by GA McKevett
“That’s the one,” Savannah said, still not quite believing it.
Certainly, over the years, she had been fooled by suspects. Many times, in fact. But this one shocked her all the way to her core. She would have bet any amount of money that Dr. June Glenn was exactly what she had appeared—a woman dedicating her life to worthy causes.
The idea that Dr. Glenn was involved in anything so sordid and violent as these attacks was unthinkable. But there was the evidence, parked right in front of her.
She parked the Jaguar beside the Jeep and turned off the engine. Glancing around, she didn’t see Glenn or anyone else, for that matter.
Except for a few seagulls circling overhead, a half-dozen snowy egrets roosting in trees, and a pair of ducks paddling around in the water, the lake was remarkably, deliciously peaceful.
“Well, let’s get out and find her,” he said. “She can’t be far away.”
Once they were out of the car, it didn’t take them long to spot the doctor. She was standing in the shallows at the water’s edge. She had on a pair of rubber boots, which reached up to her knees, and she was bending over, pulling something from among the reeds.
“Is that her?” Dirk asked.
Savannah nodded. “She looks a little different in dungarees, but yes.”
She headed in Glenn’s direction, with Dirk following close behind.
“Dr. Glenn!” Savannah called.
When the woman turned, Savannah motioned to her. “It’s me, Savannah Reid. Can we talk again?”
June Glenn nodded and began to wade through the reeds toward them and the bank. She was holding several soda cans and a plastic grocery bag in her hands.
Savannah was amused and a little surprised to see that she was wearing a bright red sweatshirt with an enormous Mickey Mouse face on the front. The word “Disneyland” was emblazoned over his head.
Dr. Glenn seemed to notice her staring at the shirt, because she chuckled as she stepped up onto the bank and said, “I can’t help myself. I’m a big fan. Worked there as a kid and never got over it.”
“Hey, don’t apologize,” Savannah replied. “My granny’s in her eighties and still madly in love with Sir Mickey. She’ll never get over it either. I’m sure she’d work there now, if they’d hire her.”
Glenn walked over to a bag, which was stashed on the bank, and dropped the garbage into it. “Those darned kids,” she said. “Teenagers mostly. They come up here to drink, smoke pot, and do God only knows what else. Then they leave their litter behind. We had to rescue a heron last week that was tangled up in some of their trash.”
She walked up to them and took off her rubber gloves. “I’m June Glenn,” she said, offering Dirk her hand.
“This is my husband, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter,” Savannah said. “He’s investigating that case with me, the one we spoke about the other day.”
Savannah watched Dirk as he shook the doctor’s hand. His quick eyes swept over her, evaluating her with the same scrutiny he would any street person or recently released ex-con.
Dirk was no great respecter of titles, wealth, degree, or position. All that interested him was whether or not a person was capable of committing the crime he was investigating on that given day.
“Nice to meet cha, Doc,” he said in an unconvincing tone.
“Please, just call me June,” she said. She turned back to Savannah. “Obviously, you went to a lot of trouble to track me down today. May I ask why?”
“Something’s come up in the course of this investigation, and I need to talk to you.”
“Certainly. About what?”
“Your vehicle.”
“My Mercedes? Why? What about it?”
“No, not your personal car. That Jeep parked over there. Do you drive it often?”
“Once in a while. When I come to places like this, where I wouldn’t drive, well . . .”
“Your fancy car,” Dirk supplied.
“Yes.”
“Were you driving it this past Sunday morning?” he asked.
“No, but it’s funny you should ask.”
“Why is that?” Savannah wanted to know.
The doctor reached down and picked up her bag of trash and started to walk toward the Jeep.
“Here, let me get that for you,” Dirk said, taking the bag from her hand.
They followed her as she continued toward the old vehicle.
“Because,” she said, “even though everyone in the league drives it from time to time, no one in our group used it that morning. Yet, strangely enough, it was missing.”
“Missing?” Savannah didn’t know whether to be relieved or discouraged. Maybe a bit of both. Relieved that, if she was telling the truth, this could clear Dr. Glenn of suspicion. Discouraged that they would be sitting back on square one, with no suspect.
“Yes. It’s usually parked overnight behind our office, where you visited me before,” Dr. Glenn said. “But when one of our volunteers went to get it Sunday morning to take a drive on the beach, it was gone. Weirdly enough, the next night, it was back again, sitting in its usual spot.”
“Who has keys to it?” Dirk asked.
“Keys? We usually leave the key above the driver’s sun visor and the door unlocked.” When he looked surprised, she added, “This is Santa Tesla Island, Sergeant Coulter. Thankfully, we live a bit differently here than you do on the mainland.”
“Obviously.”
“Even stranger still,” Dr. Glenn continued, “that wasn’t the only time it happened. It was taken a couple of weeks ago. The same way. Also for an overnighter.”
“Do you remember the exact date that occurred?” Savannah asked.
“No. I’m sorry. I can’t. We just figured one of our volunteers took it without permission and was afraid to own up to it later. But then when it happened again, we were a bit more curious.”
“If you were all that curious,” Dirk said, “did you consider reporting it to the police? That’s what most people do the first time their cars go missing, let alone if it happens twice.”
A solemn, unpleasant look crossed Dr. Glenn’s pretty face. Her eyes didn’t meet theirs when she said, “No. I didn’t consider calling the so-called authorities. I’m not a fan of the current police department. We haven’t found them to be fair in their dealings with the league, so we have as little to do with them as possible.”
They approached the Jeep, and Dr. Glenn started to reach for the handle to open the back door. Savannah put out her hand and stopped her.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Glenn, but I’m going to ask you not to touch this vehicle again until after it’s been processed.”
“ ‘Processed’?”
“Yes, for fingerprints.”
The doctor looked shocked, even horrified. “Are you telling me that our Jeep is somehow connected to a crime?”
“That’s right,” Savannah told her. “A rather nasty crime, at that.”
“Attempted murder,” Dirk added. “Doesn’t get much worse than that.... Unless, of course, you actually kill somebody.”
Two hours later, Savannah and Dirk stood beside the Jaguar and watched as Chief La Cross directed a young woman who was swirling fingerprint dust around the driver’s door handle of the Jeep.
Many, many times they had watched professionals perform this task. It was painfully obvious that this technician was an amateur at best.
“Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it?” Dirk said as the chief grabbed the brush out of her hand, pushed her aside, and took over the job herself.
“Nope. It doesn’t. In fact, it sends hot and cold chills running through my bloodstream. This might be our only shot, and they’re blowing it.”
“Did you call Ryan and John yet?”
“I certainly did. They said if we get anything, send it right over.”
“Good. With their old FBI connections, they’ll find out if there’s a match anywhere in the system. Heck, they’re even faster than Fluff . . . er . . . I mean, Tam
my.”
Savannah smiled up at him. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.
They continued to watch for as long as they could stand it. Finally, when they saw La Cross apply tape for the fourth time, lift another print, and affix it to a fourth evidence card, Savannah couldn’t take it any longer.
“That’s it,” she said. “She’s either gonna give those to me or she isn’t. I’m gonna find out which.”
She stomped over to the Jeep and Dirk watched as she had a few words with La Cross.
The police chief shook her head and held the cards behind her back, like a kid refusing to share their favorite toys.
Savannah said something else and La Cross wavered, started to surrender the prizes, then snatched them back, then . . . finally . . . gave them up. Savannah took a camera from her pocket, laid the cards on the Jeep’s front fender, and, one by one, took several close-up shots of each one.
Then she handed the cards back to La Cross and returned to Dirk, with a big smile on her face.
“Got ’em!” she said.
“So I see.”
“Let’s get going. I can send these to Ryan on the way.”
As they climbed into the Jag, she was already texting like crazy. “Okay,” she said as he started the car’s engine. “He’s got them! Now it’s just a matter of waiting.”
When they pulled away from the scene, leaving a more-disgruntled-than-usual police chief in their wake, Dirk asked, “What did you say to her to get her to hand ’em over?”
“Nothing much.”
“I know better than that.”
“I just mentioned that if she didn’t share them with me, a certain Los Angeles station was going to hear all about her affair with Northrop in time for it to be the lead story on the six o’clock news.”
“You’re a wicked, ruthless woman.”
“Don’t you ever forget it.”
Savannah figured she did a few things well. She was a better-than-average private detective, an excellent cook, and a decent housekeeper. She was a superb cat owner, and to hear Dirk tell it, a great wife—though time would tell on that one.
But Savannah was pretty honest when it came to self-evaluations. She knew that the one thing she did worse than anything else was wait.
When she had something important or something difficult, or both, to do, she wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible. And cooling her heels waiting for something to happen that was out of her control, something that prevented her from getting on with her dreaded task—it was a pure vexation to her soul.
However, Savannah had learned that one way to soothe her spirit and clear her mind was to enjoy a bit of nature while she waited. Even if it was five minutes in her rose garden, two minutes looking up at the clouds in the sky, one minute of stepping outside and feeling the cool ocean wind on her face—it was often enough to put her right with the world again.
Or at least lessen her cantankerous mood.
So she decided that while she waited for Ryan and John to get back to her about the fingerprints, she would leave Dirk in the lightkeeper’s cottage, where he could take a peaceful nap. That way, he wouldn’t have to watch her pace the floor or listen to her mumble curses under her breath.
Having covered him with the quilt and kissed him on the forehead like he was a kindergartner settling down for an afternoon “time-out,” she stuck her cell phone in her pocket and headed for the lighthouse.
After climbing the 137 steps to the top, she had expended a great deal of her nervous energy. And when she stepped out onto the gallery and felt the sea wind swirl through her hair, she was happy she had decided to wait this way.
As she stood at the railing and looked down on the harbor, filled with fishing boats, yachts, ferries, and sailboats and motorboats, she thought about what a crazy honeymoon this had been.
Who else began their married life together chasing a killer?
Who else considered it marital bliss to track down leads, interview suspects, and butt heads with local authorities? No one else that she could think of.
Maybe everyone else she knew led boring lives compared to hers and Dirk’s. But as she leaned against the rail, her body tired and aching from all it had been through in previous days, she thought that perhaps “boring” would be a nice change of pace.
But then, she reminded herself, if she’d liked “boring,” she probably should have chosen another occupation. Something other than law enforcement and private detecting. Some field where you weren’t expected to shoot at anyone, and had every reason to expect that no one would shoot at you.
Maybe in her next lifetime, she’d become a mortician. That would probably be peaceful enough. At least your clients wouldn’t talk back to you. Or maybe a first-grade schoolteacher. Then, if you got into a scuffle on the job, you’d probably win the fight.
“Who are you kidding, Savannah?” she heard a voice deep inside ask. “A pack of wild hyenas couldn’t drag you away from this job. It’s in your blood. And there’s no place in this world you’d rather be than right in the middle of all this mess. Even if it is your honeymoon.”
She shook her head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. But, of course, they were right. The “voice” was always right.
A trio of brown pelicans flew by, nearly at her eye level. It was the closest she had ever been to these strange, exotic-looking creatures, which, in flight, had the appearance of a flock of pterodactyls. As she watched, they swooped down to the sea in unison, fishing its bounty.
Savannah walked slowly around to the other side of the light—because she knew she had to. Although she didn’t want to relive it, she had to.
She had to see the place, the stretch of beach, where she had first witnessed Amelia Northrop running for her life.
And there it was, glistening golden in the sunlight . . . as natural and lovely as any bit of sand in the world, the foaming waves rolling onto it and settling in.
Quite a few times before, Savannah had felt a shock at the irony of having a beautiful place become the scene of a terrible crime.
She had walked through fantasy forests where someone had been murdered. She had roamed fragrant, sun-warmed orange groves where rapes had occurred. She had sat on the shores of lakes where brutal acts had led to the loss of life and wondered how such things could happen among such peace and loveliness.
It was as though something sacred had been defiled.
This stretch of beach beneath her was no different. No one should have died there.
Amelia’s world may have become complicated and sad in her final days, but she shouldn’t have lost her life at another’s hands. And Savannah was damned determined to find out who had done it and see him or her brought to justice. She wasn’t going to leave this island until it was settled.
“Help me,” she whispered . . . to the blood-soaked sand below her, the sun above, the wind caressing her face, and to the Maker of brown pelicans and nature. “Lead me to them. Show me the truth.”
As though in answer to her impromptu and informal prayer, the phone in her pocket began to chime. It was Ryan.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly.
“Hi. We got it.”
Ryan’s smooth, sexy voice sounded excited. Her heart rate soared.
“Who is it?”
“There were several, as you could expect. One from Dr. Glenn, another from a gal named Sadie, who does a lot of volunteer wildlife rehabilitation with Glenn. But the one you want belongs to a guy named Harry Jacobsen.”
“Who’s that?”
“A guy who was busted in 2006 for possession of illegal explosive devices.”
“Okay.” Her mind raced, trying desperately to fit this new piece into the puzzle.
“You’ve interviewed him already,” Ryan was saying.
“No . . . I don’t think so. I—”
“He doesn’t go by ‘Harry Jacobsen’ anymore. Now he’s ‘Hank Jordan.’ ”
Savannah grabbed the railing as the adrena
line rush hit her knees and nearly made them buckle beneath her. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank you” to the sand, the sky, the wind, and the Maker of pelicans and nature.
“You’re welcome,” came the sweet reply over the phone. “All you had to do was ask.”
When Savannah rushed into the house to tell Dirk the news, she could hear him talking upstairs. Curious, she went up to see who was there.
As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard him say, “I know. I used to feel the same way. I mean, look who I’m married to. I don’t have to tell you how fantastic she is.”
Savannah paused on the top step. She didn’t want to eavesdrop on his conversation, but she couldn’t resist hearing just a bit more before either announcing herself or going back downstairs.
“Well, you know what they say,” he continued, “she married beneath her. All women do.”
Savannah grinned. He had told her that on their wedding day, on the ferry to the island. He’d also told her she was the best person he’d ever met in his life and he was darned lucky to have her.
You could forgive a guy for a lot of chili belches and for leaving the toilet seat up when he said stuff like that.
As a woman—especially as a young woman—Savannah knew you always had to judge a man’s motives when he was sweet-talking you face-to-face. You had to ask yourself what he was up to, what he was hoping to get for all that honey he was smearing on so thick. But when a guy said sweet things about you to other people behind your back, you could be pretty darned sure he meant it.
“But you can’t worry about stuff like that, dude,” Dirk was saying. “If you think she’d be willing to take you, go for it. It’s up to her if she’s gettin’ a deal or not.”
A long, silent pause caused Savannah to realize that he was on the telephone.
“Sorry, but you gotta be a little selfish here. What makes you so sure she’d find somebody better than you down the road? She hasn’t yet. She might do worse. Hell, she’s done way worse than you already.”
Ah, Mr. Smoothie all the way, Savannah thought with a sweet ache in her heart as she realized he was giving her kid brother advice about women.
