The Night Before (4 page)

“He slit his wrists?” Reed asked. Using his pen, he carefully pushed Bandeaux’s sleeve up his arm to reveal the ugly slashes on the inside of one arm.

Morrisette visibly paled.

“Looks that way to me, but I ain’t the coroner,” a photographer said. Reed glanced around the room, noting that the door to the verandah was open, the shades drawn, the carpet showing tracks from a recent vacuuming.

“You’re still not buying the suicide?” Reed asked Morrisette, and she slowly shook her head. Her lips were rolled over her teeth and she clicked her tongue. “I just don’t think it was Bandeaux’s style,” she said as the M.E. arrived.

Gerard St. Claire was brusque, short and balding. Pushing seventy, he was still fit and shaved what was left of his white hair about half an inch from his scalp, so that he had what Sylvie had referred to as the “high-fashion toothbrush look.” He smelled faintly of cigarettes and formaldehyde and was all business. “Nothing’s been disturbed?” he asked as he always did.

“Nothing. We were waitin’ on you,” Diane Moses responded automatically. The same words passed between them at every scene. Forced to work together, they kept things professional, but their personalities were oil and water. “We’ve just done the preliminary walk-through to get a feel for the scene. Once you do your thing, we’ll tear the place apart.” She was being sarcastic, as usual. As the lead crime scene investigator, she was in charge and she knew it. Black, bossy and smart as a whip, she didn’t believe in handling anyone with kid gloves. Not even St. Claire. He glared at her through rimless glasses and she glared right back. “At first glance it looks like a suicide.”

“No way.” Sylvie still wasn’t convinced, even with the evidence coagulating on the thick nap. She shoved her sunglasses onto her head, making the spikes even more pronounced.

“Maybe he had financial worries,” Reed suggested. “We already know that his marriage was on the rocks.”

“Bandeaux loved himself too much to slice and dice himself,” Sylvie insisted as she threw the deceased a final glance. “I did research on this guy, remember? Handsome bastard, wasn’t he?” She sighed as she took in Josh Bandeaux’s strong chin, high forehead and sightless brown eyes. “A shame.”

“So you think he was murdered?” Reed asked.

Morrisette nodded and her lips pinched together. “I’d bet on it. For one thing, there won’t be too many people in town grievin’ for our boy here.” She lifted one slim shoulder. “Josh made himself more than his share of enemies, that’s for sure.”

“We got a suicide note,” one of the cops who’d been called to Bandeaux’s place offered up. “It’s still in the computer printer, right here.” He motioned toward the low filing cabinet situated behind the desk. Reed scanned the note without touching it.

“Oh, give me a break,” Sylvie muttered under her breath. “As if he was at the end of his rope. No effin’ way. Bandeaux wasn’t one to overdramatize.”

“Maybe he was depressed.”

Sylvie rolled her eyes expressively. “Oh, sure, because life here sucks so bad. The guy only had one BMW. But he did have a Range Rover and a Corvette, some race horses, this little place and a house in St. Thomas on three lots with a private bay. Yeah, he was certainly a prime candidate for Prozac.”

Diane swallowed a smile as the M.E. looked over what was left of good old Josh. Morrisette, shaking her head at the image of Josh Bandeaux offing himself, scanned the room with its cherry wood and leather furniture, state-of-the-art computer, expensive stereo equipment and a glass humidor filled with cigars that were probably worth more than a beat cop made in a week. “The ‘poor me’ routine is a little hard to swallow!”

Reed cocked an eyebrow. “Just how well did you know him?”

“I knew
of
him, okay?
Of
him. And well enough to guess that he wouldn’t have wanted to mess up his Brooks Brothers shirts with a damned jackknife.” She cast a disparaging look at the bloody weapon.

Reed did his own mental inventory. She had a point. From all outward appearances, Josh Bandeaux’s life seemed enviable; but that didn’t necessarily mean the guy hadn’t killed himself. Reed was keeping all of his options open. “What do we know?” he asked one of the cops who’d been called to the scene.

“Not much. Bandeaux seemed to be working on this.” He pointed to a legal document peeking out of a manila folder, then slowly, using a pencil, flipped the file open.

“What is it?”

“A wrongful death suit,” Moses said, frowning as she scanned the legalese. “Looks like Bandeaux was going to sue his wife for the death of their kid.”

“Lovely.” Morrisette rolled her eyes. “Now,
that
sounds more like Bandeaux.”

“How’d the kid die?” Reed asked.

Diane lifted a shoulder, “Beats me.”

Reed looked at Sylvie.

“Don’t know,” she admitted, her eyebrows drawing together as she tried to recall the incident.

“We’d better find out. Anything else?” Reed asked the cop.

“No forced entry—if we’re lookin’ at murder. The front and back door are locked, the windows shut, except for a couple upstairs, but the side doors, there”—he motioned at the open French doors in the office—“they lead to a veranda.”

“Dust ’em,” Reed said automatically.

“We will, Detective.” Diane Moses was still bristly. “Along with everything else. I
know
how to do my job.”

“Oops,” Sylvie whispered as Diane walked around the desk. “Touchy, touchy. I believe some professional toes have been stepped on.”

“I heard that, Morrisette,” Moses muttered, but was too busy with the photographer to get into it.

“What else do you know?” Reed asked the officer.

“Just that the radio was playing, tuned to some classical station. We talked to the cleaning lady, Estelle Pontiac—yeah, I know, like the car—she called nine-one-one this morning after coming into the house and discovering the body. Was really freaked out. He was cold by the time the EMTs arrived, been dead since sometime last night. Officer Spencer talked to one neighbor”—he checked his notes—“Stanley Hubert, lives next door to the north. Hubert says he saw a white compact roll in around eleven and then take off half an hour or so later. Hubert didn’t get the license plate, but he thinks he’s seen the car here before. He claims it looks like the one Mrs. Bandeaux drives.”

“The estranged wife?” Reed clarified.

“That’s what he said. We’ve roped off the area and we’ll check the vic’s vehicles along with those of his acquaintances.”

“And the wife?”

“Number one on the list.”

Reed took a second look at Bandeaux’s arms as the M.E. carefully rolled up the victim’s sleeves. One of the buttons on the cuff of his dress shirt was missing, which seemed odd as hardly a hair on the man’s head was out of place, few wrinkles showed on his clothes and his shoes were polished to a gloss. So why the missing button?

Reed studied Bandeaux’s arms. The gashes on his wrists were at odd angles . . . Shit, maybe Morrisette was right about the crime. Maybe someone got a little sloppy in making it look like Josh offed himself. If that was the case, there was a chance that they’d get lucky if the killer was careless and left evidence.

“Also, there were two wineglasses in the dishwasher. The maid had unloaded it before she left last night, so either Josh had company or he decided to dirty two goblets himself. We’re already checking for prints. Looks like one has a lipstick smudge. We’ll do a sample on it. See if the lab can figure out the manufacturer and product.”

Reed stepped out of the room as the M.E. finished and the crime scene team was let loose to vacuum, dust for prints, measure blood splatter and generally sweep the room and the rest of the house for evidence. “Anything on the answering machine?”

“He’s got voice mail. We’re looking into it.”

“What about e-mail?”

“As soon as the computer’s dusted, we’ll go into his computer files and desk files.”

“Where does he work?”

“Self-employed,” Morrisette said. “Investments. Consulting. Kind of a financial Jack of all trades. Been in trouble with the SEC. I think he’s got an office on Abercorn, just off of Reynolds Square.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Why would I have been there?” she asked.

“During your ‘investigation.’ ”

“ ‘Unofficial’ investigation,” she corrected, her eyes narrowing defensively.

The cop said, “I’ve got the address here. Found it on some letterhead. Abercorn’s right.”

“You check it out,” Reed said to Morrisette. “Talk to the staff. See if anything’s out of place. If Josh was depressed. We’ll need phone records and financial statements, interviews with his neighbors and family and friends.”

“If he had any,” Morrisette said. “And I don’t need a lecture. I know the drill. I’ve been here a while, remember.”

“I’ll double-check with the neighbor, what was his name? Hubert? Maybe he can describe the driver of the white car.”

“Let’s hope,” Morrisette said without much enthusiasm as Reed glanced down at the victim again.

Maybe he could jog the old guy’s memory. Maybe they’d get lucky.

But he wasn’t betting on it.

Caitlyn felt ill, so ill that she’d taken a nap and now was hurrying to make up for lost time . . . lost time . . . forever a problem, she thought as she wrung out her sponge in the pail and noticed how red the sudsy water was, how much blood she’d managed to wipe off the walls, mirrors, headboard and carpet of her bedroom. She’d soaped down the tub and shower, mopped, scraped and scrubbed until her fingernails were broken, the skin on her hands red and stinging from the disinfectant and cleansers. She’d taken down the sheer curtains, and they were working their way through the rinse cycle of her washer. She’d even had to scold Oscar and lock him in the garage when he’d begun sniffing and licking the blood on the carpet.

She couldn’t stand the mess. The reminder. It wasn’t as if she was hiding evidence, she told herself. There was no crime. She’d had a bad nosebleed and even though she didn’t feel as if she’d lost all the blood, she couldn’t call the police.

Ignoring the question, she poured the murky water down the drain in the shower and wiped down the tiles one last time.

A flash of memory sizzled through her brain.

Caitlyn froze.

“Jesus!” she whispered, shaking. It was the dream. Last night’s horrid dream. She hurried downstairs, stuffed the mop and pail into a closet off the garage, then in the bath off her office washed her hands for the dozenth time and checked the cuts that she’d dressed with surgical glue and butterfly bandages. The cuts hadn’t been deep, just quick little slices. God, why couldn’t she remember the self-mutilation?

If only she could speak to Dr. Wade. Tell her about last night. She would understand. She would try to help. She would . . .

“No!” she yelled, pounding her fist against the wall. From the garage, Oscar let out a sharp, worried bark.

She took several deep breaths, then slowly, refusing to get upset, she applied lotion to her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted over the sink. She was pale. Her freckles showed up more distinctly on her skin. Her auburn hair was starting to curl with the sweat she’d worked up. She felt the pressure building in her head, the remainder of her migraine pounding behind her eye, and fought the same panicky feeling that was never far from her. She couldn’t allow the anxiety that lurked just under the surface of her equanimity, couldn’t let in the fear that she could be losing her mind. Hadn’t she assured Dr. Wade she was able to face the world herself?

“Are you certain?” the psychologist had asked in their last session. A petite woman with thick red hair cropped short, she hadn’t been able to cloud the doubt in her eyes. “I could call someone. I have several colleagues who would be glad to help you. Let me give you the number of a couple.”

“I’ll be fine. I really think it’s time I handled my own life,” Caitlyn had replied, and Dr. Wade had tried and failed to hide her skepticism.

“We all need help from time to time,” she’d assured Caitlyn. “Even shrinks like me.”

“Maybe I should go into psychology, give up graphic design and websites,” Caitlyn had responded as Dr. Wade handed her a short list of names which Caitlyn had subsequently lost. And now she could use one of those damned head doctors. Badly.

Her mind wandered back to the night before.

How could she have lost track of time last night?

Why had she blacked out?

What had she done?

Where the hell was Kelly? Even if she was out of town, surely she would have called home to pick up her messages . . . right? Why hadn’t she called back?

The voice in her head seemed to scream at her from every corner of the bathroom.
Don’t you get it? She’s sick to death of hearing about all the things that are wrong in your life, sick of being your support, sick of you!

No, that wasn’t right. Kelly was her twin; her identical twin. They were closer than anyone in the world. Kelly was just busy, that was it . . . Sweating, ignoring the frantic beating of her heart, Caitlyn splashed cool water over her face.

“Get a grip,” she said to her reflection as she blotted a towel to her cheeks and forehead. “Pull yourself together. Right now. You don’t have the luxury of falling apart.”

Oscar whined and scratched in the garage.

“I’m coming,” she called, tossing the towel aside and taking deep breaths as she made her way to the door. She had to get some help.
Had
to. Before she cracked up. She opened the garage door and Oscar shot in, turning in tight circles at her feet. “Come on, I’ll take you for a walk, okay?” she said to the whirling dervish as he yipped and made a fool of himself. “Calm down a sec.” She ruffled the hair on the back of his neck. “I’ve got a couple of things I’ve got to take care of. You can help.”

With Oscar trotting behind, she hurried up the stairs to her office, flipped on her computer, located the phone number for Dr. Rebecca Wade and dialed quickly. On the desperate and off chance that her shrink had returned. Or had left a forwarding number. Or a recording referring patients to one of the colleagues.

Caitlyn’s palms began to sweat as the phone rang.
Be there,
she silently prayed as a disembodied recorded voice advised her that the phone number had been disconnected and there was no new number. “Great.” She set the cordless in its cradle and chewed on a fingernail. How long had Dr. Wade said she’d be gone? Three months? Six? Indefinitely? Wasn’t the doctor heading west to L.A.? Or was it San Francisco? Why couldn’t she remember?

She glanced at her calendar and frowned. When had she had her last appointment? None in June. She flipped back the page to May . . . no . . . or had she neglected to write the appointment down? Cradling her head in her hands, she tried to think. What were the names of the other shrinks Dr. Wade had given her, or even other doctors in the old house that had become an office building where Rebecca Wade had practiced? Wasn’t there a Dr. Nash or Nichols or Newell, something like that, some other doctor she could call? But as she stared at the telephone, Caitlyn knew she couldn’t just pick a name out of the air or run her finger down the Yellow Pages. She needed to meet and make eye contact with any potential psychologist or psychiatrist. She had to trust whoever it was completely before she told them about her life. Her
weird
life.

Oscar let out a soft yip, and she glanced out the window. Through the leafy branches of a sassafras tree, she spied a police cruiser turning into the alley next to her property. Her heart dropped.
Now what?
She hurried across the hallway to her room with its stripped bed, wet carpet and missing curtains. Oscar trotted after her and cocked his head as she peeked through the French doors to the verandah, where she watched the police car roll to a stop near her trash bins at the back of the house. This didn’t bode well . . . not at all. Again she glanced at her bedroom. Would they want to see it? Had she destroyed evidence?

She swallowed hard. Two officers climbed out of the vehicle. From the passenger side, a tall, lanky man with dark hair and an even darker expression emerged. The driver opened her door and stepped into the shaded parking strip, and for a second Caitlyn thought she knew the slim woman with spiked platinum hair and wraparound sunglasses. But that was nuts.

As the woman officer scanned the house, Caitlyn ducked behind the wall, not wanting to be caught staring.
Just like a criminal in an old film noir.
She was acting paranoid. As if she really did have something to hide.
Get over it.

But she couldn’t stop the hammering of her heart, and she noticed that she’d missed a smudge of blood on the door casing surrounding the closet. Great. Just . . . great. Oscar was growling and as Caitlyn reached down to pick him up, she noticed the bandages on her wrists with their hint of red soaking through the strips of gauze. Self-consciously she tugged at the long sleeves of her T-shirt, hiding her wounds, knowing instinctively that she didn’t want the prying eyes of some cop to see the red marks or the tape at her wrists.

Not that she had anything to hide.

So she’d bled a little. Or a lot. Suffered a nosebleed. Even tried to slice her wrists. So what? It wasn’t a crime and this was her house, her private spot in the world.

Because of all the blood . . . so much . . . how did she do that and not know? Too much alcohol? Another one of her blackouts where time slipped past way too fast? Please, God, no. Not that. Whatever had happened. It was creepy. Damned creepy. And the possibility of self-mutilation was terrifying.

The officers had rounded the house, and as Caitlyn moved to her office she saw they were at the gate to her front courtyard. So much for hoping they were paying a visit to the neighbors.

You know better, don’t you? They’re here because of the mess in your bedroom. They’re here because of something you did. Somehow they
know
what happened. And you don’t.

Clenching her jaw and refusing to listen to her self-doubts, she slipped into a pair of flip-flops and hurried down the stairs. The doorbell chimed. Oscar, barking wildly, bounded to the entry hall. “Be good,” Caitlyn warned, taking a deep breath and yanking the door open.

The officers were on the front porch, all right. The tall, rugged-looking man with his craggy face was holding up his badge. His partner, the tiny whip-thin woman with the near-white hair and shades, stood at his side. Grim-faced, she, too, was holding a wallet displaying her police ID.

“Mrs. Bandeaux?” the man asked.

“Yes.” She nodded, her heart sinking, her broken fingernails digging into the edge of the door she was holding open. “I’m Caitlyn Bandeaux.”

He offered a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “I’m Detective Reed, this is my partner, Detective Morrisette. Would you mind if we came in for a few minutes?”

The badges looked legit, the photographs unflattering but recognizable. She hesitated. Thought of the mess upstairs. The blood still on the closet. Somehow, she managed to pull herself together and open the door wider and had the distinct impression that the woman was sizing her up. “What’s this about?” Caitlyn asked, but knew, deep in the marrow of her bones, that they were the bearers of horrible news.

She stood aside, allowing them to enter, and even though a blast of heat from the outside followed them in, she was so cold she nearly shivered.

“I’m afraid we have some bad news, Mrs. Bandeaux,” the man said, motioning to a chair as Caitlyn, her legs numb, propped herself on the chair back.

“What?”

“It’s about your husband.”

“Josh?” she whispered and felt as if someone had wrapped ice-cold fingers around her neck, cutting off her oxygen. A sudden roar in her head, like the sea trapped inside a cave, was nearly deafening. She had a quick image of Josh lying pale and still upon his desk. “What about him?” She swallowed against a mouth that was as dry as the Sahara. Knew what was coming.

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Detective Reed said as the roar increased and her knees weakened.

“But how . . .?”

“We’re not sure what happened yet. We’re exploring all possibilities and waiting for the coroner’s report to come in.”

“No!” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t believe it.” But she did. She’d known. Somehow she’d known.

“I’m sorry,” Reed said and the woman whispered some kind of condolences as well, but Caitlyn’s brain wasn’t processing their words. Her fingers curled around the upholstered back of the chair, but her legs were shaking so badly she could barely stand.

“I know this is hard,” the woman was saying as if from a distance. Caitlyn barely heard. In her mind’s eye a kaleidoscope of images flashed. Josh as a young man at the helm of his sailboat, in Naples where he’d proposed, at Jamie’s birth, trying to hide his disappointment that the baby wasn’t a boy, sneaking in late at night, claiming he was working, angry when his investment turned down, white-faced and shaken at their daughter’s funeral.

“Did your husband have any enemies?” the female officer—what-was-her-name? —asked, and Caitlyn snapped to the present.

“I don’t know . . . yes, I suppose so.” But she couldn’t think.

“I’ll need their names.”

“Of course . . . but . . . he . . . he was a businessman in town. Some of his deals went sour.” Caitlyn’s head was pounding painfully, as if her brain was suddenly too big for her skull.

“Was he depressed?”

“Josh? Depressed? I don’t know. We . . . we were separated, oh . . . you must know that already since you’re here. We’ve . . . we’ve been living apart for about three years.” Numb from the inside out, Caitlyn tried to keep her wits about her. Impossible. She suddenly felt faint . . . sensed blackness picking at the corners of her consciousness.

“She needs to sit down. Mrs. Bandeaux?” a woman asked from far away, and she felt arms around her, steadying her, leading her into the living room. Her legs were like jelly.