The Night Before Read Online Free PDF Page A

wife’s twin, for crying out loud! What was that all about? She and Caitlyn were identical, so what was the thrill in that? Well, the being identical was literally only skin deep. Their personalities were acutely dissimilar. Night to day. Caitlyn was more shy, more intellectual and Kelly the emotional firecracker, the “party girl.” Besides, Josh Bandeaux would bed anything that moved.
    Kelly glanced at the telephone. Caitlyn had sounded desperate. Whether she wanted to or not, Kelly would have to go over to her twin’s home and calm her down. She flopped onto her suede couch and stared at the open door. But she couldn’t face it right now. She knew what Caitlyn wanted to discuss. For the moment, she’d let Caitlyn chill. What was there to say about last night? Caitlyn had downed one too many Cosmopolitans—maybe more than one too many.
    End of story.
    Well, not quite.
    But as much as anyone needed to know.
     
     
    Morrisette crushed out her cigarette and stood on the brakes. The cruiser slid to a stop inches from the police barricade surrounding Bandeaux’s house. Several police cars and the crime scene team’s van were already parked at odd angles on the street and in the alley. A wrought-iron fence and lush shrubbery encircled a tall brick house with long windows, green shutters and a wide front porch. A couple of uniformed cops were posted outside, yellow crime scene tape roped off the area, and curious neighbors peeked from behind drawn curtains or more blatantly from their own front yards.
    Reed was out of the cruiser before Sylvie cut the siren. The outside temperature was soaring, the humidity thick. Sweat prickled Reed’s scalp as he pushed open the gate and flashed his badge. Morrisette caught up with him just as a van from one of the local television stations rolled up.
    “Vultures at two o’clock,” she warned.
    “Keep ’em out,” Reed growled to one of the cops as he hitched his chin at the reporter and cameraman spilling from the white vehicle splashed with WKOK’s logo.
    “You got it.” The young cop crossed his arms over his chest, dark eyes severe as they focused on the reporters.
    Reed walked through the open front door, eyeing the refurbished old manor. Careful to disturb nothing, he followed the sounds of voices across the marble floor of the foyer, where expensive rugs muffled his footsteps, paintings of ancient thoroughbreds adorned the walls and a sweeping staircase that split at a landing beckoned visitors upstairs. Through an open doorway he spied the den. Reed’s gut clenched as he viewed the scene.
    The victim, presumably Bandeaux, sat slumped over his desk, his hands dangling at his sides, blood pooled on the thick white carpet in a dark puddle. A gloved officer was gingerly picking up what appeared to be a pocketknife found directly under the victim’s right hand. The blade was dark with dried blood.
    “Jesus H. Christ,” Morrisette whispered.
    The criminologists had done a quick walk-through, taking notes while photographers and videographers had taken pictures, an artist had sketched the scene, preserving it for later examination and, if Bandeaux’s death proved to be because of foul play, for use in court. Provided they caught the guy. Now the members of the team with their kits and tools were setting up for a more intense search and evidence gathering.
    “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,”