Authors: G.A. McKevett
Killer Gourmet (9 page)
“Yeah,” Dirk said, “but this time? Come on. If it wasn't the stabs to his chest and belly, it had to be one of those cleaver whacks to the head.”
“You would think so. But I'm not altogether sure.”
Savannah looked down at the body, which, at least for the moment, was no longer a human being to her but an instrument that might lead them to an important truth.
“Are you telling us that he wasn't stabbed to death?” she asked.
“Stabbed, obviously. Seventeen times, in fact.”
“That would make it: death by sharp force trauma.”
Liu nodded. “Yes, most likely it was sharp force trauma that killed him. One of those stab wounds actually severed his abdominal aorta. And that may have led to exsanguination.”
“What do you mean
may have?
” Dirk said. “That abdominal aorta thingâisn't that one of your main blood vessels? I thought that was about the worst thing that you could have cut.”
may have?
” Dirk said. “That abdominal aorta thingâisn't that one of your main blood vessels? I thought that was about the worst thing that you could have cut.”
“It is,” Dr. Liu told him. “If it's severed you can bleed out in twenty to twenty-five seconds. And his was cleanly bisected.”
Savannah shook her head. “Then what . . . ?”
“It wasn't his only potentially fatal wound.”
“Don't tell me he was shot,” Dirk said.
“No. But look at this.” Dr. Liu led them to the head of the table. “Once I'd washed away the blood, it was visible.”
She pointed to a large area at the base of his skull, just above the lower edge of his hairline. The chef's luxurious silver locks, of which he had been so proud, mostly concealed it. But when she pulled the hair back to show them, there was no mistaking the misshapen, discolored area.
Savannah caught her breath. “Blunt force trauma?” she asked.
“
Severe
blunt force,” the doctor replied. “Enough to put somebody down, for sure.”
Severe
blunt force,” the doctor replied. “Enough to put somebody down, for sure.”
“Enough to kill them?” Dirk asked.
“Absolutely,” was Dr. Liu's reply. “I'll have a much better look, of course, when I open the head. But I could tell just by palpating the area that the skull is fractured. I'd be surprised if we don't have bone fragments in the brain.”
“Wow.” Dirk ran his gloved fingers through his own hair. “The perp must've been a pretty strong guy to do that.”
“Or a mighty angry female,” Savannah suggested. “Never underestimate what a woman can accomplish when she's got a mind to do you harm.”
Dirk shot her an uneasy look. “Okay, darlin', I'll certainly keep that in mind.” He turned back to Dr. Liu. “Do you have any idea what kind of weapon would leave that sort of bruise?”
“Not until I get under the skin and fat. Then I might be able to tell you.”
“Okay,” he said. “Is there anything elseâlike that's not enough?”
She nodded and gave him a perverse little smile. “As a matter of fact, yes. He wasn't stabbed with the bloody kitchen knife that Eileen's team collected at the scene.”
Dirk's face fell. “Do you mean to tell me that we don't have murder weapons?”
“The cleaver you have might be the one that inflicted the sharp force trauma to the head. But the knife you recovered from the scene is a chef's fillet knife with a seven-inch straight blade.”
“And . . . ?” Dirk prompted her.
“And the knife that made those wounds was closer to eight inches with a partially serrated blade.”
“What does that mean, âpartially serrated'?” Savannah asked. “I mean, I know that a serrated blade is one of those bumpy ones, like a saw, that you cut bread and tomatoes and cakes with, but how can it be partially serrated?”
“The first six inches, the blade is straight. But the last two inches, closest to the hilt, are serrated,” she explained.
“What's the point in that?” Savannah asked. “Why would you want a knife with both?”
“It's called a combo blade,” Liu replied. “You have a sharp, straight blade to pierce withâ”
Dirk interjected, “And a serrated edge to cut rope or fishing line or whatever with.”
Dr. Liu gave him a sinister smile. “Yes, and the âwhatever' is a bit more ugly than rope cutting. Some believe that the serrated edge rips and tears, creating a nastier wound than just a straight blade.”
“Is that true?” Savannah asked. “Does it?”
The M.E. nodded toward the victim. “In this case, it certainly did. Those wounds are as ugly as I've ever seen. Bunched, not scattered the way they are in most knife attacks. All in the area of the abdominal aorta.”
“Hmmm,” Savannah said. “They were going for the kill, that's for sure. Severing that particular aorta . . . would you say that was luck or some knowledge of the human body?”
Dirk sniffed. “Or knowledge of how to kill a human body?” “Yes, and a determination to do so,” Dr. Liu added. “Every thrust was the full depth of the blade.”
Savannah felt a chill shiver through her spirit. “Would that rule out a woman? Could a female stab that hard?”
“Absolutely.” The doctor plopped the chef's gallbladder onto a nearby scale. “Wound depth is a poor indicator of the amount of force applied. With a sharp-tipped weapon, it takes very little pressure to penetrate the human skin and tissues.”
Savannah and Dirk watched in dejected silence as the doctor reached inside the body cavity for the next organ.
Finally, Dirk said, “I'm afraid to ask if there's anything else.” “I'm sure there will be, once I'm inside the head,” Dr. Liu replied.
Savannah gulped. “Gee, something to look forward to.”
“Until then, there's not much to see,” the doctor told them. “Why don't you two toddle along and find somebody else to harass for the next couple of hours until I finish here.”
Dirk grunted. “Maybe we should take those chocolate chip cookies with us. You know, just in case the next person we talk to is as grumpy as you and needs a little bribing.”
Dr. Liu held up the glistening, bloody scalpel. “You touch those cookies, Coulter, you'll lose your fingers.”
Dirk walked away, shaking his head. “Come on, Van,” he said as he stripped off his gloves and mask and tossed them into a nearby bin. “We know when we're not wanted.”
Savannah took off her gloves and mask and dropped them onto his. “It's more likely that
you're
the one who's not wanted. Not me.”
you're
the one who's not wanted. Not me.”
As they walked toward the door they heard the doctor say, “Have your new wife teach you how to bake, Coulter. God knows, with a personality like yours, you need a saving grace.”
“Grumpy,” Dirk said. He always had to have the last word. “That gal may be hot in those leather boots and miniskirts of hers, but I'm telling you . . . she is grum-pee.”
“Yeah,” Savannah agreed, “and she knows way too much about knives.”
Chapter 8
“W
hen I grow up someday, I'm going to live up here in this complex with Ryan and John,” Savannah announced as she and Dirk made their way along the cobblestone walking path that wound between San Carmelita's most luxurious condos.
hen I grow up someday, I'm going to live up here in this complex with Ryan and John,” Savannah announced as she and Dirk made their way along the cobblestone walking path that wound between San Carmelita's most luxurious condos.
Perched at the top of the hills that rimmed the eastern side of the beachfront town, these exquisite units offered breathtaking views of the ocean and the mountains, as well.
When visiting up here, Savannah always had the feeling that, for a while, she was truly on top of the worldâat least, her world. Of course, it was a silly, illogical thought, and she knew it. People who lived on hillsides were burdened with just as many of life's problems and stricken with just as many inevitable tragedies as those who lived in valleys.
But there was no denying the psychological boost of high living.
As they passed the natural rock pool with its surrounding lush, tropical greenery, Dirk said, “Must be nice to have a swim-up bar. That's what we need, babe. Let's install one in the upstairs bathroom.”
She sighed. “Right now, I'd settle for a freshly scrubbed bathroom. Gran's gonna be here before we know it, and I can't have her see the utter filth and degradation we're living in right now.”
“Filth? Degradation? Are you kidding? I've never lived so clean in all my life! You go hog wild if I hang a towel crooked.”
She stopped in the middle of the walkway and gave him a quizzical look. “ âGo hog wild'? Is that what I just heard you say?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“That's a Down-in-Dixie phrase if ever I heard one.”
“Gee, you think? Guess I've been hanging out with some Southern chick too long.”
They continued down the path, past the tennis courts, toward the unit in the far corner. The one with the best view and the most privacy. Ryan and John's.
“By the way,” she added, “I'll have you know that I do not go hog wild over crooked bath towels. I just get mildly perturbed when you wad one of my best towels into a ball and ram the whole shebang between the rod and the wall.”
He chuckled as he reached over, wrapped his arm around her waist, and gave her a squeeze. “My darlin' girl, you have never, ever, in your entire life been âmildly' anything. You're all the way or nothing. That temper of yours is an on-off switch, not a thermostat.”
She smiled up at him. “But you love me anyway.”
“I love you because . . .”
“Because?”
“Because it's so much fun to watch you blow your top and spew hot lavaâespecially when it's raining all over somebody I don't like, somebody who really deserves it.”
“How about when it's falling on you?”
“I never really deserve it, so you always pull your punches with meâat least a little bit.”
She slipped her arm around him and returned the squeeze. “Well, we can't have you feeling neglected. Next Friday night, I'll wrestle you to the floor and slap some cuffs on you.”
He gave her a flirty grin and hugged her tighter. “Ooh, sounds like fun. It's a date. Maybe we should dust off the leg irons, too.”
“Now you're talking.”
They had reached Ryan and John's unit, which, although it was a condominium, was much larger than Savannah's house. Like Savannah's humble home, the entryway was draped with lush bougainvillea. However, theirs had lovely apricot- and copper-colored blossoms, rather than her traditional crimson.
Ryan and John always did things with a unique twist, all their own.
They walked up to the door, and Dirk gave it his standard, knuckle-cracking cop knock.
“It's awful quiet in there,” Savannah said, when she didn't hear any response.
“I thought you called and asked if we could drop by about now.” Dirk rapped again.
“I did, and they said now would be a good time. But I can't help worrying. You know this had to be really hard on them. To see their dream crash and burn like that. What an awful thing to happen to such nice people.”
Dirk snorted. “It's almost always the nice people that awful things happen to.”
Savannah would have enjoyed contradicting such a cynical point of view. But sadly, experience had taught her that his observation, dark though it might be, was all too accurate.
Dirk was about to knock a third time when they heard a lock slide, then another, and the door opened.
John stood there in a blue paisley robe of exquisite embossed silk. Beneath he wore pajamas that were sapphire satin. His hair, usually with every strand in perfect place, was slightly mussed.
He looked tired but pleased to greet them. “Ah, how lovely to see you, Savannah.” He held out one hand to her and ushered her inside. “And you, too, lad,” he told Dirk, though with a wee bit less enthusiasm.
No one tried to pretend that John and Ryan were as devoted to Dirk as they were to Savannah. Over the years they had been friends, the male trio had pretty much tolerated each otherâand mostly because they knew that “tolerance” was what Savannah wanted and expected.
As a result, all three loved her enough to make the considerable effort to get along.
In the end, they had decided that compromise had its benefits. They had discovered that they had more in common than just the love of a transplanted, sassy Southern belle. They also enjoyed working a challenging case. And to their surprise, they worked well together.
Who really cared if Dirk swigged beer while they sipped chardonnay? Even if their idea of the perfect Saturday night was an art gallery opening and Dirk's an HBO boxing match, they could put their differences aside for the love of a good woman or to snag a bad guy.
John led them from the sunlit foyer into the dark coziness of the living room, which looked more like a reading room in an old British gentlemen's club. The heavy, masculine furniture was plush and inviting, suggesting how nice it might be to spend the evening enjoying one of those leather-bound, gilt-edged classics from the bookshelves.
But Savannah had less interest than usual in the comfortable living room, because she could smell something heavenly coming from the kitchen. Something that smelled vaguely like pancakes, only far more divine.
“Ryan is making us a late brunch,” John said, “of cognac crepes. We'd be delighted to have you join us.”
“Dear Lord above, that sounds heavenly,” Savannah gushed. “But he's probably got just enough made for the two of you andâ”
“I heard that,” came a deep voice from the kitchen. “Don't be ridiculous.”
They followed John to where Ryan was standing at the stove, expertly folding a crepe.
She tried not to notice how Ryan's black stretch microfiber tee-shirt and matching lounge shorts showed off his magnificent body. She fought back thoughts like,
How can a man look so doggoned fit to eat just flippin' some pancakes?
How can a man look so doggoned fit to eat just flippin' some pancakes?
Mostly, she tried not to notice, because she was sure Dirk would notice her noticing. And that would make it harder for her to complain the next time she caught him noticing some bimbo crossing the street in some barely there short-shorts.
Ryan gave them a bright smile and handed a plate with one of the amazing crepes to Savannah. “Do you really think, knowing you two were on your way over, that I'd just mix up enough for us? Sit over there at the bar and dig in.” He nodded to Dirk. “You take a seat, too. Yours will be up in a minute.”
“Wow! Cool!” Dirk was all smiles as he joined Savannah. “Now I don't mind it so much that we didn't get a free taco.”
Savannah accepted a small, cut crystal pitcher from John and found it contained warm maple syrup. “What a treat,” she said. “The chunks I see in the crepes, are they bits of pineapple?”
“Fresh pineapple,” Ryan told her.
“And that amazing smell?”
“The cognac.”
“You put it in the batter?”
He nodded, grinning. “Have a bite and tell me what you think.”
She did. And had trouble not falling off the stool as every muscle in her body went limp with pure delight.
“Her eyes are rolling back in her head,” Dirk observed. “That's usually a good sign.”
“Exquisite!” Savannah said when she had finally regained control of her faculties. “Ambrosial lusciousness beyond compare!”
Ryan poured more batter into the pan and swirled a small, T-shaped rake over the mixture, spreading it thinly across the pan.
“If you don't mind me asking,” Dirk said, watching in awe. “If you can cook like this, why don't you just run your own restaurant kitchen?”
Ryan laughed, but the sound was hollow and a tad bitter. “Owning a restaurant and being the master chef are two completely different matters. It's one thing to whip up a nice meal for family and friends, but to serve fifty hungry people a dozen or more different dishes all at once? No way.”
John set Dirk's offering in front of him, and after one bite, his reaction was as enthusiastic as Savannah's. “Ryan, that's some awesome grub, dude.”
Ryan gave a half-bow and then continued to cook as John poured everyone strong cups of coffee.
“I'm glad to see you guys doing okay today,” Savannah said when she had polished off the last bite. “I've gotta say, I was a bit worried about you last night. I know that had to be plum horrible for you.”
“Yeah,” Dirk interjected with a mouth full of crepe. “Went right down the crapper, huh? I mean, as opening nights go, that had to be the worst of all time.”
He looked up from his plate to see all three of them staring at him.
“Well? I'm sorry, but it was. Maybe except for the Titanic orâ”
“Eat,” Savannah told him with a kick to the shin. “Just hush and eat your food. Sheez.”
He leaned over and put his mouth next to her ear. “But it's true,” he whispered.
“And you're a nitwit, but the obvious need not always be stated.”
Dirk looked at John and Ryan and rolled his eyes. “Man, no matter what I do, I'm always in trouble.”
“Go figure,” Ryan mumbled, handing John a plate.
“ 'Tis a lovely day,” John said. “Why don't we relocate out to the balcony where we can enjoy the fresh air?”
They collected their plates and mugs of coffee and exited through the French doors that led from the living room onto a spacious patio.
They settled at a wrought iron, glass-topped table with comfortable deep-cushioned wicker chairs.
“I hate to nudge the elephant in the room,” Dirk said, “but have you two had time to think about the case yet today?”
“Think about it?” Ryan replied. “We've been working on it all morning.”
“So true,” John added. “We aren't still sitting about in our jimjams because we had a leisurely sleep-in. We simply haven't had time to dress.”
“And what did you come up with?” Savannah asked.
“Bloody little,” John replied. “Why do you think I'm drinking coffee instead of tea? I need the caffeine to buoy me up a bit. I tell you, this is some tragic, depressing business.”
Savannah reached over and patted John's forearm. “I was telling Dirk on the way here that I can hardly stand you two having your hopes dashed like that. I know how long and how hard you worked to put your restaurant together. And then to have that happen . . .”
“We aren't rolling up the welcome mat in front of the place just yet,” Ryan said. “Obviously, out of respect for the chef, if for no other reason, we have to close for a while.”
“Plus you've gotta get a new cook,” Dirk piped up.
Again, he received stony stares.
He cleared his throat. “Stating the obvious again?”
“Yes,” they replied in unison.
Ryan said, “That's sort of neither here nor there. We'd already decided before the murder that we had to find a solution to that problem.”
Dirk chuckled. “Yeah, but not such a permanent one.”
“Dirk!” Savannah kicked him under the table, and this time she didn't bother to hold back.
He yelped and said, “Okay then. Fine. I'll just sit here and keep my mouth shut and drink my coffee.”
“That might present a problem,” Ryan said.
“You may find yourself dribbling down the front of your shirt,” John told him.
Savannah winked at him, reached over, and squeezed his hand. “But go ahead and try anyway. It might be entertaining to watch.” She turned to Ryan. “If you two have been knocking your heads together about this mess all morning, you must've come up with something or the other.”
“Mostly we were looking up phone numbers,” Ryan said.
“Phone numbers?” Dirk asked.
Savannah stifled a chuckle. So much for Dirk's silent protest. How long had it lasted? Ten seconds? That had to be an all-time personal record for him.
“First,” Ryan replied, “we checked out the dining-room staff, whom we've cleared because none of them were in the kitchen area when it happened. Then we scoured the list of diners.”
“But you said, âphone numbers,' ” Savannah said. “What phone numbers?”
“From the reservation list,” John said over the rim of his coffee mug. “Some of our guests were there by invitation, and of course we know who they were. But the rest had made reservations, and fortunately we asked for their phone numbers.”
“Good goin',” Dirk said. “That was smart of you guys. Makes our job a lot easier.”
Ryan sighed. “Well, we had a far more innocent reason at the time for asking. We had no idea that our reservation list might turn out to be evidence in a murder investigation.”
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