Hide and Sneak

by G. A. McKevett

  “Who are you?”

  “Why are you here? Are you a police officer? Are you investigating the murders?”

  “Are you his new girlfriend?”

  That last question in particular seemed to spread through the crowd like alcohol poured on a bonfire.

  No longer content to stand beside the road, they surged en masse onto the property, heading straight for her.

  The rapid-fire questions morphed from annoying to harassing in an instant.

  “What’s your name? How long have you been sleeping with Ethan Malloy?”

  “Did Beth know about you?”

  “When did she find out you were having an affair with her husband?”

  Savannah hurried toward the Mustang, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a full run. She refused to give them the satisfaction of actually chasing her, but she realized that it was only a matter of moments until they overtook her.

  She was still at least ten feet away from her car, and she could hear them running right behind her. She had no doubt that they intended to cut off her escape and continue their bombardment eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose.

  “Who is she?” she heard someone ask. “Isn’t she that makeup artist he was seeing before Candace?”

  Then she heard them. A set of questions so vile that they literally made her sick to her stomach.

  “Did you help Ethan Malloy kill his wife and child? Did the two of you murder Beth and Freddy so that you could be together? Did that poor nanny get in your way?”

  Images of Pilar’s body flashed across Savannah’s mind. She thought of Vanna Rose, sweet, innocent, and vulnerable in her arms. Tammy, a young mother with a baby to protect and everything to live for. She thought of Beth and Freddy and the red backpack filled with toys and snacks, discarded like so much rubbish beside the Dumpster.

  Thrown away, like that lovely young woman lying dead beneath the oak trees.

  She stopped abruptly, then whirled on her tormentors and found they were only a couple of feet away.

  “No! No! No! None of that is true. Get away from me, you pack of vultures!”

  As though from faraway she heard a woman shouting. She sounded furious and on the verge of hysteria.

  It was some seconds before she realized the frightened, angry woman was her.

  And that she had referred to a flock of vultures as a pack. She was, undoubtedly, losing her mind.

  Then she heard a loud boom very near her and off to her right. Even before the echo of the sound died away, the former cop inside her identified the noise as the firing of a high-caliber weapon.

  She turned, was about to dive for cover and reach into her purse for her own weapon, but that was when she saw Ethan Malloy holding a .44 Remington Magnum in his right hand. It was pointed downward at a nearby flower bed. Smoke curled from the end of its massive barrel.

  Instantly, the crowd fell silent, though Savannah could hear numerous cameras clicking.

  “Get off my property,” the actor roared in a voice that would have made even his macho rancher father proud. “Get off now!”

  “You’d better do as he says,” said another deep voice. Ryan Stone stepped up beside Ethan, shoulder to shoulder, and added, “Let that lady pass. Move out of her way right now, and let her get in her car.”

  “The constabulary has been notified and will be arriving momentarily,” John Gibson added as he moved into place at Ethan’s opposite shoulder. “If you’re still here, molesting that young lady, when they arrive, you’ll be taken into custody on the spot.”

  “Yeah. What he said,” Savannah added, wanting to get in on the action. “You’ll be arrested for malicious trespass in the first degree.”

  The reporters stood, momentarily frozen, their mouths agape, staring at the stalwart foursome.

  Finally, one of them said, “Malicious trespass?”

  “In the first degree,” Savannah assured him.

  One by one the paparazzi began to file back to their vehicles, get inside, and drive away. But one reporter lingered behind the others, and to her displeasure, Savannah realized she was jotting down the Mustang’s license plate number.

  She recalled Ethan Malloy’s dark prediction that as soon as the news was out about his family, their lives would change, even her own.

  “I can see why you don’t like the paparazzi,” she remarked as she watched them drive away. “I have to admit, that was kind of scary.”

  “You just wait,” Ethan said, sounding tired. Too tired for the fight that was to come. “It’s only going to get worse.”

  Chapter 15

  Savannah thought there was a possibility that one of the reporters, who had stormed the Malloy chateau, might have a connection to the DMV, and therefore, could possibly trace her Mustang’s plate number and identify her.

  One solitary reporter.

  That theory came apart like a post-Halloween, dynamited jack-o’-lantern the moment she rounded the corner and headed down her home street.

  Not unlike the Malloy mansion, her humble, cozy cottage was under siege, as well.

  Apparently, more than one had taken down her plate number and had contacts inside the DMV, or they freely shared information.

  She recognized some of the same reporters she had fought off less than an hour before. Plus, their numbers had increased twofold.

  Yes, she had to hand it to Ethan. He knew the “joys” of dealing with the paparazzi far better than she ever would.

  She didn’t envy him his knowledge or his life experiences that had taught him such wisdom.

  She had failed to fully grasp the popularity of the beloved actor and sex symbol. As far as the media was concerned, Ethan Malloy was a hot commodity, and his current tragedy was something to be fully exploited in the pursuit of high ratings for the television stations, and brisk supermarket stand sales for the tabloids.

  She nearly ran over half a dozen of the reporters as she tried to pull the Mustang into her driveway.

  “Close, but not quite close enough,” she muttered to herself as she watched them scurry out of her path.

  The mob, which had been standing on the sidewalk and the street, surged onto her lawn, some even trampling her nasturtium flower beds to get to her.

  Wasting no time, she parked the car, got out, and shouted, “Hey! Get off my flowers, you pea brains, before I feed you those cameras.” When they didn’t obey right away, she added, “I’m serious! I’ll shove ’em so far down your throats, you won’t need no colonoscopy!”

  Again, they started shouting the same obnoxious questions at her, wanting to know if she was Ethan Malloy’s new girlfriend and if she had helped him get rid of his wife and kid.

  She turned to the one nearest her, less than a foot away, who had shoved a microphone at her face and clipped her jaw. “So much for professional journalism,” she told him. “You do enough research to find out where I live, so that you can come to my home and harass me with stupid questions. But you don’t know that I’m a private investigator and a former police officer.”

  This created a buzz through the crowd. And a whole new set of questions emerged.

  “Are you investigating the murder of Pilar Padilla?”

  “Did Ethan Malloy hire you to find his wife and kid?”

  “Or are you working on behalf of the police department?” asked a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, who appeared less frenzied and more professional than the others.

  Savannah decided to address her and ignore the rest. “I no longer work for the San Carmelita Police Department,” she told her. “Not in any capacity. Ever. I don’t foresee a time when I will again.”

  “I understand, Ms. Reid,” the reporter replied.

  Savannah’s instinct told her that the woman did understand, that she knew at least some of her personal history.

  The reporter reached into her purse and took out a business card. She pressed it into Savannah’s hand.

  “I can see that you’re busy,” she told Savannah. “Since
I believe Ethan Malloy hired you to find his family, I won’t get in your way as you look for them. But if you ever find yourself in need of a reporter, just call me. I might be able to help, and I would be happy to.”

  Savannah shoved the card into her purse and said, “Thank you.” Louder, to the others, she shouted, “If the rest of you will get out of my way and off my property, I would appreciate it, and you won’t get hurt. That’s a win-win for everybody.”

  Their numbers dropped away as she strode up the sidewalk to her front door. She unlocked it, turned around, and realized they had all not only returned to the sidewalk and street, but most were actually getting into their cars and leaving.

  She was relieved, thinking of how Dirk would have reacted if he’d come home to find their yard littered with paparazzi.

  “Yeah, you better run, you bunch of roadkill polecats. You’ll make tracks, if you know what’s good for you,” she yelled to the retreating horde. “My husband’s on his way, and if he catches you here, you’ll be in a world o’ hurt! He ain’t nearly as sweet-natured and easygoing as I am.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Savannah had changed out of her dusty clothes and into a slightly dressier cotton blouse, linen slacks, and wedge heels, which would serve as dining apparel at ReJuvene, should they manage to join Tammy, Waycross, and the Harts.

  Dirk had come home, downed a cold can of soda, and persuaded her to be the driver on the way to Neal Irwin’s workplace—a used car lot in San Paulo.

  An hour later, they had looked for him in several locations and come up empty.

  Savannah instructed the car phone to “Call Tammy,” thinking she was getting the hang of this newfangled gadget. Far more technically inclined than she, her younger brother had talked her into it, assuring her that it was safer and far more convenient than a regular cell phone.

  “Don’t you feel stupid talking to your sun visor like that?” Dirk asked as they waited for Tammy to answer.

  “No stupider than talking to a little box in the palm of my hand. Besides, it works even if you’re stupid. You should get one.”

  In her peripheral vision, she could see him sticking out his tongue at her. She chose to ignore it.

  Ignoring things—she was convinced that was the secret to a happy marriage, the key to matrimonial bliss.

  Or at least, less squabbling.

  “Hello, Savannah!” Tammy answered. “How’s it going? Did you already interview the duck abuser?”

  “No. We couldn’t find him.”

  “Did you go by the used car lot?”

  “Yes. They said he didn’t show up for work today.”

  “Wooo, that’s a sign that maybe—”

  “Yeah, we thought of that,” Dirk grumbled.

  That was the only thing Savannah didn’t particularly like about the new phone. Dirk felt free to add his half-a-cent’s worth to her conversations.

  “Then we tried the home address you gave us,” Savannah told her. “Nobody answered the door.”

  “I gave you the make and model and plate number of his car, right?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t there, so we’re assuming he wasn’t either. You wouldn’t happen to have any other address associated with him, would you?”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll call you back.”

  “Okay. Thanks, sugar.”

  As they waited for Tammy, Savannah drove up and down the residential streets of the little town of San Paulo. She could recall when she had first driven through the old town, whose economy was based on citrus farming, that the community had been run-down, crime-ridden, and was rapidly deteriorating.

  Then some smart city council members had spent a bit more on their police force, cleaned up most of the gang activity, established and enforced some new “quality of life” laws, and property values had begun to rise.

  The quaint Craftsman cottages that lined the main street of the town had been decaying, but first one, then another, had been restored to their original beauty.

  Now it was a delight just to drive from one end of town to the other.

  Unless, of course, one was trying to locate their number one, and only, murder suspect and having no luck.

  “We aren’t going to find him today,” Dirk said. “He did the murder and now he’s skipped the country. We’re never going to get him or close this case. It just ain’t gonna happen.”

  She pulled up to one of the town’s few traffic signals and stopped for the red light. Turning in her seat, she studied Dirk closely. Especially the area right around his head.

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked.

  “Just wondering.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about mountains that seem to somehow generate their own dark clouds. Then those clouds just sit there, all around them, raining, hailing, thundering with lightning bolts and all.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “I was thinking you’re kinda like that. Wherever you go, the sun can be shining to beat the band, but no. You just sit there, generating your own clouds, cooking up your own personal rainstorms, thunder, and lightning.”

  “Eh, bite me.”

  Fortunately, at that moment, Tammy’s call came through, averting a family flap.

  “I’ve got something for you,” she said proudly. Savannah could practically see her bouncing up and down on her chair in typical perky Tammy style. It was good to hear her friend excited again.

  “Great. Lay it on us,” she told her.

  “His mom died six months ago. Her husband passed years ago, and he’s her only kid.”

  Savannah’s mind was already racing down the logic path. “Did she leave him the family house?”

  “Yes. It’s not in great shape, but . . .”

  “He might be there,” Dirk interjected. “Thanks, kid. Ya did good.”

  “You’re welcome.” She sounded surprised, but pleased. “The address is: 251 St. Michael Lane.”

  “Got it. We’ll check there next,” Savannah told her. “Thanks a bunch.”

  “Are you coming for dinner tonight at ReJuvene?”

  It hurt Savannah to hear the desperation in her friend’s voice. It hurt to have your company wanted so badly, and to know that you won’t be able solve your loved one’s dilemma, no matter how hard you might try.

  So many of life’s most important battles had to be fought, won, or lost alone.

  Tammy was in one of those now.

  Savannah knew it, even if Tammy didn’t.

  “I’m turning down St. Michael Lane right now,” Savannah told her.

  “There’s 251 up there on the right,” Dirk said. “What a rubbish heap. Looks like the grass hasn’t been mowed for six months.”

  “Or the house painted since the Eisenhower administration,” Savannah added.

  “Hey, free rent,” Tammy said. “Somebody gives you a house, you take it.”

  Savannah smiled to herself, understanding Tammy’s covert reference.

  “Look at that,” Dirk said, sounding moderately excited in a No-Mirth-Dirk kind of way. “There’s his car, sitting right under the carport.”

  “That’s awesome! Go get him! While you’re at it, Savannah, smack him upside the head once for me and the duck.”

  “You’ve been hanging out with me too long.” Savannah laughed, then realized that was probably exactly what Lenora Hart had been telling her. “Thank you, Tammy. Once again, you save the day.”

  “I think I’ll wait and see if you nab him,” Tammy replied, “before I go taking any bows.”

  “Whether we do or not, you’ve done your job, kiddo,” Savannah said. “Let us do ours now and see what shakes out.”

  “Keep me informed. Also about dinner tonight.”

  “We will, sugar. We’ll let you know. I promise.”

  Savannah ended the call, just as she was pulling the Mustang over to the curb. She parked on the opposite side of the road from the house that Neal Irwin’
s mother had left him.

  As they got out of the car and crossed the street, Savannah gave the old house a thorough look-see. “It could be nice, downright presentable, if someone took the time, money, and hard work to fix it up.”

  “I remember you saying the same thing about me, when you first laid eyes on me.”

  “Good point. Never mind then. Too much work.”

  But in spite of the fact that the house would need a tremendous amount of TLC to bring it back to its former beauty, Savannah couldn’t help noticing the charming features of the house that identified it as Craftsman style.

  The home’s shingle siding and stone details gave it a cozy, natural appeal. Its deep porch reminded Savannah of Granny’s old house back in Georgia. Savannah had spent many pleasant hours on that porch, sitting in the swing with Gran as they chatted about everything and nothing.

  As she and Dirk stepped up onto the porch, one of the boards beneath her feet wobbled, and she nearly lost her balance

  As Dirk grabbed her elbow to steady her, he said, “You may think this sort of place is charming, but to me it’s a deathtrap that oughta be burned to the ground before somebody gets hurt.”

  “Burned to the ground? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. The orphanage was an old rickety building, like this one. Us kids were always getting hurt in that rotten, decrepit place. Splinters in our hands, nails in our feet, stuff falling off and hitting us in the head. Years later they discovered lead in the pipes. Pipes that carried our drinking water, no less. No wonder we all turned out like we did.”

  She slipped her arm through his and gave it a squeeze. “I know at least one kid from that hard place to turn out good. They must’ve been doing something right.”

  She was surprised to see him actually blush at the compliment. As a rule, Dirk Coulter wasn’t the blushing type.

  “Thanks, babe,” he said. “For the most part, I don’t give a hang what anybody thinks of me. But if one person on earth’s gonna think that I turned out okay, I’m glad it’s you, kid.”

  Chapter 16

  Dirk and Savannah walked up to Neal Irwin’s door, and Dirk rapped his knuckles on the frame around the oval beveled glass that graced the door’s center. When no one answered quickly enough to suit him, he knocked again, this time using his loudest, most officious SCPD summons.