Bitter Sweets (6 page)

“Do you know that for a fact, sir?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice even, despite her rising pulse rate.

“Don't you get smart with me, young lady. Everything was fine until you came along and—”

“Excuse me. . . .” A soft voice interrupted and Brian O'Donnell stepped from the hallway, where Savannah had left him, into the living room.

The colonel jumped, Bloss snorted, and Dirk's hand went to his gun.

“Did I hear you say that Susie O'Donnell is your daughter?” Brian asked Neilson.

The colonel said nothing for a long moment. Even in the dim light, Savannah could see him turn pale beneath his deep California tan. Then he snapped, “Who the hell are you?”

“Brian O'Donnell.” The younger man held out his hand to Neilson. “I'm Susie's brother, Brian. I've been looking for you a long time . . . . and for Susan.”

“Her name is Lisa now.” The colonel's voice was brusque, but Savannah could hear the emotion beneath the clipped words.

“I understand,” Brian replied, lowering his hand when the colonel refused to shake it.

“Well . . . .” The colonel cleared his throat and pulled himself to attention. “. . . . it seems we're all looking for her right now.” He pushed past Brian and Savannah and headed down the hall toward the bedrooms.

“Since when does a citizen get a police captain and a detective all to himself, just because his daughter isn't answering her telephone?” Savannah asked, keeping her voice low.

“Since he's Colonel Forrest Neilson,” Bloss returned, his round face flushed a bit darker than usual. “He's a close and personal friend of the chiefs.”

“Gee, that explains everything,” Savannah said sarcastically. “Let's see now . . . . the last time I investigated one of the chiefs ‘close and personal friends' I was fired. Right?”

“You aren't too swift; are you, Reid?” Bloss sniffed again, then carelessly swabbed the used tissue across his sweaty forehead. “You got one of them learning disorders or something?”

Savannah shrugged and gave him a demure, if somewhat insincere, smile. “Not all of us are cerebrally gifted, like yourself,” she said. Dropping her voice, she added, “Not to mention phallically challenged and testicularly limited.”

He gave her a quizzical look, followed by a scowl. Even if he hadn't understood her words, her smirk was enough to let him know that he had been insulted.

“You'd better watch yourself. If anything has happened to Mrs. Mallock and I find out you had something to do with it . . . .” he muttered as he brushed past her and followed the colonel down the hall.

Savannah's brief sense of satisfaction was followed by a wave of misgivings. Once again, her smart mouth had provided her with a high-ranking position on Bloss's “shit list.” An honor she didn't relish.

“Has something happened to my sister?” Brian asked, looking miserable, bewildered, and upset.

“I certainly hope not.” Savannah wished she had some genuine words of comfort, but she couldn't lie to the man. Under the circumstances, she couldn't even lie to herself.

She found herself wishing she had never heard the name of Brian O'Donnell. By now, his sister surely wished she had never heard of Savannah Reid. Everyone would have been better off unacquainted.

“They aren't going to like what they're going to see in there,” she said softly to Dirk as Neilson and Bloss disappeared into Lisa's bedroom.

His eyes widened a little, registering a question mark. “Not a body . . . . ?” he whispered.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Bloody sheets.”

“Oh.” Dirk's face sobered.
“Not
so good.”

Savannah glanced at Brian and noted that he looked as though he were about to be sick. She thought of Lisa Mallock and little Christy, the ballerina snow queen. “No,” she said, her throat tightening, a bitter taste welling up from her stomach. “Not good at all.”

 

“Charge me or release me. Now!”

Savannah rose from the rusty metal chair and shoved away from the table where she had been sitting, getting grilled, for the past hour and a half. She had enjoyed about as much of Captain Norman Hillquist's charming company as she could stand.

“Sit down!”

“No!”

He towered over her by at least ten inches, 180 pounds of barbell-inspired bulk, but Savannah was past caring. He was chief of police of the city of San Carmelita and capable of doing her great harm—heaven knows, he had done so in the past—but she didn't give a damn. Enough was enough.

He made a move as though to shove her back onto the chair. Instinctively, her karate training came to the fore and she snapped into a defensive stance.

Great move, Reid,
she told herself.
Are you really stupid enough to chop a police chief?

Of course, the answer was “No.” But she kept her position until he took a step backward. It was all such a stupid game they played.

So what if she had investigated his city councilwoman girlfriend for murder last year, had exposed their affair and caused the woman to lose her council seat? So what if she had uncovered the greatest scandal ever to rock the sleepy hamlet of San Carmelita? So what if she had nearly caused him to be ousted from his precious job and ruined his life? Was that any reason for him to hate her forever?

Okay. Maybe so.

“Now, chief,” she said, trying to sound reasonable, patient . . . . anything but furious. “In the first place, we don't know that Lisa has been killed. So, we both know that you can't honestly threaten to charge me with being an accessory to murder. Secondly, even if—God forbid—something has happened to her, you have no proof that I had anything to do with it. Because I didn't.”

Hillquist's jaw tightened, and the sun-leathered, golf course lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Do you deny that you were working for Earl Mallock?”

She sighed. “We've been over that a dozen times. I was, but I didn't know it at the time.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“What I expect . . . .” she said, fixing him with a level, blue-eyed gaze that had, occasionally, caused weaker souls to quake in their sneakers, “. . . . is that you are going to put our differences in the past, where they belong, and handle this like the professional we both know you are.”

When he said nothing, she continued, “I haven't broken any law—”

“That we know of.”

“That you know of, and you can't continue to hold me.” She glanced at her watch. “So, if you'll excuse me, I have a nail appointment. Thanks to you, I've already missed my pedicure.”

To her surprise, he allowed her to pass. He didn't say another word as she left the stuffy confines of the tiny interrogation room.

But she could feel his eyes boring into her back, could sense the rage building inside him, the still-hot ache for revenge. If someone had messed with her life the way she had interfered with his, she would have wanted to get even. She had always been a bit nervous, waiting . . . . anticipating his next move. Somehow, she knew that Hillquist's idea of vengeance would be more dramatic than just seeing to it that she received more than her share of traffic tickets.

As Savannah got into her Camaro and headed back toward Lisa Mallock's house, her sense of apprehension grew by the mile. Fear for Lisa, for Christy, and an uneasiness about her own immediate future.

Deep in her gut Savannah knew something terrible had happened—or was about to happen—to Christy's mom. And somehow, it was her fault.

Chief Norman Hillquist wasn't about to let a chance like this slip by.

Savannah just had to make sure that her own sense of guilt, misplaced or otherwise, didn't make it any easier for him to nail her to the nearest wall.

 

Through a red haze of pain, fear, and fury, the woman stared up at the face of her tormentor and wondered what had gone wrong. Once, she had loved and trusted this person.

A lifetime ago.

“I want to hear it,” the voice was saying. “I want to hear you admit that you aren't the saint you've always claimed to be.”

One twist of the wire. Then another. The agony in her wrists compounded. A hot, searing sensation shot up her arms and into her shoulders and neck.

Any minute now, her soft moans would give way to screaming. She wouldn't be able to help herself. Not even for Christy in the next room.

Another twist. More misery. This time in her ankles. Her calf muscles began to knot in twitching spasms, more painful than anything she could ever remember.

She heard the voice again, but this time it sounded farther away.

“Say it, you self-righteous bitch. We both know you did it. Admit it!”

When this had begun, hours before, she had hoped that numbness or shock would take hold, dulling the sharp edge of the pain. But it hadn't. Somewhere, in the dark recesses of her consciousness, she remained a nurse, and she knew it was because the wire was so thin. Her inquisitor had chosen well.

Another twist at her wrists. It was too much. A scream welled up from deep inside her, bringing the bitter taste of bile into her mouth. Choking her.

She thought of Christy, terrified, listening in the next room.

She thought of what this monster might do to her child, if all its rage hadn't been spent after finishing with her.

The nurse inside whispered,
You're going to lose consciousness soon. If you're going to do it, you have to do it now.

I don't have a chance,
she told the logical, still-rational nurse.
If I try, I'll die.

Her ex-husband had accused her of being all intellect, no emotion. Maybe he had been right.

At that moment, she wanted desperately to throw all reason aside. To naively believe that maybe her abuser would tire of the game and let them both go. To scream and beg for mercy. To admit anything and everything . . . . whether it was true or not. To give in to the pain, the horror of her circumstances and just be a terrified child.

But she knew she couldn't afford the luxury of hysteria. She was a nurse and, more importantly, a mother.

She gathered everything within her, stood on her swollen, bleeding feet, and struck out at her attacker with wire-lacerated hands.

Susie O'Donnell had always been a fighter.

And old habits die hard.

“O
h, my dear Savannah, how perfectly dreadful for you.” John Gibson sat beside Savannah on the diamond-tucked, burgundy leather sofa, patting her hand and giving her more sympathy than she could have hoped for in a month of Sundays.

She loved coming here to this elegant apartment, high in the foothills overlooking San Carmelita. Among the classic antiques, gilt-edged books in mahogany cases, and paintings of sylvan English countrysides, she could truly appreciate the art of fine European living. It was such a genteel pleasure to drop by, sip Earl Grey tea, and nibble on scones warm from the oven.

John Gibson and Ryan Stone might be gay, but they surely knew how to treat a lady.

Looking like a model from a GQ ad, Ryan sat in the wing chair across from them, holding his own mug of tea, an equally concerned look on his face. “You don't believe that any of this is your fault, do you?” he asked.

“At the moment, I don't even know what ‘any of this' is. Until I find out what's happened to Lisa Mallock and her little girl, I won't know how guilty to feel . . . . or not feel . . . . or whatever.”

“If any harm has come to Mrs. Mallock,” John said, continuing to stroke the back of her hand with his perfectly manicured fingertips, “I'm certain it will be in spite of your diligence, not as a result of your neglect. Savannah, you are truly one of the most responsible young women I've ever known.”

“Thank you,” she said, suppressing a case of the sentimental sniffles.

“But you are responsible,” he repeated, “and it is my pleasure to say so.”

“No, I mean, thank you for calling me young.”

Ryan reached across the cocktail table to refresh her cup of tea. “How can we help?”

Savannah started to dab at her eyes with her napkin, then remembered it was monogrammed linen. Instead, she dug into her purse for a tissue. “Earl Mallock,” she said. “I need to know everything you can find out about him. All I have is a birthdate, a DMV photo, and basic physical description that isn't even close anymore.”

She began to feel better already. As former agents in the FBI, Ryan Stone and John Gibson seemed to be perpetually flowing founts of information regarding almost anyone she asked them to investigate. Although John had retired and Ryan had become a highly paid bodyguard for the rich and famous, she wouldn't want either one of them on her trail if she were trying to play hide-and-seek.

“Do you have an address for Mallock?” Ryan asked, taking notes with a gold-trimmed, rosewood fountain pen.

“The one I have is obsolete. Neither he nor Lisa have lived there since they divorced. The place was sold; I checked.”

“He has to have been living somewhere,” John said. “Has the police department assigned a detective to investigate?”

“Yes, and fortunately for us, it's Dirk.”

The looks exchanged between the two men were less than enthusiastic. With Dirk's homophobic views and caustic comments, he hadn't exactly endeared himself to either of them.

“Detective Coulter is a . . . . talented . . . . investigator,” John replied carefully. “And he's very fond of you. I'm sure he'll share whatever information he has with you.”

Notably less impressed with Dirk's “talent,” Ryan continued to jot information on his pad. “You work on Mallock,” he told John, “and I'll look into Colonel Neilson.”

“The colonel?” Savannah asked. “Why?”

“Let's just say I've met him a time or two, and I find him an interesting character . . . . one I would like to know better.”

“Good luck. Don't let Beowulf take a plug of flesh out of you.”

“Beowulf?”

“I'm sure you'll have the pleasure of making his acquaintance soon, if you begin to investigate the colonel.”

Savannah turned to look out the window at the sinking sun that was setting crimson fire to the hills, the islands, the sky, and even the ocean waves. Ordinarily, she would have thought it a beautiful, peaceful scene, but this evening it looked angry.

Maybe it was just her mood.

“I've gotta go,” she said, rising and folding her napkin neatly on the tea tray. The time for chivalrous pampering and luxuriant sympathy was over. She had work to do.

Ryan walked her to the door, his large hand warm and comforting against her back. “What's next on your agenda, Savannah?” he asked. She could hear the concern in his voice and loved him for it.

“Don't ask,” she replied, giving him a dimpled smile.

“I don't think I like the sound of that.” He tweaked her chin. “What are you up to?”

She donned her most beguiling Southern accent. “Little ol' me? Why, just a friendly bit of . . . . shall we say . . . . minor trespassing.”

He laughed and opened the door for her. “Knowing you, it's probably more like breaking and entering.”

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Now, I guess that just depends on how you look at it.”

 

Savannah knew how Captain Bloss and Chief Hillquist would “look at it.”

Terms like: Felony “B” & “E”, Crossing a Police Barricade, Compromising the Scene of a Crime, occurred to her as she sneaked through the back door of Lisa Mallock's duplex. It would be a bit difficult to pretend that she hadn't seen that bright yellow tape surrounding the property, or the large notice taped to each door.

And, of course, it would be hard to explain away the flashlight in her hand and the latex gloves she was wearing.

A couple of good reasons to get in and out,
she told herself as she creaked the door closed behind her and snapped on the flashlight.

The narrow cone of white light swept around the room, illuminating every dark nook and niche, until she was satisfied that she was the only illegal entrant.

So far, so good.

The place smelled of undumped garbage, and the air was thick and stale. At least, that was the reason Savannah gave herself to explain her shortness of breath.

This place gave her the shivers. She would find what she was looking for and get the hell out, back into the fresh, moist night . . . . away from things like little Christy's lunch pail sitting on the counter and Lisa's love note to her daughter stuck to the refrigerator.

Yes, this was definitely an “in and out” sort of situation. Short and sweet . . . . or at least not too bitter.

As usual, when searching a possible crime scene, Savannah wasn't sure what she was looking for. But experience had taught her that she would recognize it when she saw it.

At least, one could always hope.

She recognized it. A bright red-orange notice lying folded atop the stack of papers on the kitchen table.

The bit of mail had caught her eye before when she had sat here, eating M&M cookies and trying to gain Lisa Mallock's trust. It wasn't just your standard overdue bill. Those types of salutatory greetings Savannah was all too familiar with these days.

This one was protruding from an envelope which was marked as registered mail. Lisa had signed for it. Someone had paid about five bucks to have that signature.

Why?

Tucking the flashlight under her arm, Savannah reached for the red paper and unfolded it.

She read the bold type which warned of impending legal action.

Examining the envelope, Savannah noted with interest that it had been addressed to Mr. and/or Mrs. Earl Mallock.

One glance around the sparsely furnished duplex told Savannah that Lisa Mallock probably wouldn't have needed a storage unit. If she had owned any material goods in the world, besides the ones inside these walls, she would have been using them, not surviving with only the barest essentials.

The thought stirred Savannah's curiosity. One could learn a lot about a beast by viewing the contents of its habitat. And until she could find out where Earl Mallock lived, his locker would have to do.

The rows of identical, drab, beige buildings reminded Savannah of some chicken coops she had seen down South. The storage lockers might smell better than Uncle George's poultry farm, but they were far less interesting.

Nothing was happening. No one, nothing. Savannah was getting antsy.

Sitting in the Camaro, she had been waiting twenty minutes for Dirk to arrive with a court order in hand, giving him permission to search Earl Mallock's unit. Since she had supplied the lead, Dirk had been kind enough to allow her to watch the process.

Plus she had promised him another honey-baked ham sandwich and a peanut butter milkshake, which was growing lukewarm on the dash.

She had just finished applying the second coat of “Flaming Desire” red polish to her nails when he appeared, chugging down the street in his battered old Buick Skylark. Judging from the car's rumbles, creaks, and groans, he needed to drive it off the nearest cliff and put it out of its misery. But the last time she had offered to do the deed for him, he had thrown what Gran would call a “hissy fit” and pouted for three days.

The car belched to a stop across the street; he got out and walked over to hers.

“Been waiting long?” he asked, looking only a bit sheepish.

“Darlin,' ” she drawled, “I've spent the better part of my life waiting for you.” She screwed the top onto the nail polish bottle and slipped it into her purse. “Well, have you got it?”

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.”