Wicked Craving (2 page)

After one more glance around to make sure she wasn't being watched, she darted down the side of the blue house. It was a small, shotgun affair, long and narrow, with rooms arranged end to end—not unlike the one she had been raised in.

Less than five seconds later, she was in the backyard. From there, she could see the rear of their suspect's house.

She reached into her pocket and retrieved her cell phone. She punched a couple of buttons, and Dirk answered.

“I'm here,” she said as she walked through the tangle of weeds, past a collapsed, rusty swing set, and through a broken chain-link fence.

“I'm driving up to the front,” he said.

She could hear the truck approaching as she scrambled up to the yellow house and positioned herself at the corner. From here, she couldn't be seen from any of the windows, and she had a clear view of the side of the house and the rear. “I can't see the right side of the house,” she whispered into the phone.

“My right or your right?” he asked.

“Your right.”

Knowing Dirk, she had already done the “math.” Why confuse the poor guy? He confused so easily.

“The right if you're in the house looking out, or…”

“Dirk! Are you still in the truck, on the street, looking at the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I'm at the left back corner of the house. I can't see the right of the house, so you'll have to keep an eye on it.
Your
right. You know, like your right hand. That's the hand you scratch your ass with.”

“Jeez…you really
are
irritable today.”

She heard him cut off the engine and open the truck door.

“I'll keep my phone on,” he said, “and put it in my pocket, so you can hear what's going on.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Good luck.”

“You, too.”

Her ear to the phone, her eyes on the back door and the side windows, she listened as Dirk walked up to the front door and knocked. It took longer than usual—or at least, it seemed like a long time as her adrenaline levels soared and her heart raced—before the door finally opened.

She heard Dirk say, “Hi, are you Myrtle Weyerhauser?”

“Yeah,” was the reply.

“I've got a delivery, a wide-screen television, on the truck there. It's for a Mr. Norbert Weyerhauser. Is he your husband, ma'am?”

“No, Stu—I mean…Norbert is my son.”

“Well, if he can sign this form, I'd be happy to—”

“He ain't here.”

“But you told our office on the phone that he is. I'm afraid I can't deliver it unless Mr. Weyerhauser signs for it.”

“Gimme that paper. I'll sign for it.”

“No, ma'am. Can't do that. And besides, I'll need Mr. Weyerhauser to help me unload it. See, my partner was sick today—out with the flu—and I can't carry it in by myself.”

“Are you a cop?”

“A cop? Me? Why would you say that? Do I look like a cop?”

“Yeah, actually, you kinda do. What's in that box in the truck? Is it really a TV?”

Savannah went from “vigilant” to “high alert” in an instant.

The voices on the phone faded as she lowered the phone and listened intently to a new sound…a scraping noise…coming from the other side of the house.

Ducking, so that her head would be below the windows, she hurried across the back of the house. She paused at the opposite corner, then took a quick peek around.

At first, she wasn't sure what she was seeing—a flash of silver in the sunlight. Some sort of metal was sticking out of the upstairs window.

Then more of it protruded…and more…tilting down toward the ground.

A ladder.

She grinned, closed her cell phone, and stuck it in her pocket. She unsnapped her side holster, freeing her Beretta…and waited.

She didn't have to wait long. No sooner had the end of the ladder reached the ground than a hairy leg popped out of the window, and then another followed.

Dressed in baggy shorts that hung low on his hips, flip-flops, and a T-shirt large enough to use as a tent for a backyard camp-out, Stumpy Weyerhauser was making his getaway.

Or at least, Stumpy thought so.

She waited until he was halfway down the ladder before she sauntered around the corner of the house and over to the foot of it.

He was huffing, puffing, and unsteady as he descended. The flip-flops didn't help as he tried to get solid footing and kept sliding off the backs of the sandals.

So intent was he, hanging on tightly to the sides of the ladder and casting furtive glances toward the front of the house, that he didn't even notice Savannah as she walked up behind him.

He didn't realize she was there until she reached up, grabbed the hems of his shorts, and jerked them down around his ankles.

Instantly, she regretted the action, because his underwear came down, too, and she found herself “face-to-face” with one of the least attractive features of an unattractive man.

“Hey! What the hell!” he yelled as he whipped his head around and nearly fell.

He tried to grab at his shorts with first one hand, then the other, while clinging to the ladder, and again, it was nearly his undoing. The side rails bent and the entire contraption wobbled as he tried to maintain his balance and re-dress his backside.

Her hand on her still-holstered pistol, Savannah laughed at him and said, “Careful there, Stump. You don't wanna take a tumble with those britches down; you could skin something important.”

“You stupid bitch!” he shouted. “What's the matter with you?”

“Whoa, Norbert! Watch who you're calling names there, good buddy. You're in no position to make enemies.”

She reached over and nudged the side of the ladder. Not enough to knock it down, but definitely enough to get a rise out of the already stressed Stumpy.

“Hey! Knock it off! You're gonna make me fall and—”

Again, he reached for his shorts, while trying to step down one more rung. Apparently, multitasking wasn't Norbert Weyerhauser's strong suit.

He tumbled off the ladder and landed on his face in a particularly muddy area of a flower bed. Adding injury to insult, the ladder slid sideways with him and landed on him, smacking him soundly on the head.

A small, inch-long gash opened in his scalp, and bright red blood began to ooze out.

“Hey, Stump…you've sprung a leak, boy,” Savannah said as she stepped across him, straddling his body, then sat down on his back.

The wind went out of him in a whoosh.

He struggled only a moment as she pulled his arms behind him. Taking some handcuffs from her slacks' waistband, she called out, “Hey, Dirk! Back here!”

“What…are you?” Stumpy asked, struggling to breathe with her weight pinning him. “A…cop?”

“Close enough,” she replied as she saw Dirk come running around the corner.

He looked infinitely alert, ready for action, body taut with tension…until he saw her sitting on the facedown Stumpy. Stumpy with mud on his face, his shorts still pulled down to his ankles, his butt bare as the day he was born—only hairy and not half as cute.

Dirk froze, staring at them, his mouth open, taking in the scene.

Then his eyes locked with Savannah's.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked her.

“Apprehending your suspect for you. And you're welcome,” she replied with a grin.

“She…she…sexually assaulted me!” Stumpy whined, thrashing around. “And she's…squashing…me.”

Dirk considered the words for a moment, shook his head as though he simply couldn't process the information, and walked over to them.

Savannah stood and pointed to the cuffs. “After you're done with him, I want those back,” she said.

Instantly, Dirk was indignant. “Hey, I gave you a pair to replace the ones I—”

“Don't get all huffy with me! You gave me one pair for my birthday after ripping off three pair from me over the years. So, by my calculations, I'm short two sets and a birthday present.”

Dirk reached down, grabbed Stumpy, and hauled him to his feet. In another quick move, he hoisted his prisoner's shorts back up to their original position. “There you go, Norbert,” he said. “I just improved your appearance tenfold.”

“I'm telling you,” Stumpy whimpered, “that crazy woman sexually assaulted me!”

“No, she didn't.” Dirk took him by the arm, leading him toward the front of the house. “I've known her for twenty years,” he said, “and in all that time, I couldn't convince her to sexually assault me.”

Dirk glanced back over his shoulder at Savannah, who was following close behind. “And…” he added, “…as we've all seen, I have way more to offer her in that respect than you do.”

A woman with pink, foam hair curlers, a lavender chenille robe, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, came running up to them. “Norbert!” she yelled around the cigarette, “I told you it was a scam. There's ain't nothing in that box they brung. I checked it! It's empty as your head. You ain't never been lucky enough to win nothin'!”

“Ah, shut up, Ma,” Norbert replied, shuffling along as Dirk led him toward the pickup.

Savannah wondered where the woman had found antique, pink, foam hair curlers. She wondered how old that chenille robe was. She wondered if every time Norbert had abused one of his elderly female victims he had been thinking of his mommy.

But there was something else that piqued her curiosity even more.

She had to ask.

Turning to Mother Weyerhauser, she said, “I have to know…who was the first person to call him ‘Stumpy'? Was it you?”

“Hell no.” The cigarette, stuck to her lower lip, bobbed up and down a couple of times. “It was that idiot bimbo that he dropped out of high school to marry. She started calling him that right before she divorced him. I've always called him ‘Norbert.'”

Savannah gave Dirk a big smirk as she opened the truck door and helped him tuck the bloody, grumpy Stumpy inside. “Told ya so.”

B
y the time Dirk delivered Savannah back to her house, she could feel her tummy rumbling. The morning's donuts had long worn off, along with the coffee caffeine buzz. She was in serious need of nutrition, and she figured Dirk was, too.

As he pulled the pickup into her driveway, she made the generous decision to, once again, feed the bottomless human abyss.

“Wanna come in and have some lunch?” she asked him. “I made chicken and dumplings for Granny Reid.”

She waited for the ecstatic response that she knew was coming. Her chicken and dumplings were world renowned—both her grandmother's and Dirk's all-time favorite. Granny had been heard to say, “Savannah's gotta put a brick bat on top of the lid on that pot, or her dumplin's will just go floatin' up and out the kitchen winder.”

“Uh…no…not now,” Dirk replied, avoiding her eyes. “I'm not hungry.”

“What?
You
not hungry? Since when?”

“I shouldn't have eaten that apple fritter earlier. I'm on a diet.”

His last sentence had been mumbled, barely audible, but she had heard it. Heard, but not believed it.

“You? On a diet? Lord, help us all. First global warming and now
this
?”

Instantly, Dirk donned his sullen face. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Oh, we're going to talk about it. We are
so
going to talk about it. Since when did you ever—”

“Shut up, woman,” he said, but he was grinning. It was the only thing that kept him from getting his jaws smacked. “Or I'll fly into a blind rage.”

“You in a blind rage? Now
that
I believe. But you denying yourself food…free food…no way.”

“This discussion's over. Hop out. I've got places to go.”

“Oh, you do not.” She sniffed. “You have no life. You have to have a life before you have places to go.”

He shot her another mischievous grin, leaned over, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the help with Stumpy. I'll call you later.”

“Yeah…okay,” she said, one eyebrow raised, as she grabbed her purse and climbed out of the pickup.

“Tell Granny, ‘hi' for me,” he shouted through the open window as he pulled out of the driveway. “I'll come see her tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.”

Savannah watched, her arms folded over her chest, as he drove away.

She was still mulling over the mystery of a dieting Dirk as she walked up the sidewalk to the quaint, Spanish-style house that had been her home for years.

The stucco could use some fresh paint, and a couple of the red, clay roof tiles had been loosened during the spring storms, but she loved her home and usually felt a twinge of satisfaction every time she walked up the path to her front door.

But today she didn't notice the sun shining on the marigolds and nasturtiums in their beds or the bougainvillea that arched across her porch. Even her adrenaline rush from catching a bad guy was squelched.

Although she was reluctant to admit it, she was basically a nosy person who liked to know what was going on with the people around her. And having someone in her inner circle behaving unpredictably was particularly irksome for her.

And a non-eating Dirk was as unpredictable and irksome as it got.

She opened the front door, walked inside, and tossed her purse and keys onto a piecrust table in the foyer. And after placing her gun on an upper closet shelf and hanging up her jacket, she walked into the living room.

Instantly, she was greeted by her entourage…more of her inner circle.

Two enormous black cats bounded off the windowsills and began to twine themselves around her ankles, rubbing their faces against her legs and purring.

“Hi, Cleopatra, Diamante,” she said, stroking first one silky head and then the other. “Did you miss Momma?”

“Hi! How did it go?” asked a beautiful, young blonde woman who was sitting at a rolltop desk on the other side of the room. “Did you catch him? Did he try to run away? Hey, you've got mud on your slacks. Did you have to tackle him, take him down? Was it fun?”

Savannah smiled at her—as always, just enjoying the pure, golden sunlight that was her friend and assistant, Tammy Hart.

“Yes, sweet pea,” she said, scooping Cleopatra into her arms and nuzzling her, “to all of the above.”

Long ago, Savannah had made a conscious decision to stop being envious of Tammy's youth, her effervescence, her svelte figure and teeny-weeny hiney. After all, having such a bundle of positive energy in her life was a blessing. Savannah knew that it was Tammy who kept her young and infused with boundless joy.

The kid's size-zero butt—the decision not to envy
that
took daily reaffirming.

“Anything new?” Savannah asked, setting Cleo on the floor and picking up Diamante. “Any messages?”

“Just your granny. Her plane left a couple of hours late. She's due to arrive at seven fifteen.”

“Tarnation. I was hoping I could get her back here in time for supper.”

Tammy looked confused. “But you can make it back from LAX by eight thirty or nine if traffic's good.”

“Gran has supper at four thirty and is in bed, reading her Bible and her
True Informer
by seven.”

“Oh, right.” Tammy looked down at the mud on Savannah's slacks. “Did Stumpy run very far before you caught him?”

Savannah smiled as she set Di onto the floor beside her sister. “No, not far at all. His shorts were around his ankles. You can't exactly make tracks very fast that way.”

Tammy was amazed. “They fell down?”

“With a little help.” Savannah thought of Norbert Weyerhauser in all his glory and shuddered. “I think I'll go take a long, hot bubble bath. You know…wash the ‘Stumpiness' off me.”

As Savannah headed up the stairs, it occurred to her that maybe she should do a bit of extra housecleaning before her grandmother arrived. But the sheets on the bed in the guestroom were fresh, and she'd be sure to place a cut rose in the bud vase on the nightstand and some Godiva truffles in the candy dish on the dresser.

It didn't take much to make Gran feel at home.

Besides, although Granny Reid was an immaculate housekeeper herself, she was far too kind a soul to notice anybody else's dust. And if she did, being a genteel southern lady, she would never mention it.

“I'm comin' to see you, Savannah girl, not your dirt,” had been the mantra, years ago when apologies were made and housecleaning was higher on Savannah's list of life priorities. Now “basically sanitary” and “moderately tidy” were her only standards.

Savannah's heart warmed at the thought of seeing her beloved Gran, the woman who had always been grandmother, mother, mentor, and best friend to her.

And as Savannah drew herself a hot bath in the Victorian, clawfoot tub and added a generous amount of jasmine essential oil to it, she checked the rose bubble bath to make sure there was enough to last for Gran's two-week visit.

Floral scented baths were imprinted on the Reid girls' DNA, along with a love of chocolate, romance novels, and silky, feminine undies.

But no sooner had Savannah lit the votive candles, pulled the shade down on the window, and settled into the blissful, fragrant warmth of the bath than her cell phone rang.

She glanced at the slacks she had left hanging on a hook on the back of the door and scowled. They continued to play an irritating, frenetic version of “La Cucharacha”—a tune she had chosen for Dirk.

No particular reason. But the song annoyed her and so did he, so it had seemed appropriate.

“Dadgummit!” she said, hauling herself out of the tub and splashing jasmine-scented water onto the floor as she slipped and slid her way on the wet tile over to the door.

She snatched the phone out of her pants' pocket, flipped it open, and said, “You know, I never really liked you all that much.”

“You do, too.”

“I'll have you know I'd just gotten into a nice, hot bath and—”

“So, you're naked?”

She snapped the cell phone closed and returned to the tub. But she kept the phone in her hand.

Dirk never gave up that easily.

The moment she was settled back in the tub, the phone rang again.

“Would you leave me alone?” she said. “I have to drive to LAX and pick up Gran in a few hours, and this is the only time I can relax and—”

“Then you don't want a piece of this?”

“A piece of what? You've got nothing good to offer me. You're dieting, remember?”

“A piece of a homicide case.”

She sat up so abruptly that her bath water nearly splashed over the edge of the tub.

“Really?”

“Yeah, and not your usual gang or drug shooting, either. This one's up on Lincoln Ridge.”

“No way!”

Savannah closed her eyes for a moment and mentally scanned the row of mansions that were perched atop the seaside cliff. Lincoln Ridge overlooked not only the ocean, but the picturesque Pacific coastline stretching for miles in both directions.

At least three famous actors, one rock star, and a dot-com mogul lived there, along with other assorted celebrities and high-society darlings.

“Who's dead?” she asked.

“Maria Wellman.”

“That quack, diet-doctor dude's wife?”

“Who said he's a quack?”

“Anybody who says that all you have to do is listen to his CD one time and the fat will just melt right off you…that's a quack.”

There was a long silence on the other end. Then: “Well…he might not be a quack. It might work.”

“Holy cow, you bought one of his CDs.”

“Did not.”

“Did, too. There's no way you'd sound that disappointed unless you plunked down hard cash for that crap.”

“You wanna go out to the scene with me? Or do you want to sit there, soaking in your bathtub, and feel superior to everybody else?”

“Just the people who bought that stupid CD.” She chuckled. “All right. I'll drive myself, in case I have to leave before you do and go pick up Gran.”

He told her the address.

“I'll be there in ten minutes,” she said. “I have to get dressed.”

“Don't go to all that trouble just for me.”

She snapped the phone closed.

 

“I want to live on Lincoln Ridge,” Savannah muttered to herself as she guided her ‘65 Mustang up the steep, narrow road toward the top of the cliff. “I want a view like this, and a mansion like one of those, and plenty of staff to keep it clean. And I want to lie on a satin chaise lounge in a peignoir and eat bon-bons all the live long day.”

Although she wasn't certain whether bon-bons were pieces of chocolate or ice cream, she was pretty sure she wouldn't mind taking up bon-bon eating as an occupation.

But then, she reconsidered and decided she liked her own little house and didn't mind sitting in her comfy chair, wearing a T-shirt and jeans and eating Hershey Kisses, either.

Life was pretty good, if you decided it was…even without a mansion and bon-bons.

And when she rounded a curve and saw an array of police cruisers, their lights flashing, parked in front of the Wellmans' mansion, she decided she didn't envy everybody in this neighborhood. Not at all. Having eight cop cars and a dozen policemen outside your door was never a good thing.

As she parked the Mustang and got out, several of the patrolmen gave her nods, waves, and other greetings. Savannah had always been well liked by her fellow law enforcement officers. The San Carmelita PD brass…not so much. Before they had fired her years ago, she'd had a love-hate relationship with them. After the canning, it was pure hate-hate.

Solving a murder case, exposing the dark, dirty secrets of your town's top officials, and ruining their lives—it could wreck your career every time.

As she approached the imposing, contemporary house with its odd, sharp angles and strangely pitched roof, she squinted and wished she were wearing her sunglasses. The exterior of the mansion was a blinding white, reflecting the late afternoon sunlight. And, although many of the homes in this area were surrounded by mature, lush plantings, this house had hardly any foliage to soften its stark appearance.

Savannah thought of her giant, twin bougainvilleas that framed her doorway—named Bogey and Ilsa—and decided again that, humble as it might be, she did prefer her own home.

Near the door, she spotted Dirk. He was haranguing a couple of subordinates and, therefore, never looked happier. When he glanced her way, she gave him a finger-waggling wave and a flirty grin, and in return she got a curt nod.

Dirk wasn't one to be mushy in front of the guys.

As he turned his back on them and walked toward her, she saw the poisoned-dart looks they gave him and cringed. She would have been crestfallen to be on the receiving end of those looks.

Dirk didn't give a dang. He only needed to hold up two fingers to count the people he deigned to impress. No doubt, Granny Reid would be his pointing finger…Savannah the middle.

And Savannah considered that most appropriate.

Glancing at his watch, he said, “Hey, you really did make it in ten.” He looked her up and down with lasciviousness that was minimized due to the close proximity of other “manly men.” “Did you take time to dry off?”

“Dried off and put on fresh undies. I don't do that for just anybody, you know.”

He grinned. Sometimes he couldn't help himself.

“Lucky me,” he said. Turning toward the house, he added, “Wanna see the body?”

Just to irritate him, she laced her arm through his and half-cuddled up to him. Ten pairs of eyes shifted their way and a few of the fellows snickered. “Of course I want to see the body,” she murmured, leaning her head close to his, as though whispering sweet nothings. “You don't think I rushed over here to see
your
body, do you?”