“Really,” he said. “I wouldn’t have glass in my trailer door for nothin’.”
For half a second, Savannah entertained the idea of an elaborate stained-glass window in the door of Dirk’s humble trailer, and she nearly giggled.
But any inclination toward laughter disappeared the instant Dirk opened the door and she caught a glimpse of what was inside.
“Damn,” Dirk whispered as he pushed the door all the way open.
They both drew their guns and each took a position on either side of the door, where between the two of them, they could see all of the room inside.
“Clear,” Savannah said.
He nodded. “Clear.”
Guns leading the way, they stepped inside the tiny studio apartment that looked as though an invading army had tramped through it.
The coffee table was overturned, its mirror top broken in several pieces. A bookshelf lay on its face, its books, pictures, and bric-a-brac scattered on the floor.
In the kitchenette area in the right rear of the room, pans, dishes, glasses, and a potted plant had been knocked to the floor. Dirt and shattered pottery lay everywhere.
Cautiously, Dirk poked his gun, then his head into the bathroom to the left. “It’s clear, too,” he said.
Savannah looked under the twin bed that was perfectly made, the only thing in the room that seemed to be undisturbed. All she saw was a row of shoe boxes.
“Here, too,” she said, straightening up and looking around her with a heavy, sick feeling that felt a lot like failure. “He got to her before we did,” she said.
“He?
How do you know it wasn’t a
she?
Or a
they?"
“Get real,” she snapped, in no mood to argue gender-correctness with him. “It’s almost always a friggin’
he.
” But for once, Dirk didn’t seem inclined to argue either. He shrugged. “True... but it’s not exactly a given.”
“How about Kevin Connor?” she asked. “It’s usually a
he,
and it’s usually the husband or the boyfriend.”
“Connor’s alibi is airtight. He was at work all day.”
“You checked that?” Savannah could hear the fury in her own voice, but she didn’t care.
“I checked it, Van. They say he never left the hospital. Every minute of his day is accounted for,” he said softly. “Take it easy, honey.”
Savannah wasn’t above feeding a guy his teeth for calling her “honey” or “sweetie” or “babe.” But she could tell by the soft look in Dirk’s eyes that he meant it. She was busting his chops, and he was answering her with kindness.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just...”
“I know. Me, too.”
Savannah shook her head. “No, you don’t know. I just spent the afternoon with Tesla. She’s a doll, a real lady. I knew she was worried, and I wasn’t able to draw it out of her.”
‘You talked to her. You did what you could. It wasn’t exactly the best of circumstances to interview somebody, what with you being undercover and all.”
“I should have pressed her. I should have dropped the stupid charade and taken her aside and done what it took to get her to talk to me.”
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda... water under the bridge. We’ll find her.”
Savannah winced as she looked around the room and contemplated what sort of violence it would have taken to accomplish this mess. What sort of pain would be inflicted on a body that was being bounced off furniture and walls like that.
“At least there’s no blood,” Dirk added, kneeling down and looking at the floor. “He’s getting cocky. Didn’t even bother to clean up this time.”
“
He?”
“Yeah, he.” Looking up at her, he gave her a wink. “You’re right, of course. It’s almost always one of us worthless dudes that done it.”
“I wouldn’t say you guys are worthless,” she said, “just...”
Her voice trailed away as she knelt beside the rust-colored suede sofa and stared at a dark spot on the cushion.
“What is it?” he asked.
She pulled a latex glove out of her purse and slipped it on. Then she carefully dabbed at the spot with one fingertip.
Holding up the finger, she showed him the dark red smudge on the glove. “Looks like we spoke too soon.”
Chapter
12
O
rdinarily, having an assortment of the people she loved most in the world around her table was Savannah’s favorite pastime. She found it fun to feed almost anyone, let alone her favorite folks.
But tonight, the mood was less celebratory than usual with the meeting of the official Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency gang. Two unsolved murders and a third missing woman could put a damper on any party.
Savannah sat at the head of the table with Dirk at the foot. To her right was Tammy, her notebook computer on the table in front of her. And to Savannah’s left sat a couple of the most attractive and heartbreakingly unattainable men she knew: Ryan Stone and John Gibson.
With his stunning good looks and winning smile, the tall, dark, and handsome Ryan could have done anything from acting to shaving commercials to squiring wealthy ladies to social events for big bucks.
But both he and John, his life partner, had taken early retirements from the FBI and now spent their time doing private investigations and providing security for the rich, famous, and powerful—when they weren’t summering on the French Riviera, cruising the Mediterranean, or exploring the Amazon jungle with a shaman guide.
Savannah and Tammy were both madly in love with Ryan and the older—but no less delicious—silver-haired British fox, John... for all the good it did them. To their dismay, no amount of feminine wiles had altered either man’s sexual orientation. But Savannah had finally decided that simply being adored by these two elegant, sensitive, and charming hunks was enough. With Ryan and John, the role of “friend” didn’t seem like Second Prize.
And tonight, maybe because Dirk was feeling a bit swamped by his investigations, he seemed more grateful than usual to receive whatever input the two had to offer.
“No,” he was telling John, “the ME couldn’t find anything that would indicate homicide on the Connor death. Looks like an accident, but Van and I don’t think so, because of the second one. And then this other gal’s gone missing.”
John took a sip of his Earl Grey tea and nodded thoughtfully. “Your second young lady,” he continued in his exquisitely proper British accent, “was most assuredly murdered?”
‘Yeah,” Dirk replied. “Dr. Liu says the body had none of the usual pedestrian versus vehicle injuries.”
Tammy pointed to her computer. “That’s true. I’ve been doing my Internet research, and when a car hits a jogger or a walker, the most common injury is to the lower legs, where the bumper first makes contact.”
“And Kameeka Wills died of cerebral hemorrhage, caused by a blow to the head with a blunt object,” Savannah added. “The only signs that she’d been in contact with a vehicle were the tire marks across her upper thighs.”
“And,” Dirk said, “Dr. Liu says those were postmortem.”
“Just one blow to the head?” Ryan wanted to know. “Yeah, but apparently it was a nasty one.” Dirk grimaced and took a long drink from his coffee mug. “Fractured her skull.”
“Any ideas on the weapon?” Ryan asked.
Dirk shook his head. “Not for sure, but Dr. Liu said she’d seen that sort of injury before and thought it was from a baseball bat.”
“A man’s weapon,” Ryan said.
Tammy looked up from her computer screen where she was taking meticulous notes of the meeting. Notes no one would ever read, but she liked to feel useful. “Hey, I was pretty awesome with a bat when I was in Girls’ Little League.”
“Bully for you,” Dirk said. “So, everybody, Tammy’s a suspect, along with all the guys in the picture.”
“What guys?” John asked.
Savannah got up from the table and walked to the kitchen counter, where she began to carve up a triplelayer chocolate cake. “We’ve got Kevin Connor, Cait’s husband,” she said.
“But he has a solid alibi for the time when Cait died,” Dirk added. “He was at work, and his superior vouches for him, says he wasn’t out of her sight all day.”
“And when Kameeka was killed?” John asked.
Dirk shook his head. “Nope. I asked him about that, and he was home alone. He said he was passed out in bed from drinking too much the night before. He’s pretty upset about losing his wife.”
“Most people without partners would have a hard time establishing an alibi for the early morning hours,”
John replied. “So you can’t place much emphasis on that”
“I’ll testify to the fact that he’s a close friend of Jack Daniels,” Savannah said, dishing monstrous slices of the cake onto her best dessert plates.
For the safety of her Royal Albert Old Country Roses china, she put Dirk’s on an unbreakable Corelle plate. He’d never notice the slight... as long as his piece was a bit larger than the others. There was no point in feeding the bull in the china shop on your best dinnerware.
“And we’ve got Matt Slater,” Savannah said as she set a piece of cake in front of John. “He’s the main photographer on the Slenda Flakes campaign. He gave me the heebie-jeebies, the way he was looking at the girls at the shoot and the way he was handling them, way more than necessary just to pose them.”
John turned his plate first one way, then the other, admiring the cake with its generous dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of Chambord sauce. “Savannah, my dear, you certainly know how to gild the culinary lily. Do you think this photographer of yours is committing... shall we say... indiscretions with his ladies?” Savannah thought it over for a moment, remembering how Matt had slid his hand between Desiree’s thighs to reposition her leg. A gende hand on the knee or a verbal command would have been more than sufficient. Then there had been the look that passed between them as his hand lingered a few seconds too long.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Definitely a possibility.”
“Any indication that he might have been involved with either victim?” Ryan asked.
“Not yet.” Dirk scowled as Savannah handed the next portion to Ryan instead of him. “But I’m working on it,” he said. “If there was any hanky-panky going on, I’ll be sure to find out about it.”
Tammy giggled. “Yeah, Dirk’s a regular bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out hanky. It’s the closest thing to panky he gets.”
“Shut up, bubble brain,” Dirk said, swiping the piece of cake that Savannah had given Tammy out from under her nose.
Savannah rescued the cake and, more importantly, her china from him and handed it back to Tammy. “And then,” she continued, “we’ve got this Jerrod Beekman dude who owns Stellar, the ad agency that’s handling the Slenda account for Wentworth Cereal.”
“Jerrod Beekman?” Ryan turned to John. “We know him. He was seeing Michael Romano last summer. We met them at the opening of that little gallery down on San Fernando Street. Remember?”
Dirk perked up. “Oh, so, Beekman’s a... I mean he’s... one of you guys? Uh, no offense.”
Ryan glanced over at Savannah, then gave Dirk his best “patient” smile. “None taken. Yes, I suppose you could say he’s one of
us.
He’s certainly not one of
you.”
His eyes twinkled when he added, “No offense.”
Dirk scowled. “And what’s
that
supposed to mean?” Savannah shoved his oversize cake in front of him. “Eat,” she said.
“I’d keep a sharp eye on Beekman,” John told her. “I’ve heard from more than one source that he’s a wily chap when it comes to business. Not above resorting to mischief to get the upper hand.”
“Thanks, John,” Savannah said. “That’s good to know.”
“I can do some checking about, if you like,” he offered. “I know this particular chap, Michael Romano, and I believe there was a bit of animosity when they ceased to keep company this past winter. He might have something to say about your fellow Beekman.”
“That would be great,” Dirk said with far more enthusiasm than usual for him. Savannah stifled a grin. Frequently, when stumped by a case, Dirk decided that Ryan and John were pretty good to have around.
Joining them at the table with her own dessert, she said, “And then we have the agent, Leah Freed.”
“Why would you suspect her?” Tammy asked.
“I suspect everybody. That way I’m sure to think ill of the bad guy... or girl... at least once,” she said. “Leah hired me to find out what happened to her girls, but she seems more interested in what Dirk has found out than what I’ve uncovered. She called me four times today, leaving messages for me to check in. But when I did, right before you guys came over tonight, all she did was ask me who ‘the police’ think it might be.”
“Are you saying she hired you just to get information on me?” Dirk asked with a look of arrogance that was only slightly diluted by the whipped cream on his chin.
“Oh, yeah, Dirko,” Tammy said. “It’s about you. It’s always about you.”
“And this time it might be more than just a figment of your inflated ego,” Savannah added. “I could swear I was being pumped.”