Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  “She’s hiding at the Mobil station on Turner Canyon Road. She says she wrecked her car nearby with him in it. Hit some sort of water tank. That’s how she got away from him.”

  “So, there’s nothing to stop me from lookin’ for the car and him in that area, while you check her out.”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  The phone clicked and the line went dead.

  Dirk never had been one for sentimental good-byes.

  8:05 P.M.

  Savannah pulled her Camaro into the dark, empty lot of the service station a couple of minutes later, her eyes scanning the area for signs of life . . . or, more specifically, lowlife. Besides a scared Margie Bloss, Savannah was looking for one rapist/ woman beater who she would love to plug between the eyes with a 9mm bullet.

  Savannah knew that some people might have considered her cold-blooded attitudes toward criminals less than compassionate or humanitarian. But she didn’t give a damn what the liberals thought about her politics. When they had scraped up the shattered remains of innocent victims’ lives from bedroom floors, city streets, and back alleys, then they could talk to her about understanding and pitying the underprivileged, abused perpetrator.

  She reserved her compassion for their victims. And right now, she was hoping this latest crime victim would be basically intact, emotionally as well as physically.

  When she thought of Charlene Yardley, bruised and broken, on that hospital bed, she shuddered to think what could have happened to young Margie.

  Having pulled the Camaro close to the pile of tires and the truck that Margie had described, she put the car in Park but left the engine running, her headlights trained on the dark area beside the broken-down, rusted truck.

  So far, she saw neither hide nor orange and green hair of the girl.

  With her Beretta in her right hand, she opened the car door and got out. “Margie!” she called. “Margie, it’s Savannah. Come out, honey.”

  At first, she heard nothing. Then there was a rustling off to her left, a shuffling sound, and a soft curse as someone banged into something metal.

  She readied her weapon, pointing it upward, but prepared to lower it if she saw anything resembling a Santa beard and hat.

  “Margie, if that’s you, say something,” she said, every nerve torquing tighter as she waited for a response.

  Finally, just as she was about to lower the Beretta, she saw a white, frightened face appear in the car’s bright lights.

  “Hi, kiddo,” she said, infinitely relieved to see the girl alive and relatively whole. “I hear your date turned out to be a first-rate creep and you need a ride home.”

  The next minute Savannah’s arms were full of a sobbing and sniffling, cut and scraped, dirty and exhausted—but infinitely grateful—teenage girl.

  “Come on, darlin’,” Savannah told her, helping her into the car. “It’s all over now, and I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take it from here.”

  8:22 P.M.

  “I told you I didn’t want to go to a stupid hospital!” Margie yelled in her loudest, most completely outraged, adolescent voice as she sat on the edge of an emergency room gurney, wearing a shapeless, pale blue, tie-in-the-back and show-your-bare-butt gown.

  The kid was definitely not a satisfied customer of the Community General Hospital of San Carmelita. And Savannah couldn’t really blame her.

  First, they had ignored her, keeping her waiting while they tended to more immediate, life-threatening situations. Then they had scrubbed the grit out of her deeply scraped knees and elbows . . . a very painful process, judging from the bloodcurdling yowls she had produced.

  Next, they stitched one particularly deep cut on her upper shoulder, the only wound directly inflicted by her attacker. The other damage had been done during the automobile wreck or while she was running through the orange grove to safety.

  Finally, the hospital staff had added insult to injury.

  “Do you know what they want to do to me?” Margie demanded, bristling with indignation.

  “Yes, I have an idea,” Savannah replied as she sat on the gurney beside the girl and placed her hand on her shoulder. “Do they want to do a rape test examination?”

  “Yeah! That’s what he said. . . that smartass young doctor with the major attitude. He said I don’t have a choice, that I have to let them do it.”

  “No, you don’t have to. But I do want to talk to you about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about!” She shrugged Savannah’s hand off her shoulder. “I told them, the guy didn’t rape me. What’s the matter with that stupid doctor? He acts like he thinks I’m lying!”

  Savannah paused, choosing her words carefully. “Don’t take it personally, Margie. The doctor doesn’t even know you, so he doesn’t know if you would lie or not. A lot of women do lie about rape, because they’re embarrassed, or they feel guilty, like it’s their fault they were attacked. That’s completely false, but it’s a common feeling.”

  Savannah watched Margie’s face for any telltale signs of those commonly held emotions of guilt or embarrassment. All she saw was plain old anger. The kid wasn’t ashamed; she was just extremely pissed.

  “That young doctor strikes me as a bit arrogant, too,” Savannah continued, “and if you say he’s an asshole, I’ll take your word for it. But I really think he has your best interests at heart about the rape exam.”

  “I’m not going to let them do it. I didn’t get raped, but I’ve been through enough already tonight. I saw that kit thing they had there on the tray. I’m not going to let somebody comb through my pubic hair and stick giant cotton swabs up my . . . you know.”

  “Yes. I know.” Savannah stood and faced Margie straight on. “If you swear to me that he absolutely, positively, didn’t sexually assault you, I’ll tell Dr. Wise Guy to take a hike.”

  “The creep absolutely, positively didn’t do me. I promise.”

  Savannah nodded. “Okay, Margie. I believe you. I’ll go talk to the doc.”

  “Make sure he knows where the city pier is,” Margie said as Savannah walked away, “and don’t mention that the end of it fell off during the last big storm.”

  The kid’ll be all right, Savannah thought as she went to find her young friend’s least favorite physician. Minus the green and orange hair and the disrespect for her elders, Margie Bloss reminded Savannah of another girl who had been the same age and temperament about thirty years ago down in peach and pecan country.

  The kid had spunk. And kids with spunk almost always landed on their feet.

  Unless, of course, they landed on their heads.

  9:41 P.M.

  As Savannah watched Margie sitting at her kitchen table, stuffing her face with ice cream, hot fudge sauce and whipped cream, Savannah decided she and the kid had even more in common than she had originally thought.

  Savannah had heard of people who simply couldn’t eat when they were upset. But she filed them away in the same category as “morning people” and those who claimed that running five miles a day gave them energy—Certifiably Bonkers.

  At least she and Margie Bloss weren’t afflicted with such silliness, she concluded as they ooo-ed and ahhh-ed over their frozen confections.

  “I guess I should try to call my dad and tell him what happened,” Margie said between spoonfuls. “I feel kinda bad for not calling him earlier. I just didn’t want him to make a big deal about it.”

  After having taken a long, hot shower with rose-scented gel in Savannah’s romantic bathroom and slipping into Savannah’s thickest, softest terry robe, Margie looked like a normal teenager, almost. With the harsh makeup washed away and her hair brushed straight to her shoulders and the multi-piercings removed—except for three in each ear—she could have passed for any other kid with orange and green hair.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Savannah told her. “I’ve been calling your house, the station, and his cell phone since we first arrived at the hospital. The staff there was
calling him too, trying to get permission to treat you, but he was nowhere to be found. Which reminds me . . . as far as Community General is concerned, I’m your loving aunt.”

  Margie’s mouth popped open, revealing an unattractive mixture of ice cream and hot fudge. She jumped up from her chair. “You called my dad?” she shouted, her pale face flushing red with fury. “I don’t believe you did that when I distinctly told you not to!”

  “Well, Missy, I don’t always do what I’m told,” Savannah replied calmly, studying a spoonful of her dessert, “especially when the one giving the orders is young enough to be my daughter.” She took the bite, savored it with closed eyes, then pointed her spoon at Margie’s bowl. “Sit down and eat your ice cream. It’s melting.”

  Margie stuttered and sputtered, then did as she was told. “But you promised not to call the cops,” she protested in a whining voice that irritated Savannah more than the kid’s temper.

  “I did not,” Savannah said as she rose and walked to the microwave. Opening the door, she took out the jar of recently-zapped fudge. “I told you that I wouldn’t call a unit to pick you up from the service station, that I’d do it myself. Once you were with me, all bets were off. Do you want some more hot fudge?”

  Margie hesitated, obviously weighing the advantages of additional hot fudge over the desire to continue the argument. “Yeah, I’ll take some more fudge, and ice cream, too.”

  Savannah rewarded her with the chocolate and a smile. “Now that’s my kind of girl . . . eats like a stevedore.”

  Margie returned the grin and for a moment the bristly adolescent disappeared and a delightful little girl shone through. “I like Chunky Monkey,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Margie watched with acute female interest as Savannah replenished her own bowl. “Do you ever have . . . like . . . a weight problem?”

  “Nope. I decided a long time ago, there’s a lot more to me—and to being a woman—than some numbers on a scale.” Savannah replaced the fudge in the microwave and walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator. “More whipped cream?”

  “Sure.” Margie cast an only-moderately-sly sideways glance at Savannah’s amply rounded figure. “My dad says you were fired from the police force because you were overweight.”

  Dumping the remainder of the cream into her own bowl, Savannah said, “Yeah, and your dad’s full of . . . well . . . let’s just say your father and I have different versions of that story.”

  “I’d like to hear your version.”

  Savannah licked the whipped-cream spoon and dropped it into the sink along with the empty bowl. “Naw. It’s old news, while what happened to you tonight is front-page headline material.” She returned to the table and sat down. “Let’s talk about that.”

  Before Margie could reply, the doorbell rang.

  Savannah rose to answer it. “That’s probably Dirk,” she said.

  Margie wasn’t pleased. “You mean, Dirk Coulter, your old partner?”

  “He’s not all that old, but—”

  “He’s a cop! I told you not to call the cops.”

  Savannah sighed. “Been there, done that. So, neither one of us is particularly good at taking orders.” As she left the kitchen, she added over her shoulder, “And, just for the record, that’s closer to the real reason why I got canned.”

  She looked through the peephole and saw a wet, pink, slimy tongue. Yeap, it was Dirk.

  “Hi,” she said, swinging the door open and ushering him inside. “We’re in the kitchen, pigging out with Ben and Jerry. Wanna bowl of ice cream?”

  As they passed through the living room, he peeled off his battered bomber jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. “What flavor is it?” he asked.

  She gave him a withering look. “Free . . . your favorite. Do you want some or not?”

  “Do bears sh—”

  “Hush.” She pressed her finger to her lips and nodded toward the kitchen. “There’s a minor in the house.”

  “I’m not going to say nothin’ her foul-mouthed father don’t say,” he whispered.

  “Sh-h-hhh.”

  She led him into the kitchen, where Margie still sat at the table, wearing a whipped-cream-laced scowl.

  “Margie,” she said, “have you met Detective Dirk Coulter?”

  “I think so . . . a long time ago.” She couldn’t have been less impressed.

  “Ms. Bloss, how nice to see you again,” Dirk said with all the respect due royalty. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. Savannah took her seat at the head of the table.

  “You were just a kid,” he continued, “the last time I saw you . . . at a Fourth of July picnic, I believe. What are you, about twenty-two now?”

  Savannah resisted the urge to gag. Dirk knew when to spread it on thick . . . mainly, when he wanted to get as much information as possible out of a disgruntled, female witness.

  It was working. Margie fluttered her lashes as demurely as a Southern belle. “No,” she said. “I’m just sixteen.”

  “Really? You look much older.”

  More fluttering. A shy smile. “Oh, well . . . thanks, Detective.”

  “We found your car where you . . . ah . . . left it,” he said, “smashed into that water tank.”

  Tears clouded the teenager’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “The Roadster’s a write-off, isn’t it?”

  Dirk nodded. “Afraid so. But it was a pretty smart move; it got you away from him.”

  “I guess it’s too much to hope that you found him dead inside the car,” Margie said bitterly.

  “Way too much, I’m afraid.”

  Savannah set a bowl of ice cream in front of Dirk and handed him the jar of hot fudge. Years ago, he had been demoted from “guest” to “family.” If she could buy it, he could damned well serve himself. “No sign of Santa?” she asked.

  “Not even a curly white hair,” he said, sounding tired. “Of course, we had the car towed to the impound lot. We’ll go over it with a fine tooth comb tomorrow morning when it’s daylight.”

  “Does my dad know what happened to me yet?” Margie asked.

  “Not as far as I know. We put out an APB for him, so I’m sure he’ll show up soon.”

  Margie gave a disgusted sniff that didn’t cover the hurt in her eyes. “He’s probably hanging out in a sleazy motel somewhere with some bimbo. That’s usually what he was doing when my mom couldn’t get in touch with him.”

  Dirk looked embarrassed. Savannah had noticed, years ago, that Dirk took it personally when members of his own gender screwed up. And she had decided that was somehow endearing.

  “Well, whatever he’s doing,” Dirk said offhandedly, “I’m sure he’ll get the message soon. How about your mom? Have you talked to her yet?”

  Margie shook her head. “Savannah already offered to call her. But she’s gone to Italy this month with her new husband. I don’t know how to get hold of them . . . wouldn’t really want to anyway.”

  “Hm-m-m-m.” He picked up the ice cream and dumped twice as much into his bowl as Savannah had originally given him. “Then why don’t we just see how big a dent we can make in this carton of ice cream,” he said, “and we’ll talk about the guy who grabbed you tonight.”

  “Dent, my eye.” Savannah shook her head, mentally wishing her Chunky Monkey a fond farewell. “By the time Coulter finishes an ice cream carton, it’s as totalled as your car. Sorry, Margie, bad joke.”

  She left the table and walked to the coffeemaker where she threw in some water and a hearty, Louisiana chicory blend. It was going to be a long night; all that sugar would need a caffeine chaser.

  Margie and Dirk continued to chat companionably, and Savannah wondered at the seeming compatibility between these society misfits. In polite company, neither would have been considered charming. Maybe that was the common ground.

  Just before she left the two of them, and headed upstairs, she told Margie, “I’m going to try to get your dad again on the
phone, while you tell Dirk all the gory details.”

  As she walked upstairs and into her bedroom, Savannah whispered a prayer of gratitude that, at least this time, the details weren’t nearly as gory as they might have been.

  She had an idea where she might get in touch with Bloss. The comment Margie had made about the cheap motel and a bimbo had stirred an inkling.

  Cops—like plumbers, bankers, and doctors—were creatures of habit. And some of those habits weren’t particularly commendable.

  In her years on the force, she had seen far more “fooling around” than she had wanted to, and a lot of it had taken place at the Blue Moon Hotel on the outskirts of town.

  Experience had shown her that San Carmelita’s doctors took their honeys to the Grand Marquis on the beach for nooners. Lawyers preferred Casa Presidio in the marina. But cops fancied the understated, underpriced ambiance of The Blue Moon for their peccadillos.

  “Hello,” she said when the front desk answered, using her breathy, phone-sex voice that she usually reserved for undercover prostitution stings. “I need to speak with one of your guests. His name is Bloss.”

  “There ain’t no Bloss stayin’ here,” said an oily-sounding guy.

  “I see.” She dumped the sexy tone. Why put out if it wasn’t working? “Could you please check again,” she snapped. “He and his ‘wife’ might be listed under ‘Smith’ or ‘Doe.’ ”

  “I’m sorry.” The asshole didn’t sound exactly suicidal to her. “We don’t have any guest listed with the name Bloss, Smith or Doe. Is there something else I can do you for?”

  “You can tell the good captain that his daughter has been in a traffic accident, and he needs to get over to Savannah Reid’s house as soon as possible.”

  “I told you, he isn’t here.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just give him the friggin’ message, would you? Do a good deed; it’s Christmas for Pete’s sake.”

  She slammed the phone down, hoping he still had it to his ear.

  When she was walking down the stairs, she could hear Margie chatting away in the kitchen, even more animated than before.