Just Desserts (3 page)

Jim Bob lay sprawled on his back, the shotgun on the floor beside him, bright red blood oozing from a dark split down the middle of his forehead.

Savannah ran into the bedroom, kicked the shotgun out of his reach, and stood, Beretta aimed at his head, grinning down at him.

Handcuffs pulled, Dirk hurried in, rolled him over, and cuffed him. As Dirk hauled him to his feet, the guy stared at Savannah through the bloody, matted hair that hung down into his eyes.

“Are
you
Betty?” he asked, obviously disoriented and more than a little confused.

She chuckled and shook her head. “Jim Bob, you catch on quick, don’cha, darlin’?”

Several hours later, as they left the station, with James Robert Barnett safely returned to the custody of the State of California, Savannah giggled, remembering the look on James’s face. “Is it my imagination,” she said, “or are criminals getting stupider these days?”

Dirk draped his arm across her shoulders, and they headed across the rear parking lot toward the Buick. The sun was beginning to rise over the Spanish tiled roof of the station. The smell of pancakes and bacon from a nearby coffee shop scented the air. “Yep; it’s your imagination. They’ve always been stupid. You and me are just gettin’ better.”

S
ated by a breakfast of cheese blintzes with fresh strawberry compote and a dollop of sour cream, Savannah waved good-bye to Dirk and the Buick and dragged her tired body up the sidewalk to her house. In this neighborhood she had no view of the famous coral-and-turquoise sunsets over the Pacific. If she wanted to take a walk on the beach she had to get in her car and drive five or six miles, then hope for a parking space.

Her financial status placed her somewhere between the “haves” on the hillsides and the “have-nots” in the east valley. She supposed, here in midtown, she was classified with the have-a-little-but-never-enoughs.

But she loved her house. The quaint, Spanish style cottage sat back from the busy street, shaded by a giant magnolia—her pride and joy. The tree provided a little bit of southern comfort to a Georgia girl who was a long way from home.

The white stucco walls gleamed in the early morning light, providing a stark backdrop for the brilliant crimson bougainvillea that had taken over the front of the house. The bougainvillea had crawled up the small trellis she had provided for it several years ago and had continued up the roof, arching gracefully over the door. At first she had battled with the vines, cutting them back every few months. But in the end she had decided it would be much easier to just pretend she liked them. Eventually she didn’t have to pretend.

“Hi, Bogey,” she greeted the bougainvillea as she ducked through the colorful archway and unlocked the door. “How dare you look so bright and chipper when I haven’t had any sleep for thirty-six hours! Tone it down a bit, huh?”

The moment she opened the door and stepped inside, two enormous black cats bounded toward her. The animals were sleek and silky, coats like polished ebony, and both wore black leather collars, studded with rhinestones. They studied her with thoughtful pale green eyes. Bending down to scoop up the mail from the floor, she scratched first one and then the other behind the ears. “Good morning, Diamante, Cleopatra.”

They each responded with enthusiastic mews and began to rub against her legs.

“Are you two delighted to see me, or are you out of food?” she asked as she walked through the house to the kitchen. There, next to the stove, sat two empty bowls.

“Guess that answers my question.” She filled both dishes with dry cat food, then, feeling guilty, took a can of tuna from the cupboard and gave each a healthy portion.

As she made herself a cup of hot cocoa, laced with a little Bailey’s and topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, she could feel the past few hours catching up with her. Her muscles were beginning to set like cement on a hot, dry day. Her limbs felt about as heavy.

If she didn’t crawl into a warm bath soon, she would be as stiff as Granny Reid, back in Georgia. But Gran had a good excuse: She was eighty-two. Savannah was less than half that.

“Maybe it’s not the years, but the mileage,” she mumbled as she sauntered to the bathroom.

Just the sight of the pretty room, with its old-fashioned rose print wallpaper, lace-edged towels, and pink geraniums blooming on the windowsill, made her feel better. The deep, claw foot Victorian tub beckoned her—as though she needed seducing. On the vanity, a white wicker basket awaited, filled with scented soaps, oils, gels, and moisturizers. Behind the door hung her favorite garment, her thick, snuggy terry-cloth robe.

Ah-h-h-h ... she could hardly wait.

Pulling the shades, Savannah closed out the harsh white sunlight and replaced it with the golden glow of several pink votive candles.

With great ceremony she poured a generous portion of gardenia bath gel into the tub and turned on the water full blast.

But when she looked around for her cup of hot chocolate she realized she had left it in the kitchen. Oh, well ... just one more short trek back into the real world before she could lose herself in the fantasy.

As she walked into the kitchen, the phone rang, startling her out of the dreamy reverie she was already conjuring.

“Go away,” she told it. She glanced at the clock on the stove—five forty-five. “Whoever you are, go back to bed and leave me alone.”

The answering machine picked up the call, and Savannah heard her own message play. She cringed when she heard the grating nasal voice of her captain.

“Reid, it’s Bloss. I know you’re there. Pick up the phone.”

She made a face at the machine and a mildly obscene suggestion, only allowing herself to express her thoughts in semaphore. She had an irrational paranoia that the person on the line just
might,
through some strange quirk of technology, hear her if she spoke.

Captain Bloss had only been her superior for three weeks and she had already managed to piss him off at least half a dozen times.

“Pick up, Reid. I just talked to Coulter and he said he dropped you at home ten minutes ago.”

Damn you, Dirk,
she thought, reaching for the phone.
Sell me out, why don’t you?

“Yes ... hello, Captain,” she said, panting into the phone. “I just got back from a run. Lucky I heard the machine.”

“Yeah. Right.”

He sniffed, a long liquid snort that made her shudder. Maybe she’d give him a giant box of tissues for Christmas ... if he hadn’t fired her by then.

“I’ve got a homicide downtown ... one of the shops on Main Street. It was called in fifteen minutes ago by the janitor. We have a couple of patrolmen on the scene. I want you to handle it,” he said.

“Now?” she asked, suddenly feeling much more tired and much older than Granny Reid.

“No, Detective Reid,” he said in a caustic tone, “whenever you get good and ready. You know ... after your facial and massage and before your tennis lesson.”

She bit her lower lip and fought down her temper. This wasn’t the time to “get her dander up,” as Gran would say.

“Where is it?” she asked, grabbing the notepad and pen beside the phone.

He gave her the address. It was located in the renovated, historic part of town, near the old mission. Ten years ago downtown had been on its way to being classified a slum area. Now it was high-priced real estate, boasting exclusive boutiques, cappuccino bars, custom bikini shops, and jewelry stores selling handmade African beads.

“So, you’ve contacted Dirk about this?” she asked.

There was a slight pause on the other end. “Not about this particular case,” he replied. “I want you to take care of it. I’ve got Dirk tied up on something else.”

Savannah was taken aback. She and Dirk almost always worked together, especially on the homicides and more violent crimes. Not that she didn’t welcome the opportunity to go solo for a change, but she couldn’t help wondering why.

Something told her not to ask.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said. But Bloss had already hung up.

She ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. Turning off the faucets, she stared wistfully at the mountain of bubbles, glittering in the golden candlelight.

“Oh, well,” she said as she blew out the votives, filling the room with the fragrance of carnation-scented smoke. So much for a few moments in fantasy land. Back to the real world—such as it was.

When Savannah arrived at the appointed address she wondered why Bloss hadn’t filled her in on one small detail: The murder scene was none other than the most exclusive boutique in town, owned and operated by Jonathan Winston, Councilwoman Beverly Winston’s husband.

Apparently, members of the media
hadn’t
been running a bubble bath when they had been notified. They had beaten her there and had already set up lights, camera ... action.

Savannah recognized several of the reporters from local television stations, the two newspapers, and even a crew from a Los Angeles network station.

She was relieved to see two of her favorite patrolmen standing guard at the front door, which was barricaded with yellow SCPD banner tape. The last thing she needed was a murder scene that had been compromised.

“Detective Reid!” shouted Rosemary Hulse, a reporter for the San Carmelita
Star.
She came running up to Savannah and produced a small tape recorder out of thin air. “Are you in charge of this investigation?”

“Yes, Rosemary. It seems I am.” Savannah forged ahead, knowing better than to slow her pace. In the past she had hesitated and found herself swamped by waves of reporters.

“Do you know who killed him? Do you have any suspects at this time?” Rosemary pressed.

For a second or two Savannah considered being honest and admitting that she didn’t even know who the “him” was yet; then she decided against it. There were plenty of opportunities in the course of any investigation to appear incompetent; she didn’t need to get a running start at it.

“No comment at this time, Rosemary,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll be releasing a statement a little later, if you guys can just hang tight.”

She reached the door and the patrolmen, who looked relieved to see her. Jake McMurtry and Mike Famon had been boyhood buddies and were now cops on the same beat. Both were fairly new to the force, and from the rather chalky color of their complexions she surmised this was their first murder scene.

“Hi, Jake, Mike,” she said. “Is the victim inside?”

Jake nodded. “In the office in the back. He’s behind the desk.”

Savannah stepped over the tape, and the two men followed her into the building, closing the door securely behind them. The spectators continued to gawk through the bronze-tinted floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Who is it?” she asked, now that they were out of earshot.

Jake gave Mike a quick look, which Savannah interpreted as ominous at best.

“Uh ... we’re not sure,” he said. “It’s ... uh ... sorta hard to tell.”

She felt even more pessimistic. “Is that because you weren’t well-acquainted with Jonathan Winston and his staff, or because it’s ... messy.”

“Messy,” Mike said without hesitation. “Very messy.”

“Oh, goody.” She could almost feel her cheese blintzes do a polka.

“The janitor found him about an hour ago,” Mike said, waving a big, beefy hand toward the hall that led away from the showroom. “He called it in at five-thirty. We were just down the street, so we came over to check it out.”

“Where is the janitor now?”

“He’s sitting out in our unit,” Jake said. “He begged us to let him leave the building. He’s a little spooked.”

“Okay; I’ll talk to him later.” She scanned the elaborate entry of pink marble, bronzed mirrors, and accents of brass that gleamed like gold everywhere. “Anybody but the two of you and the janitor been inside?”

“Nope. We made sure nobody touched nothin’,” Jake said proudly.

“Good work,” Savannah said. “I’ll be sure to mention that in my report.” She stopped in the middle of the showroom and studied every detail. An antique armoire nearly covered one wall and was filled with exquisite gowns, the likes of which Savannah had never even seen before, let alone worn. An elegant mural graced the opposite wall—a delicately scrolled J.W., the trademark of the highly successful designer.

The room appeared pristine, certainly not the scene of any violence. Flower arrangements were undisturbed, as were the photo albums on the low cocktail table in front of the white leather sofa. The pale gray carpet showed no signs of traffic, other than a few footprints leading to and through the center of the room.

“Did you guys walk through here before?” she asked.

“Yeah ... to get to the front door,” Mike admitted.

“It’s okay; just asking.” She looked down at their feet. Damn, they were wearing shoes with heavy tread.

“Let me see the bottoms of your shoes,” she said, squatting down.

They looked at each other, puzzled. “What?” Jake asked.

“Hold up your feet. I want to check your soles.” She grinned. “One foot at a time is fine.”

They did as she asked. Other than a bit of gum and assorted street debris, they were clean.

“I know you guys need traction on your beat,” she said, “but when you walk into a murder scene with carpeting, it’s better if you have slick leather soles. Those tractor treads of yours can pick up all kinds of good stuff and walk out the door with it. One guy I know took off with a casing, the only one on the scene. He found it later that night, but by then it was thoroughly mangled.”

“Um-m-m ... sorry, Detective,” Mike muttered, looking embarrassed.

“Hey, no problem. Now you know. Just check your shoes before you leave.”

She took one more quick look around the room, absorbing everything she could, then headed down the hall toward the rear of the building.

“Back here?” she asked.

“Yeah, and to your left,” Jake said.

She noticed they weren’t following her closely as she approached the room in question. She couldn’t blame them: It wasn’t easy, your first time. Hell, it wasn’t easy the hundredth time. She had never been able to fully understand what one person could do to another. More than once she had wanted to change her species affiliation after seeing the mayhem of which human beings were capable.