Killer Physique

by G. A. McKevett

  Jason Tyrone—Dagda, mystic king of the Tuatha De Danann—looked like he was about to faint, right in front of his fans, a thousand cameras, and the twenty-foot cutout of his glorious self.

  “Let’s get him inside,” Savannah whispered to Dirk. “Quick.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Dirk grabbed Jason by one arm. Savannah held the other. And Ryan and John cleared the way, as they hurried him into the theater.

  No. If Jason Tyrone’s friends, old and new, had anything to do with it, this crowd was not going to watch their superhero fall flat on his face.

  Savannah’s downstairs hall clock was chiming one-thirty as she and Dirk pulled back the beautiful quilt that Granny Reid had made them for a wedding gift and climbed into bed. She relocated one of the two black mini-panthers that she called house cats from her pillow down to the foot of the bed.

  “Sorry, Di,” she told the disgruntled Diamante. “Mommy had a big day. She’s tired and doesn’t feel like having your furry butt in her face all night.”

  Dirk, on the other hand, pulled his favorite, Cleopatra, against his bare chest. Murmuring sweet nothings to her, he snuggled her close and began to rub that magic “cat spot” behind her ears.

  Disgusted with “Mom’s” treatment, Diamante left Savannah’s side of the bed and found a place next to her sister where she could claim her share of the Dirk pets.

  “You’re spoiling those cats rotten,” Savannah said. “Before you moved in, they’d only eaten cat food.”

  “Get real. I’ve seen you feed them ice cream off the end of your finger, and they’ve even licked the bowl when you’re done.”

  “Okay, mostly just cat food. But now that you’ve introduced them to the wonders of a made-for-humans tuna sandwich, I can’t leave my lunch unattended without finding black fur and a bite gone when I come back.”

  “Oh, stop your gripin’ and be glad you married a guy who likes cats.” He pulled Diamante up under his chin and kissed the top of her head. “They’re the nicest part of marrying you and moving in here—getting to pet them any time I want.”

  “Really? That’s the very best thing?” she asked, lying down and rolling onto her side where he could get a full, unobstructed view of the abundant cleavage her new lace gown revealed.

  He grinned broadly. “Okay, the kitties are the second best.”

  She flounced around a bit, like a hen making her nest. Once her pillow had been adequately fluffed and the sheet properly tucked, she turned the bedside lamp off.

  Even with the lights off, the moonbeams streaming through the lace curtains provided enough light for her to see his face. It was a face that had grown progressively dearer to her over the years—handsome in a rugged sort of way, its streetworn roughness softened by the dim light.

  Then there were the cats. Being black, they were nearly invisible, but their purring filled the late-night silence.

  That sound, combined with Dirk’s deep, male murmurings of “There ya go, Di. I didn’t forget you, baby” would have normally put Savannah’s spirit at ease. But tonight something was nagging at her. And she wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

  “Now that we aren’t around Ryan and John,” she said, “what did you think of the movie?”

  “It was pretty good. Better than I’d thought it’d be,” he admitted. “When that monster thing came up out of the sea and ate all those guys—that was awesome. You know, with all the blood spurting, and the guts and body parts flyin’ all around. It was pretty real-looking.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, that was the high point for me, too.”

  “And the acting was okay. That Alanna gal was pretty convincing when she called all those mean, smoky spirits up outta that wishing well.”

  “Wasn’t that the scene where her top blew off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Convincing acting, indeed.”

  He snickered. “Hey, held my attention.”

  “I imagine it did.”

  He rearranged the kitties so that he could lie against Savannah. Slipping his arm around her waist, he pulled her close. “I saw all those looks you were giving Jason. You were watching him, instead of the movie, the whole night.”

  “Not for the reason you think,” she said. “Oh, I was impressed with his looks and all that at first. But it didn’t take long for me to start wondering what was up with him.”

  “Oh, then it wasn’t just me. I thought he seemed sorta jumpy, too. But I figured it was that balloon-popping thing.”

  “No. He was skitzy before, too. As soon as he got out of the car, he was looking around like he was expecting somebody to jump outta the bushes and pounce on him.”

  He reached over and with one finger, brushed a curl out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “I guess he’s better at swinging a sword at sea monsters than he is fighting off crazy female fans who wanna throw him on the ground and ravish him.”

  “A few male fans, too, it seems.”

  “Yeah, I had no idea he was gay until Ryan said so on the way home. Wonder how many of those women would get over him fast if that was public knowledge?”

  “Not that many.”

  “But what’s the point in fantasizing about something you’re never gonna get?”

  Savannah giggled. “Oh, yes. Men are so much more practical. They would never fantasize about—oh, say—a lesbian.”

  “Um. Yeah. Right.” He cleared his throat. “But speaking of things you can have . . .”

  His hand began to move beneath the covers. But before he could zero in on any warm, soft spots, the cell phone that Savannah had left on her nightstand began to buzz.

  He sighed. “Or should I say things you might be able to have if the damn phone wasn’t ringin?”

  She reached for it, her pulse pounding. No phone call that came at one-thirty in the morning was ever good news. Though she had never admitted it, even to herself, Savannah feared that with an octogenarian grandmother, a middle-of-the-night phone call could signal the end of her world as she knew it.

  With a shaking hand, she picked up the phone and read the caller ID. “Ryan Stone.” Oh, okay, she thought. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.

  Ryan probably assumed they were still awake, since he had only dropped them off a short time before.

  “It’s Ryan,” she told Dirk. “What did you do, leave your sunglasses in their car again?”

  “I resemble that remark,” he said, as he turned his attention back to Cleo’s left ear. “He better have a good reason—interrupting my foreplay like that.”

  She punched the “talk” button. “Hello, darlin’,” she said. “What’s shakin’?”

  “Savannah, I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” he said, his voice tight, his words clipped.

  She sat straight up in bed and shot Dirk a worried look. “That’s okay, hon. What’s up?”

  She heard him gulp, then there was a moment of silence as though he was gathering his composure.

  Yes, this was going to be bad.

  “It’s Jason,” he said, his voice breaking.

  She didn’t have to ask. She knew.

  Ryan Stone was a cool, collected sorta guy. Some might even say stoic. He hadn’t called them in the middle of the night because Jason Tyrone had gotten himself a parking ticket.

  “Is he . . . ?”

  She thought of the big, handsome, charismatic man they had just spent the evening with—so vibrant, so full of life.

  “Yes, he’s gone.”

  “Oh, no! But how? When?”

  Dirk sat up, grabbed Savannah’s arm and squeezed. “What is it? Who . . . ?”

  “Jason,” she whispered, then returned her attention to the phone. “I’m so sorry, Ryan. Tell me what happened.”

  She heard him take a deep breath. “Remember, we told you he’d asked us to come by his hotel, the Island View, after we’d dropped you two off?”

  She recalled them mentioning that during the car ride home. Something about Jason having an
early-morning flight to New York and him wanting to talk to Ryan and John privately before he left.

  “I remember,” she said. “He said he had something he needed to talk to you about.”

  “Something important, he said.”

  Instantly, Savannah flashed back on the whole balloon-popping event there on the red carpet—the haunted look in Jason’s eyes. “Did you get a chance to talk to him, to find out what it was?”

  Again, there was a long, painful silence on the other end. Then, “No. When we got to the hotel, we found him. I mean, his body.”

  “Are you still there at the Island View?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang tight, darlin’,” she said. “We’re on our way.”

  Chapter 4

  On the few occasions when Savannah had strolled through the lovely lobby of the Island View Hotel, she had thought it would be a charming place for a romantic rendezvous. But until recently, romance hadn’t been high on her list of priorities. Mostly because . . . to be high on the list, it would have to actually be on the list. And until things had taken a pleasant turn with Dirk, her list had been mostly romance-free.

  Unfortunately, now that a passion-filled overnight might be a possibility, she couldn’t afford to spend one here. The five-star hotel—with its sunlit atrium and meandering stone walkways that led visitors beside sparkling fountains, koi ponds, and exotic tropical plants—didn’t come cheap. A drink at the bar and a kiss beside the fountain was the best they could do.

  As they emerged from the elevator, Savannah and Dirk could already hear the commotion down the hallway to their right—excited male voices and a couple of worried female ones, mixed with the scratchy static of walkie-talkies.

  “Oh, man,” Dirk said, “I hope they haven’t stomped all over the crime scene already.”

  “Crime scene? Why are you already calling it a crime scene?”

  “You were with him less than two hours ago. Did he seem to you like a guy who was about to keel over from natural causes?”

  “Well, no, but . . .”

  For everyone concerned, she wanted desperately to argue with him. The loss of such a beloved person as Jason Tyrone was going to be bad enough, without adding homicide to the tragedy.

  But she couldn’t help thinking back to those moments on the red carpet: the apprehension in his eyes, the tension in his big “superhero” body, his near-panic at the simple sound of a balloon popping.

  The negative, frightened energy she had felt radiating from him had to have been more than simple opening-night jitters.

  “Hopefully, somebody thought to tape it off,” she said, admitting in her own way that Dirk was probably right. They were most likely on their way to the scene of a homicide.

  They rounded a corner, and the room in question was only a few yards down and to their left. She knew without even noting the numbers on the doors. Because that was where the crowd had assembled.

  Two EMTs stood in the hallway, near an empty gurney and several cases bulging with medical equipment. They were whispering excitedly to each other. Savannah couldn’t help thinking what a sad claim to fame this would be for them. She could just see them tonight on the eleven o’clock news. “Yes, we were the first responders who tried to save Jason Tyrone,” they would say, without risking their careers by giving away too many salacious details.

  Nearby stood three cops, hands on their hips, looking most officious. One held a clipboard and a pen. Instantly, Savannah recognized him as Mike Farnon, one of her favorite members of San Carmelita’s finest. Back in the day when she herself had been a police officer with the SCPD, Mike had assisted her on more than one case. And she had always found him to be personable and professional.

  He saw them approaching and cut a path through the mob of hotel employees, who wore maroon blazers with the hotel logo embroidered on the pocket.

  “Hey, Savannah. Good to see you, girl.”

  “You too, Mike.”

  He turned to Dirk. “Evenin’, Sarge. Oh, and congratulations, you guys. Haven’t seen you since the wedding. How’s it going?”

  “It goes better when I don’t get called out the middle of the night,” Dirk grumbled.

  “You caught this case?”

  Savannah slipped her hand around Dirk’s arm and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s more like we’re here in a personal capacity,” she said.

  Mike held out his clipboard to Dirk. “I started a log, Sarge. You want it, or should I hang on to it?”

  “Yeah,” Dirk said, reaching for it, “I’ll take it.” He pointed to the yellow crime-scene tape that was stretched across the partially open door. “Did you string the tape, too?”

  “No, that big, tall guy inside the room did it. I think he’s with the FBI or something.”

  “That’d be Ryan,” Savannah said. “He used to be with the bureau.”

  “Once a fed, always a fed?” Mike chuckled.

  “Cops never stop being cops—no matter what’s printed on the badge,” Savannah agreed.

  Dirk nodded toward the EMTs. “They couldn’t revive Tyrone?”

  Mike shook his head. “No. They worked on him quite a while. But I think they were mostly doing it to cover their own asses—you know, him being a famous person and all. One look and you could tell he wasn’t coming back.”

  Overhearing their conversation, one of the EMTs joined in. “We were going to transport him to the hospital,” she said, “but this guy here said we should just leave him for the coroner.” She gave a nod toward Mike.

  “That’s right,” Mike admitted. “I already called Dr. Liu. She’s on her way with her team.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Dirk muttered. “I guess you guys didn’t screw it up too bad.”

  Anyone else might have been offended by such lackluster praise, but Savannah saw a small grin flicker across Mike’s face. He’d worked with Dirk long enough to know that was a glowing compliment, coming from Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.

  “Excuse me,” said a woman who was wearing one of the maroon blazers. She wedged herself between Dirk and Mike, then poked Dirk on the chest with her forefinger. “Are you some sort of policeman or something? I’m the manager here, and I have to tell you I’m not happy about being locked out of one of my own rooms—the executive suite, no less.”

  Dirk reached down, grabbed the tip of her finger, and then bent it backward, just enough to make her wince and snatch it away. Then he reached inside his leather bomber jacket and pulled out his badge. He flipped it open right in front of her nose.

  “Yes, Ms. Manager. I most certainly am some sort of policeman or something. And once we find out what’s going on inside your executive suite, you’ll be the first to know—or the second, or third, or fourth, or . . . We’ll letcha know. Okay?”

  In typical, Dirk linebacker style, he shouldered his way through the small crowd. Savannah followed in his wake.

  The door was open about a third of the way. Inside Savannah could see John Gibson pacing the length of the room, his silver head bowed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  Dirk loosened one end of the tape and swung it aside so that Savannah could enter. She pulled the end of her sweater sleeve down over her hand and gave the door a gentle nudge. Carefully she avoided the doorknob area and any fingerprints that might have been left there.

  Dirk followed her inside the room and gently closed the door behind them.

  When John saw them, a look of relief flooded his face, and he rushed over to Savannah. He threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly, pressing his face into her shoulder.

  “Oh, love,” he said with a half-sob, “I’m so very happy you’re here. I can’t tell you how awful it was, finding him like that.”

  She held him until he finally broke the embrace. “I can’t even imagine,” she said. “I only knew him a few hours and can’t picture him gone. But you and Ryan finding him—I’m just so, so sorry.”

  Dirk cleared his throat, then reached over and gave John a coup
le of thumps on the back that were, no doubt, meant to be gestures of consolation. “By the way, where is Ryan? And the, um, Jason?”

  John nodded toward a door in the back of the room, beyond the suite’s kitchen and dining area. “Back there, in the bedroom,” he said. “Ryan wanted to stay with him until you guys got here. But I just couldn’t.”

  “I understand,” Savannah said, kissing him on the cheek. “You go sit over there on the sofa and rest yourself a while. You’ve had a powerful shock to the system. Don’t wanna go taxing yourself at a time like this.”

  “That’s true,” Dirk said. “Take a load off while we check stuff out.”

  “Thank you,” John replied, as he did as he was told and collapsed onto the sofa. Once settled, he propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

  Savannah walked to the bedroom door and found it ajar. Again she pulled her sleeve down over her hand, then pushed it open.

  Taking a step inside, she glanced around the strangely quiet room and saw Ryan. He was sitting in a comfortable reading chair to the right, against the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Normally, that window would have revealed the spectacular panorama of the Pacific Ocean in all its grandeur. But tonight the view revealed only the blackness of the sea.

  And to Savannah that seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

  Like John in the other room, Ryan was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands over his face. It was as though both of them were trying not to see the sad truth they had just witnessed.

  “Ryan,” she said softly. “It’s us, honey. You okay?”

  He jumped to his feet and hurried toward her. “Savannah, I’m so glad you’re here.” He saw Dirk right behind her. “And you too, buddy. You have no idea how glad.”

  Even as Savannah gave him a hearty hug, the former cop in her couldn’t resist the urge to glance around the room.

  And there he was.

  At least, there was Jason Tyrone’s body—stretched out on the floor beside the bed, wearing only a pair of jeans. His feet were bare and so was his massive chest.

  Dirk had already walked over to the corpse and knelt beside it. “Sorry about this, man—him being your friend and all.”