Jesse walked along River Street, the cold air whipping off the river sending his hands into his jacket pockets. Seagulls gave their harsh cry as they flew in circles overhead. Jesse could relate. He felt like he was circling, circling around this case, but still too far removed to detect exactly what was lurking beneath the surface.
Gannon’s death disturbed him, in more ways than one. While there’d been no indication of foul play at the scene, for a man of Gannon’s ego and disposition to kill himself when he’d exhibited no indication of depression or suicidal tendencies, it indicated that the alternative was something far more horrendous than death.
A threat to his son, his family?
The presence of the LSD tabs was another concern.
Gannon’s medical records indicated he wasn’t taking any prescription drugs, including antidepressants – some of which were known to cause suicidal thoughts. They’d have to wait for the results of the autopsy to see if he had anything stronger than cold medicine in his system. Psychedelics could cause vivid hallucinations, some of which might cause a person to do something extremely dangerous or commit self-harm, although usually it was more along the lines of leaping off a balcony because they suddenly thought they could fly than hanging themselves from the chandelier.
If Gannon had been using, it could possibly add another layer to why he’d gone after Jillian with such gusto. Not only was it payback for his friend Mike, but it might also direct attention away from any involvement he himself had.
However, Axelrod had vehemently denied that his partner had been involved in the drug scene. He claimed that Gannon had been acting funny over the past few days, saying that he might be on to something but that he wanted a little more time to mull it over before he shared it with his partner. Apparently that was a normal part of their working relationship. Gannon liked to think through things independently before putting their heads together.
That opened up other possibilities. Exactly what was it that Gannon thought he was on to? And the presence of the LSD tabs coupled with the string of Christmas lights harkened back to the scene of Losevsky’s murder – the very theatrical scene. Complete with the sort of dark satire feel of the blood dripping on the Christmas tree topper.
The fact that the lights had almost certainly come from Jillian’s basement caused Jesse’s stomach to do a slow roll. It was possible that it was somehow an up yours to Jesse, if Gannon in fact committed suicide.
If he hadn’t, the presence of the lights took on another meaning entirely. And forged another link to the scene of Losevsky’s murder, considering they’d found Jillian’s card.
The upside of that was that it made it more likely that Jillian was in fact their best lead. Somehow, somewhere, she likely had a connection to the Russian’s organization.
The downside was that somehow, somewhere Jillian likely had a connection to the Russian’s organization.
“Shit,” Jesse muttered.
Jillian. There was something there, something that she either knew, or perhaps didn’t know she knew. Either way, they were going to have to have a come to Jesus talk in the near future. He didn’t particularly relish the idea, considering he probably wasn’t on her favorite person list right now anyway. But there was no help for it.
Wanting out of his own head for a few moments, Jesse looked around for a distraction. The tourists weren’t thick as clouds of gnats this time of year, but despite the bite in the air, River Street was still bustling. Only twelve shopping days left ‘til Christmas, as he’d been advised by a sign in the window of one of the historic candy kitchens.
Jesse winced. He and his brothers had gone in together to send his parents away for a weekend in Napa Valley, so that item was ticked off his list, but he still had to pick up gifts for a few people in the office. They had a party coming up.
He stopped, eying the tower of boxed chocolates in the window display. The size and pattern on the bottom box looked like the one that had contained the dead squirrel, putting Jesse right back into the pattern of thought he’d tried to break out of.
The delivery of the dead squirrel in the fruit basket was another time that… let’s just call it the holiday spirit had been subverted. Jesse frowned. Maybe there was something more to that than he’d previously considered.
Someone bumped into him from behind.
“Apologies,” said a man when Jesse whipped around. He looked up from the phone he held in both hands. His eyes were moss green in a face dominated by high, Slavic cheekbones beneath shaggy light brown hair. He spoke in a voice deeply accented. “I was not paying attention.”
“No problem.”
The man stared at him, and then smiled a little, bobbing his head. “Have a pleasant day.”
Jesse watched him walk away, the man’s attention once again on his phone. As if sensing Jesse’s gaze on him he glanced briefly over his shoulder, but turned quickly away.
Savannah was a popular tourist destination. The city drew visitors from all over the world. It was also an international seaport, bringing container ships and their foreign crews into their waters daily.
Hearing accents of all sorts wasn’t uncommon.
But the hair on Jesse’s neck stood up.
He started off after the man, but the door to the candy shop opened, disgorging a gaggle of holiday shoppers. They blocked his view, and by the time he’d maneuvered around them, the man was gone.
Disappeared into one of the shops or restaurants maybe, or up one of the cobblestone ramps that led to East Bay Street.
Jesse walked briskly that direction, glanced into windows and up stairwells. But whoever the man had been – tourist or something far less benign – he’d disappeared into one of River Street’s many crevices.
Like a rat, Jesse couldn’t help thinking.
Turning in a slow circle, Jesse looked around one last time. And though the wind blustering over the water continued to bite, he didn’t put his hands back in his pockets.
He thought it best to retain easy access to his gun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JILLIAN shoved the gnawing anxiety over the morning’s events to the back of her mind, as she refused to let it taint the festive, joyous atmosphere of the wedding. No snow fell outside the windows, but white lights sparkled among boughs of evergreen, frosted pinecones and sprays of red roses, turning the interior of the Gingerbread House – a steamboat gothic mansion and famous historical landmark – into a winter wonderland.
Jillian moved among the bride and groom and their celebratory guests, shooting photo after photo, changing lenses, memory cards. She grabbed a handful of hors d’oeuvres and called it dinner. Remaining as unobtrusive as possible, she captured candid moments interspersed with a few more formally posed portraits. This couple was full of life and fun and the promise of family, and Jillian knew that the candids would be the shots which would most satisfy them as clients.
They cut the cake – designed to look like a collection of gaily wrapped presents – enjoyed their dances with their respective parents and for their first time as man and wife. By the time the reception wound down – Jillian got one last shot of the bride winking over the groom’s shoulder as he carried her over the threshold – her feet throbbed and the back of her neck ached like a bad tooth. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally.
Standing off to the side, she rolled her head, closing her eyes as some of the tension eased out of her shoulders.
A deep voice spoke beside her. “You look like you could use this.”
Jillian glanced at the waiter who held a tray containing a single glass of champagne. He smiled at her with sympathy.
“I’ve seen you running around here all evening,” he said in an easy drawl “carrying that big camera. Since the bride and groom are gone, I figured it wouldn’t hurt you to have a drink. Unless you don’t drink. In which case we’ll just pretend this never happened.”
She smiled her gratitude. “I would love a glass. Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ve worked enough of these things that I know how exhausting the behind-the-scenes stuff can be. A bit like being part of a stage crew for a theater production. All of the work, none of the glory.”
“Well, weddings certainly do have many of the same elements of theater, but I’m fine without the glory, to be honest.” She sipped her champagne. “It’s their big day, after all.”
“Mmm,” he murmured noncommittally. “Well, it was nice chatting with you. I better get back to work. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“I plan to go home and fall into bed, so I’m pretty sure I’ll enjoy it immensely.” She lifted her glass. “Thank you.”
“It was entirely my pleasure.”
He tucked the tray under his arm, strolling back through the doorway. Jillian sipped the champagne while breaking down her equipment, stowing it in the various compartments of her camera bag. She’d just finished zipping everything up when the mother of the bride, beaming brighter than the blazing Christmas tree in the ballroom, came up to her, arms outstretched.
Jillian sat the half-empty champagne flute on the table beside her.
“Thank you,” she said, grasping Jillian’s hands, leaning in for an air kiss. “You were wonderful. It all felt so relaxed and happy. So right. I just can’t wait to see the photos.”
“I should have the proofs ready for your daughter to view after the holidays. And really, Mrs. Metcalfe, you shouldn’t have.” She indicated the tip envelope the other woman tucked into her hand. As she’d explained to the bride, she owned the photography studio, so tips weren’t expected or necessary.
Appreciated, but not necessary.
“Nonsense,” the woman said. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it? Or close enough, at any rate. Oh, there’s Fiona and Jim getting ready to leave,” she said, her attention drawn to the couple accepting their coats from the clerk. “I better catch them. Have a lovely holiday, dear.”
Jillian smiled as the older woman toddled off, filled with the satisfaction of a party well-received and general good will toward men. She’d come with her daughter for their initial consultation, and Jillian was touched by her sheer delight in every detail of the wedding planning and the obvious bond the two of them shared.
Wistfulness hit her as it sometimes did, that she’d never know those moments with her own mother. Of course, she was lucky to have had her aunt as a wonderful standin, even when she hadn’t been entirely thrilled with Jillian’s decision to marry. In retrospect, her aunt had been right in her assessment. But now she was gone too, and Jillian felt…
Alone.
Aside from Katie, it seemed like all of the connections she established frayed almost as soon as they formed. Charlotte, Cooper… even her own blood relatives.
And now Jesse.
It was ridiculous, of course, since she’d known him such a short time – and hadn’t really known him, come to that. She’d known only as much as he’d wanted to reveal. But something had been telling her more insistently each time she was around him that maybe, just maybe, this time it was for real.
Except that it wasn’t. How could it be, when their relationship had been based on a blatant deception?
Disgusted with the self-pitying turn of her thoughts, Jillian tucked the envelope into her purse. Then she turned and ended up bumping into the man who came around the corner.
“Whoa. I’m sorry.” Dark hair threaded with grey, bright blue eyes and a quick, easy smile. “Didn’t see you there.”
“It’s no problem. Here, let me get that camera case out of your way.”
“You’re the photographer. Pretty wedding. I bet you got some great shots.”
“With a couple as photogenic and, well, happy as Matt and Ashley, it would be difficult not to.”
“Speaking of happy couples, my wife is going to kill me if she smells alcohol on my breath.” He winced. “I’m the designated driver. One beer after one glass of champagne isn’t going to impair me, but try telling her that. Anyway, I thought I saw some bowls of those little mints out here earlier…”
He started glancing around.
“Like this?” Jillian handed him the glass dish from the table.
“Yes. Thank you.” He reached in, plucked one out. “You’re a lifesaver. Want one?”
“Why not?” Jillian untwisted the wrapped mint, popped it into her mouth and then stuck the wrapper in her purse. She had to drive home herself, and though she didn’t have to go far and was well within the legal limit after only half a glass, she didn’t like to take chances when it came to getting pulled over. Especially not in this city. And especially not now.
“I’m taking these with me,” he said in a confidential tone as he stuffed the few remaining mints in his pocket. “In case one doesn’t do the trick.”
“I saw nothing,” she assured him.
“My kind of woman.” He winked at her, flirtatious without being obnoxious about it. “You have a nice night.”
“You, too. Good luck with your wife.”
Jillian smiled a little as she hauled the case over her shoulder. The man’s sunny demeanor seemed to have dispelled the worst of the emotional mists that were plaguing her. She got stopped twice more on her way to the back door – the groom’s mother, the wedding planner – delaying her departure. Luckily home was only a few blocks away. She was going to crawl into bed and then sleep until noon.
Hopefully, anyway.
Brian had reassured her today, but she couldn’t help but worry. Bizarrely, Detective Gannon’s death seemed to have something to do with both her basement and her Christmas decorations. Her thoughts flashed back to the morning when she’d discovered the tripped breaker, and wondered if there could be a connection.
The possibility of exactly how it connected was both perplexing and terrifying.
Had Gannon somehow bypassed their alarm and gone poking around in the basement? Why? And had he been the one behind poor little Killer’s death?
Shoving aside the fear, anxiety and unanswered questions that once again wanted to intrude, Jillian exited the building. The night was bright and clear with a bite to the air that came as a welcome change from the close, stuffy atmosphere of the crowded reception.
She opened the hatch with the remote, stowed her equipment in the back.
She drove past Forsyth Park, the famous fountain currently festooned with garlands and bows. The street lamps reflected off the water, cast shadows on the Spanish moss hanging from the old oaks until it seemed to dance like a party of restless wraiths.
Despite her efforts to shove bad memories aside, the vision of Killer, his bushy tail shaking behind the mossy curtain, popped into her mind with such vividness that it almost seemed that he’d joined the party. Shaking his tail, shaking, shaking, while the wraiths writhed around him in grim celebration.
Disconcerted, Jillian blinked. It was only moss, swaying slightly in the chilled night air. A sight she’d seen hundreds of times.
So why did it seem… sinister?
Jillian swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Water. She should have had water instead of champagne on a nearly empty stomach. Coupled with fatigue of both the physical and emotional varieties, it was understandable that she felt a little off.
Nothing that a solid night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.
Jillian turned the corner onto her street, punched the button on the remote and watched as the electric garage door slid open. When Katie asked Jillian to move in with her after Jillian’s marriage fell apart and Katie’s grandparents died, leaving her the townhouse, they’d agreed to turn the detached garage into a studio for Jillian’s photography business. It was more convenient – and certainly more economical – than renting a space downtown.
Jillian sat where she was for another moment, staring at the interior of her studio, now brightly lit by the overhead light. A brief flare of panic seemed to squeeze off her breath.
There was nothing to be afraid of, she told herself firmly. No cops waited to arrest her �
�� or worse. No dead animals on her doorstep.
She’d gotten through far, far worse, so she would get through this, too.
With her heart racing and her mouth dry, Jillian scanned the access alley behind the townhouse. Was that someone, crouched behind that wall at the end?
No. No. It was just a trash can. Mrs. Franklin’s trash can. Tomorrow was trash day.
She opened her door, but then quickly closed it. Her hand shook.
What the hell was wrong with her?
“Not going to let them get away with this,” she murmured to herself as she pictured Mike’s eyes through the hole in his mask, laughing, laughing. The laugh morphed into a sneer, and the face became Gannon’s. Her current paranoia was their victory.
And she refused to let them have it. The fact that one was in prison and one was dead didn’t matter at the moment. What concerned her were the emotional scars they’d left her with.
Opening her door again, Jillian climbed from the car, angry that her pulse continued to leap, her hands to shake. Furious with herself for this seeming backslide toward the terrified young woman she’d once been, she stalked around to the back of the car, began hauling her equipment into the studio. Despite the rage which seemed to bubble under her skin, she still handled everything with care. This wasn’t just her career, it was her life blood. The camera was as much an extension of her as a paintbrush was to an artist.
When she had it all stowed away, the memory cards locked in the little fireproof safe in which she kept them – they were irreplaceable, after all – she punched the code into the pad to shut the garage door behind her.
Righteous with the sort of pure, unadulterated indignation that comes from having been woefully wronged one too many times, Jillian marched toward the back porch, slammed through the door into the kitchen.
The alarm, which they’d started using religiously, began its high-pitched shriek, scraping along the raw edge of her nerves. Jillian punched in the code, reset it, and then stabbed her still-shaking hand through her hair.
The light over the gleaming Wolf range brightened the otherwise dark kitchen, reminding Jillian that Katie was working the closing shift and wouldn’t be home until much later. The kitchen closed, but the bar area stayed open until two a.m. on weekends.
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 16
