Cooked Goose (22 page)

Christy nodded but looked as doubtful as Savannah felt. Her eyes were swollen nearly closed and her nose was the perfect shade of red for the holiday season, but Savannah thought she had never seen her looking prettier.

“Gran also says that the people who grieve the deepest are people who love the most. Apparently, you love Titus very much.”

More tears rolled down her cheeks. “He’s a good man. And I already miss him.”

As they passed through the living room, Savannah saw a collection of photos spread across the coffee table. They were all of Titus, some with Christy, some with other cops, some with friends and family.

“I guess it just made it worse, digging these out of storage,” Christy said as they paused beside the table and Savannah studied the pictures. “But looking at them makes me feel closer to him.”

“I’m sure it does.”

Then Savannah saw it: a snapshot of Christy and Titus at what appeared to be an air show. He had his arm draped casually over her shoulder. Both were wearing goofy, happy smiles.

Her pulse rate accelerated fifteen points on the spot, and she could feel the blood rush to her face.

“When was this taken?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“At last year’s Point Morro Air Show,” Christy replied. “We got a little too much sun, had a bit too much to drink, but we had a really good time that day.”

“It looks like it.” Savannah picked up the photo and studied it closely, making sure she was seeing what she thought she was.

Yes. Yes. Yes. There it was, as clear as could be!

“May I borrow this?” she asked. “Just for a while.”

Christy seemed confused, but eager to help. “Sure. As long as I get it back. Why do you want it?”

Savannah thought fast; she wasn’t good at lying to someone she liked.

“It’s a good picture of Titus. You know, if they want to make up a flyer, or put it in the paper, or something.”

Christy looked a little suspicious. “They have his department ID photo. It was in yesterday’s paper. But if you think they might want it....”

“Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.” She shoved the photo into her purse before Christy could change her mind and hurried to the front door.

“I’m glad you came over, Savannah.” Christy gave her a hug and clung a bit longer than usual. “Visiting with you really helped. Thanks for coming.”

“Call me anytime,” Savannah told her. “Day or night, if you need to talk, just give me a ring. We’ll talk on the phone, or if you’ll make me a cup of that lovely tea, and I’ll be over there, pronto, with bells on.”

Another hug good-bye and Savannah was on her way. As she hurried to her car that was parked on the street, she clutched her purse and thought of the picture inside.

One part of her wished she hadn’t seen it—for Christy Melleby’s sake. But the larger part, the detective part was having to exercise the utmost self-discipline not to jump up and down in the middle of the street and yell, “Yip-p-pee!” She got into the Mustang, started her up, and headed straight for the police station. She couldn’t wait to show Dirk!

* * *

4:41 P.M.

Oh, goodie, Savannah thought when she walked through the front door of the San Carmelita police station and saw Officer Kenny Bates was on desk duty.

When were they going to send this guy back to his usual shift at the morgue? One didn’t expect a visit there to be upbeat or happy. So, he fit right in with the overall dreariness of the place. But here at the station house, she anticipated a quick in and out without being grossly insulted and highly annoyed.

No such luck today.

She loathed Bates; he was madly in lust with her. It was a rocky relationship.

“Savannah, baby,” he said when she walked up to his desk to sign the clipboard. “You came to see me. Just can’t stay away, huh?”

She grabbed the board and scribbled her name and the time. “If I could’ve crawled in a rear window and avoided seeing your vile mug, believe me, I would have.”

He smirked, and she wanted to feed him his face, feature by ugly feature.

Savannah and a dozen other females associated with the S.C.P.D. would have brought Kenneth Bates up on sexual harassment charges long ago, except that would have meant having to tolerate his revolting presence in a court hearing. The price was too high.

If Bates had practiced his offensive behavior in Savannah’s small hometown just outside Atlanta, he would have been reprimanded in some dark alley by a congregation of the women and their assorted male relatives. Baseball bats might or might not have been used, but, either way, Kenny’s behavior would have undoubtedly improved.

She shoved the register at Bates and gave him what she was certain was her most baleful eye.

“When are you gonna come over to my place,” he said, “for a little rest and relaxation? We’ll rent us a X-rated movie and watch it together. Maybe ‘bone’ up on our lovemaking skills. Maybe get a couple of nice ‘tips’ on how it’s done.”

As he stared pointedly at her chest, drool practically oozing down his chin, Savannah wondered—not for the first time—why it was always the most repulsive members of the masculine gender who blatantly pursued women. Nice, attractive guys who showered regularly and held steady jobs never invited you to “sit on their face and spin.”

Such invitations were almost always issued by some scuz-bucket you wouldn’t share a sidewalk with, let alone an intimate encounter.

“Come on, Savannah.” He leaned across the desk and she was overcome with the pungent fumes of his cheap cologne. “Let’s get together, get naked and horizontal. What do you think?”

“The only way I want to see you horizontal, Bates, is on Dr. Liu’s autopsy table.”

He lit up. “We could do that! She’s going to be gone for a few hours tomorrow afternoon and I’m on duty over there then. We could—”

“No, you don’t understand. This fantasy of mine isn’t sexual in nature. In my scenario, your chest is splayed open, the top of your head has been sawed off and your face peeled down. Got the picture?”

He giggled and wagged one eyebrow at her. “There’s no use in trying to hide it. I know what you think of me.”

“You know that I consider you a festering boil on the hairy rump of humanity, and still you hit on me? Does that make you stupid or what, Bates? Think about it.”

She left him sitting there, looking only moderately insulted—a disappointment, when she had been hoping to leave him outraged.

Oh well, maybe the back alley, baseball bat visitation wasn’t such a bad idea even here in civilized Southern California.

She filed the thought away for future consideration and hurried down the hall to the squad room to find Dirk. The photo was burning a hole in her purse, and she couldn’t wait to show it to him.

The bullpen hadn’t changed much since she had been off the force. A few more computer screens, fewer girlie pictures on walls behind desks, and definitely fewer chairs filled. Municipal cuts had slashed deep into the department budget.

Several years ago, there would have been a bevy of detectives working on a case as prominent as the Santa Rapist and the missing cops. But at a quarter to five, Dirk was the only one sitting at his desk, his face stained green by the light of his computer screen. He was staring at the thing, so bleary-eyed that she was glad she had taken a moment to drive past the donut shop window.

“Need a bear claw?” she asked, dropping the white sack on the desk in front of him. “I’ll trade you for a cup of coffee.”

Instantly, he was alert. “Deal.” He fished a Styrofoam cup from between the stacks of files cluttering his desktop and handed it to her. She took a sip; it was bitter and cold.

“You don’t mind if I get a cup of my own?” she asked, walking to the table in the corner where the industrial-sized pot held a day’s worth of brew. Fresh was too much to hope for, but at least it was hot. She poured herself a cup and another one for him.

By the time she returned to his desk a minute and a half later, the bear claw had been already been dispatched to donut heaven. In Dirk’s presence, food seldom enjoyed a long shelf life.

She pulled a chair up to his and sat down, nearly squirming with excitement.

“You’re looking pretty frisky,” he said, studying her as he licked the sugar crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “What’s up?”

“I got somethin’.”

“Obviously. Me, too.”

He did look a mite frisky himself, she noted. “What have you got?”

“You first.”

“Mine’s the best.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“It is. Wait’ll you see this.”

She opened her purse and pulled out the snapshot. “I was visiting Christy Melleby, sort of paying my respects, and I saw this. I asked her if I could borrow it, gave her some song and dance about needing it for a missing poster shot.”

He took the photo from her and glanced at it briefly. “So?”

“Look closer.”

He did. “So?”

“Don’t you see it?”

“See what? They’re at an air show. Probably the one at Point Morro, right?”

“Right. But that’s not important. Look—right there.” She pointed to Titus’s hand, draped over Christy’s shoulder.

“His ring,” she said. “He’s wearing a big ring with a star on it.”

Dirk squinted and nodded thoughtfully. “He is.”

Losing her patience, she socked him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s have a bit of a reaction here! That’s a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” he replied, equally cool.

She sighed, deflated. “You’re weird, Coulter. I swear, you got more excited over the bear claw.”

“I’m excited.”

“I can tell. You’re positively giddy.”

“It’s just that...”

“What?”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, manila envelope. Peeling it open, he said, “Hold out your hand.”

She did as he said, and he dumped the contents into her open palm.

It was a large, man’s gold ring with a prominent star protruding from the center. And the star was almost exactly the same size of the mark Savannah had seen on Charlene Yardley’s face.

“Wow!” she said. A slight chill trickled through her as she fingered the ignominious piece of jewelry. “How did you get Titus’s ring? Did you find him?”

“Nope.” Dirk looked satisfied with himself, as he always did when he one-upped her. “I just got back from interviewing Joe McGivney’s widow.”

“And?”

“She let me look through some of his personal effects, his dresser drawer, a strongbox under his bed. That’s where I found the ring. His wife confirmed it: That ring you’re holding there…it was Joe’s.”

* * *

5:10 p.m.

“Thanks to this guy’s anti-social activities, orange groves have lost their appeal for me, and now beaches aren’t far behind,” Savannah told Dirk as they stood on the beach and looked down on the very dead body of the recently departed Donald DeCianni.

Dirk had received word only a minute after showing Savannah Joe McGivney’s ring. An anonymous caller had told the 911 dispatcher that DeCianni’s body could be found near the water’s edge in Harrington State Park. As with the tip about Joe McGivney, the informant had been morbidly accurate.

DeCianni was still wearing the sweatpants and shirt he had worn the last time Savannah and Dirk had seen him, in the orange grove, when they had been checking out McGivney’s abandoned unit.

Like his ex-partner, DeCianni had a neat bullet hole in the center of his forehead and his badge was sticking out of his slack, open mouth. No other wounds were immediately obvious.

DeCianni’s body was sprawled on its back at the water’s edge. Incoming waves licked at the sneakers on his feet. Vermin-infested seaweed was wrapped around his legs, and the tiny scavengers were already hard at work, recycling the remains of Donald DeCianni.

While DeCianni hadn’t been Savannah’s favorite person, she cringed, seeing a human being reduced to crab bait. She thought of what DeCianni had said about how difficult it was to see an ex-partner come to a bad end. If that were Dirk, lying dead on the sand, she knew she would be insane with grief.

Officers Jake McMurtry and Mike Farnon had arrived at the scene immediately after Savannah and Dirk. They were setting up a perimeter as everyone waited for Dr. Liu and her team to appear. Then the macabre circus would begin all over again. It was a performance that was getting old, fast.

“It’s gotta be the same killer,” Savannah said as she knelt on the sand and studied the hole in DeCianni’s forehead. Just like McGivney.

“Yep, gotta be,” Dirk replied. “We didn’t mention the badge in the mouth to the papers, so it ain’t some well-read copycat.”

A dark sedan pulled into the nearby parking lot, and Savannah made a face. “Bloss. I suppose he’ll give me hell for not baby-sitting his kid."

“Where is she?”

“On Rodeo Drive with Tammy and Ryan, Christmas shopping. There are a lot worse ways for a teenager to spend an afternoon, huh?”

Dirk sniffed. “Oh, I don’t know. Piddlin’ around in phoo-phoo stores ain’t my idea of a good time.”