Cereal Killer

by G. A. McKevett

  Slick with the ladies, my hind end, she thought as she watched him moving among the models, handling their limbs, playing with their hair, adjusting their clothes in ways that she could only classify as slimy.

  No doubt a certain amount of physical contact had to occur between professionals in these circumstances. It wasn’t what he was doing that gave her the heebie-jeebies but the lecherous gleam in his eye when he was handling some of the ladies. Especially the gal with the French accent, whom Savannah now knew as Desiree La Port There was no doubt that Desiree thought a great deal more of herself than her sister models thought of her. While Savannah’s partners at the makeup table simply ignored Desiree as she flounced and giggled before the camera, Tesla Montoya openly shot her hostile looks. And the lack of chemistry—or even civility—between the two women proved to be a challenge for the photographer.

  “Could the two of you move a bit closer to each other?” he said. “I need some tight shots of you and the product. Tesla, your shoulder slightly behind Desiree’s, and lean into her... more... more. Tilt your head a little in her direction....”

  Tesla was following his directions, but it was obvious that her heart wasn’t in her work.

  Finally, even Matt Slater acknowledged the fact: “Tesla, what’s with you today? You look like crap. Your eyes are all swollen, your face puffy. Don’t tell me you partied last night, the night before a shoot.”

  “Hardly,” Tesla said, in a voice so low they could scarcely hear her.

  To Savannah’s surprise, Matt Slater seemed to sprout a conscience. His tone softened, and he walked over to place his hand on her shoulder. For once, there was no lusty sparkle in his eye.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “We’re all a little down today about Cait and Kameeka. We probably should have canceled the shoot, but—”

  “No way,” piped up Jerrod Beekman. He had been sitting quietly in a folding chair at the perimeter of the action, leaving his seat occasionally to pace and smoke a cigarette.

  He strode over to the spa, where Tesla sat on the edge, a bowl of cereal in her hand, the all-important box of Slenda Flakes prominently displayed on the tiles between her and Desiree.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here today,” he said. “But we’ve got a lot of ground to cover to get this campaign back on track. This thing with Cait and Kameeka couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

  For a moment, Tesla Montoya’s sad eyes flashed as she glared up at him. “I guess there’s just no convenient time to get murdered,” she said in a tone so smooth, yet full of bitterness, that everyone on the set held their collective breath.

  “Sorry,” Jerrod replied, looking anything but remorseful. “It’s awful what happened to them. But life goes on.”

  “Not for them,” Tesla shot back.

  She stood and set her bowl down on the tiles so hard that they could hear it crack. Turning to Desiree, she said, “For some of us it worked out just fine. But for Cait and Kameeka...”

  Without another word, she left the area, heading toward the makeshift dressing “room” at the rear of the deck. As she passed her, Savannah saw tears in her eyes, and her whole body was shaking.

  After Tesla disappeared behind the curtain, Savannah waited for someone to go after her, perhaps to comfort her. But no one made a move until Jerrod Beekman said, “Lost ground, folks. That’s what we’ve got to recover. Let’s get going.”

  But Matt Slater seemed to think better of it. He shook his head and said, “No, Jerrod. I’ll do some more product shots here with Desiree, but other than that, it’s over for today. I was right the first time when I thought we should reschedule in a couple of days.”

  “A couple of days? Are you nuts?” Jerrod’s face flushed and his fists clenched at his sides. “First we have a couple of models who are supposed to be losing weight, who aren’t. And now we’ve got so-called professionals moping on the job! I don’t need this! Wentworth Industries expects us to launch this campaign in six weeks and where are we? Square one!”

  Matt took a couple of steps toward the ad exec, a calm but firm look on his face. “Like I said, that’s it for today, Jerrod. I’m working with human beings here, not just boxes of corn flakes, okay?”

  Jerrod hesitated a couple of heavy seconds, then reached into his pocket for his cigarette pack. Tapping one out, he moved back behind his chair and started to pace again.

  Deciding that she probably wouldn’t be missed, Savannah decided to try her luck once more with Tesla Montoya behind the dressing curtain. She might be able to glean a little something more out of her and if not, she could at least offer a bit of sympathy... since no one else on the set seemed interested in doing so.

  But as Savannah approached the curtain, she was surprised to hear Tesla talking on the other side.

  She was even more surprised when she heard her say, “Detective Coulter, yes.”

  Savannah stopped a few feet from the curtain and listened.

  Nothing at first. Then Tesla said, “Okay, when he gets in, would you ask him to call me. Tell him it’s very important. No, I want to talk to the detective who’s handling the case and he’s the one... yes... my name is Tesla Montoya and...”

  She went on to leave her phone numbers, the one at home, at the agency, and her cell, insisting that he call her the minute he got her message.

  Then she hung up, and Savannah could hear her making another call.

  “Tesla Montoya here,” she was saying. “I need to see Dr. Pappas. Now. Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  On die other side of the curtain, Savannah’s heart was racing. Dirk had a lead, and it sounded like a hot one.

  Damn, if she weren’t pretending to be some sort of half-assed, wannabe model, she could just approach Tesla here and now, and identify herself. She might tell her whatever juicy info she was saving for Dirk.

  It was still worth a try.

  She stepped behind the curtain just in time to see Tesla slip her phone into her purse. Startled, Tesla jumped and gave her a suspicious look, one laced with fear and the still palpable element of guilt.

  “Are you okay?” Savannah asked, as simply and sincerely as she could.

  “No.” Tesla turned her back to her and began to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt over her swimsuit. “I’m not”

  “Can I help?”

  When Tesla finished slipping on a pair of sneakers, she picked up her purse and finally turned to Savannah. Tears were streaming down her face. “No, you can’t help,” she said. “Nobody can help. Nobody but me.”

  A moment later, she was gone, leaving Savannah with a burning curiosity... and a desperate need to call Dirk.

  “Call me, you knucklehead,” was the less-than-gracious message Savannah left on Dirk’s answering service. “What’s the point in having a cell phone if you don’t pick it up? Geez.”

  But by the time she’d returned to her home, she hadn’t heard from him.

  With anyone else she might have worried, but Dirk had been the last person she knew to get a cell phone, proclaiming that the darned things were a violation of one’s privacy. Or as he had put it, “A guy can’t take a drive, a leak, or a nap without everybody expecting him to be available.”

  He was famous for switching his off, or just ignoring the buzz when he had something more important to do besides chat—like read the morning comic strips or watch wrestling on TV.

  As Savannah drove up her street, she spotted Marietta’s rental car parked smack in the middle of her two-car driveway. And she realized that, once again, she’d be parking the Mustang on the street—something she was loath to do after treating the pony to a new, bright red paint job a few months ago. New paint just seemed to be a magnet for yahoos with no brains in their heads and a set of keys in their hands.

  But along with her irritation, Savannah couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved. When she had left the house that morning, Marietta hadn’t yet returned from her big date the night before. And all day Savannah had bee
n fighting off the fear that she might find her sister in much the same sorry state as those poor, murdered girls.

  At least Mari had survived her cyberencounter, although Savannah wasn’t exactly looking forward to a pity party with Marietta wearing the victim hat if it hadn’t gone well.

  Then there was the other possibility that wasn’t pretty either—having to listen to salacious details about their lusty evening and having to smile, nod, and say, “Oh, how lovely for you, dear,” in all the right places.

  Not to mention fighting one’s gag reflex.

  Either way, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to an evening spent with Mari, Mari, Sometimes Contrary and Almost Always Love-Struck.

  But when she walked into the house and entered the living room, she saw a Marietta sitting on her sofa who didn’t really fit either category. She looked perplexed and more than a little worried.

  Tammy sat at the desk, her back to Marietta, deeply absorbed in something on the computer screen. So completely absorbed that Savannah had a feeling it was an avoidance ploy to keep from having to engage in conversation with their guest

  “Hi, Marietta,” Savannah said brightly as she shoved her model’s kit into a space behind her easy chair. “What’s shakin’, sugar?”

  Marietta shot a nervous look at the telephone, which was lying on the coffee table in front of her and said, “Don’t know yet”

  Ah,Savannah thought. We’re waiting for Prince Charming to call. Oh, joy.

  She turned to Tammy, who had suddenly become less occupied. “Heard anything from Dirk this afternoon?”

  “Nope,” Tammy replied. “But Leah Freed’s called three times in the last hour, wanting to know if you’ve found out anything. How was the shoot?”

  “Well, I’m shot, if that’s what you mean. Dead tired. Who would have thought that getting your picture taken was such hard work? I have to tell you, I have a whole new respect for those Victoria’s Secret models. Those girls work their fannies off.”

  As she walked past them toward the kitchen, she said, “I’m gonna have some ice tea, strong and sweet. You girls want anything?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Tammy responded.

  Marietta glanced toward the kitchen, then back at the telephone in front of her. “No, I guess not.”

  Savannah sighed. “I’ll bring it to you,” she said. “Or you can bring the phone into the kitchen. It’s cordless, you know.”

  Marietta looked down at her watch and frowned. “Yeah, okay. Bring it to me. Lots of ice and a lemon slice, too.”

  A few moments later, Savannah returned with the two drinks. She gave one to her sister, then sat down in her easy chair and put her feet up.

  Life was good for three seconds. Then Marietta said, “Why doesn’t he call? He said he’d call me so that we could make plans for this evening, and the afternoon’s near gone. Why hasn’t he called?”

  Savannah had heard Marietta sing this tune far too many times to be even mildly surprised. Every note was far too predictable and inevitably off-key.

  “So, I guess it went okay last night?” Savannah ventured, knowing she’d be sorry she asked.

  “Okay?” For a few seconds, Marietta’s eyes glazed over and a sappy smile curved her lips. “It was heaven. Plain ol’ heaven here on earth. That was, without a doubt, the most totally fulfilling night of lovemaking I’ve ever experienced. And the way we bonded... oh...”

  Savannah stifled a groan and silently sent Dirk a mental message: Call me, you nincompoop! Call me and rescue me from—

  “And oh, that guy may not look exactly like the picture he sent me, but I mean to tell you, girl, he knows how to please a woman. That there guy satisfied me in ways that I never even knowed I could be...”

  Now, Dirk! Now! Call me and I’ll owe you the biggest favor. I might even have sex with you after all these years if you ’Il just call me....

  “I gotta tell you,” Marietta rolled on, “that by the time he was done with my body, I was as limp as a rag doll. But no, no, no, he wasn’t! No siree, Bob! T’weren’t nothin’ limp about that boy! Why he could go all night long and still...”

  Buzz.

  The phone on the coffee table was ringing, and to Savannah’s ears it sounded like an angel choir.

  She jumped to get it, but Marietta beat her to it. “Hello?” Marietta breathed, in the same tone that Savannah had heard obscene callers use.

  Just as quickly, Marietta’s demeanor changed to that of a disgusted, pouting teenager. “It’s for you,” she said, thrusting the phone into Savannah’s hand. “It’s that Dirk guy.”

  “Dirk!” Savannah said, trying to conceal her glee and failing miserably. “I was hoping you’d call.” She glanced at her sister, whose pout was deepening by the moment “I mean... I have something to ask you.”

  “Ooo-kay. Shoot.” Dirk sounded confused by the unexpected enthusiasm, but intrigued.

  “Did you talk to a model named Tesla Montoya yet?”

  “No. I got the message that she’d called. But you’d left two messages and you sounded hot and bothered so I thought I’d better return yours first.”

  “Call her,” she said. “Call her right away. I was with her at the shoot today, and I don’t know what she’s got for you, but I’ll bet it’s good.”

  “Okay. I’ll call her now.”

  Savannah glanced over at Marietta, who was obviously dying by the moment because the phone was being tied up.

  “Yeah, all right,” Savannah continued. “I can come over and help you out with that... if you really need me to, that is.”

  Dirk was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What?”

  “My sister, Marietta, is visiting, you know, but if you really need me...”

  Dirk chuckled. “Oh, I gotcha. I just got done talking to Kevin Connor. I’m outside his house now. But if you want to escape, I’ll meet you at the park in half an hour.”

  “Ten minutes, you say?” She nodded vigorously. “Yes,

  I can be there. See you soon.”

  Marietta practically snatched the phone out of her hand the moment she had finished the call. “I hope he wasn’t trying to call while you were gabbing there,” she said.

  Savannah quirked one eyebrow. “Excuse me, but I wasn’t on that long and anyway, isn’t it my phone?” Marietta shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, but it’s really important that he get through to me if he wants to.”

  “I figure if he called and the line was busy, he’d call back, right? If he really wanted to get in touch, that is.” Oops.

  Judging from the way that Marietta’s nostrils were flaring, Savannah decided that might have been the wrong thing to say.

  “I gotta go.” She hurried toward the door. “Mari, j hope he calls. Tammy, go on home if you want to.”

  Not wasting any time, Tammy caught up with her before she reached the sidewalk.

  Savannah laughed. ‘You’re running like your drawers are on fire,” she told her. “Had enough of Marietta for one day?”

  “Oh, please,” Tammy returned, “I’ve been listening to that crap all day. And don’t look now, Sister Savannah, but your shorts are smoking, too.”

  Chapter

  11

  Savannah found Dirk in the park, sitting at the same picnic bench where they had recently shared their lunch. It seemed like such a long time since then, she thought as she felt the weight of two lost lives bearing down on her.

  Someday I've got to learn not to take this stuff personally, she thought as she passed the sandbox and swing-set area to join him at the table. And the day I don't take it personally is the day I should quit this business and take up needlepoint.

  As she approached, he put out his cigarette with a guilty smile. A week ago he had “quit.” Again. Thanks to her constant nagging, he had gotten quite good at quitting. He did it at least once a month.

  “Had to get away?” he said as she sat across from him on the opposite bench.

  “Big time,” she replied. “When you called, I wa
s sitting there praying that I’d hear from you. I owe you one.”

  The smile slid off his face. “Okay, then help me with this case. I’m getting nowhere fast.”

  “Did you get in touch with Tesla Montoya?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I called her back, left a message at her home phone and her cell. I even drove by her house on the way over here and nobody was home.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Just around the corner. She’s got an apartment in an old house behind City Hall.”

  “Hmmm... now that I think about it...” Savannah tapped her nails on the picnic table top. “She called a doctor after she called you. His name is Pappas. I think she was going to his office. Maybe she’s still there.”

  Dirk reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out his cell phone. “I hate to bother anybody who’s in the middle of a doctor’s appointment,” he said, “but if you think she’s really got something...”

  “She sounded pretty serious about wanting to talk to you. And she said something about nobody being able to help the situation—except for her.”

  Dirk punched some numbers into the phone. “Coulter here,” he said. “I need an address on a Dr. Pappas.” He made a face. “I don’t know if he’s local or not. Try for a local listing and then spread out. Sheez. Not likely to make detective anytime soon, are you, Sherlock?” Covering the phone with his hand, he said, “I don’t know where the department gets these jokers. They couldn’t find their butts with their hands cuffed behind ’em.”

  “So, next time, don’t call the station house, just dial 411 for Directory Assistance like everybody else in the world.” He looked at her as though she’d suddenly sprouted another head, then grunted. “Hurrumph. Don’t interrupt me when I’m talkin’.”

  A second later, he pulled out a small notebook and pen and started scribbling. “Okay, 452 Santa Barbara Avenue. Thanks. Now, was that so hard?”

  He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Let’s go,” he said. “It’s over by the hospital.”