Killer Gourmet (13 page)

Savannah stared her down with the glacial blue laser stare that she had perfected during her years on the force.

“Of course you're a suspect,” Savannah said in a voice that was ominous in its softness and total lack of intonation. “In fact, you're the victim's live-in girlfriend, so you're our number one suspect. It's always the spouse or the lover or the ex-lover who did it,” she said. “Heck, everybody who watches crime shows on TV knows that.”

Perla Viola gave a little gasp, and her mouth dropped open an inch. She took a step backward, wobbling on her slides.

Savannah couldn't help experiencing just a little twinge of perverse satisfaction when she saw the anger and arrogance leave the woman's face, to be replaced with genuine fear.

But finally, she seemed to recover herself. She ran her fingers through her mussed hair, then crossed her arms defensively over her chest. Lifting her chin a notch, she said, “You're mistaken. I didn't kill Baldwin. If you watched last night's news report, and I'm sure you probably did, then you know that I'm not all torn up about his passing. But I guarantee there are a lot of people who aren't exactly in mourning today. He was a bad guy, a total piece of crap. The world's a better place without him.”

Still sitting on her chair, Umber suddenly leaned forward, placed her hands over her face, and began to sob.

Briefly, Perla's eyes and manner softened as she looked down at her daughter. Her tone was far less sharp when she said, “There may be one or two people who are grieving him, but not many. Baldwin Norwood made a lot more enemies during his life than he did friends. That's for sure.”

Savannah wondered at the lack of sensitivity that would allow this woman to say such things about a man in the presence of someone who obviously loved him and was in pain over his passing.

But then, sensitivity didn't appear to be high on the list of Perla Viola's priorities. Something told Savannah that virtues like kindness were ranked well below other things like designer luggage, haute couture shoes, and getting one's way in almost every circumstance.

Taking another look at the pile of suitcases, Savannah noticed a couple of boxes in the mix—standard cardboard boxes affixed with packing tape.

Somehow, Perla Viola didn't strike her as a woman who traveled the world, staying in five-star hotels and yet living out of cardboard boxes.

“Is it a vacation you're planning,” Savannah asked her, “or something a bit more permanent?”

“None of your damned business” was the sharp reply as Perla snapped back into Ugly mode. “If you two have any more questions to ask, I suggest you talk to my lawyer. I'm done with you.”

She reached down, put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, and gave her an exceptionally rough shake that had to hurt, considering her sunburn. “And that goes for you, too. Don't you say another word to them. These people aren't interested in finding out the truth about Baldwin, which was that he was the slime of the earth and deserved whatever he got. They just want to solve a high-profile case so that they can get their faces on television and maybe some sort of promotion in their dead-end jobs.”

In an instant, Dirk had snatched her hand away from Umber. He squeezed her wrist tightly as he said, “That wasn't very nice, lady. Or smart. Because when you say ugly things like that, it just makes me want to get to the bottom of things that much faster.”

Savannah gave her the full benefit of the blue lasers once again and added, “And as nasty as you are, lady, I can't help but hope that when we do get to the bottom of this particular septic tank . . . we find
you
.”

Perla wrenched her arm out of Dirk's grasp, but the fight seemed to instantly disappear from her. She sank onto a nearby chair, drew a deep breath, and said, “Okay, what do you want to know? Ask me and get it over with.”

“That's better,” Dirk said, but he remained standing.

So did Savannah. “Where were you two,” she asked, “the night before last?”

“At the Pantages in Hollywood,” came the quick reply. “We went to see
Phantom
.”

Savannah raised one eyebrow. “You hadn't seen
Phantom
yet?”

Lifting her nose several notches, Perla said, “Of course. Many times. It's a new production. We know the director personally.”

“You'd better hope it doesn't start raining in here,” Savannah muttered. “You'd be in danger of drowning.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Dirk shot Savannah a quick grin, then said to Perla, “And I suppose you have tickets for this play you went to?”

“I'm sure they're still in my evening bag.”

“And the
Playbill
?” Savannah wanted to know.

Again, the nose hitched a notch higher. “We attend the theatre regularly. We've no need to hoard souvenirs like plebeians. However, I might have inadvertently brought it home. If I did, you're welcome to it. You can keep it as a souvenir, if you like.”

Savannah turned to Dirk. “Since she's down on the souvenir hoarding rabble, I reckon she wouldn't be all that impressed with your goldfish bowl full of Dodger Stadium tickets, huh?”

His feathers sufficiently ruffled, Dirk glowered at his number one suspect. “If you know what's good for you, you'll go round up those ticket stubs, gal. And make it snappy.”

S
avannah and Dirk couldn't believe their good fortune when, upon revisiting the morgue, they found the reception desk deliciously, delightfully deserted.

“What luck!” Dirk exclaimed as they hurried by Bates's deserted post without signing his precious sheet. “Remind me to buy some lottery tickets later. Maybe the stars have shifted in our direction.”

“Maybe he ate one too many bags of those chili cheese chip things he's always munching on, got all strangled on it, and keeled over dead from a heart attack,” Savannah said with an evil grin. “He might have lain there on the floor behind that desk for Lord only knows how long, kicking and squirming around before he finally gave up the ghost.” She sighed, savoring the image. “I reckon it's too much to ask for—it not being my birthday or Christmas—but one can always hope.”

She gave him a sideways glance as they hurried down the hallway toward the back of the building. He looked a little surprised, and not in a good way. Maybe even a bit alarmed.

“What?” she asked. “You're shocked?”

He shrugged. “Well, it's a little harsh, don't you think? Hoping that the guy kicked off? Chokin' on a chili cheese chip, no less.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. You didn't think I actually meant that, did you? I was just kidding.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Sorta.”

“That's what I thought. You know, Van, I love you to pieces, but you're one helluva scary broad.”

“Why, thank you, darlin'. That just might be the sweetest, most romantic thing you've ever said to me.”

“And the fact that you think that was a compliment doesn't exactly alleviate my concerns.”

Savannah breathed a little sigh of relief as they passed the double swinging doors of the autopsy suite. Thankfully, Dr. Liu had told them to meet her in her office.

With the more gory aspects of the doctor's duties fulfilled, she would be at her desk, filling out the endless reams of paperwork that an autopsy generated.

But when they knocked on her door and were invited inside, Savannah found her not up to her elbows in folders and forms but staring at a computer screen.

Progress, in the form of carefree, efficient technology, had finally found its way into the county medical examiner's realm.

“This damn thing!” Dr. Liu slammed her hand down on the keyboard. “I hate it! I just spent the last four hours writing the report on Norwood, and this stupid machine crashed and ate it.”

Savannah felt her pain. Not everyone had a Tammy Hart to come to their rescue at times like this.

The doctor turned to Savannah. “You wouldn't happen to have a sledgehammer in your purse, would you?”

Savannah pulled back the lapel of her linen jacket, exposing her holster and weapon. “No, but if you're serious about mass destruction, my Beretta would probably do the job.”

Dr. Liu shook her head, drew a deep breath, and pushed back from her desk. She reached into a drawer, pulled out a red-and-orange-striped scarf, and tied her hair back with it. “Have a seat,” she told them. “And if you're hungry, help yourself to some of those cookies you brought me.” She pointed to the container that was sitting on top of the file cabinet.

“No, that's okay,” Savannah said, her courteous Southern upbringing coming to the fore, in spite of the fact that her mouth was watering at the thought. “We brought them for you.”

Dirk nabbed the box. “I'll have some. I'm starving.”

“No, you won't,” Savannah told him. “Those are hers. We've got six dozen at home.”

“Well, ‘at home' ain't doin' me no good here, now, is it?” He dug in, grabbing one chocolate chipper for each hand.

Two seconds later, he was happily munching away, leaving Savannah to plot where she would hide the cookies when they returned home. She decided she would stash them with her hoarded chocolate bars in the cupboard over the washer and dryer.

She had quickly learned that a woman had to take preemptive—and sometimes retaliatory—measures when living with an omnivore like Coulter.

With rapt attention and morbid fascination, Dr. Liu watched Dirk devour the cookies in record time.

“So what do you have for us, Dr. Jen?” Savannah asked.

“What?” The doctor seemed mesmerized by this display of pure, unadulterated gluttony. Then she shook her head, as though trying to snap out of her reverie. “Oh, I'm sorry. I was just remembering a special I saw on the National Geographic Channel last night. It was about a pack of wolves living in Yellowstone Park.”

She picked up a notepad from her desk and looked it over. “Baldwin Norwood. Manner of death: homicide. Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head.”

“That wound you showed us at the base of his skull?” Savannah asked.

Dr. Liu nodded. “I do believe so. When I examined the head I found not only the fractured skull that I was expecting but a tramline contusion as well.”

“What's a tramline contusion?” Dirk said, shoving a third cookie into his mouth.

“It's a unique bruise caused by a sharp blow from a long object like a baton, or even a belt or rod. But judging from the crushing of the skull, I'd say it was something very hard and cylindrical.”

“Something cylindrical?” Savannah asked. “Do you mean like a lead pipe?”

“A tire iron?” Dirk suggested. “Maybe a baseball bat?”

Dr. Liu reached over and took the container from Dirk's hands. She stuck it into her desk drawer for safekeeping.

“Yes,” she said, “something exactly like those items would do it. A tramline bruise actually looks like two bruises, running parallel to each other, with a white area in between. When something long and hard strikes the flesh, the object pushes blood out of the area it contacts, leaving it white. The blood is pushed to either side with such force that it ruptures the blood vessels, creating the dark lines of bruising.”

Savannah nodded, remembering several of those bruises that she had seen over the years. Sadly, she had seen them at times on victims of child abuse. She could hardly stand to think what circumstances had led to those wounds.

“Do you have any idea what sort of weapon might have been used on Chef Norwood?” she asked.

“Not precisely,” Dr. Liu replied. “But I would guess that it was about 25 millimeters wide.”

Dirk's brow furrowed. “How many inches would that be?”

Dr. Liu gave him a condescending smirk. “For you backward, nonscientific types who were absent the day they covered that in high school, it's about an inch.”

“Gee, thanks,” he replied. “I guess.”

“You may also be interested to know,” Dr. Liu continued, “that his blood alcohol content was .113. Considering his size, that would indicate he had consumed the equivalent of seven drinks.”

“Drunk as a skunk,” Savannah observed.

“Yes, and his liver showed signs of acute alcoholism.”

Dirk brushed some crumbs off the front of his Harley-Davidson tee-shirt. “This bruise you say he got on the back of his head . . . Was it straight across, like perpendicular to his spine? Or was it at an angle?”

Dr. Liu nodded thoughtfully. “I knew you would ask that. It was straight across. And that's a little puzzling. Assuming that the perpetrator snuck up behind him and delivered the blow, you would expect it to be at an angle. Considering the chef's size, the killer would have almost certainly been shorter. It would have been awkward to deliver a blow straight across like that.”

“Even if, somehow, the person who hit him was much taller,” Dirk said, “it seems like there would be at least a bit of an angle.”

“Unless,” Savannah added thoughtfully, “he was bending over at the time. Both Manuel and Francia said that the last time they saw him, he was bent over the counter, shoving leftover food into his face. It was some sort of ritual for him after a dinner service.”

“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “That would account for a perpendicular wound. And if he was absorbed in his eating, as your witnesses suggest was his habit, he probably never saw it coming.”

“How sad,” Savannah observed. “What an awful way to go.”

Dirk said, “Oh, I don't know. Getting whacked on the back of the head while you're shoveling gourmet food into your mouth . . . all with a .113 buzz on. I can think of worse ways to go.”

“Like choking to death on a chili cheese chip?” Savannah asked.

“Exactly.”

 

“So, Chef Norwood probably got whacked in the head before he got stabbed or tenderized with the cleaver,” Dirk said as he and Savannah walked from the morgue across the parking lot to the Mustang.

“Then what was all the rest of the attack about?” Savannah mused aloud. “You give somebody a skull-fracturing blow to the back of the head. Just to make sure they're dead, you stab them a bunch of times, going for the abdominal aorta. And to cap it all off, you give them some finishing chops with a cleaver.”

“Brutal. That's for sure.”

“Overly brutal. Three different weapons used. When have you ever seen that? It's almost always one. Who stops to change weapons in the middle of a murder?”

“Darrell Holladay. He used a knife
and
gun. Remember?”

“Yeah, but Darrell was crazier than a fresh-sprayed roach. And he had just found his brother-in-law in bed with his mother.”

As soon as they were inside the Mustang, Savannah continued to press her point. “The Holladay killings were crimes of passion enhanced by mental deficiencies caused by familial inbreeding.”

“And who's to say that this wasn't a crime of passion? Considering how gruesome it was, I always figured it
was
personal. Highly personal.”

“But three weapons? There has to be a reason for that.”

Dirk reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small plastic sandwich bag filled with cinnamon sticks. He pulled one out and stuck it in his mouth.

Sometime back, Dirk had stopped smoking. And one of his most successful tools had been cinnamon sticks. He seldom resorted to using these fragrant crutches anymore. But Savannah had noticed that when he was trying to figure out something complicated—like a murder case, the directions on a microwave popcorn box, or what to get her for her birthday—he would reach for the cinnamon sticks. Apparently, they helped him think.

“All those stab wounds, clustered there in the chest and belly region, that's a little unusual,” Savannah remarked.

“True. Most victims have at least a few punctures in odd places and some defense wounds, too.”

“It makes sense that there wouldn't be any defense wounds if the blow on the back of the head took him out first.”

Dirk sucked a few “draws” from his cinnamon stick. “But if you've already got the guy down with a smack on the head—a nasty, fatal smack—why pick up a knife to finish the job?”

“A knife is more personal. Frankly, more vicious. More hands-on than, say, a baseball bat.”

“And there's something else. That abdominal aorta thingamajig that Dr. Liu was telling us about. Not just everybody knows about that vein being so important.”

“Artery.”

“What?”

“You called it a vein. The abdominal aorta is an artery. Dr. Liu said so.”

“Vein, artery, what's the difference?”

“Arteries carry the blood from the heart out into the body. Veins bring the blood from the body back to the heart.”

Dirk shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Veins, arteries. Millimeters, inches. I've had quite enough of prissy, know-it-all females for one day.”

“And you apparently missed that biology class, too. What did you do, boy, play hooky all the time?”

“If you don't mind, I'm trying to make a point. Not just everybody knows how important that particular blood vessel is—or that you could kill somebody in seconds if you cut it.”

“That's true. I'd say that the average person would go for the center of the chest, the heart.”

“But there were so many stab wounds right there over the aorta that it looked deliberate. The killer was going for that particular spot. And I'm thinking chefs know a lot about meat and what's what inside an animal. That might translate to knowing about humans, too.”

Savannah nodded, giving him her most serious, wifely, I'm-Hanging-Breathlessly-On-Every-Word-You're-Saying look. “If you think about it, that's a solid lead. All we have to do is find somebody who wasn't playing hooky that day in biology class.”

“Smart-ass.”

She giggled and leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek, but her cell phone rang, startling them both.

“Good news maybe?” she said hopefully.

“Hell, at this point I'd take any kind of news.”

“It's Tammy,” she said, looking at the caller ID.

Dirk sighed and grumbled something under his breath: “Bimbo . . . probably found a new recipe for celery juice.”

“Hello, Tamitha,” Savannah said. “I'm in the car with Dirk and you're on speakerphone, so don't call him any names.”

“Hi, Savannah. Hello, Pee Pee Head,” was the reply.

“How mature,” Dirk shot back, “for a gal who's a few macaronis short of a tuna casserole.”

“Okay, okay,” Savannah said, smacking Dirk on the knee. “What's up, sugar lump?”

“You questioned a woman named Maria Ortez, right?” Tammy asked.

“Sure. She's Carlos Ortez's wife. I talked to her there at their taco stand. Why?”