Bitter Sweets

by G. A. McKevett

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a pale yellow document that bore the seal of the Great State of California in the upper left corner and Judge Harrington’s signature at the bottom.

  “Right here,” he said, opening her door in a rare display of not-so-common courtesy. “And how about you? Have you got it?”

  She sighed—she felt like they were a couple of worn-out drug dealers—and handed him the sack with the sandwich and the soggy milkshake container which had sweated a pool of condensation onto her dash. “Here, your favorite kind of food . . . . free.”

  His haggard face split with a delighted grin as he peeked into the bag. He looked like an overgrown kid, checking out his Halloween treats. “Great! Come on.” He nodded toward the lockers. “Let’s go snooping around and see if we can find us some dirty laundry.”

  “If not,” she mumbled, climbing out of the car, “we could always go back to your apartment.”

  The naked fifty-watt bulb that hung from the ceiling did little to illuminate the eight-by-eight-foot cement cubicle. But Savannah didn’t need a lot of light to determine that the contents of the locker were a man’s and not Lisa Mallock’s.

  A monster stereo system, sports equipment, and a big-screen television took up most of the space. A few duffel bags containing clothes were tossed on top of some boxes of magazines. Savannah bent to examine the boxes, while Dirk checked out the duffel bags.

  “Hey, I’m not the only one with crunchy socks,” he said, holding up some examples.

  “Yeah, but you’re wearing yours,” she muttered. “At least he gives his a vacation.”

  Dirk ignored the insult. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Mostly adolescent male stuff: mainstream porn, sports, mechanics, and. . . . oh, yes, these. . . .”

  She lifted out an interesting assortment of survivalist propaganda, everything from The Armageddon Conspiracy to Mercenary Soldier.

  “Looks like our boy has anarchist tendencies,” she said with another drop in her morale level.

  “And that probably explains this.” Dirk had lifted back a tarp in the corner, uncovering a strange contraption, that was bolted to a workbench. The equipment looked like an Erector set or a mad scientist’s laboratory gone wrong, a clear plastic tube pointing upward, a canister filled with powder on one side. Instantly, Savannah recognized the mechanism as a bullet re-loader.

  “How quaint.” She shook her head. “Earl rolls his own.”

  Dirk opened a small, dark green, brass-cornered chest and peered inside. “Mallock’s ex-army, just like his daddy-in-law. An MP. . . . in ’Nam.” Dirk pointed to an assortment of dog tags, uniform patches, and other military paraphernalia. “Hm-m-mm . . . . looks like he was in the same battalion as Colonel Neilson, but Neilson wouldn’t have been a colonel back then.” “A combat-experienced, former army military police, wife stalker, with anarchist tendencies, who makes his own bullets. Not a particularly comforting profile.” “Especially since we don’t even know where he is, or where he’s been living for the past few months.”

  Savannah thumbed through the remaining magazines in the box and one of the last ones caught her eye. “Look at this,” she said, holding it up for his inspection.

  “Vacations International?” Dirk frowned. “So what? It’s a travel mag.”

  “It’s more than that. My sister Vidalia gets this. She and her husband bought one of those condo time-shares a few years ago. This is the directory for other participating resorts across the country, in case you want to trade your week for another location.”

  Dirk was suddenly interested. “You think Mallock owns something like that?”

  “It was sent to him and Lisa at their house last year,” she said, studying the mailing address label. “You don’t get these directories unless you’re a paying member.”

  Quickly, Savannah began to scan the magazine, looking for the Southern California locations. “If there’s anything local, he could be staying. . . .” She found what she was looking for. “Three. There are three of them within easy driving distance of San Carmelita. One at a hot springs up in Los Padres, another on the beach at the marina, and. . . . some cabins on Lake Arroyo.”

  They both glanced at the fishing paraphernalia propped in the corner: rods, tackle boxes, nets, and hip boots.

  “Isn’t Lake Arroyo famous for its bass,” she asked, tossing the magazines back into the box.

  “Yep, I caught a couple of nice ones there last fall.”

  “Let’s go.”

  When Savannah and Dirk arrived at the Whispering Pines Lodge on Lake Arroyo, Savannah wasn’t surprised—though she was a bit uneasy—to see Tammy Hart’s hot pink Volkswagen sitting in the rear of the parking lot with the blonde inside. Earlier, Savannah had called her office to check for messages and had made the mistake of mentioning the latest development to Tammy.

  “I want to come along,” she had insisted. “I want to be there when you catch that creep.”

  “Nothing says we’re going to catch him, Tammy,” Savannah had replied.

  “But you might. And I feel really bad about all this, like it was my fault and—”

  “Okay, okay, it wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine, but you can meet us there. Park in the back of the lot and stay in your car until Dirk and I arrive. Don’t you dare make a move on your own. You could get yourself hurt or cause us to lose him.”

  Tammy had promised, and Savannah was relieved to see that she had been sensible, resisting the temptation to play Annie Oakley and charge in alone. Or, maybe, she had been just plain scared; but that, too, would be sensible under the circumstances.

  Savannah climbed out of the Camaro just as Dirk was parking the Skylark next to Tammy. As Savannah had suspected, Dirk didn’t look very happy to see her.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he asked as Tammy hurried up to them, an eager, flushed look on her pretty face.

  “Savannah said I could come along.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Dirk turned his scowl on Savannah. “And who died and made you Mama Bear around here?”

  With a start, Savannah realized that, for the first time, she and Dirk were not partners anymore, homicide detectives with the same rank and authority. He was the law enforcement officer in charge of the situation; she was merely a civilian along for the ride.

  On the other hand, he was still plain old Dirk, and she would only let him take this “head honcho” stuff so far.

  “She wanted to come, and I said she could. That’s it, that’s all.” Savannah crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her chin. She and Dirk had been together too long for him to mistake the stance.

  “All right, all right. We’re wasting precious time here. You . . . . stay back and out of the way,” he told Tammy. “And if anything funny starts to go down, eat some dirt.”

  Tammy looked at Savannah and raised one delicate, arched eyebrow questioningly.

  “He’s speaking Macho Ass-lish again,” Savannah explained. “Translation: Any problem—take cover.”

  “Got it.”

  Savannah glanced around the parking lot, but saw only two other cars. “Mallock was driving a late model Ford sedan when he came to my office,” she told Dirk. “I don’t see it or the Jeep that he’s registered to at the DMV.”

  “Not too surprising that he’d change cars,” Dirk added. “If he was smart enough to pull the wool over your eyes, he’s no dumbbell.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” she muttered as they headed up the walkway toward the door marked “Office.”

  “Do you really think he’s here?” Tammy asked, darting uneasy glances right and left at the quaint log cabins that were tucked among fragrant pines in a semicircle around the lake’s edge.

  Savannah breathed in the moist, rich scent of forest loam and sighed. “Somehow, I doubt it. But we’ll know soon.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  The lean, mean, overworked, and underfed secretary behind the counter stared at the two photos, shaking her
head. From the combined smells of the office, Savannah surmised that the woman subsisted on strong coffee and menthol cigarettes. Like a Vegas blackjack dealer, she snapped both pictures onto the counter and pushed them in Savannah’s direction. One was the DMV photo of Earl Mallock, the second the department artist’s sketch of the same picture, minus the excess poundage, plus red hair and brown eyes.

  “Are you sure?” Dirk sounded thoroughly aggravated, but the secretary didn’t flinch. She gave him a cold stare, adjusted a twig of hair that had strayed from the French twist at the back of her head and said, “I’m sure. We only have three guests here now, so they’re pretty easy to keep track of.”

  “Have you ever seen him?” Savannah asked. Hoping. It never hurt to hope.

  “Oh, yeah. He rents here all the time. Was here for a couple of weeks, left just last night.”

  “Well, hell, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Dirk asked, shoving his omnipresent toothpick to the right corner of his mouth.

  “You asked if he is a guest, not if he was.”

  Savannah could tell the secretary was enjoying baiting Dirk. Everyone did. His surly attitude seemed to bring out the worst in nearly everyone around him.

  “Can you tell us what cabin he was staying in?” Tammy asked sweetly, batting long lashes like a Mississippi coquette. “And we’d like to look at it, if you don’t mind.”

  Dirk shot Tammy a warning glance. “I told you to keep back. I’m the one with the badge here. I’m doing the asking.” He turned back to the secretary. “Which cabin?”

  She ignored Dirk and pressed a key into Tammy’s palm. “Number Fourteen. There’s no one there now, so look around if you want. I haven’t had a chance to clean it up yet. . . . was going to get to that later this afternoon. Just be sure to lock it up tight after you leave.”

  “Give me that damned key,” Dirk growled as the threesome left the office and hurried down the well-worn path to the cabin in question.

  With great ceremony Tammy dropped it into his outstretched hand. “You’re welcome.”

  Before he could close his fingers around it, Savannah snatched it away. “Enough of this crap,” she said, sobering as they neared the log cottage with the numbers painted in red on the green door. “We’re all a bit on edge,” she admitted. “But we’ve gottta look sharp now. There’s no telling what we’ll find in there.”

  Savannah knew the moment she cracked the door. She could smell it. The stench of death.

  Her heart sank to her shoes, and for a moment she couldn’t move.

  “You’d better wait out here, Tammy,” she said finally, pushing the door open.

  “But—”

  “No buts. Stay out here and keep your eyes peeled for Mallock. If you see anything, just let out a holler.”

  Savannah gave Dirk a telling look and he returned it as he, too, entered the tiny cabin.

  “Shit,” he said under his breath.

  “Yeah.”

  A quick glance told her the room was empty. . . . if rotten smells, residual horror, and all-around dark, creepy vibes didn’t count.

  The cabin consisted of three small rooms, the main living area which had a threadbare, floral sofa, a tiny refrigerator, and a sink. Through one door to the left, Savannah could see a primitive bathroom, and through another, a bed.

  “Hello?” Dirk said.

  Only the eerie, heavy silence replied.

  Savannah started to call out for Lisa or Christy, but couldn’t bring herself to utter their names.

  “What do you see?” Tammy’s frightened voice drifted in from the front porch.

  “Nothing yet,” Savannah replied.

  “That’s good, huh?”

  Savannah didn’t answer.

  On the sofa lay a Pocahontas coloring book and some spilled crayons.

  “What’s that?” Dirk asked.

  Again, Savannah couldn’t bring herself to reply as she bent over the book and saw some words childishly scrawled in red across the top margin.

  She read the four words:

  Pleez help my mom

  “Oh, God . . . .” she whispered, feeling sick at heart and stomach. She turned and walked toward the bedroom. The odors became overpowering.

  Dear Lord in heaven, please not Lisa, she prayed silently. Please, not Lisa or Christy . . . . please, please. . . .

  The bedroom was empty, too.

  Except for the body lying on the floor, wedged between the double bed with its faded, pink chenille spread and the log and plaster wall.

  “Don’t let it be the kid,” she heard Dirk whisper. “It’s not the kid, is it?” he asked, crowding into the tiny room beside Savannah. Her own fear echoed in his shaky voice.

  “No,” she said. “Thank God it isn’t.”

  Half of Savannah’s heart rejoiced, as the other half broke. Tears flooded her eyes and sorrow choked her throat as she added, “But it’s her mother. It’s Lisa.”

  The details of what she was seeing rushed over her, a suffocating tsunami of crushing reality. The lifeless, staring eyes. The wrists and ankles bound tightly with thin wire. The neat round gunshot hole in the forehead. The blood and tissue spilling from the massive exit wound in the back.

  “Dead?” Dirk asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Very dead.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Oh, my God! What happened? Is she. . . . ?” Tammy Hart stood in the doorway of the bedroom, her hazel eyes wide with shock as she stared down at the body on the floor.

  “Yes, honey, she is.” Savannah walked over to Tammy and placed one hand on her shoulder. She could feel the younger woman shaking violently as the color drained from her cheeks.

  “You two should get the hell outta here,” Dirk said, his tone far more gentle than his words.

  Transfixed on the corpse, Tammy ignored him and took a few halting steps toward the victim. Savannah watched with misgivings as Tammy knelt beside Lisa Mallock’s remains.

  “An entry wound to the front of the head,” Tammy murmured in a strangely flat monotone. . . . a student reciting a hard learned lesson. “Exit wound in the back. Close range powder burns. Looks like a large caliber—”

  Her voice broke with a sob and she began to gag. Savannah reached for her and turned her around, forcing her to look away. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she said, pressing a big-sisterly kiss to Tammy’s forehead. “Dirk can take it from here.”

  “But it’s our fault.” Tammy looked up at Savannah and the misery and guilt Savannah saw registered on her pretty face went straight to her heart. It wasn’t as though Tammy was saying anything new. . . . anything that wasn’t already slicing like a dull razor through Savannah’s own mind and conscience.

  “It’s not anybody’s fault,” Dirk said, “except for the son of a bitch that pulled the trigger.”

  “And we know who that was.” Tammy tried to turn and take another look, but Savannah’s hands tightened on her shoulders, preventing her.

  “No, we don’t. At least, not for sure,” Savannah told her, wishing she could believe her own words.

  “That’s right,” Dirk agreed. “You never really know who done it, ’til you know for sure who done it.”

  “What?” Now Tammy looked confused as well as upset.

  “The point is . . . .” Savannah took her by the hand and pulled her out of the cramped bedroom and into the main living area. “. . . . that Dirk has work to do, and we’re only keeping him from doing it.”

  “But we could help him,” Tammy protested. “That’s what we do for a living, right?”

  Savannah looked back at Dirk and gave him a sad, sick smile. More than anything in the world, she wanted to stay, to work this case through with him. They had been partners for so many years, it was almost impossible to walk away.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” she told Tammy. “Dirk is already going to be in trouble for bringing us—me, in particular—with him to a crime scene. We don’t want to make things any harder for him.”


  Savannah turned back to Dirk and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

  He growled and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just get goin’, both of you. I’ll give you a ring later, when I know what’s what.” Pulling a small, cellular phone—his only capitulation to advanced technology—from his inside coat pocket, he punched in some numbers.

  “Coulter here,” Savannah heard him say as she hurried out the door of the cabin and down the dirt path with a weeping Tammy in tow. “I got a stiff at the Whispering Pines Resort on Lake Arroyo. Yeah, that’s right. Better get a wagon rollin’ and call Dr. Liu.”

  “Are you dreading it?”

  Tammy sat on the end of Savannah’s living room sofa, a box of tissues in one hand, the other arm wrapped tightly around a floral, satin-fringed pillow, which she was hugging to her chest.

  “What?” Turning from the front window, where she was keeping watch, Savannah tried to concentrate on what her distraught assistant was saying. “Am I dreading what?”

  “Telling Brian O’Donnell that his sister is dead.”

  Savannah placed one hand on the windowsill for support and resumed her vigil. Any minute now, Brian was due to arrive. He didn’t know yet. And she felt she should be the one to tell him.

  “Of course I’m dreading it,” she replied, her voice husky. “Informing the next of kin was one of the worst things I had to do on the police force, and it looks like I can’t get away from it even now.”

  “Are you going to tell him it’s our fault?” Sniffing loudly, Tammy tossed the used tissue into a nearby wastebasket and reached for a fresh one.

  He’ll probably figure that one out on his own, Savannah thought, but she kept it to herself.

  “No,” she said, “and neither are you, because it isn’t our fault. Dirk was right, Tammy; the only person responsible for this murder is the one who committed it.”

  “Do you really believe that? I mean, completely, truly?”

  Savannah opened her mouth to deliver the routine reassurances, but they caught in her throat. “My head believes it,” she said, when she finally found the words. “My heart is going to need some time. The truth is like that; it takes a while to filter down from the mind and through the emotions.”