Jeremy tilted down his chin. “Implying what?”
Phil shrugged. “Nothing. Just that Ms. Cavanaugh must be doing pretty well for herself.”
“And because she’s a single woman, that’s suspect?”
Phil stifled a sigh. Clark was a damned good detective, but he was also a politically correct pain in the ass. “Just an observation, Jeremy. Don’t get your feminist panties in a twist.”
“She’s a novelist,” Clark said, and Phil told him he’d just been having a look at her office.
“She had a couple weird notes about body disposal. She write crime books or something?”
“Romantic thrillers, I believe they’re called.”
Donaldson scratched his chin. “Because murder is supposed to be sexy?”
“Not from my experience,” Jeremy countered. “Anyway, she seems to do okay, from what I can tell, although she isn’t exactly a household name. But her brother is CEO of a medical device company out of Atlanta. And that, from what I learned, does better than okay. The company isn’t public – yet – but there was a write up about them in an Atlanta magazine. Inherited from their parents, he took the small business from borderline failing to one that’s on the verge of pretty serious success. Did a little more digging, and his sister is listed as part owner, along with a woman by the name of Theresa Easton. Apparently she’s the widow of the parents’ original business partner.”
Phil raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been busy.”
“A rolling stone, and all that.” He nodded toward the counter. “Check it out. I told them not to bag them until you had a chance to see them in person.”
Which was one of the reasons why Clark, despite being a pain in the ass, was an almost ideal partner.
When Jeremy stepped back, Phil saw the wineglasses sitting on the counter. Two wineglasses. Along with a mostly empty bottle of… Phil leaned closer. Cabernet Sauvignon.
One of the glasses bore pink lipstick marks. From the light dusting of black powder that remained visible, he gathered that the techs had already lifted the fingerprints.
“Looks like she had company.”
“At some point,” Jeremy agreed, and yanked off one latex glove before pulling out his phone. “I took some photos for comparison. Side by side, you can see that the prints on the glass without the lipstick are a little larger. Of course, until we run them we won’t know if they match the victim, or even Ms. Cavanaugh. Could be a friend or neighbor.”
“She said she doesn’t socialize. Doesn’t really know anyone in town.”
Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe her brother visited.”
“Her brother’s been in London on business for the past week. And judging by the rest of this place, I don’t think she’s the type to leave dirty glasses sitting around that long. You wondered about their presence too, or otherwise you wouldn’t have wanted me to see them.”
“It raises a question or two,” Jeremy agreed.
“That’s her handbag?”
“Yeah. A tube of lipstick, the phone and a pair of glasses with one broken lens were all lying beside it, like she’d slung it on the counter and a few things spilled out.” Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “You get her permission to let us search her phone?”
“I didn’t get that far.” Before Jeremy could ask why, Phil leaned over to look at an open drawer. “This where the knife came from?”
“One appears to be missing. And the knife found upstairs is the same brand and handle style as the rest.”
“If you’re a guy who’s drugged a woman and followed her home to take advantage of her, do you bring your own weapon or do you take one of hers because it’s handy? Do you even need a weapon?”
“If I’m a guy who’s drugged a woman and I plan to do more than molest her, I might.”
“You think he planned to torture her? Kill her?”
“I think we don’t have enough information yet to speculate.”
“You call it speculating, I call it forming a hypothesis. Where’s his car?” Phil wondered. “If he drugged her and followed her, then how’d he get here? Because he sure as hell didn’t drive away.”
“I’ve got one of the uniforms canvassing the neighborhood to see if there are any vehicles that don’t belong. The vic didn’t have a vehicle registered to him.”
“Of course not, because that would be too easy. How the hell can anyone not have a car?”
“Maybe he was concerned about his carbon footprint.”
“Carbon footprint, my ass.”
“I think your ass would be more of a sulfur footprint, and a big one at that. He could have borrowed one, or taken a cab. Rode a bicycle.”
“Or hitched a ride with the pretty blonde he picked up at the bar.”
“That, too. I had a look at her car, on the off chance there would be evidence in plain view that he’d been a passenger, but no dice. And it’s locked. If we want to search it, I think we’re going to need a warrant.”
Phil scowled.
“But hey, I took some photos of the bedroom before they bagged the clothes and linens,” Jeremy said. “I figured you’d want to have a look.”
Phil accepted Clark’s phone, examined the image on the screen before scrolling to the next. He chewed his lip as he considered. “That’s her dress there on the floor?”
“The old man next door confirmed it was what she was wearing when she left for the bar last night. Apparently he was watching through the back window.”
“I guess it’s too much to hope that he was watching when she came home?”
“Had a movie on, so he closed the blinds to shut out the light. Fell asleep watching it. Said he didn’t wake up and go to bed until after midnight, and he didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.”
Phil scowled. Ms. Cavanaugh’s townhome was at the end of the row, so the elderly neighbor was their best bet for having seen or overheard something.
He enlarged the picture of the dress. “Did you notice any tears in the fabric? Any sign that she hadn’t removed it normally?”
“Nothing immediately visible. They might find something when they look at it more closely in the lab.”
“It’s lying beneath a pair of jeans. The victim’s?”
“Appears that way. And that’s his shirt draped over the chair in the corner.”
“What about her underthings? Her bra and panties.”
“They were on the side of the room opposite the victim’s position. Next photo.”
Phil examined the picture. “So let’s follow her… what do you call it. Narrative. She goes to the bar, has a drink, waits for the friend who doesn’t show, finishes drink after the friend says she’s not coming, and then leaves. She doesn’t recall how she got home, because theoretically somebody slipped something in her drink. If that’s the case, it’s a damn miracle that she didn’t crash her car on the way home. But not only did she get home safely, she also managed to undress herself and fold her dainties before putting them on the nightstand.”
“Some drugs leave you conscious but suggestible for a period of time, so it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that she made her way home. Especially since Rohypnol takes around thirty minutes to take effect. If she left the bar immediately following consuming the drink, that theoretically allows her time to make it here before passing out. Also, we don’t know that she undressed herself.”
“If you were a guy who drugged a woman so you could take advantage of her while she was unconscious, would you give a crap about where her underwear ended up?”
“Maybe he gets off on telling his victims to undress themselves, and having them obey. Either because they’re under the influence of whatever drug he uses or because he’s threatening them in some way.”
“Like with a knife from their own kitchen? And your use of the plural suggests that you think he’s done this before.”
“Not necessarily, but it doesn’t hurt to check. I’ll run a search of similar crimes, see if we can get any hits.”
>
Phil studied the photo again, before shaking his head. “This looks more like two people who got undressed together because they were planning to have sex. And I can’t get past the wine glasses. You think he shares a drink with his ‘victims,’ too? What about shoes?”
Jeremy’s perfect auburn brows drew together. “What about them?”
“I mean where are his shoes? His jeans and shirt are in the bedroom. I’m guessing he wasn’t barefoot when he left the bar. And do we have any idea how he got in?”
A light rap on the window in the kitchen door caused them both to turn that direction. When Clark unlocked it, Sims opened the door and poked his head in.
“I overheard you. My guess is he came in this door here, since there’s a pair of men’s shoes sitting on the porch right next to it. Size looks about right to fit the vic.”
Phil and Jeremy shared a glance.
“Any sign of tampering with the lock?” Jeremy asked.
“Nothing that I can see.”
“So maybe she left the door unlocked because she was disoriented and starting to feel the effects of the drug.”
“And he locked the deadbolt because he’s conscientious about burglars?” Phil said in response to his partner’s suggestion.
“Or he didn’t want to risk being interrupted.”
“So why did he take off his shoes? Because he’s a polite rapist?”
“Maybe he knows a little about forensic evidence and didn’t want to leave any shoeprints behind or track anything inside that could be tied back to him.”
“Except his fingerprints on the glass of wine.”
“We don’t know that that was his glass. Or that he even drank wine. Or he could have planned on removing it when he left afterward, but obviously didn’t get the chance.”
“You two bicker like an old married couple,” Sims said. “I think the autopsy will settle the question of whether or not he consumed wine. Can I bag those glasses now?”
“Yeah,” Phil said, and then shot Jeremy a glance. “I think it’s time we set up an appointment to talk to Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“I thought you just interviewed her?” Jeremy said. “You said it went peachy.”
“I lied. I hardly got anything out of her before her attorney showed up.”
“She called an attorney?”
“Yeah,” Phil said and then waited a beat. “Jack Wellington.”
Jeremy stared at him for several seconds before finally muttering “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Phil agreed. “My sentiments exactly.”
CAITLIN didn’t know where she was. Her mental city map had proven defective, which wasn’t terribly surprising considering she hadn’t explored Savannah nearly as much as she should. First she’d been busy unpacking, then she’d been sick, and then she’d been busy writing.
All of which was true. But she also recognized it as an excuse.
She’d hidden. No, she’d run and then she’d hidden, like a small, scared animal when it smells a predator near. And though she couldn’t fault herself entirely for needing some time and space to lick her metaphorical wounds, she could regret that she’d allowed herself to become so closed off. Closed off from many of her old friends, even her family, and certainly closed off from any new friendships or relationships she might have forged in her new city. So now she was alone. Horribly, terrifyingly alone – literally – during one of the worst crises of her life. And she was lost. Which just made her feel stupid.
If she had her real phone, she could access her GPS. But she didn’t have her real phone. The police had it.
Because some horrid individual had somehow ended up in her bedroom, through what were certainly nefarious means. And she’d killed him. To protect herself. It was the only thing that made sense.
Except it didn’t make sense, she thought as she selected another street at random, avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians while walking like she knew where she was going. Nothing about this made sense. It was all so terribly wrong.
Caitlin walked faster.
Her heel ached, but she ignored it as best she could. Giving it her attention meant that she’d have to consider exactly how she’d acquired the injury, and though she wanted to try to piece the puzzle together, she didn’t want to think of herself wielding a knife, plunging it into another human being…
Despite herself, images flooded her head, terrifyingly bloody. But they weren’t memories. She was almost certain of that. It was just her imagination kicking into overdrive again.
Caitlin walked even faster, trying to get away from her own thoughts. And then she started to run.
Despite the ache in her heel, she ran the length of the block she was on, and then turned the corner so that she didn’t have to wait for the light to change in the crosswalk. She dodged a pair of women pushing their babies in strollers, and an old man walking his dog. A gaggle of tourists with cameras blocked the sidewalk ahead of her – it looked like some sort of tour group – so she darted down an alley. Sweat rolled down her temple, stinging her eyes, and she swiped it with the back of her hand. It rolled down her neck beneath her ponytail, dampening her cheap souvenir T-shirt. Her head started to swim, and grey dots began to dance at the corners of her field of vision. It was foolish, and she knew she risked bringing on another asthma attack if she weren’t careful, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Not until she stumbled over a crack in the pavement, barely catching herself before she fell. Caitlin braced her hands on her trembling thighs and tried to talk herself out of puking.
Her heel really hurt now.
“Miss? Are you okay?”
Caitlin looked up to see a young man in a dirty apron looking at her with concern. A door stood open behind him, from which the scents of fried foods emerged. Despite the fact that she felt nauseated, Caitlin’s stomach growled. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything all day, nor had she sufficiently hydrated. And it had to be close to dinner time.
No wonder she was close to passing out.
Embarrassed, Caitlin started to tell him that she was fine, but then she swayed as she stood up. He reached out to steady her, but Caitlin recoiled.
He held up both hands. “Sorry. I just didn’t want you to fall.”
“No,” her voice sounded weak to her own ears, and she knew that her face was hot from more than overexertion. “It’s okay. I’m just…”
How could she possibly explain?
“You want a cup of water or something? Tea?”
She definitely needed some fluids, and while water was more hydrating, she suspected she needed electrolytes as well. Tea wasn’t ideal because of the caffeine, but she doubted the restaurant he worked for ran to something like sports drinks.
“Please.” Her voice sounded unsteady to her own ears. “I… I don’t have any cash on me, but I do have a credit card.”
“Nah, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”
He disappeared through the door again, and Caitlin leaned against the alley wall, its old bricks scarred and dirty from two decades of human activity. She felt unsure whether to be humiliated or grateful. In reality, she was both.
To her horror, tears started streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t seem to stop them. The most bizarre part about it was that she felt detached, as if her body was producing this physical reaction without any sort of emotional connection on her part. She knew that wasn’t really the case; that it was far more likely that her emotions were simply still buried under several layers of shock.
But her body was reacting. Reacting to the horror she’d experienced. Even if she couldn’t remember most of it.
“Hey, you okay?”
Caitlin looked up to see the kid frowning at her as he held out the Styrofoam cup and straw.
“I mean obviously you’re not okay. But do you want me to… call somebody or something?”
“No.” Caitlin cleared her throat. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
She accepted the tea, and though she was tempted
to avoid looking at him, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Thank you. Truly.”
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It’s no big thing. I, uh, gotta get back to work.” He hesitated before adding. “You take care.”
Caitlin suspected that he wanted to get away from the weeping woman nearly as much as he needed to get back to work, but she was thankful that he left. Having a witness to her mini-breakdown was distinctly uncomfortable.
Unwrapping the straw, she shoved it through the hole in the plastic lid, and then greedily drank the tea. She would have to get some food in her stomach later, but for now the sugar rush was sufficient to combat the worst of her lightheadedness.
Eager to leave the alley behind, Caitlin tested her legs with hesitant steps, and determined they would hold her.
Walking at a more sedate pace, favoring her injured heel, she exited the alley on the other side and tried to get her bearings.
She was no longer in danger of passing out, but it appeared that she was still lost.
Well. Nothing to do but pick a direction. She could obviously stop and ask someone for help, but didn’t feel like she could handle any more social interaction right now.
And in truth, she wasn’t eager to get back to her hotel room. All she could do there was think, and while in theory she needed to do just that, in reality she knew that she wasn’t ready just yet. As her recent freak out had proven. If she considered the immensity of her situation, she wouldn’t be able to not panic.
So she needed to keep herself distracted.
She’d never really had a problem with that, even when she’d been a little kid. Give her a book or a tree to climb where she could sit and daydream, and she could entertain herself for hours. She hadn’t needed the presence of friends, although she’d certainly welcomed their company on occasion. Poor Lance was always glad when one of the neighborhood girls stopped by to visit, so that he wasn’t roped into attending one of her tea parties for her stuffed animals. Although he’d generally been a good sport when there was no other alternative.
God, she missed her brother. Even though part of her despaired at that continued emotional dependence, a much larger part recognized that Lance was her rock, and had been since they were children.
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 63
