As they were walking across the grass to his Buick, he suddenly stopped and gave her a funny, searching look.
Long ago, Savannah had decided that Dirk had a problem with multitasking... like walking and talking at the same time. It was a guy thing.
“Will they really give you an address if you call regular ol’ Directory Assistance?”
“Sometimes. But you’ve gotta ask nice,” she told him. He thought it over, grumbled a bit, shook his head, and started walking again.
“Yeah...” she said, catching up to him. ‘You’d probably have more luck with the station.”
Like many of the physicians in San Carmelita, Dr. Pappas conducted his practice in one of the dreary, generic office buildings that surrounded Community General Hospital. The no-frills structures with their flat roofs, faded paint, and empty flower beds did little to cheer the patients who visited the obstetricians, dentists, chiropractors, podiatrists, and proctologists who practiced there.
Dr. Pappas’s shingle on his dingy front door identified him as a weight-loss specialist.
“Big surprise there,” Savannah remarked as she pointed out the sign to Dirk. “Do you see a recurring theme with these women?”
‘Yeah, they’re all nuts when it comes to their weight.” He gave a contemptuous little snort. ‘You don’t see us guys obsessing about the size of our butts.”
She glanced down at his tummy which, over the years she had known him, had definitely expanded. It wasn’t exactly lapping over his belt, but if he kept eating half a dozen doughnuts for breakfast and two Jumbo Bonanza Burgers for lunch, it soon would.
And it didn’t matter one diddly-do to her.
Dirk was Dirk, no matter the size of his belly. It would never occur to her to evaluate a friend according to their weight.
And she didn’t know many woman who would judge another person by size. So, why did they judge themselves so harshly?
“Girls have to get smart about weight,” she muttered as they entered the office.
“Yep. And they’ve gotta stop worrying about what us guys think, too. A lot of us like a broad with some junk in the trunk.”
“Junk in the trunk?” She didn’t know whether to hit him or kiss him... a common dilemma with Dirk.
So, as usual, she ignored him.
They walked into a crowded waiting room and looked around. As Dirk might have predicted, they were all females, in every size and shape imaginable. But the pretty Latin model wasn’t among them.
Dirk gave Savannah a questioning look, and she shook her head. He walked up to the receptionist’s window and discreetly flashed his badge. “Is Tesla Montoya in with the doctor?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
The sweet-faced nurse behind the glass instantly dropped her sweet face. “No, she’s not,” she snapped. “She hasn’t shown up, and we were expecting her over an hour ago. Didn’t even call to cancel.”
Savannah felt her stomach sink. One glance at Dirk’s face told her that he was feeling the same.
“So, Montoya had an appointment?” he asked the nurse.
“No. She called and asked us to fit her in. Then she didn’t even show. Just wait until the next time she wants to come in without an appointment.”
Dirk glanced back at the crowded waiting room. “Yeah, heaven knows how long she’d have to hang around, cooling her heels, if she didn’t have an appointment.”
Savannah reached for Dirk’s arm and pulled him away from the window. “Thank you,” she told the nurse. “Have a good day.”
Once outside the office, standing in the courtyard with its flowerless flower boxes and cracked sidewalks, Dirk shook her hand off his arm and said, “Did that Montoya chick seem like somebody who wouldn’t show up for an appointment without calling?”
“Nope.”
“That’s what I figured.”
He took out his phone and his notebook and punched in a number. After a few rings, he said, “Ms. Montoya, this is Detective Coulter again. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s very important that I talk to you right away.” Then he hung up and turned to Savannah. “What now?” Savannah’s mind raced. “We’ve got to find her, before...”
She couldn’t say it.
‘Yeah,” he said. “Before.”
“Back to her house?”
He shook his head. “We’re not going to find her there.”
‘You got any better ideas of where to look?”
This time he took her arm. “Let’s go,” he said, propelling her toward the parking lot. “She’s not going to be there, but if we’re lucky, at least maybe the floor won’t be freshly mopped.”
“One can always hope.”
No doubt the old house on the hill above City Hall had been lovely in its day. With its high-pitched roof, gables, and ornate gingerbread trim, the turn-of-the-century “painted lady” looked as if she needed a new coat of lipstick and rouge.
With illusions of herself as a renovator/decorator, Savannah would have loved to get her hands on something like that house, to restore it to all of its former grandeur. But not having at least a cool million socked away for such a time-consuming venture, not to mention the time and energy to spend the next ten years cleaning, scraping, and painting, she had decided to stick with her own little house.
When the burning desire to refurbish something became overwhelming—usually after watching a show on the Home & Garden TV channel—she reminded herself of the leak under her kitchen sink, and that was usually enough to stifle the urge.
But she couldn’t help saying, “Beautiful old house,” as they walked up the sidewalk to the front door.
“Eh, it’s a dump. You couldn’t give me a mess like this.”
Savannah thought of his rusted house trailer and the yard that surrounded it—a bed of gravel. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it and swallowed the comment.
Sometimes she was just in the mood to be kind.
“She lives in the back,” he said, leading Savannah to the right and along the wide veranda that wrapped all the way around the house.
At the back of the home, a quaint Dutch door bore a brass plaque with the letter B scrolled on it. The window in the upper half of the door was covered by a lace curtain. On either side of the door, the window drapes were drawn.
“Looks like it did when I was here before,” Dirk said, tapping his knuckles on the window glass. “This was a waste of time.”
“Probably, but you’ve gotta start somewhere,” Savannah replied—the sunbeam forever trying to penetrate his clouds of doom and gloom. It was a thankless task, one that she couldn’t seem to break herself of doing.
When no one answered his knock, he hammered his fist on the lower wooden half.
Other than a dog who started barking in the yard next door, there was no response.
“Try the door,” Savannah said, nudging him with her elbow.
“Oh, yeah, right. We’re gonna get lucky two times in a row...
He jiggled the knob, but it was locked.
“That’s it,” she said. “A no-go.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Savannah gave him a suspicious side glance. There was no mistaking the mischievous tone in his voice. The one he always got just before he did something that would eventually land him on the police chief s carpet.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, cocking his head sideways and listening intently.
Savannah grinned. They had played this game before, but not for a while. You had to rotate games pretty frequently. Police Chief Hillquist might be a jerk, but he wasn’t stupid.
‘Yeah, I think I did,” she said, cupping her hand behind her right ear. “Sounded like somebody calling out for help to me.”
“That’s what it sounded like to me, too. I think we’d better break in.”
“And make it snappy.”
“Chiefs gonna be pissed,” he said as he pulled his jacket sleeve down over his hand.
‘Yeah, well... wouldn’t be the first ti
me. Or the last.”
With hardly any force at all, Dirk gave the lower right-hand glass panel one sharp rap, and it shattered.
“What’s the point of even locking your door when you’ve got glass three inches from the knob?” she said as he carefully reached inside and opened the door.
“Really,” he said. “I wouldn’t have glass in my trailer door for nothin’.”
For half a second, Savannah entertained the idea of an elaborate stained-glass window in the door of Dirk’s humble trailer, and she nearly giggled.
But any inclination toward laughter disappeared the instant Dirk opened the door and she caught a glimpse of what was inside.
“Damn,” Dirk whispered as he pushed the door all the way open.
They both drew their guns and each took a position on either side of the door, where between the two of them, they could see all of the room inside.
“Clear,” Savannah said.
He nodded. “Clear.”
Guns leading the way, they stepped inside the tiny studio apartment that looked as though an invading army had tramped through it.
The coffee table was overturned, its mirror top broken in several pieces. A bookshelf lay on its face, its books, pictures, and bric-a-brac scattered on the floor.
In the kitchenette area in the right rear of the room, pans, dishes, glasses, and a potted plant had been knocked to the floor. Dirt and shattered pottery lay everywhere.
Cautiously, Dirk poked his gun, then his head into the bathroom to the left. “It’s clear, too,” he said.
Savannah looked under the twin bed that was perfectly made, the only thing in the room that seemed to be undisturbed. All she saw was a row of shoe boxes.
“Here, too,” she said, straightening up and looking around her with a heavy, sick feeling that felt a lot like failure. “He got to her before we did,” she said.
“He? How do you know it wasn’t a she? Or a they?"
“Get real,” she snapped, in no mood to argue gender-correctness with him. “It’s almost always a friggin’ he. ” But for once, Dirk didn’t seem inclined to argue either. He shrugged. “True... but it’s not exactly a given.”
“How about Kevin Connor?” she asked. “It’s usually a he, and it’s usually the husband or the boyfriend.”
“Connor’s alibi is airtight. He was at work all day.”
“You checked that?” Savannah could hear the fury in her own voice, but she didn’t care.
“I checked it, Van. They say he never left the hospital. Every minute of his day is accounted for,” he said softly. “Take it easy, honey.”
Savannah wasn’t above feeding a guy his teeth for calling her “honey” or “sweetie” or “babe.” But she could tell by the soft look in Dirk’s eyes that he meant it. She was busting his chops, and he was answering her with kindness.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just...”
“I know. Me, too.”
Savannah shook her head. “No, you don’t know. I just spent the afternoon with Tesla. She’s a doll, a real lady. I knew she was worried, and I wasn’t able to draw it out of her.”
‘You talked to her. You did what you could. It wasn’t exactly the best of circumstances to interview somebody, what with you being undercover and all.”
“I should have pressed her. I should have dropped the stupid charade and taken her aside and done what it took to get her to talk to me.”
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda... water under the bridge. We’ll find her.”
Savannah winced as she looked around the room and contemplated what sort of violence it would have taken to accomplish this mess. What sort of pain would be inflicted on a body that was being bounced off furniture and walls like that.
“At least there’s no blood,” Dirk added, kneeling down and looking at the floor. “He’s getting cocky. Didn’t even bother to clean up this time.”
“He?”
“Yeah, he.” Looking up at her, he gave her a wink. “You’re right, of course. It’s almost always one of us worthless dudes that done it.”
“I wouldn’t say you guys are worthless,” she said, “just...”
Her voice trailed away as she knelt beside the rust-colored suede sofa and stared at a dark spot on the cushion.
“What is it?” he asked.
She pulled a latex glove out of her purse and slipped it on. Then she carefully dabbed at the spot with one fingertip.
Holding up the finger, she showed him the dark red smudge on the glove. “Looks like we spoke too soon.”
Chapter
12
Ordinarily, having an assortment of the people she loved most in the world around her table was Savannah’s favorite pastime. She found it fun to feed almost anyone, let alone her favorite folks.
But tonight, the mood was less celebratory than usual with the meeting of the official Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency gang. Two unsolved murders and a third missing woman could put a damper on any party.
Savannah sat at the head of the table with Dirk at the foot. To her right was Tammy, her notebook computer on the table in front of her. And to Savannah’s left sat a couple of the most attractive and heartbreakingly unattainable men she knew: Ryan Stone and John Gibson.
With his stunning good looks and winning smile, the tall, dark, and handsome Ryan could have done anything from acting to shaving commercials to squiring wealthy ladies to social events for big bucks.
But both he and John, his life partner, had taken early retirements from the FBI and now spent their time doing private investigations and providing security for the rich, famous, and powerful—when they weren’t summering on the French Riviera, cruising the Mediterranean, or exploring the Amazon jungle with a shaman guide.
Savannah and Tammy were both madly in love with Ryan and the older—but no less delicious—silver-haired British fox, John... for all the good it did them. To their dismay, no amount of feminine wiles had altered either man’s sexual orientation. But Savannah had finally decided that simply being adored by these two elegant, sensitive, and charming hunks was enough. With Ryan and John, the role of “friend” didn’t seem like Second Prize.
And tonight, maybe because Dirk was feeling a bit swamped by his investigations, he seemed more grateful than usual to receive whatever input the two had to offer.
“No,” he was telling John, “the ME couldn’t find anything that would indicate homicide on the Connor death. Looks like an accident, but Van and I don’t think so, because of the second one. And then this other gal’s gone missing.”
John took a sip of his Earl Grey tea and nodded thoughtfully. “Your second young lady,” he continued in his exquisitely proper British accent, “was most assuredly murdered?”
‘Yeah,” Dirk replied. “Dr. Liu says the body had none of the usual pedestrian versus vehicle injuries.”
Tammy pointed to her computer. “That’s true. I’ve been doing my Internet research, and when a car hits a jogger or a walker, the most common injury is to the lower legs, where the bumper first makes contact.”
“And Kameeka Wills died of cerebral hemorrhage, caused by a blow to the head with a blunt object,” Savannah added. “The only signs that she’d been in contact with a vehicle were the tire marks across her upper thighs.”
“And,” Dirk said, “Dr. Liu says those were postmortem.”
“Just one blow to the head?” Ryan wanted to know. “Yeah, but apparently it was a nasty one.” Dirk grimaced and took a long drink from his coffee mug. “Fractured her skull.”
“Any ideas on the weapon?” Ryan asked.
Dirk shook his head. “Not for sure, but Dr. Liu said she’d seen that sort of injury before and thought it was from a baseball bat.”
“A man’s weapon,” Ryan said.
Tammy looked up from her computer screen where she was taking meticulous notes of the meeting. Notes no one would ever read, but she liked to feel useful. “Hey, I was pretty awesome with a bat when I was in Girls’ Little League.”
“Bully for you,” Dirk said. “So, everybody, Tammy’s a suspect, along with all the guys in the picture.”
“What guys?” John asked.
Savannah got up from the table and walked to the kitchen counter, where she began to carve up a triplelayer chocolate cake. “We’ve got Kevin Connor, Cait’s husband,” she said.
“But he has a solid alibi for the time when Cait died,” Dirk added. “He was at work, and his superior vouches for him, says he wasn’t out of her sight all day.”
“And when Kameeka was killed?” John asked.
Dirk shook his head. “Nope. I asked him about that, and he was home alone. He said he was passed out in bed from drinking too much the night before. He’s pretty upset about losing his wife.”
“Most people without partners would have a hard time establishing an alibi for the early morning hours,”
John replied. “So you can’t place much emphasis on that”
“I’ll testify to the fact that he’s a close friend of Jack Daniels,” Savannah said, dishing monstrous slices of the cake onto her best dessert plates.
For the safety of her Royal Albert Old Country Roses china, she put Dirk’s on an unbreakable Corelle plate. He’d never notice the slight... as long as his piece was a bit larger than the others. There was no point in feeding the bull in the china shop on your best dinnerware.
“And we’ve got Matt Slater,” Savannah said as she set a piece of cake in front of John. “He’s the main photographer on the Slenda Flakes campaign. He gave me the heebie-jeebies, the way he was looking at the girls at the shoot and the way he was handling them, way more than necessary just to pose them.”
John turned his plate first one way, then the other, admiring the cake with its generous dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of Chambord sauce. “Savannah, my dear, you certainly know how to gild the culinary lily. Do you think this photographer of yours is committing... shall we say... indiscretions with his ladies?” Savannah thought it over for a moment, remembering how Matt had slid his hand between Desiree’s thighs to reposition her leg. A gende hand on the knee or a verbal command would have been more than sufficient. Then there had been the look that passed between them as his hand lingered a few seconds too long.
Cereal Killer Page 12
