Cooked Goose (21 page)

Savannah nodded. “When appropriate.” She popped the top on a beer can and generously sprinkled the ale over the chicken until it sizzled and steamed. “So, their ETA has been slightly delayed. They’ll probably arrive tomorrow night, barring any other ‘mishaps.’”

“You mean—arson, murder or mayhem?” Dirk added.

“Among other juvenile indiscretions.”

From inside the house, they heard the phone ring. Margie jumped up from the picnic table and flew inside.

“Teenagers and phones,” Savannah said, “there’s some sort of biological connection.”

“Her friends don’t know she’s here, do they?” Tammy whispered. “I mean, for security reasons.”

“No, Bloss didn’t want anyone to know.” Savannah reached for a plate and began dishing up the beautifully browned, delicately smoked chicken. She could feel her tummy growl in anticipation. “He was quite definite about it,” she added. “Personally, I’m as security conscious as anybody, but I think he’s wigging out about this a bit.”

“Me, too,” Dirk said. “I doubt the guy’s gonna try to get her again when there’s so many women in town who would give in to him without a tussle.”

Margie bopped out of the house, the cordless phone in her hand. “It’s for you,” she said, thrusting it at Dirk.

“Great. And me with half a six-pack under my belt,” he told Savannah in a whispered aside before he answered, “Coulter here.” He listened for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. I turn my cell off at dinner time. Draw and quarter me, huh?” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a pen. Scribbling on one of Savannah’s paper napkins, he said, “Okay, okay. I’ll get right out there.”

He pushed the Off button and hoisted his body off the chaise. “Say, Van…I know you’re in the middle of cookin’ here, but how do you feel about a little trip to the country? I could use a designated driver.”

She studied the sick look on his face. “Turner Canyon Road? An orange grove, maybe?”

“How did you know?”

“Call it a hunch. Another orange grove rape?”

Dirk sighed. “A simple rape would be better news—if you can believe that.”

“A body?”

He nodded. “Supposedly McGivney’s. An anonymous tip came in a few minutes ago.”

“The same caller who told us about Titus being on the jetty, even though he wasn’t?”

“They think so.”

“Gee. How helpful.”

Savannah turned to Tammy and Margie, who looked a bit disappointed. But Dirk couldn’t drive himself, and she had to admit, she wanted to be in the thick of things. Even if the soup was pretty thin.

“Do you mind?” she asked Tammy, not wanting to say in plain English, “Will you baby-sit the kid for me?”

“Not at all. Margie and I are going to eat everything you cooked and then, if you’re not back yet, we’ll play a wild game of hearts.” She turned to the teenager. “You do know how to play hearts, don’t you?”

“Nope.” She didn’t sound too excited.

“Well, high time you learned.” Tammy waved Savannah and Dirk away with an airy hand, just before nabbing a piece of Savannah’s corn on the cob. “You two get going. And good luck.”

“Yeah,” Dirk grumbled as they walked back into the house. “We can go not find Joe, just like we didn’t find Titus.”

“That’s it,” Savannah told him as they strapped on their weapons and she grabbed her purse. “Hold onto those positive thoughts until they squeak.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said as they walked out the front door and down the sidewalk to her car. “Don’t piss into a stiff wind, and never say die.”

“Words to live by.”

* * *

6:05 p.m.

This time, when Dirk and Savannah arrived, they were the first on the scene.

A homicide scene.

No doubt about it.

No futile combing the beach and coming up empty. Not tonight.

Tonight the caller had been right on. He had said they could find a dead cop in the ditch on the northwest corner of Turner Canyon Road and Santa Rosita Way.

Officer Joe McGivney was there, all right, and he was very dead, lying on his back, one arm twisted behind his back, the other flung out to one side.

His weapon was still in its holster.

When Savannah shone her flashlight in his face, his sightless eyes stared back, flat and dull. Rigor mortis was well-established. Insect infestation had begun.

Cause of death had to be related to the small, black perfectly round hole right in the center of his forehead, Savannah thought as she deliberately put her grief and anger on hold and mentally clicked into analytical mode. The star-shaped pattern of splits in the skin surrounding the hole showed that the muzzle of the gun had probably been held directly against his forehead when the trigger had been pulled.

His badge had been ripped off the front of his uniform, making a jagged tear in the fabric. Half the badge protruded from his mouth, as though his killer had been forcing him to eat it.

“Shit,” Dirk said as he sat down hard on the dirt near the body.

Savannah felt her own knees go weak. “Exactly.”

After a long moment of silence, Dirk said in a husky voice, “It’s always bad. But it’s worse, you know, when it’s a cop.”

Resting her hand on his shoulder, she said, “Of course it is.”

“Now, why the hell do you suppose they did that?” He pointed to the badge.

“Who knows? It’s one sick individual.”

“Well, I’m not going to leave him like that.”

Dirk reached down, but Savannah grabbed his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You have to, buddy. You can’t move anything like that until Dr. Liu sees it and the CSI team photographs it. You know that.”

Dirk shuddered and wiped his other hand across his eyes. Savannah knew it wouldn’t help. They would both be seeing this—awake and in their dreams—for a long time.

“Are you all right?” she asked, slipping her hand into his, a gesture more familiar and intimate than they were accustomed to with each other. To her surprise, his fingers clasped hers tightly, and that told her more than any words.

No, Dirk wasn’t all right.

He was a tough guy. An overgrown street kid. And tough guys didn’t hold hands at a time like this if they were all right.

In all the years they had been partners, then friends, Savannah had known that Dirk liked her, trusted her, relied on her, maybe on a good day even loved her. But there hadn’t been many times when she had felt this tough guy needed her—or anyone else for that matter.

She was very glad she was there.

Two hours later, the now-all-too-familiar crowd had assembled: Dr. Liu and the crime scene investigation team, the media, the spectators, a brigade of cops.

Someone had finally removed the badge from Joe McGivney’s mouth and covered his body with a cloth.

Bloss had arrived, even before the coroner’s wagon, and Savannah knew he was deeply distressed by this development. He hadn’t even harassed her for being present at the scene.

She was sitting on the fender of her Mustang, keeping a low profile when he finally approached her and asked in a flat, subdued monotone, “Where is my daughter?” He actually looked too tired for hostility.

“She’s at my place, eating barbecue and playing hearts with my assistant, Tammy. In other words, she’s safe and she’s having fun.”

“That’s good. Thanks.”

It was all Savannah could do not to reach over and place her hand on his forehead to check for a fever. Since when did Harvey Bloss converse with her like a normal human being?

He did look a bit “peaked around the gills,” as Gran would say. He had deep, dark circles under his eyes, and his usually overly ruddy complexion had an unhealthy gray cast to it.

Nope. Captain Bloss didn’t look so good these days.

He opened his mouth, as though he was going to say something else, but one of his flunkies came running up to him, a worried and urgent look on his face. They spoke in low tones for a moment, then Bloss hurried to his dark, cop-boss, generic sedan, and they both climbed inside.

Through the open window, Bloss called out to Dirk, who was conversing with Dr. Liu. Dirk joined them in the car for a few minutes.

When Dirk emerged, he looked as upset as Bloss. He walked over to Savannah, practically dragging his tracks out— from fatigue, or discouragement, or a combination of both, she didn’t know.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Not what,” he said. “Who. We’ve got another one missing.”

She had a feeling, but she had to ask. “Who?”

“Donald DeCianni.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

December 16—1:18 p.m.

“You sure find out who your friends are when something like this happens,” Christy Melleby said as she twisted the soggy tissue around her forefinger, then dabbed at the end of her nose. “It’s like they’re a bunch of cockroaches who scramble for cover when the lights go on. A couple of the cops’ wives have actually ducked behind shelves in the grocery store rather than talk to me. I don’t understand it.”

Savannah sat on the other end of Christy’s wicker sofa with its dainty floral cushions. She was sipping jasmine tea from an equally dainty, flower-spangled, china cup. The sun porch was like a miniature arboretum. Pots of paper-white narcissus perfumed the air, along with poinsettias of every shade from ivory to crimson.

In the corner of the glass-enclosed room a Victorian Christmas tree glistened with pink tinsel and a hundred whimsical angels.

It was definitely what Savannah called a “girlie-girl” room. And the woman/girl who had decorated it sat sobbing into her hanky, the picture of distressed femininity in linen and lace. Her long, blond hair was curved into a graceful French twist, and she actually wore a strand of pearls around her delicate neck.

With a pang of sadness, Savannah thought how Christy Melleby was as feminine as her boyfriend, Titus Dunn, was masculine.

Savannah also wondered if she should be thinking of Titus in the past tense. Dear God, she hoped not.

“People don’t mean to disappear into the woodwork,” Savannah told her as she handed her another tissue from a nearby box. “They just don’t know what to say to someone who’s going through difficult times. They feel they should come up with some magic words to make your pain disappear, and of course, that’s impossible. And since they can’t think of anything, they don’t say anything.”

“But
you
called,” Christy said with a sniff. “At least you phoned and asked if there was something you could do.”

Savannah felt only a teeny bit guilty. She had been concerned over Christy’s welfare. And the hope that she might garner some shred of information that would help Dirk—well, that was only her secondary motive for calling.

Wasn’t it
? her conscience asked.

Of course
, came the speedy, moderately indignant reply.

“And
is
there anything I can do?” Savannah asked.

“Yes, help them find Titus. Before….” She choked back her tears. “Before he winds up like poor old Joe, in a ditch somewhere.”

Savannah didn’t have the heart to tell this grief-stricken woman—nurturer of narcissus bulbs and lover of Christmas angels—she would bet cold cash that poor ol’ Titus was probably already lying in a ditch somewhere. Or buried in an orange grove. Or floating on the ocean floor somewhere between the San Carmelita beach and the Catalina Islands.

No, some things were better left unsaid.

“We’re working on it, Christy. Really, we are.” She took a long drink of the fragrant tea. “How is your mother in Seattle?” she asked, knowing that, too, would be a sensitive topic.

“Dying.”

“So I heard. I’m really sorry.”

“Thank you.”

At that moment Savannah was very glad she had made that call. Christy was right; people did disappear like cockroaches when the going got tough. And feeling awkward was no excuse. A friend was a person who pushed past the awkwardness and called anyway. A friend reached out, whether it was comfortable or not.

But then, true friends were a rare commodity in almost everyone’s life.

“Not an easy time for you, huh?” Savannah said. Moving closer to Christy on the sofa, she reached over and covered her hand with hers. She noticed how cold Christy’s fingers were, how low her life energy felt.

“No, it isn’t easy,” Christy replied. “But I’m really, really grateful that you’re here.”

Originally, Savannah had planned to stay only fifteen minutes or half an hour. But that was when she decided to hang out a little longer.

* * *

Two hours, three cups of tea, and a half a box of tissues later, Savannah rose to leave.

“We’re going to find your honey for you,” she told Christy as they strolled through the house to the front door. “And— I know you’re only human and can’t help it—but there’s no point in tormenting yourself over what ‘might’ have happened to him. My Gran always says, ‘Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.’ I’m still hoping we’re going to find him alive and well.”