Bitter Sweets (13 page)

“No,” she said, her mind rebelling at the sight of yet another body sprawled on the floor. It felt like an instant replay of Lisa's murder scene.

In the darkness she couldn't see details, and the corpse was already beginning to distort from the natural process of decomposition. The stench was overpowering, and Savannah tasted her stomach juices rising.

The victim lay in a fetal position, and at first glance it appeared the wrists and ankles were bound with wire. The person appeared to have died from a gunshot to the head. . . . just like Lisa Mallock.

This time the room hadn't been closed; the open window had allowed the flies access. The larvae were busy, doing what they did best.

Ryan was the last to squeeze into the crowded space. “A body,” he said, identifying the smell even before he saw the corpse.

“Yeah,” Dirk said. “Another dead one. I guess we were too late again.”

“Not the little girl?” Ryan stared over Savannah's shoulder, as all three allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“No, thank God,” Savannah said. “I think it's Earl Mallock.”

“Yeah. . . .” Dirk shook his head in bewilderment. “. . . . go figure.”

S
avannah sat beneath the shade of the one oak tree and watched despondently as Deputy Coroner Jennifer Liu and her team processed the murder scene. Dirk had called out on his cell phone and delivered the bad news once again. The forensic gang had cheated—as far as Savannah was concerned—and had ridden a helicopter into the area, landing in a fairly smooth field of prairie grasses several hundred feet from the ranch house.

Back in the olden days, when Savannah had carried a gold detective's shield on a chain around her neck, she would have been in the thick of things at the scene, helping, asking a hundred questions, supplying answers when she had them.

But now she was a civilian. . . . and not a particularly popular one at that.

She and Ryan had just finished an exhaustive search of the surrounding region, looking for any sign of the missing child. But, other than several items of clothing inside the shed and the tee shirt outside, there had been nothing. Savannah didn't know whether to be relieved or even more worried than before. She supposed she was both.

“Now I don't know what to think,” she told Ryan. He offered her a sip of water from his canteen, but she declined. Intending to hitch a ride back on the chopper, she had decided just to wait until she reached civilization and Sparkletts.

“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “Seems like we're back to square one.”

They watched silently for a minute or so as Dr. Jennifer's two assistants carried the blue-bagged body of Earl Mallock out of the shed on a stretcher. The blue bags were for homicides; their zippers had locks.

“It sure looks like the same MO as Lisa. The wire around the wrists and ankles, the shot to the head.” She thought she had never felt so tired, so completely wrung dry. “And I was sure Earl had killed her. Somebody out there has been laughing up his sleeve while I've been running around like a decapitated chicken, chasing the wrong person.”

“Do you have any ideas who?”

“Sure, several. And as soon as I get back, I'll get to work on them. But for right now, I just want to know where that little girl is. My God, I can't imagine what she must be going through, what shape she must be in. She's probably witnessed both of her parents being murdered.”

Savannah shuddered, and Ryan reached over to put his arm around her shoulders. “There's no way a kid could ever get over something like that,” she said. “Even if she's alive and physically healthy, that is.”

“One thing at a time, Savannah. You've got enough to handle mentally and emotionally, just with what you know. Don't let your imagination torture you . . . . if you can help yourself.”

“Can you?” She searched his green eyes for an honest answer. “Can you control your imagination at a time like this?”

He sighed and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “No, I can't. But be a good girl and do as I say, not as I do.”

“Okay, Dad. I'll try.”

Fat chance, she thought, returning his kiss.

Savannah saw Dirk standing by the door of the shed, giving her and Ryan a jealous, pissy look. She wondered how he could be so petty as to even think of such foolishness under the circumstances.

Reluctantly, he returned to his job at hand, scribbling notes and diagrams on a yellow legal pad that Dr. Liu had provided.

The team was carrying bag after bag of evidence from the shed. Apparently, Earl Mallock had stashed a lot of equipment and supplies. One assistant had even shinnied up the oak tree and untied the pack of provisions. Someone had disappeared inside the shed with a fingerprint kit.

“I wish Dr. Jennifer would hurry up and get this mess over and done with,” she said, tucking her knees up under her chin and leaning on them. “I've got to get back to town, back to my car, back to a phone, back to work . . . . like you said, back to square one.”

“Well, if it helps at all, you won't be standing there all alone.” Ryan squeezed her hand.

Her eyes misted, and for a moment harsh reality went out of focus. A pleasant relief. “It helps,” she said. “A lot.”

 

In the middle of her living room floor, Savannah sat with her “suspect board” in her lap, moving the bits of sticky-backed papers from one corner to the other.

“What do you have there, sugar?” Granny Reid asked as she entered the room and slipped a cup of hot chocolate into Savannah's hand.

Savannah looked at the mug and smiled up at her grandmother. “Whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on top . . . . just like you used to make it for me when I was a girl.”

Gran chuckled. “Not exactly. You're a big girl now. It's got a good stiff shot of Bailey's in it, too.”

Savannah never had to wonder from where she had inherited her hedonistic tendencies. The almost-black hair, the blue eyes, and the sweet tooth had definitely come from her father's side, because Gran still had hers. Except for the dark hair, which had turned silver some years ago.

“This . . . .” Savannah pointed to her piece of red poster board with its tiny notes. “. . . . is where I keep all my information, once it becomes too much for my brain. It keeps me from overloading the circuits between my ears.”

Gran pulled the footstool over beside Savannah and sat down. “How does it work?”

“Up here at the top I put possible suspects, beneath each name I put the motive, opportunity, and physical evidence—if I have some. Down here at the bottom are individuals who are involved in the case, but, if I don't have enough information yet to establish a motive, opportunity, or incriminating evidence, I can't consider them actual suspects.”

“Ummmm . . . . I see. And over there in the lower right-hand corner?”

Savannah cleared her. throat and swallowed hard. “That's where I stick the dead ones.”

Gran studied the board for a long time. “Well,” she said at last, “you've got nobody at the top . . . . that means no suspects. You got a whole bunch of people at the bottom, but that doesn't help you much, if you don't know how or why they might have done it. And you got two stuck over there in the dead corner.”

She shook her head and gave Savannah a sympathetic look. “I hate to say it, sugarplum, but so far . . . . you ain't doin' too good.”

 

Dirk had told Savannah on the phone that he had already informed Colonel Neilson of his former son-in-law's death, so she wasn't sure what to expect when she arrived at Neilson's home the following morning.

The two men had history, positive and negative, and she wondered how the colonel had taken the news.

Badly.

That was the thought that ran through her mind when she entered his backyard and found him bent over a bed of impatiens, looking even more exhausted and bedraggled than he had the day before.

“Good morning, Colonel,” she said, glancing around the yard for the ubiquitous black beast. For once, he didn't seem to be around. “I knocked on the front door, but I guess you didn't hear me.”

“I heard you.”

He refused to look up at her and continued to dig in the flower bed with his hand shovel.

“Oh. Then I guess you didn't want to talk to me.”

“Don't take it personally, Miss Reid. Right now, I don't want to talk to anybody.”

“I can certainly understand that. And I wouldn't be here if I didn't feel it was important.”

He stabbed the shovel into the soil, brushed off his hands, and stood. Obviously, the simple act caused him tremendous pain and his face registered the misery.

Strange, she thought . . . . he was twenty years or so younger than Gran, but far less flexible. Maybe it was—as she had always suspected—not the years but the mileage.

As many times before, she wondered if physical disabilities mirrored the condition of the soul. Of all the colonel's personality attributes, she didn't think that flexibility was likely to be at the top of the list.

“What do you want from me?” he asked as he led her back toward the house. “I've told you everything I can think of.”

“You haven't told me who might have a motive to kill your daughter
and
your son-in-law.”

“Are you sure the same person killed them both?” He opened the kitchen door and ushered her inside.

“I haven't spoken to the coroner yet, but I've seen both murder scenes, and it appears so.”

After taking two glasses from the cupboard, he walked to the refrigerator and poured them each an iced tea. He handed Savannah's to her, then sat at the kitchen table. “No,” he said. “I can't think of anyone other than Earl who would kill Lisa. To my knowledge, other than him, she didn't have an enemy in the world.”

“Was she seeing any other men after she separated from Earl?”

“I don't know. She kept that side of her life private. I didn't always approve of the men she chose, and I never minded saying so. I think she decided it was easier just not to discuss her dating practices with her father.”

Savannah took a drink of the tea and found it strong and bitter. “I noticed that she didn't have much in her home, not many belongings.”

“Thanks to Earl, she had to travel light. Besides, his lawyer screwed her in the divorce settlement.”

“I was wondering if, perhaps, she kept some things here. Personal letters, memorabilia. . . .”

He thought for a moment. “I have a couple of boxes up in the attic that were hers. I'm not sure what's in them.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed them, just for a few days? I'll take good care of them and return everything intact.”

He shrugged. “I suppose so, as long as I get them back. What do you think you'll find in them?”

“I don't know. Over half of an investigation is looking for something and not knowing what you're looking for, until you find it.”

“Sounds frustrating.”

“Believe me, it can be.”

 

The Capri Inn held several fond memories for Savannah, and those recollections stirred accompanying feelings of excitement and sensuality as she walked into the lobby. Long ago—far
too
long ago, she decided—she had enjoyed several romantic encounters within these mirrored walls.

The glittering, crystal chandeliers, the lush atrium with its rock waterfall, the plush dark plum carpeting, all made her wonder why she hadn't taken much time the past few years to indulge herself in some of the more physical pleasures of life. Other than food, that was.

She wouldn't be here now if it weren't for business.

“Brian O'Donnell?” she inquired at the desk.

The clerk called his room, and she was sent upstairs to the fourth floor.

“Savannah, how good to see you,” he said, practically pulling her inside the room. “Come on in.”

Glancing around, she noted how neat and tidy the room was, considering he was a man away from home. Books and magazines were neatly stacked on the bed stand, clothes hung, drawers closed, suitcases stashed in the closet.

“Any news?” he asked.

“About Lisa or Christy . . . . no.”

He waved her into a chair and sat tensely on the edge of the bed near her.

“Oh.” He appeared genuinely disappointed. “I was hoping that was why you were here.”

“I'm sorry. But I did think I should keep you apprised of the new developments.”

His eyes searched hers. “From the look on your face, I'm almost afraid to ask. Is it bad?”

“I suppose that depends on how you look at it. But, yes, I would say so. We found Earl Mallock.”

“Really? That's great! Where is he?”

“Ah . . . . well . . . . at the moment, he's in the city morgue. I'm afraid he's dead, too.”

“Mallock dead?” She watched his reaction closely; he didn't seem to be any more surprised or alarmed than when he had been told that Lisa was dead. If anything, he simply appeared confused.

“Yes, murdered. In the same manner as Lisa.”

“But, I thought he was the one who killed Lisa. How could—?”

“We don't know. But we're trying to find out.”

“Do you think the same person killed them both?”

“We'll know more after the autopsy. It looks that way.”

He sat quietly for a long time, as though absorbing the information. Savannah had to admit it was a lot to swallow; Brian had received more than his share of bad news since arriving in California.

Standing, he shoved his hands into his slacks pockets and walked over to the window. He stood with his back to her, staring down on the freeway that whizzed by below—an infinite line of red lights going one direction and white going the opposite.

“It's such a weird feeling,” he said. “Knowing that someone I just spoke with not that long ago is now dead. And murdered, too. It's just. . . . weird.”

“When did you last speak to Mallock?”

“On the telephone just before I left Orlando. That was when he told me where I could find Lisa. Or, at least, he gave me an address. But as I told you before, it turned out to be fake.”

He returned to his seat on the bed. “Oh, did I offer you something to drink? I have some juices, some ice, and—”

“No, thanks. I can't stay long, I just . . . .”

The sliding door to the closet was open and something inside caught Savannah's eye. It was a bag that appeared to be filled with children's clothes and a stuffed animal. Instantly, she thought of Christy and the abandoned toys in her empty bedroom, her small shirt that had been left to dry on the rocks on the Montoya Ranch.