself.” Reed’s eyes narrowed. “You know, it’s almost as if someone tried to kill him twice. Once with the wine, but he somehow figured it out and gave himself the antidote, but then the killer struck again and this time finished the job.”
Reed pushed his plate away as the waitress brought the second round of drinks. “Anything else? What about the lipstick on one of the glasses?”
“It’s called In The Pink by New Faces. Ironic, don’t you think, considering Bandeaux’s condition?” Diane asked, her eyes gleaming a bit. “It’s sold at all your major upscale department stores. The good news is that it’s a relatively new shade, only been available for the past two years.”
