The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  What a legacy.

  She needed to go home, pour herself some cold vodka and take a long shower. To wash away the sweat. To rinse off the dirt. To wipe away the feeling that she was wasting her life. To find Cricket.

  Sugar was worrying more and more about her wayward sibling. It had been more than two days now since Cricket was last home, and Sugar hadn’t heard word one from her sister. None. Cricket’s disappearance, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual, but coupled with the strange phone calls where no one responded when she answered, Sugar had gotten nervous. What if something had happened?

  She’d even mentioned it to Dickie Ray, who had told her she worried too much. Like that was a news flash.

  “Christ, Sugar, give the kid a break,” he’d said while trying to install a new fan belt on his truck. He’d turned and looked at her from beneath the hood, wiped his blackened hands on a greasy rag and clucked his tongue. “You gotta let her live her life. She don’t need you cluckin’ after her like some mother hen. And them phone calls. Hell, they’re probably from the perverts you dance for. It don’t take a fuckin’ brain surgeon to figure that one out!”

  She’d let the subject drop. Dickie Ray was an idiot. Had been from the day he was born, like all of his nerves didn’t quite touch. He was probably the one who’d been sired by Cameron and hence had enough incestuous Montgomery genes to make him stupid. She’d read about that. Worried about it. But then, in that respect, Dickie Ray was right. She worried about everything.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Really wrong.

  On her way out of the club, she hastened down a dark hallway, tripped over a mop bucket, caught herself, swore under her breath and made her way down the short flight of stairs to the back door, where a broken exit sign gave off only a bit of green light. Outside it wasn’t much better. The night was clear but dark. And still. Almost eerie.

  The parking lot was empty except for one lone car.

  Cricket’s old Chevy.

  And her sister was at the wheel.

  Thank God!

  What the hell was her baby sister doing just sitting in her car in this part of town in the middle of the night?

  Probably looking to score a hit or was already high.

  Well, that was just plain crazy.

  Sugar started for the car, intending to give Cricket a piece of her mind. She crossed the potholes of the parking lot, twisting her ankle in her haste. “Ouch! Shit. Damn it all to hell!” It just wasn’t her night.

  At the hatchback, she tapped on the glass of the driver’s door with her finger, but Cricket didn’t respond. Just sat there, doped up and asleep, no doubt. Her skin looked white in the dark interior, though there were splotches on it. Dark, reddish welts along with streaks of mud. Like Cricket had been strung out for days and had a bad reaction. At that thought, Sugar began to worry all over again. “Hey!” she called. No response. She tried the door. It was locked. “Damn it, Cricket, open up!”

  She leaned down and saw something in the reflection of the glass, a glimpse of movement in the shadows behind her. A figure running toward her on silent footsteps. Shit! Probably one of the perverts lurking by the Dumpster hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Listen, you warped son of a bitch, I’m not interested.”

  She was slammed against the car.

  “Ooof!” Her breath came out in a rush. Her head crashed against the door frame. Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her purse flew across the lot. “What the fuck?” She couldn’t see her attacker; her face was smashed against the side of the Chevy. A foul-tasting rag was stuffed into her mouth before she had a chance to scream.

  What the hell was happening? Cricket was in the car, and this jackass was going to—what? Rape her? Shit.

  Fear fired her blood. She fought for all she was worth. Sugar was strong and athletic, the hours dancing making her firm, but she couldn’t move. Her arm was twisted behind her so hard it nearly came out of its socket.

  Panic ripped through her. This couldn’t be happening!

  Cricket! For Christ’s sake, do something! Why wasn’t she moving? Why the hell wasn’t she moving? Why were her eyes so glassy, drugged out . . . and her skin was so pasty beneath the welts . . . dozens of them all over her face. Oh, fuck! No! Oh, God, no, no, no!

  Finally Sugar understood. She clawed and tried to scream, but it was too late. Another rag was held to her nose, and she wrenched away from the smell of ether. Already her body disobeyed the commands of her screaming mind. Her knees sagged. Her arms and legs were like lead. Even her brain was failing. The lights of the parking lot were spinning in slow motion over her head, moving pinpoints against the dark canopy of the sky.

  The pressure behind her eased. Slowly Sugar slid down the side of Cricket’s battered Chevrolet onto the pockmarked asphalt. She was vaguely aware that her attacker was swearing under his—no . . . her? . . . breath and scrabbling across the parking lot trying to retrieve the contents of Sugar’s spilled purse.

  Sugar didn’t care . . . her entire body was numb . . . her thoughts floating . . . she wasn’t even scared, though she was certain she should be.

  There was little doubt in her mind that she was about to die.

  Thirty

  Reed pulled the autopsy report on Rebecca Wade from the fax machine and immediately got lost in it. Probable cause of death was asphyxiation, not drowning. She’d been killed first, her tongue sliced out of her mouth and probably tucked into her empty purse, then the body ditched in the water.

  Who would go to so much trouble?

  Someone who was making a point.

  You didn’t hack off a body part and wrap it in goddamned Saranwrap and tuck it into a designer leather bag unless you wanted to show off a little, taunt the police, say, “Hey, cops! Look over here. I did this, you idiots. I’m smarter than you.”

  He refilled his coffee cup in the lunch room, nodded to a couple of beat cops. Still studying the report, he jockeyed his way through the cubicles as he made his way to his office. The minute the details of Rebecca Wade’s death leaked out, the press would be over this like crows on roadkill. There would be concern and talk about a serial killer, a murderer focused on people associated with the Montgomery family. It was probably task force time, and the FBI would be called in. Which might not be such a bad idea. There were always the jurisdiction squabbles, of course, a few power struggles, but for the most part he didn’t mind the feds.

  Reed had worked with Vita “Marilyn” Catalanotto, the local field representative, before. She was all right, if a little pushy. Well, maybe a lot pushy. Transplanted from the Bronx in New York. Which explained a lot. Christ, it seemed lately that he was surrounded by female cops. All that equal-opportunity crap.

  Office machines hummed, and phones rang outside his door. Someone told a non-PC joke that he caught the end of, and there was a ripple of laughter in the cubicles near a bank of windows. He didn’t pay much attention. Had too much on his mind. All surrounding the Montgomery killings.

  Caitlyn Bandeaux’s daughter, mother, father, husband and now shrink were dead—along with a sprinkling of siblings. The way it looked, it was just plain dangerous getting too close to the recently widowed Mrs. Bandeaux.

  Hearing footsteps nearing his open door, Reed looked up. A tall, determined man was steamrolling straight for him. His features were even, his skin a hue that hinted at his Latino heritage, his chin, beneath a dark, neat goatee, set. “You Reed?” he asked, his dark eyes serious, a diamond stud winking in one ear. It was hot as hell outside, and yet the young buck wore all black and leather. From first glance, Reed would have pegged him as a tough, but there was something beyond his swagger, an earnestness in his expression that suggested otherwise.

  “That’s right.” Reed straightened.

  “Reuben Montoya. New Orleans P.D.” Montoya flipped opened his wallet, and Reed took a cursory glance at the badge. It looked authentic. “I heard Lucille Vasquez left town.” Mont
oya stuffed his badge into an inner pocket of the jacket.

  “That’s right,” Reed said, waving the younger cop into a side chair. “But she turned up at her sister’s place in Florida. You’re looking for her daughter, right? Marta?”

  Something flashed behind the dark eyes, and his lips drew white against his teeth. “She’s been missing for six months.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Yeah,” Montoya admitted. “A good friend.”

  “She’s not with her mother, and Lucille doesn’t know where she is, nor, for the most part, does she care. She’s got a bad case of wounded maternal ego. I talked to her last night. She’s got no clue where her daughter is.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “I’d bet my badge on it.”

  “Hell.” Montoya’s lips pursed and he fidgeted at the pocket of his jacket as if searching for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. “I checked around with missing persons and heard there was a Jane Doe found down in the water near St. Simons Island.”

  “And you thought it might be Marta. How’d you hear that so fast?”

  “I made it a point to.” He was brash. Cocky. Reed couldn’t help but like him. “I’ve got dental records with me.”

  “With you?” This was beginning to sound strange.

  “Copies. But they’ll do for a match.”

  “Are you a little too involved in this one?” Reed asked.

  “Some people might think so. But they’re wrong.”

  “Maybe you should back off. Put some perspective on the case. Besides, the Jane Doe isn’t Marta Vasquez.”

  “No?” Relief slumped Montoya’s broad shoulders. “You’re sure?”

  Reed tossed the report across the table. “Yep.”

  Montoya scanned the pages, his expression hardening as he read the autopsy report on Rebecca Wade. His face grew darker than before. “Sick bastard, isn’t he?”

  “Or she.”

  “A woman?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Who cuts out her victims’ tongues.”

  “Appears as such.”

  “Hell.” Montoya finally took the proffered chair. “I’ve had experience with some really bad dudes. A couple of guys into really sick shit. One called himself Father John and the other one went by The Chosen One. Serial killers. Both had a weird religious/sadistic bent.”

  “Our killer tends to pick people close to a wealthy family in town,” Reed said and decided Montoya might look at this case with fresh eyes. Experienced eyes. Reed had read of the serial killers who had haunted New Orleans last year. Serious psychos. Montoya had helped Detective Rick Bentz bring them down.

  “I was going to drive down to St. Simons in an hour. Check this out.” He motioned to the report Montoya was skimming.

  “Mind if I ride along?” Montoya asked.

  Usually Reed would have declined. But he figured he could use all the help he could get. Whoever was taking potshots at the Montgomerys was upping the ante. The deaths were coming at rapid-fire speed. “Might not be a bad idea,” he said, then added, “Our latest victim isn’t going to look so good, you know. She’s been in the water a while.”

  “I got no problem with that.”

  Reed leveled a gaze at Montoya and the New Orleans cop didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as bat an eye. He’d be okay. After all, he’d witnessed some pretty grisly crime scenes with the killers he’d chased down.

  “You’re on.”

  “How is Rebecca Wade connected with the Montgomery family?”

  Reed filled him in, told him about the Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux connection just as the clip of fast-paced footsteps in the outer hallway heralded Morrisette’s arrival. She flew into the room with a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile pasted on her lips. “Guess what I’ve got!”

  “Besides a serious attitude problem?”

  “Watch it, Reed, or I might not give you the legal document you’ve been waiting for. Signed by his holiness himself, the Honorable Ronald Gillette.”

  “You got a search warrant?” Reed was already reaching for his jacket.

  “Signed, sealed and now”—she slapped the damned paper onto his desk—“officially delivered.”

  “Let’s go.” Reed was around the desk. He motioned to the visitor. “Detective Sylvie Morrisette, this is Detective Reuben Montoya of the New Orleans Police Department.”

  “On loan or permanent?” she asked, sizing up the younger cop. Jesus, what was the matter with her? She’d already had four husbands, and from the swift change in her demeanor, it was obvious that she was looking for number five. No matter how much she protested the fact. As a seriously confirmed bachelor, he didn’t understand her need to waltz up the aisle with just about anyone she’d ever slept with.

  “Montoya’s looking for Marta Vasquez.”

  “As in Lucille, the Montgomery maid’s daughter?” she asked.

  “One and the same.”

  “Thought so.” Sylvie nodded, agreeing with herself, her blond spikes immobile on her head. “So maybe you want to come along,” she invited.

  “Already invited,” Reed said as they snaked their way downstairs. He was hoping Montoya could shed some light on Lucille’s quick departure. It seemed suspicious, and yet his gut told him the old lady wasn’t their killer.

  “it’s possible Marta’s disappearance could be connected to your case,” Montoya thought aloud.

  “Maybe, Reed allowed. Didn’t believe it. As far as he knew, Marta didn’t have any connection to the Montgomery clan aside from her mother. “But I think she’s not close enough to the family. Whoever is doing this seems to concentrate on people who are related.”

  “Except for Rebecca Wade—if that murder is a part of it,” Morrisette said, her interest turned from the newcomer to the job at hand as Reed held the door open for her. Behind her shades, her expressive eyes rolled at his act of chivalry and he thought she uttered, “Oh, save me,” under her breath as she and Montoya walked outside into the heat. She said to Montoya, “You can ride with us and Reed’ll fill you in.”

  While you ogle the merchandise, Reed thought, but kept it to himself. It didn’t matter. What did count was that finally, thanks to the search warrant, he’d get to look through Mrs. Bandeaux’s closets and find out for himself what skeletons she’d hidden away.

  “. . . so I don’t want you to talk to anyone without representation,” Marvin Wilder said, escorting Caitlyn to the door of his office. He was a short man whose girth possibly exceeded his height, and his shock of white hair made a sharp contrast to his deep country-club tan. His golf trophies exceeded the legal diplomas hung on the richly paneled walls.

  Caitlyn didn’t feel much better than she had before the appointment, and any hopes she’d had of getting what she knew off her chest were quickly put aside by the attorney.

  “Let’s not give the police anything more to work with, not until your memory returns. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone. Not the police, not the press, no one.”

  “What about my family?” she asked. “Or my psychiatrist?”

  “Please, Caitlyn, just wait a few days. Give me some time to work things out. I know the D.A. Let me talk to Kathy Okano and see where we stand.”

  Caitlyn wasn’t convinced she was doing the right thing, wasn’t certain the police were the enemy, though when she remembered Detective Reed standing on her doorstep, she was tempted to change her mind. She’d even caught a glimpse of him another time, at a coffee shop around the corner from her house, just casually ordering a bagel. In her neighborhood. Oh, sure. He was the reason she felt she was being followed, she was certain of it.

  But would he call you on the phone and not answer?

  Or would he pretend to be your child?

  No. She didn’t believe that of him.

  He was relentless, yes, and she imagined that he was capable of bending the law a bit, but she didn’t think he’d stoop to psychological harassment.

  She left the lawyer’s
office and drove by Adam’s office—Rebecca’s old office. The fact that Adam now used it as his office was odd. Kelly was right. At times she felt he wasn’t being straight with her, was holding something about himself back, and other times she felt he was being absolutely honest. She didn’t know which but found him more fascinating than she had imagined. There was something restless about him, an impatience hidden beneath his calm veneer and it touched her . . . called out to her.

  You really are wacko, aren’t you? Worse yet, a romantic wacko. What do you really know about him? Nothing. Other than what he’s told you.

  Bothered, she drove out of the city. She still hadn’t heard from Hannah, and she was getting worried. Caitlyn had called Troy, and he’d reminded her that Hannah was like a wounded dog when she was troubled, that she liked to be left alone to lick her emotional wounds. But Caitlyn wasn’t convinced, and Amanda was jittery.

  “I don’t like it, either,” she’d said when Cailtyn called her. “I’d run out there this afternoon, but I’m buried at work. And I’ve got to meet with the minister and the funeral director for Mom—Dear God, can you believe it?” She sighed. “Maybe I can run out later—oh, damn, I’m supposed to pick up Ian from the airport. But then I’ll stop by.”

  “Don’t worry about it. If she doesn’t call me back this morning, I’ll go out after my appointment with Marvin Wilder.”

  “Then call me. I want to know what Marvin says one way or another. In the meantime let’s hope that Hannah calls.” Amanda sounded distraught. “I’d insist upon police protection, but they’re all such dicks. We’d be better off with a private service—bodyguards all around. I’m going to suggest it to Troy, and if he won’t loosen the estate’s purse strings, then I’ll pay for it myself. My God, Caitlyn, we can’t just let ourselves be sitting ducks. But . . . I’m sure Hannah’s all right,” she added with more of her usual calm.