Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

Having put on the rest of the outfit, Savannah stepped out of the bathroom. She had transformed herself into what she hoped was a poor man’s version of a femme fatale.

  “Whoa!” Margie bolted up off the bed, her eyes wide with amazement. “You look fantastic!”

  “Oh, you think so?” Savannah decided that the kid had been insulted sufficiently in one evening, so she swallowed any wisecracks about her lack of taste.

  “Yeah, but you need some metal.”

  “I was going to put on earrings. Big, hanging down ones.”

  “No, no, no. Here, you can borrow some of my stuff.”

  The girl hurried over to her and began to unbuckle her own paraphernalia and transfer it to Savannah. A minute later, Savannah was looking at herself in the mirror, wearing a metal-studded dog collar around her neck, a bracelet to match, a heavy chain around her waist and on her thumb, an enormous skull-shaped ring with rhinestone eyes.

  “Now, sit down there. . .” Margie pointed to the dressing table. “. . . and I’ll do your hair.”

  After the cloud of hair spray had settled, Savannah emerged with bigger hair than she had ever imagined possible. Margie had given her a modified version of her own spiked do, and Savannah had to admit, it was wild, but fun.

  “You look perfect,” Margie exclaimed, as proud as any Hollywood makeover expert. “Except for the tatoos.”

  “Tattoos? I don’t have any tattoos.”

  “Exactly. That’s what’s missing.”

  “Oh well, Edward will just have to do without.”

  “Is that who you’re going out with? Somebody named Edward?”

  “Sort of. It’s not really a date but—”

  A shriek cut through the air, scaring them both witless. They turned around to see Vidalia standing in the doorway, wearing a nightgown that resembled a burlap sack, her hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes bugged.

  “What is it?” Savannah said as she jumped up from her stool in front of the dressing table and hurried to her sister. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Visions of a premature delivery danced through her head, nightmare fantasies of the baby falling right out of Vidalia, and rolling across the floor, before anyone could catch it.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Vidalia said, gasping like the quintessential Southern belle with a case of the “vapors.” “What’s wrong with you? My lord, Savannah, wait until I tell Gran.”

  “Tell Gran what?”

  “Don’t you act all innocent with me.” Vidalia shook her finger in Savannah’s face. It was all Savannah could do not to bite it. Hard. “I know what that sort of a git up that is.”

  “What git up?”

  “The one you’re wearing. You’ve moved out here to this California . . . this land of sin . . . this Sodom and Gomorrah and you’ve become a . . . a . . . a streetwalker!”

  Savannah laughed and gave her horrified sister a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Vi. I’m not a hooker . . . far from it.” She sighed. “Hookers get a lot more money and respect than us lowly private detectives.”

  If the Shoreline Club had been a little classier, it might have been called a dive. If the clientele had been a tad more discriminating they might have been called the sludge of the earth.

  But the place would have to be renovated and every occupant would need to bathe and shave—including the women—to reach such lofty aspirations.

  Most of the lost souls holding down stools at the bar looked like they had just been released from San Quentin. Edward Stipp might be hard to spot.

  Savannah had been here many times before in the pursuit of law and justice. She never failed to marvel at the genius of the decor.

  The bar was decorated in a nautical theme with the usual assortment of mangy, stuffed, marlin on the wall, a rusty anchor hanging from the ceiling, and a tacky mural that featured a grotesquely busty and slightly cross-eyed mermaid. But no self-respecting sailor would be caught dead hefting a pint in the Shoreline.

  “I want you to notice,” Savannah told Tammy as the two of them took their lives in their hands and strolled through the joint, “that I take you to only the best places.”

  “I’m noticing. I’m noticing,” Tammy replied, moving a little closer to Savannah for protection.

  Savannah couldn’t blame Tammy for being a bit uneasy. They had created quite a stir among the patrons, Savannah with her punk/metal look and Tammy who was shrink-wrapped in a black latex top and pants and high-heeled slides.

  “Over here,” Savannah said, guiding her to a cozy, U-shaped booth in the back . . . one where they could both sit with their backs to the wall. Strategy was everything.

  As they slipped in, Savannah said, “I’ll get in the middle, you on one side. Don’t let anybody sit next to you; we need an escape route.”

  “Gotcha.” Tammy glanced around at a dozen faces, all looking like mug shots, who were ogling them. “Do you see him?”

  “Don’t know. I don’t want to look around yet and be too obvious about it.”

  Tammy flinched. “Oh, yeah . . . sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  A heavyset guy with sweat stains under his pits and booze stains on his long-ago-white apron came out from behind the bar and sauntered over to them. “What’ll you ladies be having tonight?”

  Tammy perked up at the mention of refreshment. “I’ll be having a min—”

  “A couple of beers,” Savannah said, squeezing Tammy’s knee under the table. “Whatever you have on draft will be fine.”

  “Beer? Why did you order me a beer?” Tammy whispered as he turned to walk away. “You know I don’t like to drink anything but—”

  “Mineral water. Yes, I know. Come on, Tammy. You’re undercover here. You can’t sip Perrier in a place like this. Dirk’s right; you are a fluff head.”

  “A healthy one.”

  “Obnoxiously healthy . . . so one beer won’t hurt you. You gotta nurse it all evening anyway. We have to stay alert, just in case this Edward fellow turns out to be a rocket scientist and we have to outwit him.”

  At that moment, a skinny, emaciated fellow who looked fifty-something going on eighty walked through the door. Edward Stipp was only a shell of the man he had been in his early twenties when he had made that police officer kneel and beg for his life . . . the life Stipp had taken anyway.

  Savannah resisted the urge to pull her Beretta out of her purse and shove it in his left ear . . . although she did play with the fantasy for a few seconds before turning to Tammy.

  “That’s our date for the evening. The William Holden over there in the gray sweatshirt with the swollen black eye.”

  Tammy’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “William? I thought you said his name was Ed something.”

  “It is. William Holden was an old . . . oh, man . . . sometimes you make me feel like an Edsel.”

  “Ed who?”

  “Forget it and look seductive. We’ve got a pigeon to pluck.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the “pigeon” was sitting at their table, already missing a few tail feathers. Having bolted several shots of whiskey, Edward Stipp had succumbed to Savannah’s considerable down-homey charms and was pouring out his life story to her and Tammy. All except the San Quentin part, which he had edited from his narrative.

  “So, you’ve been a legal advisor for the past thirty years,” she mused. “How interesting. Where did you get your law degree?”

  “I don’t have a degree,” he said proudly as he studied his empty shot glass with his one good eye. Dirk—or rather, the door frame at the station—had done a real number on the other one. “I’ve just had a lot of spare time on my hands, so I studied law and gave advice to my buddies who needed it.”

  Savannah bit her tongue and painted a sweet smile on her lips so that she wouldn’t spit on him. Scum like this kept the legal system mired down with ridiculous lawsuits about the fat content of their prison menu and the thickness of their pillow. Furnished with a law library that most pre-law students wou
ld envy, these jailhouse “lawyers” spent hours poring over texts that would instruct them how to bring such asinine charges.

  “I wish you’d been around yesterday for me and my friend here,” Savannah said, nodding toward Tammy, who was trying not to make a wry face every time she took a sip of her now lukewarm beer. “The cops were hassling us . . . picked us up at the corner of Lester and Oak . . . seemed to think we were working girls.”

  Ed looked them up and down with his good eye. “Well, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Tammy said, “but we weren’t then. Once in a while, even pros have to go grocery shopping.”

  Ed waved to the barkeeper for another round of drinks. Having consumed his, he didn’t seem to notice that the ladies hadn’t finished theirs yet. That was the way Savannah liked her pigeons . . . soused.

  “Those cops are always hassling innocent people,” he said after the bartender had brought another transfusion for him and had removed the women’s barely touched drinks and replaced them with cold brews. “They picked me up yesterday, too, for no good reason and gave me hell for more than an hour.”

  “You? An upstanding legal advisor?” Savannah looked adequately shocked. Tammy grinned and buried her nose in the suds, pretending to drink. “You too? Don’t tell me you were hanging out at Lester and Oak.”

  “Naw, this detective guy, a real jerk, wanted to ask me some questions about these missing cops.”

  Tammy licked her lips. “Realty? Why would they ask you about something like that?”

  Edward smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “Let’s just say I’m not known for being a fan of law enforcement.”

  “So, this cop—the guy who questioned you—was a real creep, huh?” Savannah said, coaxing as gently as possible. Even drunk, he could get spooked and clam up before she heard anything good.

  But, thankfully, Ed seemed to be in a chatty mood. “Yeah,” he said. “He bounced me off a wall; that’s how I got this.” He pointed to his shiner. “I could have ended the talk right away, told him what he wanted to know, but I wasn’t going to make life any easier for him or any other cop, not if I can help it.”

  Savannah glanced over at Tammy, who was all ears.

  “What do you mean?” Savannah leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “What could you have told him that he wanted to hear?”

  “Oh, like that I couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with those cops getting burned. I’ve been in a Vegas slammer for the past two weeks. I mixed it up with one of those rent-a-cops in a casino there. I just got back in town day before yesterday.”

  “I see.” Savannah felt her spirits plummet. He was telling her the truth; she could see the sincerity shining in his one good eye. They were back to square one.

  She nudged Tammy. “I think we’d better get going. I’ve got some Christmas stuff to do.”

  Instantly, Ed turned indignant. “What do you mean? I thought we were getting along great here. I thought . . . you know . . . this was a date or something.”

  Savannah waited until she and Tammy were well out of the booth and had their purses tucked under their arms, her car keys in her hand before she said, “Sorry, Ed. But like we told you when you first sat down, we’re off duty.”

  “That’s right,” Tammy added. “Even working girls have Christmas presents to wrap.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  December 18—7:40 P.M.

  “Are you all right, Savannah?” Ryan Stone asked as he stood beside her in her kitchen and watched as she arranged slices of apple, chunks of banana, strawberries, oranges and cubes of pound cake on a silver platter. “You seem tired or preoccupied. Is there anything we can do to help?”

  She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m fine, Ryan. Thanks for asking. It’s just that . . . going to a funeral in the afternoon, then giving a Christmas party in the evening . . . it doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  “Of course not. There’s nothing right about murder, ever.” He took a slice of apple and nibbled on it. “If a person dies of natural causes or even a simple accident, it’s easier to believe that their passing was part of a divine plan. But homicide. Never.”

  She walked over to the stove and stirred the chocolate mixture that was heating in the double boiler. The rich aroma filled the air. For Savannah, the scent of chocolate was as much a part of Christmas as the smell of pine or bayberry. At times like this, she missed her Gran’s homemade fudge and walnut divinity. Mostly, she just missed her Gran.

  “Joe McGivney’s widow was a mess,” she told him as she added a bit of cream to the mix. “Not that the rest of us were much better. When they played ‘Amazing Grace’ on the bagpipes, there wasn’t a dry eye in sight.”

  “I know what you mean. The bagpipes always get me, too.”

  John Gibson had entered the kitchen in time to hear their last exchange. “I saw the procession going down Harrington Boulevard,” he said. “There must have been peace officers there from all over the state.”

  “And some from Arizona and Nevada.” She poured the chocolate into a large fondue pot as Ryan steadied it for her. “Nothing like a show of strength and support to make a public statement. The sight of acres of squad cars, rolling silently down the street, lights flashing, should be enough to make John Q. Public think twice before he takes out a cop.”

  “One would think so,” Gibson said. “But it appears a certain Mr. Public hasn’t gotten the message yet.”

  Savannah handed the platter to Ryan and the pot in its wrought iron stand to Gibson. “If you gentlemen would kindly transfer that to the dining room table, I’ll get some plates. And then we can all consume far more calories and saturated fat than the surgeon general would recommend.”

  “And savor every morsel, I’m sure,” Gibson said, sniffing the chocolate.

  The moment food appeared on the table, Dirk materialized. “I was out there in the living room,” he told Savannah, “trying to entertain your depressed sister and be Christmasy, like you asked me to. And I could hear you guys in here talking about my case.”

  “How’s it coming?” Ryan asked as Savannah motioned for them to take seats around the table. “Any good leads?”

  “Hardly any leads, good or rotten,” Dirk replied as he started to load his plate with fruit and cake.

  Savannah noticed that, for once, Dirk was too discouraged, tired and hungry to care that he was talking to someone with a different sexual orientation. He seemed to welcome input from a professional, and although Ryan and Gibson had left the Bureau years ago, they had lent their expertise to several of Savannah’s investigations.

  With Dirk’s case effectively stalled, he was eager for help from any and all quarters.

  She left them to their discussions and walked into the living room, where she had her third True Spirit of Christmas experience this season. Her sister was sitting in Savannah’s favorite chair, the overstuffed wingbacked affair with the wide, comfy footstool. The two cats, Cleopatra and Diamante, had rolled themselves into black, furry balls on either side of Vidalia’s feet. All three were asleep.

  On the end of the sofa, beside the twinkling Christmas tree, Margie had curled up with the twins, their heads bent over Savannah’s ancient copy of The Night Before Christmas. The teenager was reading to them, and they were totally absorbed. Savannah could tell they were near the end of the story, so she decided not to disturb them with an invitation to the table.

  She walked back into the kitchen/dining area and put on a pot of coffee to brew. Then she joined the men at the table. They were as involved with their discussion as the kids had been with their book. Though the subject matter was anything but festive.

  “Anyone who would stick a cop’s badge in his mouth has a lot of rage about something,” Ryan said. “Whether his anger is over a particular issue, or if he lives his life in rage, that’s the question.”

  “Among the chaps you’ve questioned,” Gibson asked Dirk, “who do you consider most likely to be your f
ellow?”

  “I really don’t know. I’ve got a young guy, a football star, who I like for the rapes. But I don’t know why he would come after the cops. No connection from him to them that I can see.”

  “And we had a possible on a recently released cop killer,” Savannah said, helping herself to an orange slice and dipping it in the melted chocolate. “But, turns out, he’s been in the Nevada system most of the time this has been going on. So, he’s a bust.”

  “We’ve got a weird situation with some rings,” Dirk said, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a small evidence envelope. “Don’t say anything about this, because we haven’t released it to the public, but it seems our missing cop, and our two dead ones all owned rings like this.”

  “DeCianni, too?” Savannah said, surprised.

  “I asked his grieving girlfriend about it today after McGivney’s funeral. Says he’s got one, but hardly ever wears it. Never told her where he got it. This one was McGivney’s,” he told Ryan. “And, even more interesting, our last rape victim had a bruise on her face that could have easily been made by a ring like this.” He shook the star-studded ring out of the envelope and handed it to Ryan.

  “Now that is interesting,” Ryan said, examining it closely. “It’s almost like a class ring, or . . .”

  He handed it to Gibson, who fingered it thoughtfully. “Or some sort of fraternity.”

  “I’ve talked to all three women: Titus’s girlfriend, McGivney’s wife, and DeCianni’s girl. They say the men almost never wore the rings and never said where they got them. In fact, DeCianni’s girlfriend and him had a big fight about his. She thought maybe some other girl gave it to him.”

  “I’m sure you’ve shown that to your rape victims,” Ryan said.

  “Of course I did. And no, they don’t particularly remember it. A couple gave me a weak ‘maybe.’ And Yardley was the only one with a star-shaped bruise.”

  “Have you shown this around your station house,” Gibson asked, “to see if anybody has a clue as to what it might mean? They might even know if someone else wears such a thing.”