by Lisa Jackson
She hung up before Caitlyn had a chance to say that she’d call Kelly. Not that Hannah would care. None of them did. Ever since their mother had proclaimed Kelly dead to the family, everyone but Caitlyn had quit seeing her or even mentioning her name. It was odd, Caitlyn thought, but then estrangements always were. She dialed Kelly’s cell phone, waited while it rang and left a message.
Not that Kelly would want to know.
She always acted as if she didn’t have any feelings for anyone in the family.
Face it, Caitlyn, they’re all a bunch of goddamned hypocrites. Mom was mad that I blew my trust fund on the boat and hadn’t bothered to insure it. She blamed me for the accident, and all of my wonderful siblings fell into line, taking sides with her, thinking that the fact that Mother acts as if I’m dead will make them richer in the end; that they’ll inherit my share as well as their own. It’s sick. But then, what else is new?
What, indeed, Caitlyn thought as she grabbed a sweater, made sure her wrists, which were healing day by day, were covered. Oscar caught sight of her reaching for her keys. “Not now,” she apologized. “It’s too hot. But when I get home, we’ll take a run, how ’bout that?” The dog whined and bounced against the door. She let him out and he immediately raced to the magnolia tree, where a lizard was sunning himself on the trunk. The frightened critter scurried into the safety of the branches, and Caitlyn took the side door into the garage and climbed into her car.
She had to face her family again.
Kelly would think she was a hypocrite like the rest of them.
But Kelly could take heart, Caitlyn thought as she backed out of the garage; the family was definitely getting smaller. Hannah and Amanda were right—one by one the Montgomerys were dropping like flies.
She had to wonder who was holding the swatter.
God?
Or someone close to the family? Someone who wanted them dead.
Reed hung up the phone and hankered for a cigarette. He’d given up the habit years ago, but there were still times like these when he needed a hit of nicotine. He’d been working around the clock, busting his chops on the Bandeaux case. Hell, when the department hadn’t authorized a man to watch Caitlyn Montgomery, he’d done it on the side, keeping track of her comings and goings as best he could, around his other cases.
You’re obsessed; you need to get out more. Get a fuckin’ life!
But he didn’t. His stabs at relationships had all been mistakes, and so for a while, when he’d returned to Savannah, he’d done the bar scene, even had a couple of one-night stands, none of which was so bad aside from the fact that he hadn’t much liked himself for it. The sex had been fine at the time, but like cheap whiskey, had made him feel tired, worn out and just plain old the morning after. So he’d sworn off. Didn’t need the bloodshot eyes and recriminations.
How many times could he say, “I’ll give you a call?” when he knew, even after too many drinks, that he was lying through his teeth, that one roll in the sack was all he wanted?
Maybe he should take up bowling.
Or golf.
Or even rock climbing. Just something.
He rubbed two days’ growth of beard, downed the rest of a cold cup of coffee and decided to mosey on over to Kathy Okano’s office. Hit her face-to-face with questions. She’d been the one pushing the Bandeaux investigation and now she was backing off. Like a virgin in the backseat, all ready to go until the moment of truth.
He cut through the offices and down a short hallway and was about to step into her office when he was roadblocked by her secretary, Tonya. Who looked like a card-carrying member of the World Wrestling Federation. Tons of makeup, black wild hair, sharp tongue and a sculpted, slightly bulging and, in Reed’s estimation, not very feminine physique. “She took off.”
“Where?”
“Had a lunch date,” the secretary said.
“But I was just on the phone with her.”
“That explains the mad dash out of here,” Tonya said. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
“Thanks,” he groused, stuffing his hands in his pockets and jangling his keys. He made his way back to his office and picked up the pace as he heard his phone. He snagged the receiver and heard Morrisette’s voice, breaking up a little on her cell phone, as she swore at, he assumed, another driver. “Goddamned asshole! I should write you up!”
“For what?” Reed asked.
“Hey! You heard the news?” she asked over the roar of background noise. The police band was crackling and the sound of traffic rushing by competed for airspace. “Berneda Montgomery kicked the bucket last night.”
“The mother?”
“Yeah, she’s admitted to Eastside General for heart problems and within twenty-four hours, she croaks. How’s that for bad luck? Hey! Watch it! That old lady cut me off! Son of a bitch!”
“You’ll live. Tell me about Berneda Montgomery.”
“Don’t know much, but the hospital is in an uproar. It looks like Berneda didn’t just die in her sleep. She struggled. There’s speculation that someone slipped into her room and killed her. Either suffocation or drugs.”
“Shit.” He remembered Amanda Montgomery’s warning that someone was trying to knock off the members of her family. It was beginning to look like she was right. “Meet me at the hospital.”
“I’m already on my way.”
He reached for his jacket as he saw a movement from the corner of his eye. Turning, he spied Sugar Biscayne, some of her bravado from the day before missing.
“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.
“About time you showed up,” Morrisette muttered under her breath.
One of the regular beat cops, Joe Bentley, rolled his eyes behind Morrisette’s back, and Reed imagined she had just about given everyone involved a few lashes with her razor-sharp tongue. Another cop with a reddish flattop and a crooked nose sent Morrisette a dirty look. To Reed, he whispered loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, “The wife’s been lookin’ for you and man, is she pissed.”
“Bite me, Stevens,” Morrisette shot back.
“Oh, I forgot. You wear the pants in the family and you’re—”
“Stuff it,” Reed snapped. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Thank you, honey,” Morrisette cooed, just to add fuel to the fire, then turned serious on him. “Looks like someone couldn’t wait for the Grim Reaper to come along.” They walked into Berneda Montgomery’s hospital room. She was lying on the bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, cards and flowers filled with wishes for a speedy recovery decorating the windowsill and tables. But Mrs. Montgomery wouldn’t need them in her current state.
Diane Moses and her team were already present in full force, and the rooms around the one Berneda Montgomery occupied had been sealed off with crime scene tape. “We’re working fast, but it’s slow going. The hospital administration’s already putting the pressure on for us to wrap this up. They don’t like the groupies camped out with their cameras in the hall and think how much money Eastside General’s losing when they’re not able to charge rent for these beds. Do you know how much it costs to spend a night here? A lot. Thousands. Just to stay here. Before any medical procedure. So even though they’re not saying it, Eastside’s in a big rush to free up this here bed. They want this gal moved down to the morgue. Pronto.”
“Won’t be long now,” Diane said as her team swept the room and Reed took a closer look at the victim. “Check this out.” Diane showed him Berneda’s wrists. “Looks like she struggled. One of her arms was strapped down, something to do with keeping the IV in, and it was ripped off. She’s got marks on her wrist where she tried to pull her hand off the railing.”
Reed stared at the bruises on Berneda’s wrists, hated to imagine what she’d gone through at the time of her death. “Any other marks?”
“Nah, but we’re scraping under her nails. Hoping she got a swing at her killer with her free hand and we end up with some skin for a DNA test.”
“How’d this happen? Wasn’t she on a heart monitor?”
“Yeah, but the nurse who was supposed to be watching it got called to another patient whose monitor had gone off. So my guess is our killer slipped into Room 312, unhooked the guy there, then when his machine goes off bleeping like an effin’ nickel slot with a hundred-dollar payout, everyone rushes down there.” She pointed to a room not thirty feet away from Berneda. “The killer slips into Berneda’s room, unplugs the monitor, and offs Berneda. It wouldn’t take much. She was near dead as it was.”
“Her monitor didn’t go off?”
“So it appears. Turned off. Someone knew what they were doin’. None of the nurses or hospital staff did it or know who did.”
“Great,” he grumbled. “The other guy—312—okay?”
“Barely. Doesn’t remember anything. But we’re already checking that room, too, and we’re asking everyone on the night shift what they remember. So far no one saw anything remotely suspicious.”
“Except that heart monitors were going off like car alarms in a bad part of town.”
“Just one. Berneda’s didn’t make a sound.”
“Time of death?”
“Three-fifteen to three-twenty; at least that’s when the other guy’s monitor started going off like crazy. By the time the staff got to the desk, it was over.”
“What about before she was killed? The victim was here a while before the killer got to her. Did she ever come out of it enough to talk?”
Morrisette shook her head. “Not really. She kind of opened an eye last evening, and her speech was slurred. The nurse thought she was asking for something, but it didn’t make any sense. She seemed to be saying ‘Sugar’ over and over again. But of course she couldn’t have sugar as she was slightly diabetic.”
“Slightly?”
“Not on insulin. The maid, Lucille, took care of her and then took off. According to Hannah the daughter who lived with her, the maid’s on her way to live with a sister in Florida. Her job here is done now that the old lady croaked.”
“She’s not close to the family, I take it.”
“Seems not, though she helped raise all of ’em. From what I understand, she’ll get a cut of the estate. Maybe that’s the cause of the current friction.”
Reed didn’t like it. Especially when he considered that according to Detective Montoya of the New Orleans Police Department, Lucille’s daughter was missing. “Is she coming back for the funeral?”
“Who knows? I chalk it up as weird, but then everything about this case is.”
He wouldn’t argue that particular point. “So is the family still here?”
“Gathered in the waiting room. I thought you’d like to talk to them.”
“That I do.” He followed her down the hallway to the room in question. As she’d said, the Montgomery family was waiting. And none too happy about it as they slumped on uncomfortable couches, their f
eatures tortured with grief. All eyes looked his way as he opened the glass door.
“I told you,” the oldest, Amanda, said as he stepped into the private area, “I told you this would happen!” She’d been standing near a potted palm and practically flew at him when he showed up. The bruise over her eye had turned a shade no amount of makeup could hide, but other than the obvious discoloration, she seemed to show no ill effects from her accident—well, aside from her current state of agitation. Reed was willing to bet the wreck didn’t have much to do with that. Amanda Montgomery Drummond was just hardwired in a natural state of turmoil. “Look what happened!” she insisted. “Mother’s dead. My God, are you guys ever going to catch this creep?”
“We’re doing our best.”
“Well, it’s not good enough. Can’t you see? You’re running out of time. Whoever is doing this is stepping up his pace. I think we’d be better off hiring a private investigator.”
“Amanda, calm down,” the brother, Troy, ordered. He sat on a corner of the couch, hands clasped between his knees, his face a mask of grief. His shoulders drooped and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days.
“Don’t tell me what to do. Someone killed our mother. And I think a PI would be a good idea. Obviously there’s a maniac loose and he’s picking us off one by one. For some reason he’s got this thing for the Montgomerys. None of us are safe.”
The youngest one, Hannah, was sniffing loudly and wiping at red-rimmed eyes with a tissue. Huddled in a corner near Caitlyn, she eyed Reed as if he were the enemy. Caitlyn visibly tensed at the sight of Reed. Dry-eyed, she stiffened as he approached. “I’ll need to take statements from all of you.”
“Oh, great. Because you think one of us did this?” Amanda checked her watch. “I do have a job, you know, and there are people who need to be contacted and a funeral to be arranged . . .” Her throat caught at that and some of her tough-as-nails exterior crumbled a little. “I wish Ian was home.”
“Just bear with us. I know it isn’t easy, but we are trying to figure out what’s going on,” he said, trying to keep the frustration from his tone. These people weren’t the only ones feeling the pressure. He wanted to put an end to this immediately. “Let’s start with you,” he said to Caitlyn. He reached for his pocket recorder, and Morrisette opened up her notepad. They’d take the statements, one at a time, add them to those already extracted from the hospital workers and try to narrow the field.
