Just Desserts (7 page)

“Here he is,” Mrs. Downing said, shoving her husband in front of her as she returned to the kitchen. “Now go easy on ’im. He’s had a rough day.”

“We all have,” Savannah muttered as she stood and offered her hand to Hank Downing.

His handshake was weak, and she could feel a tremor run through him as she squeezed his fingers. One look at his gray pallor told her that Mrs. Downing hadn’t been exaggerating. He did have health problems, and his experience this morning had obviously taken years off his life.

“Please sit down, Mr. Downing,” she said, pulling out a chair for him. “This will only take a few minutes, really.”

“I done told them two officers everything I know, missy,” he said as he sank onto the chair, propped his elbows on the table, and covered his face with his hands. Savannah knew the gesture well, having both seen it and used it herself countless times. But she knew from experience that the action didn’t work. You could still see it all, there in your mind’s eye, every lurid detail, indelibly recorded.

“I don’t know what else you people want from me,” he said wearily.

“I’m the detective who’s investigating the homicide.” She ignored the surprised look he gave her, relieved that he didn’t make an issue of her gender. A tiresome subject.

“Was it him?” Mrs. Downing asked, She had been hovering near the stove, trying to pretend that she was doing something besides eavesdropping. “Was the guy who got kilt Mr. Winston?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Savannah said, watching Hank’s reaction to the news. Mixed emotions. Grief, maybe a little relief. “Did you know Jonathan Winston well?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Naw. He was the boss. I was the hired help. That’s all there was to us.”

“Can you tell me what happened this morning?” she said gently.

Drawing a deep breath, he asked, “How much do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Okay....” He glanced at his wife, and she nodded her support. “... I got to work a little after five this morning. I’m supposed to have the place all spic and span before anybody gets there. Mr. Winston is ... was ... really picky about that. He always wanted everything to look perfect when his friends came in.”

“Did he have a lot of friends?”

“To hear him tell it, everybody was his friend—least ways, anybody important. I wasn’t his friend,” he added softly. “I just worked for ’im. Guess that didn’t make me important enough.”

Savannah pulled out her notebook and began to scribble. “I understand, Mr. Downing,” she said. “Please, go on. You arrived and... ?”

“First thing I noticed when I drove up was that the place was all dark. Mr. Winston was usually the last one to leave, and he’d always make sure there was some lights left on, you know, for security.”

“But the property was completely dark?”

“I thought so, till I walked down the hall. Then I saw there was a light on in Mr. Winston’s office.”

“Just a second. Did you come in through the front door or the back?”

“The back. And that was the second thing. It was unlocked. Mr. Winston’s always real careful about that. He carries a big wad of bills on him, and he’s afraid somebody’s gonna stick him up. Do you think that’s what happened?”

Savannah thought back to the devastation the shotgun had wrought on the body. Anyone interested in robbing the corpse would have taken more care not to damage the goods—like the roll of cash in his pockets. And he was still wearing his jewelry. No, not likely.

“We don’t know yet, Mr. Downing. We’re considering all possibilities at this time. You say there was a light on in Mr. Winston’s office. Was his door open?”

“No, but I could see it shinin’ underneath. That’s why I didn’t worry no more. I just figured Mr. Winston had nodded off to sleep there in his office—he did that sometimes—and forgot to turn on the outside lights and lock the doors.”

“Did he sleep at the office often?”

Hank lowered his voice and leaned closer to her, a conspiratorial gleam in his faded blue eyes. “Passed out is more like it, I reckon,” he said. “Mr. W liked to take a nip of that expensive Scotch from time to time.”

“Oh, Hank,” Mrs. Downing interjected, “if you’re gonna tell her, tell her the truth. He was soused half the time, and the other half he was drunker than a skunk.”

Savannah gave Hank a questioning look, and he nodded sheepishly. “I just don’t think it’s right, speakin’ ill of the dead and all.”

“I understand. But I need to know all you can tell me about Mr. Winston’s life, so that I can find out why he died. That’s all any of us can do for him now.” She waited for the guilty look to leave Hank’s face as her words sank in. Then she continued. “So, tell me... what happened next?”

“I started cleaning, just like I do every morning. I vacuumed the showroom and the hall and did all the dusting.”

Savannah groaned inwardly. No wonder the place had been so pristine. Unwittingly, he would have vacuumed or dusted away any evidence the perpetrator might have left behind. She made a note on the pad to remind the lab techs to pay special attention to the contents of the vacuum’s bag.

“About how long do you think you spent cleaning the front of the building?” she asked. “That is, before you discovered Mr. Winston’s body?”

He thought for a moment; she could see he was trying to be as accurate as possible, the mark of an honest witness.

“Probably about twenty minutes, give or take.”

“Okay, now please think back carefully, Mr. Downing. As you were cleaning, did you notice any sign that someone had been there since you had cleaned before? Fingerprints, smudges, tracks on the carpet, anything?”

Understanding and distress clouded the old man’s eyes. “Uh, oh, I guess I fouled that one up. I shouldn’t have cleaned everything so good, huh?”

“It’s all right, Mr. Downing. You didn’t know.” She gave him what she hoped was a not-too-bitter, consoling smile. “Do you recall anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really, but then, I wasn’t especially lookin’ for nothing, neither.”

The old man shrugged, and Savannah noticed again how frail he seemed. How could he have fulfilled his duties as a janitor with a bad heart and hardly any flesh on his bones?

Then she reconsidered. This was hardly the home of a wealthy man, or even a man who had made plans for a comfortable retirement. He worked—not for personal fulfillment but to survive. As Gran used to say, “A body can do most anything ... when he has to.”

“I don’t remember nothin’ unusual... until ...” He gulped, and his face turned a shade more gray. “I knocked on Mr. Winston’s door, and when he didn’t answer I opened it a bit to peep inside. That’s when I saw his foot stickin’ out from behind the desk ... and the blood ... all that blood and stuff all over the wall.”

Savannah waited patiently for him to collect himself. She wasn’t surprised at how the grisly sight had affected him. She didn’t suppose she would be particularly interested in eating anything with a tomato-based sauce either for the next few weeks.

Mrs. Downing walked over to her husband and placed her large beefy hands on his shoulders. Looking up at her, Savannah watched the hard lines of her face soften as she stroked his hair.

“I didn’t want to walk around that desk,” he continued in a choked voice. “But I knew I had to, just in case there was something I could do for him. But the minute I saw him, layin’ there all blowed up like that, I knew there weren’t nothin’ I could do. I was in the war, you know, and I’d seen guys blowed up that way. There’s nothin’ nobody can do ’cept offer up a prayer that he’s with his Maker.”

“And is that what you did, Mr. Downing?”

A twinge of guilt crossed his face. “Nope, I can’t say that I did. To be honest, I beat the feet to get out of there just as quick as I could. I ran down to that little drugstore on the corner, the one that’s open all night, and I told them I had to use their phone for an emergency. I didn’t say that prayer until I was back here at home and in my own bed.”

He looked at Savannah with red-rimmed eyes that reflected the grief and horror the experience had caused him. There were always so many more victims of a crime like this than was obvious at first glance. So much pain and suffering. Nightmares. Depression and health problems. So many people’s lives damaged.

“We’re very grateful to you for what you did, Mr. Downing. If you hadn’t found him when you did, it might have been hours before he would have been discovered. And every minute counts at a time like this.”

She rose and shoved her notebook and pen into her purse. “And speaking of time counting... I’d better get going. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me before I leave?”

He squinted, concentrating for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope, nothin’ I can think of.”

“Here, take my card,” she said, pressing it into his palm, “and if you remember anything at all, no matter how small and unimportant it may seem to you, be sure to call me. Will you do that?”

“Sure. I will. I want to help any way I can.” He stood, pushing himself up from the table with an effort. “Mr. W wasn’t exactly the nicest fella I ever met in my life, but he didn’t deserve what he got. Not even an old hound dog with a bad case of the rabies would deserve to get shot up like that.”

“I agree, Mr. Downing. Thanks again.”

As Savannah backed the Camaro out of the driveway, she waved to the old couple in the doorway. Mrs. Downing looked a lot less imposing now as she slid her arm around her husband’s shoulders.

Hank Downing looked like a broken man. Something had snapped inside him this morning when he had walked around that desk and seen the same carnage he had hoped to leave behind him on the battlefield.

Damn the bastard who had pulled that trigger. How many lives had he destroyed within a matter of seconds?

She was going to get him. If not for Jonathan or Beverly Winston, for Hank Downing.

By the time Savannah returned to the morgue day shift personnel had left and the obnoxious clerk had been replaced by an eager, bright-eyed rookie who was thrilled spitless to be a part of the SCPD. The simple act of offering her the clipboard to sign in seemed to make him unnaturally happy. Ah, yes ... she remembered those days when she had been deliriously in love with the idea of being a real, honest-to-god cop. Great days.

Both of them.

Disillusionment had come swiftly.

Savannah glanced at the log. No, Dr. Liu hadn’t signed out yet. Good.

She left the rookie, guarding his post like a pit bull with a ham bone, and walked down the hall toward the examination room.

The door stood open a crack, so she knocked twice, then stuck her head inside.

“Jennifer?”

The deputy coroner sat on a high stool at one of the stainless-steel tables, her head cocked sideways as she peered into a microscope. “Savannah ... did you bring me a hamburger and a chocolate shake?”

“Didn’t know you wanted one.”

Jennifer looked up and sighed, running her hand along the back of her neck. “The hamburger was just a whim,” she said, “but the chocolate shake is mandatory. You know, a PMS thing.”

Savannah laughed, enjoying a rare moment of female camaraderie. PMS wasn’t a subject that was open for discussion with the male sector of the department. Those members of the masculine persuasion were far too quick to blame any female opinion they didn’t support on Premenstrual Syndrome. More than once Savannah had told them that the initials stood for “Putting up with Men’s Shit.”

“Hey, I know what you mean,” she said as she slid onto a stool beside the doctor. “During that last week if it wasn’t for naps and double Dutch chocolate ice cream, life wouldn’t be worth living.”

Reaching into her purse, Savannah pulled out an enormous Snickers bar and handed it to Dr. Liu. Three seconds later the candy had been unwrapped and the first section devoured.

“Thanks,” she said, closing her eyes in ecstasy as she chewed. “You saved my life.”

Savannah shrugged. “Ah... you’d do it for me.”

“Don’t be so sure.” The doctor laughed. “Chocolate cravings and water retention don’t exactly bring out the best in my character.”

Nodding toward the corpse, which still lay on the metal table, covered with a sheet, Savannah said, “So, what have you got for me so far?”

“He got popped in the morning... probably around fourish. Other than that, I don’t have much yet. Don’t rush me. I’m a lady who takes her time and does it right.” Jennifer lifted one delicate eyebrow suggestively. If anyone else had said the same thing with that gleam in her eye, Savannah would have thought she was attempting to be risque. But Dr. Liu seemed so... intelligent... so elegant... so unsullied by anything so mundane as a roll in the hay.

Pointing to a plastic tray at the end of the long table, the doctor said, “I’m finishing up with the clothing and personal effects now. You can fondle those, if you want.”

Savannah gave her a curious sideways glance. Yep, no doubt about it: Dr. Liu was being feisty. Hmm-m-m ... she’d have to think about what that might mean... later.

“Pretty tattered stuff,” Savannah said as she walked to the tray and studied its blood-and flesh-stained contents: Winston’s clothing, gaudy jewelry, snakeskin wallet, and grossly overburdened money clip. The motive had definitely not been robbery.

“Hey, this could be helpful,” she said when she saw the credit card-sized personal organizer. A device like this often contained a wealth of information about its owner, including telephone numbers, addresses, important dates and appointments.

Jennifer, who had returned her attention to the microscope, glanced up and shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid it bit the dust along with Mr. Winston.”

“Damn.” Savannah punched the On button with the predicted lack of response. “New-fangled gadgets... they’re a bite in the ass. There’s not even a broken clock face that can show us the exact moment it was shot.”

She picked up the diamond-studded Rolex from the tray. In keeping with every other irritating element of her day, it was ticking away happily, efficient as ever. Only the spattering of blood suggested that it had been present during the crime. In all the years she had worked homicide, only once had Savannah found a stopped watch on a victim, damaged at the moment of the attack. This “blessing” had thrown the entire case into confusion. Mickey Mouse’s white-gloved hands had indicated that the murder had happened nine hours before the coroner’s estimation. Savannah had spent two weeks trudging through the mire of contradictory information only to find out that the victim had worn the watch only for sentimental reasons. Mickey hadn’t worked for years.