Axelrod’s gaze shifted Jesse’s direction. “And you are?”
“A friend of Jillian’s.”
The dark eyes narrowed, displeased with that response, but he didn’t make an issue of it. Jillian had invited them in and was prepared to answer their questions voluntarily, without the presence of a lawyer. Any cop worth his salt knew to take advantage of that kind of situation as quickly and thoroughly as they could.
The detective named Gannon leaned forward, the lamp beside his chair reflecting off the balding crown of his head. He frowned at Jesse. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Gannon’s brow furrowed. “You seem familiar. I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Maybe I just have that kind of face.”
The man studied him for several more moments, visibly trying to place him, before eventually sitting back. Then he glanced at his partner, passing the invisible baton.
“Are you familiar with a man named Myles Lewis, Ms. Montgomery?”
Jillian considered, and then shook her head in response to Axelrod’s question. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”
Gannon pulled a photo from a folder he carried, slid it across the ornate mahogany coffee table. “Well, Lewis is an alias. Maybe you know him by the name Miron Losevsky.”
She glanced up sharply and then leaned over, studied the photo which had been pulled from the man’s driver’s license.
“No.” She shook her head again, lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I’m sorry, but to my knowledge I’ve never seen him before.”
“Have you ever used the Fluff and Fold laundromat on Martin Luther King?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Never?”
“I haven’t used a laundromat since college, Detective. To the best of my recollection, I never patronized that one.”
“You went to college locally?”
“Yes. SCAD.”
“That’s right, that’s right.” Gannon snapped his fingers, acting as if he’d just remembered a detail which Jesse knew he’d never forgotten. “You’re a photographer.”
Jillian stared at him a moment, clearly trying to figure out where this was heading but loathe to come right out and ask. “Yes.”
“What sort of things do you photograph?”
“Weddings. Babies and children. Graduation photos. The occasional magazine spread for a lifestyle section or personal spotlight. Portraits, essentially. You can find all of that information on my website.”
“Ever do any work for Thrifty Car Wash? An… advertisement maybe?”
“No.”
“How about the All American Spa?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Annoyance briefly flickered across her face. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“The spa…. they had these photos in the windows, of some of the… ladies who worked there? Before it burned, that is. You didn’t maybe take their pictures? Or portraits, to use your word. They were real professional looking.”
Annoyance returned and set up camp in the form of a line on her forehead. “Perhaps one of the other of the hundreds of professional photographers in the area took them.”
“Could be, could be.” Gannon met her gaze, and then slid a bag from his pocket. “I’m just trying to figure out why Lewis – Losevsky – had this in his wallet.”
Jillian picked up the bag. Inside was one of her business cards.
She stared at it a moment, and then carefully set the bag back down. “I’ve distributed boxes of these cards all over the city. I hand them out to clients, who pass them along to friends. I post them on coffee shop memo boards. Pass them out at bridal expos. There are almost limitless ways someone could come by one.”
The detective picked the bag back up. Turned it over. And passed it to Jillian again.
Jesse leaned close enough to read over her shoulder. The name of a local dive was written in a sloppy hand along with last Thursday’s date and a time. “I’m sorry.” She returned Gannon’s steady gaze, though Jesse detected a fine tremor in the hand that held the bag. “Is this supposed to mean something?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. When people write down a time and a place for a meeting on the back of a business card, the person whose name is on the card is usually the one that they’re planning to see.”
“But as I’ve already told you, I don’t recognize this man. And the Shady Lady is hardly the sort of venue in which I would choose to meet with clients.”
“So you’re familiar with it?”
She gave him a cold look. “I’m familiar with many businesses in the area, even the ones I don’t patronize.”
“Huh. Most people, unless it’s their dry cleaner or their coffee shop or a restaurant they keep meaning to try but haven’t gotten around to it, seems they just drive by places without paying much attention. Especially little hole in the wall places like that. No neon, nothing much to look at. I guess photographers are unusually observant.”
Rather than responding to that, she returned the bag to the table, and then clasped her hands in her lap. Tightly enough that her knuckles turned white. “What division do you work with, Detectives?”
“Criminal Investigations,” Axelrod said.
“And specifically, in this case?”
“Homicide.”
“The Fluff and Fold. I remember now. I caught the tail end of the news the other night. A man was murdered.” She divided a look between the two men. “Was it the man who had my card?”
“What makes you think that?”
She opened her mouth as if to answer Axelrod’s question, but then blew out an audible breath. “I believe I’m all finished answering questions. I’d like you to leave.”
Axelrod slowly reached over to pick up the bag as Gannon stared Jillian down. “It would look better for you if you cooperated.”
“I have cooperated, Detective, to the extent which I am able. I do not know Myles Lewis or Miron…”
“Losevsky,” Gannon offered with a little smile, as if amused by the fact that Jillian had conveniently forgotten his name.
“Losevsky,” she repeated coolly. “I also do not know how he came to be in possession of my card or why he used it to write down an appointment, or whatever it was. However, given the nature of your investigation and the… tone of your questions, I believe it would be wise for me to have an attorney present should any additional questions be necessary.” She stood, and Jesse followed suit. He almost grabbed her elbow again, but the rigidity with which she held herself suggested that his touch wouldn’t be welcome this time.
“I’ll show you to the door,” she informed the cops.
The two men went, though not happily. Jillian opened the door and stood beside it, her expression stony. Axelrod murmured his thanks as he left, but Gannon paused, his attention caught by the grouping of festively painted wooden dolls on the hall table, each one a mirror of the other but decreasing in size. He pulled a toothpick from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, stuck it in his mouth as he studied them.
“I’ve seen these before,” he finally said. “They’re… Russian, aren’t they?”
She stared at him with a coolness that belied the rapid pulse visible in her neck. “Yes.”
He gave a little nod, and then reached back into his pocket. “My card,” he told her. “In case you remember something you think we should know.”
Jillian took the card. “Good evening, Detective.”
When he’d gone, she shut the door and then leaned heavily against it. After several tense moments, she met Jesse’s gaze and, Jesse was sure, was about to thank him again for driving her home, which was a polite way of telling him to get lost. Jesse was trying to figure out a way to forestall her when the commotion outside surprised both of them.
Jillian whipped around to look out the sidelight, and Jesse came to stand behind her, peering over her head. The streetlight illuminated the two detectiv
es, standing on opposite sides of their car. Gannon, one hand on the open passenger door, used the other to rub his balding head as he glared into the oak branch which hung over the sidewalk.
Below him, Jillian tried to suppress another laugh.
“Care to clue me in?” he asked as they watched the detectives’ car pull away.
She froze, as if only now realizing that he was standing so close.
“It’s this squirrel that lives in the tree.” She shrugged as she turned around, fixed her gaze somewhere around the vicinity of his collarbone. “He throws acorns when I forget to feed him.”
“Don’t squirrels eat acorns?”
“Yes, but he’s kind of… spoiled.” She looked a little sheepish.
“So what does he eat?”
She finally looked up. “Trail mix.”
Jesse nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “You didn’t feed him today?”
“Actually, I did. Before the party. I’m not sure why Kil… why he threw an acorn at Detective Gannon.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don’t think I’m going to let that slide. What do you call it? The squirrel.”
She hesitated a beat and then sighed. “Killer.”
“You have an attack squirrel.” His brows shot up. “A trained attack squirrel named Killer that you bribe with nuts and berries to do your bidding.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t say that where my next door neighbor can hear you. He already thinks I’m the scourge of the neighborhood for feeding what he considers vermin.”
“My lips are sealed.”
When her gaze flicked toward his mouth and her cheeks colored again, Jesse had to force himself to take a step back. “Do you have any tea bags?”
She blinked. “You want tea?”
“No, but my mom swears by it for calming the nerves. And since this is the second time I’ve mentioned my mother this evening, you’re going to think I have an Oedipal complex or live in her basement, which I can assure you I do not, on either count. But I thought maybe you could use a cup of tea after talking to the cops, given your… unpleasant experience. You’re shaking.”
“Am I?” She pulled her sleeves down, as if that could disguise the fact that she was trembling. “I didn’t realize.”
He reached out and touched her arm. “I’m not saying that to embarrass you,” he said softly. “But I can’t help but be concerned. If you don’t drink tea, maybe warm milk, although I’ve always thought that was a little gross. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t feel right leaving you like this.”
She frowned up at him and Jesse figured she was about to decline. Probably tell him to take his thinly veiled ploy to stick around and go to hell. But she surprised him by nodding. “A cup of tea sounds fantastic, actually.”
He hid his relief with an easy smile. “Great.”
She smiled back, a little uncertainly. “The kitchen is this way.”
“After you,” he said and swept out his arm.
She preceded him down the hall, seemingly unaware that she was still clutching his shirt in her hands.
And Jesse didn’t quite know why that struck him as significant.
CHAPTER FOUR
THUGS. And stupid thugs at that.
The man watched the two younger men stumble down their stairs, laughing uproariously at some private joke. Swimming in alcohol. And looking to cause more mischief.
They had the strong, upright carriage of youthful males, but he judged them to be soft. Pampered. And impaired by drink.
They wore all black, quieter now as they scuttled down a side street like cockroaches. Except that cockroaches had more survival skills than these two, their antennas always twitching, sensing the air of their surroundings.
The two in front of him hadn’t even realized they were being followed.
One of them pulled a tire iron from where he’d hidden it inside his jacket. He slammed it against his open palm, chuckling softly at a comment made by his companion. The one with the tire iron made a playful gesture, feigning that he was hitting the other over the head with the iron. The damage they’d wrought so far was minimal, but he could see that they were getting bolder. Busting the window glass in the car was the worst they’d done. But he thought it might not be long before they ended up hurting someone, even if only by accident. They were cowards, but if an angry property owner chased after them, they would likely use the iron to bust more than a simple window.
Aside from that, he didn’t want them drawing more police attention to the neighborhood. Attention was something he didn’t need.
He would have to disable the man with the weapon first. And then they would have a …discussion.
The man smiled. It had been a long while since he’d felt this good.
DUE to the high water table, most homes in Savannah didn’t really have basements, but a lot of the older townhomes featured a lower level that was partially underground and accessed by a recessed door beneath the outside staircase. Many homeowners had turned them into street level apartments, especially in the heart of the historic district where real estate was at a premium. Given the close nature of their friendship however, Jillian paid rent to live in the main part of the house and the lower level housed the washer and dryer, holiday decorations, unused furniture and some accumulated clutter from her grandparents that neither Katie nor her parents had yet gotten around to sorting.
It was the laundry facilities that Jillian sought. She’d read that table salt could be used to absorb red wine stains from fabric, followed by soaking in a vinegar mixture, so she’d left her dress and Jesse’s shirt to soak overnight.
She opened the interior access door leading from the kitchen, flipped the light switch.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, with the same results. The light fixture in the stairwell must have burned out.
Jillian backtracked, grabbed a new lightbulb from the utility closet, along with the flashlight that was anchored into a wall unit for recharging. One thing she could say for Katie, her friend was a little anal about organization. Jillian suspected it came from being a chef, having to have all of her ingredients lined up and prepared. Considering Jillian suffered from what Katie called Right Brain Syndrome – a polite way of saying she tended to lose track of things – Jillian appreciated her housemate’s OCD.
Switching on the flashlight, she went halfway down the stairs, unscrewed the burned out bulb, screwed in the new one, and then climbed back up to flip the switch again.
Nothing happened.
“You have to be kidding.” The breaker must have tripped. Which meant she’d replaced the lightbulb for nothing. Sighing, Jillian turned the flashlight back on and braved the depths of the lower level. Luckily, some light came in from the windows at the front and rear of the space, but given the fact that it was an overcast morning in December, that light was murky at best.
She made her way toward the Freddy Krueger Room, as she thought of the space in the cellar that contained the water heater and the inner workings of the townhome’s heating and cooling systems. Jillian was fairly handy with basic home repair – hence the reason she’d been the one nominated to fix the squeaking stairs – but something about the old pipes and bare brick walls in that part of the building really creeped her out. Sucking it up, she opened the door, shined her flashlight around the stygian depths of the windowless room.
No horror movie villains lurked in the corners, so she skirted the boxes and old tools and various assorted detritus, aiming for the breaker panel. Jillian was glad that Katie’s grandparents had updated the system from the old style fuse box, because flipping a breaker was much easier than replacing a fuse.
She opened the panel, found the appropriate switch. “Let there be light.”
But Jillian frowned at the lit room. Had she turned on the light switch when she’d entered? She honestly didn’t remember. Switching off both her flashlight and the overhead light, she pulled the door closed, su
rprised by the brightness that greeted her.
Apparently the hall light had been left on, and light also shone from under the door to the storage room.
Well, no wonder the breaker tripped. Jillian thought she’d been the last one down here last night, and she certainly hadn’t left the lights burning in any of the storage areas. She spotted the stack of red and green tubs, and thought maybe Katie had come down to see about the Christmas decorations. It was time they hauled them out.
Jillian dutifully turned off the light in the storage room, and then headed toward the laundry area.
The light switch was in the “on” position, but the room remained dark. She flicked the switch again, got nothing. Okay. Okay, so this lightbulb burned out because it was left on all night, along with the others. It was indeed odd, but there was nothing supernatural about it.
Luckily she had the lightbulb from the stairwell in her pocket. She got the ladder from the storage room, dragged it back to the laundry area and changed the bulb.
Now that she could see what she was doing, Jillian turned her attention to the laundry tub. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of vinegar, she lifted the dress out, examined it. The stain was almost entirely unnoticeable. Hopefully the final trip through the wash cycle would eliminate it completely.
Jillian wrung it out before dropping it into the washing machine, and then reached into the tub for Jesse’s shirt.
It wasn’t there.
Confused, Jillian looked around. It wasn’t anywhere on the floor. It wasn’t in the washer, nor in the dryer. It seemed to have disappeared.
“Okay,” she said out loud this time, because she was feeling just a little freaked out. Maybe Katie came down here last night and left the lights burning, but why would she take Jesse’s shirt out of the sink? It made no sense.
The knock on the front door caused Jillian to jump.
“Jesus,” she said, laying a hand against her pounding heart. Uneasy now, she poked her head out of the laundry room, looked toward the lower level entrance. No one ever came to that door.
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 4
