The Night Before (24 page)

Reed hung up the phone and wondered about any possible connection between Marta Vasquez’s disappearance and the murder of Josh Bandeaux. Coincidence? Or a clue?

He jotted a note and heard the familiar sound of boots heading for his door. From the cadence he knew it was Morrisette and she was on a tear. He looked over his shoulder just as she burst through the door.

“Guess what?” she said, hoisting her little butt onto his desk.

“I couldn’t.”

“You’re no fun.”

“So I’ve been told. Many times.”

“Our favorite family is in the news again.” Morrisette’s eyes actually twinkled. She really got off on all this stuff. Reed, on the other hand, felt as if a brick had been dropped on his gut.

“The Montgomerys?”

“Whoever said you weren’t an ace detective?”

“You for starters.”

She grinned far enough to show some teeth.

“If this is about Amanda Drummond’s accident yesterday, I already heard about it and talked to her in the hospital. She thinks someone’s trying to kill her. I was about to call you and see if you wanted to go with me to get her statement.”

“Shit—oh, damn . . . oh . . . I should have known you would already have gotten wind of this. And yeah, I wouldn’t miss this interview for the world,” she said, a little deflated that Reed was one step ahead of her.

The telephone jangled and he punched the button for the speakerphone. “Reed.”

“You’ve got a couple of faxes,” a secretary told him.

“I’ll be down to pick ’em up in a few.” He was in the process of hanging up when he saw Amanda Drummond storming through the cubicles, heading straight for his office.

“Looks like we’ll be doing that interview here,” he said under his breath as Amanda pushed through the already half-open door.

“You said you wanted a statement,” she said without so much as a greeting, “so I thought I’d make it official. I know this is Homicide, okay, and I probably technically should be talking to that yahoo of a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, but since you stopped by the hospital yesterday and seem to agree that what happened to me might be related to Josh’s death, I thought I’d talk to you.”

“That’ll work,” he said. “This is my partner. Detective Morrisette. She’ll sit in. If you don’t mind, I’m going to tape this.” He reached into his drawer for a pocket recorder and noticed that Morrisette had pulled a small notepad and pen from her pocket.

“Fine.” Amanda gave Morrisette the once-over, hesitated a second when she checked out her hair, then turned back to Reed as she settled into the chair near his desk. Morrisette rested a hip on the windowsill. “For the record, I think someone is picking off Montgomery family members one by one. Someone tried to run me off the road, and if you check the records you’ll see I made a statement with the police to that effect. Then he waited, killed Josh in the meantime and took a crack at me again yesterday!” Her jaw was set, her eyes bright as she leaned across the desk. But she didn’t look scared. Just angry. Such was her personality. “Look, Detective, I want whoever the bastard is caught before my luck runs out.” She pointed a manicured nail straight between his eyes. “So I expect you to nail the S.O.B. before he gets another chance.”

“I can assure you that we’re doing everything possible to close this case, Mrs. Drummond.”

“Oh, sure. The company answer. That’ll make me sleep better tonight.” She let out her breath in a huff, and as she did some of her rage seemed to dissipate. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like unleashing the bitch in me. It . . . it shouldn’t be necessary. But sometimes I feel it is.” As she leaned closer to the desk, making the conversation appear more intimate, Reed was reminded that she was an attorney, used to putting on a show in a courtroom, to playing to an audience. “Look,” she said, “I know Kathy Okano. We were both assistant D.A.s together years ago before I couldn’t stand it any longer. But I’m sure she would agree with me.”

“Where do you usually keep your car?” he asked.

“In my garage at my house. I live out at Quail Run. It’s a gated community, complete with security guard.”

“When’s the last time you drove the car?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Three weeks ago. It’s a sports car, and I only use it once in a while. I usually drive my Mercedes. The TR is just for fun, a convertible.”

“Who else drives the sports car?”

“Just me.”

“What about your husband?” Morrisette asked.

Amanda shook her head. “Never. Just me.”

“But he has access.” Sylvie Morrisette wasn’t about to back down.

“Yeah, he even has a key so that he can move it if he has to or wash it. But trust me,
Ian
didn’t sabotage my car!”

“Then who did?” Reed asked.

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”

“You have anyone over to your house lately?”

“No . . . well, not really.”

“What do you mean not really?” Morrisette countered. “Either someone was there or not.”

“What I mean is no one I don’t trust. My brother, Troy, and my sisters Caitlyn and Hannah have each been over . . . and my friend, Elisa.”

“How about since the time you last drove the car. When was that?”

“Two . . . no, more like two-and-a-half weeks ago. I had to go pick up some paperwork I’d left at the office, so I drove into town, then came directly home.”

“So who’s been to your house since?”

Amanda scowled. “I don’t know. Some friends, neighbors, workmen. I had some maintenance done on my air conditioner and a chimney sweep come to clean out the flues.”

“Did they go into the garage where your Triumph was parked?”

“I suppose so. I don’t really know.”

Reed said, “It would be helpful if you made a list of everywhere the car has been and the names of everyone who had access to your garage over the last two-and-a-half weeks. I’d also like copies of the last couple of invoices from the shop who did the work on your car, including if you went to one of those quickie lube places.”

“I’ll get those for you.”

“Good.” Reed and Morrisette asked more questions, and she gave a rundown of the events leading up to the accident, how the brakes had failed.

Amanda gave them a list of names of the people who regularly worked for her—the lawn service, the maid, the neighbor next door who had a key to the house—and promised to get the other information they’d requested, but she wasn’t satisfied. “You know, I’d check out Cricket Biscayne if I were you.”

“She called 911 for you.”

“So I heard, but I’m sure you already know that there’s a lot of bad blood between my family and hers.”

“The way I hear it, you’re all part of one big extended family.”

Amanda bristled. “That’s not how I see it, and it seems pretty damned coincidental that she’s the person who sees me lose control of the car. You know the Biscaynes are white trash, and I don’t care if that’s not PC or that my grandfather was involved with their grandmother. They’re just a bunch of lowlifes with their hands out. It wasn’t just a lucky set of circumstances that Cricket was following me.”

When the interview was over, Amanda left a business card with her home and office numbers printed on it. “You can reach me at either number,” she said as Reed clicked off his recorder and she, wincing, slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder. “I’ll fax you the invoices you wanted along with a list of the people who work for me, or who have been to the house and seen the car, with their addresses and phone numbers.”

“I’ll look for it,” Reed assured her. The lady was nothing if not efficient.

“Good.” She started for the door but hesitated. “Thanks,” she added, as if it was an afterthought, then left, sweeping out the door and through the cubicles.

“She gives new meaning to the word bitch,” Morrisette observed, not seeming to care if Amanda Drummond was out of earshot. “Jesus, did she climb all over us or what?” Morrisette glared through the open door. “You know what? She just about made me want to turn coat.”

Reed raised an eyebrow.

“After that, I’m thinking of joining the other team. Anyone who’s trying to get rid of her is my kind of guy.”

“Or gal,” he thought aloud. “She said her sisters had been over.”

“Oh, wait a minute. I see where this is going. You think Caitlyn Bandeaux slid under the Triumph and snipped the brake lines? Are you nuts? Have you ever seen one of those cars? They’re just a few inches off the ground, and I don’t think Mrs. Bandeaux is the mechanical type. Whoever did this would have to know what he—or she—was doing. Nah, Reed, you’re way off base with this one.”

Reed wasn’t convinced. “I want what’s left of the car dusted for prints, and we need to see the area where it was parked. Check and see if any brake fluid had dripped onto the garage floor or anywhere else she may have parked it, and as I told her, I want to see the mechanic’s records.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, I think Amanda’s right. We need to talk to Cricket Biscayne to begin with and then have another chat with our favorite widow.”

“I’ll call on Cricket—Jesus, what’s with these people? If you were named Copper, would you name your kids Cricket and Sugar? I mean, I
know
they’re nicknames, that Cricket is really Christina and Sugar is Sheryl, but you’d think, by the time they were adults, they would have started calling themselves something a little more sophisticated . . . classy. Sugar’s a stripper and Cricket’s a flake of a hairdresser who can’t stay in one shop for more than a month or two at a time.” She slapped the heel of a hand to her forehead. “Forget I said that.”

Her pager went off. “Shit, if this is my babysitter—” She pointed a finger at Reed. “Don’t even say it—I know. I’ve got the quarter already.” She was looking at the readout on her pager. “Oh, fu–fudge. It’s Bart. Probably another reason he can’t make the child support. I wonder what it is this time? His truck broke down? He lost another job? He’s a little short. Crap! Every damned month!” She took off down the hall swearing a blue streak and Reed, still thinking about Amanda Montgomery and her claim about the attempt on her life, decided to pick up his faxes.

There were several, none yet from Amanda Montgomery, but the one that caught his attention was from the detective in New Orleans, Montoya. It was a photograph and description of Marta Vasquez. The picture was grainy black and white, but showed a pretty woman with short, dark hair, nose that turned up just a bit and wide, sensual lips. Reed couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her and how, if in any way, it could be connected to the Bandeaux case. According to the information, Marta had a scar on her abdomen from an appendix surgery and a tattoo of a hummingbird on her ankle. She’d been a student off and on and had recently worked at an insurance company before quitting suddenly with no explanation.

Coincidence?

Unlikely.

Marta Vasquez was the daughter of Lucille Vasquez, maid, housekeeper, and general nanny for the Montgomery brood. So Marta would have known the Montgomery children. He frowned. She’d disappeared . . . that was all anyone knew. No one had seen her for six months. He stared at the picture as he walked back to his office where his phone was ringing loudly.

“Detective Reed,” he said, tossing all the faxes into his already overflowing in-box. First things first.

 

 

Cricket was the last one in the shop. Her final client, a rich woman who “would have died” if she hadn’t been able to make an evening appointment, had left, driving away in a new Cadillac and finally satisfied with a foil weave of no less than seven colors and a difficult cut that had taken nearly three hours. Cricket looked at the dirty towels piled high on the washer, but figured Misty, the girl who started at some ungodly hour—eight? Nine? It didn’t matter. Misty, with her irritating bubbly personality, fake boobs, and unending case of the giggles, could damned well wash and dry the towels.

Crap, this job was getting the better of her. On her feet all day listening to women bitch about their husbands or their kids.

But they weren’t really complaining, Cricket knew, hearing it in the tone of their voices; they were proud of their spouses or their brats, the “oh, woe is me, long-suffering wife and mother” act, was just for show. Cricket put up with it because it was part of the job and there was usually a tip involved, though some of the women were so tight they squeaked.

Cricket’s muscles ached and she cracked her neck as she swept up around her station at the salon, swabbed out the sink, then hung her apron on a hook near the back door. Her Coke was where she’d left it by the color-mixing sink. She picked it up and took a sip from the straw. Caffeine, that was what she needed. Well, and maybe a shot or two of tequila . . . or maybe a joint. Maybe all three. Her tips for the week would buy a couple of drinks and maybe an ounce or two of weed.

She walked outside to the stoop where she and the other girls smoked. Against Maribelle, the owner of the shop’s orders, they’d leave the back door open and stand outside for a quick hit of nicotine.

Now, as she locked up, Cricket fished in her purse for a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Only one filter tip left in the crumpled pack. And the cigarette was kind of broken. Shit. She managed to light the damned thing as she walked down the lane that cut between two main streets. Basically, it was an alley cluttered with dumpsters, crates and strictly enforced no-parking zones. Maribelle insisted the girls park a block over, allowing every tiny parking space for the clients.

Not that Cricket gave a rat’s ass where she parked.

Maribelle also hinted that she should get a percentage of the beauticians’ tips. Yeah, right. What a stingy old bat. Cricket had half a mind to quit. She finished her Coke and tossed the empty cup into a Dumpster. The night was thick and dark and hot, no sign of stars or a moon, just street lamps offering an eerie glow and attracting insects. A mosquito or no-see-um was bothering her.