The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  “How?”

  She looked up.

  “How did you realize it was blood?”

  “Because at first I thought I had measles. The spots. But they rubbed off. I took a washcloth, ran it under the warm water. When I cleaned myself, the washcloth came away a rusty sort of red. I considered that maybe I’d hurt myself, or vomited blood.”

  “You didn’t notice the blood on the bed when you got up to go to the restroom?”

  “No. As soon as I woke up, I knew I was going to be sick. I fell out of bed –”

  “Fell?”

  “Yes. I mean that literally. The sheet tangled around my legs when I tried to kick it off.”

  “Okay. And then?”

  “And then I crawled to the bathroom. I didn’t see… didn’t see the blood until I came out.”

  “Seems like the kind of thing you might notice.”

  Caitlin’s shoulders stiffened. “Under normal circumstances, yes. But I was intent on getting to the bathroom as quickly as possible.”

  “What about the man?”

  “What about him?”

  “When did you notice him?”

  “When I started toward the bedroom door. I saw… his foot. On the other side of the bed.”

  “Did you approach the body? Check to see if he had a pulse?”

  “No. As I said, I didn’t look at him that closely. There was blood…” so much blood. “I assumed he was dead. I screamed, and I ran out of the room.”

  Donaldson studied her a moment, and then pulled out his phone. He slipped on a pair of glasses, swiped at the screen, and then brought up an image. “Are you sure you don’t recognize him?”

  Oh God. “I… I don’t know if I can look at the picture.”

  “Oh, it’s not a photo of the crime scene. This is from his driver’s license.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “Our forensic techs will match up his prints to be sure, but this appears to be him in this photograph. His wallet was in his jeans.”

  The jeans which had been lying on Caitlin’s floor.

  Bracing herself, Caitlin nodded. “Let me see.”

  The detective turned his phone around so that Caitlin could see the picture. There was no discernible writing, just the slightly fuzzy image of a dark haired man with light brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow darkening his jawline. He wasn’t smiling.

  Even though she didn’t want to, she asked if the detective could bring the phone closer, since she didn’t want to base her answer on a photo she couldn’t fully see. “I don’t have my glasses,” she explained.

  He rolled the chair closer.

  Caitlin felt sick, but she went over every detail of his face. “No,” she finally said. “I don’t remember him. Either from last night, or previously.”

  “He had a stamp on his hand. Matches the one on yours.”

  Caitlin looked down. The bar area of the restaurant had been carding last night, because it was Memorial Day weekend and the tourists were thick. She felt slightly dizzy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t recall seeing him.”

  “Maybe you bumped into each other outside. He invited you to join him at another bar for another drink?”

  “No.” She shook her head, not caring that it felt like it was about to roll off her shoulders at any moment. “No. I didn’t see him. I didn’t join him. I’m not in the habit of accepting offers to go drinking with random men, nor to invite them back to my home.”

  He looked at her. “I didn’t say you invited him back.”

  “But you implied it,” Caitlin said, the heat in her voice in direct contrast to the ice that seemed to clog her veins. “I’m not stupid, Detective. You’re wondering if maybe I went out last night, drank too much, picked up a stranger and brought him home.” And then killed him. “The answer is no.”

  “If you don’t remember what happened after you left the bar, how do you know?”

  “Because I know myself,” she countered. “I don’t drink to the point of blacking out. And I’ve never had a one night stand in my life. It’s not in my nature. I had every intention of going home last night alone. I planned to spend the rest of the evening writing. That man…” her voice broke, and Caitlin swallowed. Hard. “I don’t know how that man got into my house. Into my bedroom. I don’t know what happened, or how he… died. All I know is that I woke up this morning, sick and confused, with a… a black hole where my memory of last night should be. Do you have any idea, any at all, how terrifying that is?”

  “Sure he does,” said a deep voice, and Caitlin glanced up, surprised to see a very tall, very dark-haired man standing in the doorway. She couldn’t see his features clearly, but felt his eyes on her.

  “Provided, that is,” the man continued, his lazy voice in contrast to his hawk-like gaze. “The detective believes a word you’ve said.”

  JACK leaned casually against the doorframe while he surveyed the scene, mostly because he knew that it would get under Donaldson’s skin. He’d met the man a number of times, had cross-examined him in court. Despite his Wilford Brimley appearance, the older detective was a shark. Jack smiled just a little, considering how much that description would chap the other man’s ass, as Jack had no doubt that was how he thought of Jack himself.

  And it wasn’t an unfair assessment. They were both the apex predators in their particular food chains.

  But there was only room for one alpha, and in this particular situation at this particular time, that was Jack. Until he’d had a chance to speak with his client and determine just what the hell her story was, she wouldn’t be answering any more questions. Not when a man was dead, and – if the brother’s story was accurate – she’d woken up to find him that way in her bedroom, with no memory of how it happened.

  Donaldson met Jack’s gaze, his expression stony. He pressed a button on the recorder he held, presumably turning it off.

  “Wellington,” the man said.

  Jack nodded, despite the fact that the other man had spoken his name more as an epithet than a form of greeting. “Detective.”

  The man stared at Jack for another long moment, but Jack didn’t blink. Nor did he alter the hint of a smile. He imagined the detective thought of it as insouciant, or more likely, arrogant. Which was fine with him. Jack would fully admit to the latter, and preferred if the opposition thought he was calmly unconcerned.

  Donaldson switched his attention to the woman sitting on the bed. “Is this your lawyer?”

  “I –”

  “Yes,” Jack answered, cutting her off. Then he gazed fully at her for the first time. Clothed in scrubs that appeared two sizes too big for her, she looked like a waif. A pale, shell-shocked waif. Jack squinted slightly. Was that grey in her hair? He thought that Lance Cavanaugh had indicated this was his younger sister. Was sure of it, in fact. She stared back at him, blue eyes wide in her pallid face, and he realized that it was just a trick of the lighting and the sickly colored hospital walls. Her hair was a very pale shade of blonde.

  “Jack Wellington,” he said by way of introduction. “Your brother retained my services on your behalf.”

  “Oh,” she said, her voice thin and scratchy. “He’s in London.”

  One corner of Jack’s mouth quirked up. “Part of the reason he asked me to represent you. Being so far away, he didn’t want you to have to go through such a traumatic experience by yourself.” He slid his gaze back toward Donaldson. “Until I’ve had a chance to confer with my client, I’m afraid she won’t be able to answer any more questions.”

  “But I’m not hiding anything,” she said in a rush.

  “Yet your brother retained the priciest defense attorney in the city.”

  Jack noticed that Donaldson hadn’t said the best, and his lips twitched in amusement. Until his client opened her mouth.

  “I didn’t kill that man,” she said in panicked tones. “Or if I did, it was self-defense. He must have been trying to –”

  “Ms. Cavanaugh?” Jack said.
“Please stop talking.”

  Her mouth snapped closed, and she glared at Jack, color rushing into her cheeks.

  Jack pulled a card from his pocket. Handed it to Donaldson. “Give me a call later, and we’ll arrange a time for my client to speak with you.”

  Donaldson’s stare was icy, but Jack didn’t flinch. The other man reached up, snatched the card. Finally he stood, switching his disapproval to Caitlin Cavanaugh.

  “Ma’am.”

  Jack’s client looked like she wanted to say something, but Jack stopped her with a raised brow.

  Her expression wasn’t happy, but she nodded.

  Jack stepped to the side, turning up his smile a notch as he held the door open for the female officer, and yet another notch when Donaldson shuffled past him. Animosity radiated off the other man in palpable waves, but again, Jack remained impervious. When the cops were gone, he shut the door all the way before turning toward his new client. He didn’t trust the detective not to eavesdrop if he could.

  Probably because he himself wasn’t above eavesdropping.

  Jack studied her for several moments, noting the disordered appearance, the hands she clasped tightly in her lap, likely to keep them from trembling. Whatever happened last night had been traumatic for her. Even if it hadn’t gone down the way she’d indicated to her brother or to Donaldson.

  Jack walked across the room, glanced at the low stool Donaldson had occupied. It was a psychological tactic, making yourself appear smaller or less threatening than the person you were questioning, if you wanted to make them comfortable and gain their confidence. Getting large and intimidating worked, too, in certain situations. The trick was to figure out which would work with the person you were interrogating. Donaldson had obviously pegged Caitlin Cavanaugh for the type who would respond better to gentle, almost friendly questions.

  Jack agreed. But he didn’t want to mirror Donaldson’s tactics, so he extended his hand, knowing that he loomed over his client. It was probably callous under the circumstances, but he had a few points he wanted to make.

  “Jack Wellington,” he said. “As I mentioned, your brother retained me.”

  His client looked up at him warily, and then finally accepted his hand. “Caitlin Cavanaugh. I get the impression that Detective Donaldson doesn’t like you.”

  Jack smiled. “Not many members of the law enforcement community do.”

  She studied him a moment, and then sighed. “If Lance hired you, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do.”

  “The best,” he agreed.

  “I applaud your confidence. However, I don’t know that kicking the detective in charge of the investigation out was the best thing to do at this point. He’ll think I’m guilty.”

  “He already thinks you’re guilty.”

  “What?” She visibly paled, a neat trick since she already looked like a wax figurine. “How do you know that?”

  “Because – if I understand the story correctly and pending autopsy results, of course – a man was stabbed to death last night in your bedroom. And you woke up this morning, naked, next to him, claiming no memory of how it all happened. If I were a homicide detective, you would be my prime suspect. And because I’m a jaded homicide detective who has seen more than my share of human depravity and heard enough bullshit to fill a tractor trailer, I’m not going to buy your story. For one thing, everybody claims self-defense. It’s the dog ate my homework of criminal excuses. For another, stabbing isn’t an uncommon form of self-defense, provided you’re the type of person who carries a pocket knife and engages in bar fights. For a woman defending herself in her own home? I’m going to wonder where the knife came from. Was it already in your bedroom? If so, do you have a prior history as a victim, or are you mentally ill, suffering from paranoia? Or was it your attacker’s knife, and you somehow wrested it from him? Not likely, unless you’re a black belt or the attacker was otherwise incapacitated. Let me see your hands.”

  “Why?”

  Jack simply made an impatient gesture, and she reluctantly complied. “Turn them over please.” He studied her palms, and then the parts of her arms visible beneath the short sleeves of her shirt. She finally jerked her hands back, tucking them under her armpits.

  “I don’t see any defensive wounds,” he told her, explaining his inspection. “If a person is coming at you with a knife and you’re struggling for possession, it’s a real feat for you to come away without a scratch.”

  Air rushed out of her nostrils. “Are you implying that I’m lying?”

  “No, I’m straight up telling you that there are certain forensic clues which indicate a struggle. You’re lacking a pretty elemental one, and you can be sure the detectives will mark that in the reasons to believe Caitlin Cavanaugh is lying column. And before you remind me that you don’t remember what happened, maybe there wasn’t a struggle, that comes back to the point I made about your attacker being somehow already incapacitated. But if that’s the case, why did you need to stab him? Which makes me – being the cynical detective that I am – wonder: was this in fact premeditated?”

  She was essentially the same color as the sheet now, but Jack didn’t back off. She needed to understand that under these particular circumstances, Detective Donaldson was not her friend.

  “I also called in a favor on the way over here, and discovered that the victim was stabbed repeatedly. We won’t know how many times until after the autopsy, but again, if I’m a homicide detective, I’m going to consider that most multiple stabbings occur as crimes of passion. They happen during fits of rage. Now, if I were a woman and a man attempted criminal sexual advances, I’d be pretty pissed off. But mostly, I’d be afraid. A scared person with no personal history with their attacker typically does whatever is necessary to stop the attack from happening, and then gets as far away as possible. They don’t use excessive force and then crawl back into bed until morning.”

  The hand that slowly lifted to cover her mouth shook, and her voice wobbled when she finally spoke. “You think I … I murdered that man.”

  “In cold blood?” Jack said after several moments. “No. I don’t. Regardless, it’s my job to defend you, even if it’s against yourself. And right now your desire to spill all to the police in the hope of proving your innocence definitely isn’t in your best interest.”

  She visibly swallowed several times, looking as if she were trying to squelch the sudden urge to vomit.

  “Okay,” she finally said, meeting his gaze. “Okay. What… what should I do?”

  Now they were talking. “Exactly what I tell you to.”

  Her delicate little nostrils flared, as if she didn’t like his suggestion. Or him. But that wasn’t his problem.

  “Your townhouse is an active crime scene at the moment, so I’m afraid you won’t be able to return until it’s been cleared by the police. Your brother indicated that you’ve only moved to the area recently, and probably don’t have anyone to stay with. Is that accurate?”

  She nodded.

  Jack reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet. “This,” he said, handing it to her “is a prepaid credit card. You can use it to purchase some essentials until you can get back into your place. My secretary has booked a room for you” he told her the name of a nearby hotel “for the next two nights. It shouldn’t take any longer than that to clear the scene, and if it does, I’ll raise hell.”

  She stared at the card before accepting it. “Prepaid by whom?”

  “It’s part of the retainer.”

  “Do you do this for all your clients?”

  “Not all of my clients have circumstances which warrant it.”

  “How much did my brother pay you?”

  “He asked me to tell you not to worry about that right now.”

  She snorted. “In other words, one hell of a lot.”

  Jack didn’t dispute her. That was between the siblings and none of his business as long as he got paid. “This,” he said, handing her a second card, this one of t
he paper variety “is my business card. My office number is on the front, and I’ve written my cell number on the back. Call me if Donaldson or any other representative from the police department attempts to contact you. And do not speak to them outside of my presence.”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  He smiled, just a little, at her sharp retort. At least all the fight hadn’t gone out of her. “One of the things you’re going to need to pick up is a prepaid cell phone, until you get yours back. You didn’t give the detective permission to search your phone contacts, calls or texts, did you?”

  She hesitated before shaking her head. “No. He told me that they found my phone in my purse, and that it might be evidence.”

  Jack scowled. “Of course he did. But it’s not evidence unless they’ve obtained a warrant for the information stored in your phone. Anything they find while poking around will get thrown out in court.”

  “They won’t find anything,” Caitlin insisted. “I didn’t know that man.”

  “Then you don’t need to worry. However, I do need to be able to reach you when I have a time for your interview, so make getting the temporary phone a priority. Call or text me the number when you do. Once you’ve been cleared for release, have the front desk call you a cab that accepts credit cards. They can drop you off at the hotel.”

  “What about my car?”

  “Is it parked at your residence?”

  “Yes. At least…” she hesitated, and then crossed her arms protectively over her chest, her voice wavering. “I believe it is. I don’t remember driving it home last night.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  She looked slightly lost while Jack returned his wallet to his pocket. “I at least need my computer,” she said. “I’m a writer. I have a deadline.”

  “What sort of writer?”

  “Novels.”

  “Then your publisher will have to wait a day or two.” And if she was arrested, they’d have to wait longer. But Jack didn’t mention that.

  “I have a prior engagement,” Jack said, straightening his suit coat. “So I’m afraid that I have to be going.” He hesitated. She really did look lost. “Are you feeling okay? Physically?”