Bitter Sweets (18 page)

“What's that?”

“I'll tell you on the way. Drive.”

“I
just came from Vanessa Pearce's garage, and she says Ian Warner is a child molester.” Savannah rolled down the Skylark's window to escape some of Dirk's secondhand smoke. For a refreshing change, he took the hint and hung his cigarette out his window as he drove. “But it might have just been a fanciful turn of phrase,” she added.

“He
is.”
Dirk flipped the butt away.

“He is?”

“Yeap. I ran a check on him and he's got a record. Three arrests, one conviction, ten-year sentence, six served.”

“All molestation charges?”

“All.”

“The conviction?”

“Forced oral copulation—an eight-year-old girl. One of his girlfriend's daughters.”

“Oh, man . . . . that fits what Vanessa told me. She said Lisa was dating the guy, but broke it off because of something he did, or tried to do, to Christy.”

“Do you believe her?”

Savannah thought for a moment. “She was pretty peeved at the time . . . . at me . . . . but she seemed sincere enough. And it goes along with what Mrs. Abernathy, the neighbor, said about Lisa having a fight with Warner and telling him not to come around anymore.”

Dirk pulled the Buick into a dirt parking area beside a windowless, cement building with a bright red lightning bolt on the side and a sign that said: Warner Electric.

Beside the building was parked the van which Lisa's neighbor had mentioned. The white one with the red lettering and the vanity plate.

Dirk turned to Savannah and smiled. “I'm gonna enjoy this,” he said. “Nothing quite makes my day like rousting a child molester.”

The moment Dirk and Savannah walked through the front door of Warner Electric, a small, dark man in blue coveralls darted out from behind the counter and greeted them.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Dirk said. “We need to have a word with Ian.”

“He's busy, can I—?”

“So are we.” Dirk flipped open his badge. “And we have to talk to Ian. Right away.”

Savannah walked on into the room, picking her way between reels of coaxial cable, bundles of conduit, and shelves, bristling with strange-looking metal boxes that sprouted wires and exotic connectors. At the other end, standing between a couple of heavily loaded pallets, was a tall, good-looking man with a leonine mane of golden curls that any woman would have envied.

Savannah chuckled to herself. The hair was another reason why Dirk would enjoy hassling this guy. If there was anything on earth that Dirk hated more than a child molester, it was a child molester with more hair than he had. And that included a large slice of the pervert demagoguery.

As Mrs. Abernathy had noted, Ian Warner wore his long sleeves rolled up to the elbow to reveal muscular forearms. He was, indeed, a handsome man. Long ago, Savannah had stopped trying to figure out why a man who could so easily find a willing woman to warm his bed would turn to a helpless child for gratification.

Savannah turned back to Dirk and nodded in Warner's direction. Dirk caught the look and walked past her toward the back. Toward Warner.

When Dirk was only halfway across the room, Ian glanced his way and suddenly tensed. He seemed to lose all interest in the customer he had been speaking with. A knowing look crossed his face . . . . a look that Savannah knew well.

Damn, he's gonna run,
she thought.

A heartbeat later, he bolted for the back door.

“Police! Freeze!” Dirk shouted, running after him.

“Yeah, right.” Savannah whirled around and headed back out the front door. “The day one of them does what Dirk tells them, he'll keel over with a heart attack.”

She ran straight for the HI VOLT van in the parking lot, and her hunch had been right. Warner was running straight to her with Dirk in his dust.

Holding her Beretta in both hands, she leaned over the hood of the van and braced her feet, pointing it straight at him.

“Now
you're gonna freeze, Mr. Warner,” she said as she sighted down the barrel, “just like the nice policeman told you to. Because if you don't, I'll plug you one right between the eyes.”

Ian nearly tripped over his own feet as he skidded to a stop on the other side of the hood. He glanced back at a fuming Dirk, who was closing the distance, then at Savannah. He looked genuinely confused.

“Are you with him?” he asked her.

“Yeap.”

“Are you a cop, too?”

“Not anymore,” she replied. “But I'm still a damned good shot.”

 

It didn't improve Savannah's mood any to have to leave Ian Warner in Dirk's hands and miss out on the questioning. But it was still business hours at the station, which upped her chances of running into Hillquist or Bloss. Besides, it would be stretching the rules considerably for Dirk to allow a civilian, such as herself, to hang around while he was conducting the interview.

And, having recently pointed a gun at Warner's head, she would be hard put to convince him she was a public defender.

So, she headed home, to talk to Tammy and regroup. Maybe grab a bite to eat and see Gran. The poor ol' dear was probably bored to death, sitting at home, waiting for her to show.

“Your grandmother caught a cab and took off to the beach in her red swimsuit,” Tammy told her when she walked through the door. “Don't worry, I loaned her one of your coverups, so she's decent. Then she said she was going to check out the mall and some of the local Mexican food. Said she likes it spicy.”

Savannah laughed. “I'm sure she does. Don't be surprised if she comes back plowed. She likes margueritas, too.”

“She's so neat. I wish I had a grandmother like that,” Tammy said wistfully as she led Savannah into the office.

“I just hope I'll
be
a grandmother like that.”

“Oh, you will be. You two are a lot alike.”

“I'll take that as a compliment. What have you got for me?”

Savannah could tell Tammy was proud of herself as she presented her with a sheet of paper.

“Another lead. Alan Logan's ex-wife. I called and asked her if she would be willing to talk to you. She was thrilled at the thought. I think she wants to dump on you about Alan. She sounds like she's still bitter.”

“All right!” Savannah grabbed the paper. The address was nearby, only a few blocks away. “The more bitter the better, I always say.”

“Do you always say that?”

Tammy was so gullible, and Savannah loved her for it.

“Naw. This was the first time. But I think it's going to be my new motto.”

 

At first glance, it wasn't apparent that Jillian Logan had anything to be so bitter about. Alan hadn't been kidding when he had said that his ex-wife had taken him for everything. With a Lexus and a Mercedes in the driveway of a rambling new ranch-style home, she didn't appear to be hurting too badly. At least, not financially.

But then, money wasn't everything, Savannah told herself as she walked up the brick driveway to the stained glass French doors.

“Hello, Ms. Reid, I've been expecting you,” said the perfectly tanned, perfectly manicured, perfectly frosted blond woman who ushered her into the spacious foyer.

They passed the atrium full of expensive silk plants, and into a professionally decorated, chic, and overfurnished living room. Savannah was reminded of the covers of home decor magazines, where there was so much artistic clutter in the room that you couldn't see a thing.

But, beneath the jungle of knickknacks, Savannah saw a number of exquisite antiques . . . . probably the fruits of Alan's labors in his business.

“Do have a seat. May I serve you a glass of sparkling water?” Jillian asked with a wave of red-white-and-blue-striped acrylic nails.

A rather patriotic gesture, Savannah thought. Worth remembering for the Fourth of July.

“Sparkling water . . . . that would be very nice,” Savannah replied. “If you don't have anything better,” she whispered as Jillian wriggled her teeny-tiny butt out of the living room and into the kitchen.

“A private detective. How fascinating,” she cooed when she returned, carrying a wineglass filled with water, ice, and a slice of lemon.

“Not really, but it pays the bills . . . . sometimes. What do you do, Mrs. Logan?”

“At the moment I'm taking some classes at the community college. Home decorating, sculpture, flower arranging, and wok cooking. I'm still devastated over my divorce, you see, and I'm trying to find myself. I don't know how I'm going to live on the piddly amount my ex-husband left to me. He really is a horrible man. What do you want to know about him?”

Savannah hauled out the mental bullshit shovel and slipped on her fantasy hip boots.

“Whatever you would like to tell me, Mrs. Logan,” she replied, playing it safe.

“Well . . . . I understand you're investigating the murder of my ex's business partner and his wife.”

Savannah wondered who had told her. But she would get to that later. “That's right; I am,” she said. “Is there anything you can tell me that might have to do with their deaths?”

“You mean like . . . . that Alan wanted to have an affair with Lisa, and she turned him down and Alan was furious, and he never really got over it, and that he hated Earl because Alan blamed Earl for them losing their business, and then I left Alan, and Alan said that was Earl's fault, too, but it was really Alan's fault, not Earl's because Alan was never home and didn't pay me any attention at all, and that was why I left him, because I just couldn't—”

“Wait! Please!” Savannah held up one hand in surrender. “There isn't, like, a quiz on all this later, is there?”

Jillian Logan looked at her blankly. A couple of “blonde” jokes floated through Savannah's head, but she quickly dismissed them as being unworthy of a such a mature and sophisticated brunette as herself.

“A quiz? I don't know what you're talking about,” Jillian continued. “I was just wondering if that was the sort of thing you wanted to know.”

Savannah considered sticking her head in the wineglass of sparkling water . . . . just drowning herself . . . . ending it all. But the glass was too small, and her head too big. So, instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out her pad and paper.

“Certainly, Mrs. Logan,” she said, trying her best to sound patient. “Now, if you could just start at the beginning.”

“Oh, okay. No problem. It all began back in 1973. Alan—that rotten creep—and I met at a. . . .”

S
avannah was getting ready to dash out of her house and hit the road again, when she opened her front door and nearly ran into Brian O'Donnell. He was standing on her doorstep, his fist raised, ready to knock.

“Oh, hi . . . .” She wasn't exactly prepared to speak to him again so soon. She had hoped to have something more concrete to tell him the next time she needed to give a report.

After delivering so much bad news to the poor man, she was hoping to have something optimistic to relate.

Oh, well . . . . so much for thinking positive. Usually, when she tried the upbeat, pull-only-good-things-to-you routine, things got worse. Or, maybe she had just been hanging around Dirk too long and had caught his infectious pessimism.

“Hello, Savannah,” O'Donnell said. “I don't mean to be a pest, but I'm sitting there, hour after hour, in my hotel room, worrying until I'm almost sick.”

“I'm sure you are. I'm sorry.”

“I feel so damned helpless. I had to do something, even if it was just to come over here and bug you.”

“You aren't bugging me, Mr. O'Donnell. Why don't you come in for a minute, and I'll fill you in on what we have so far.”

 

“Is that it?” Brian O'Donnell asked Savannah, after she had spent nearly half an hour trying to make their lack of progress sound like a pep squad rally. But she decided she was losing her touch; he hadn't bought it.

He hadn't even drunk the freshly brewed Mocha Java or eaten any of the cookies, which she had spread invitingly across the tray on the coffee table.

“Ah . . . . yes, but this one lead, the one about the guy with the criminal record may pan out,” she told him. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if he doesn't turn out to be our killer. And, of course, now that Detective Coulter has him in custody, we'll soon find out if . . . . we'll find out where he's been keeping Christy all this time, and we'll be able to get her back.”

“He has a record?”

Damn, she hadn't intended to let that slip, but, of course, he had latched onto it. “Mmmm, yeah, just one conviction, though. Not to worry.”

“What was it for?”

“What?” She knew darned well “what” but asking was worth a few seconds of stall time.

“What was he convicted of?”

“It . . . . ah . . . . it might have been for writing bad checks, insufficient funds, something silly like that?”

O'Donnell's eyes searched hers, making her feel the need to squirm in her chair. She could practically feel her nose growing and her tongue turning black. As Granny had often warned her in childhood, it would probably fall out of her mouth at any moment.

Brian's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘might have been'? Was that all? Just bad checks or something like that?”

Maybe it was Gran's presence upstairs in the guest bedroom, or maybe it was the fact that she had formally prayed last night for the first time in ages. Either way, Savannah decided she didn't really want to sully her freshly cleansed soul so quickly, so badly, with such a blatant lie.

“No, Brian. It wasn't bad checks. He was convicted of sexual misconduct with a minor.”

“How minor?”

“A child.”

He stared at her with stricken eyes. “Oh, God,
that
is what we're
hoping
for?” he said. “That's the best case scenario . . . . that a convicted child molester murdered both of my niece's parents and took off with her?”

“Mr. O'Donnell, I'm so sorry, but I don't know what to say to you.” Her head began to throb, until she could practically see double. “At this point, I don't know what the hell I'm hoping for.”

 

As Savannah was walking Brian O'Donnell out to his car to say good-bye, Dirk drove up in the old Buick. The moment he climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him, Savannah knew the tête-à-tête with Ian Warner hadn't gone to his satisfaction.

“Oh, great,” Brian muttered. “I was hoping to avoid that jerk. He's really getting on my nerves.”

“Dirk's a good guy; it's just that he possesses no social graces whatsoever and not a smidgen of couth. He rubs everybody the wrong way.”

“How did it go?” Savannah asked as Dirk stomped up the sidewalk in their direction.

“It was a fuckin' waste of time. Nothing. Squat. That's how it went; thanks for asking.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing'?”

“He had an alibi. Several of his worthless friends will vouch for him. They say he was boozing it up with them.”

“I didn't know that child molesters had friends.”

“They do if their daddy owns a business the size of Warner Electric.”

Savannah glanced at Brian and saw that he looked relieved. She supposed she should be, too. But she was wearing out her loafers, pacing around in square one.

“What are you grinnin' about?” Dirk asked Brian. “You think this is funny or something?”

“Dirk!” Savannah was surprised. Even though Dirk wasn't known for his diplomacy, he was one of the “good” cops. And, by Savannah's definition, that meant basically civil to anyone unless they gave him ample reason not to be. From where she stood, Savannah couldn't see any reason for him to be sarcastic with O'Donnell.

“Don't forget,” Dirk continued, glaring at Brian. “So far, you're the only one on my list who had motive and opportunity to kill both victims.”

O'Donnell's face hardened, his jaws tightened. Savannah observed, with interest, that mild-mannered Brian O'Donnell had a temper, too.

“Okay, big shot,” he told Dirk, “you've got opportunity and motive. How about some physical evidence? Last time I heard, you need a little of that, too, before you go around making accusations.”

Not waiting for Dirk's reply, he turned and strode away toward his rental car.

“I'm working on it, buddy,” Dirk shouted after him. “Be seein' you soon.”

“Yeah, right.” O'Donnell slammed his car door and peeled out.

With a mildly satisfied look on his face, Dirk turned to Savannah. “See what I mean. He ain't just a Mr. Hyde; if you get him mad, he can be a Dr. Jekyll, too.”

Savannah sighed. “Dirk, you poor, illiterate dear. Dr. Jekyll was the good guy; Hyde was the nasty. You've got it backward.”

“Who cares? You knew what I meant.”

She took his arm and led him toward her front door. If ever anyone was in need of a ham and cheese on rye with dijon, it was Dirk. Now. From the way he was frothing at the mouth, it was apparent that his blood sugar level had hit bottom.

“You know,” she said, “I don't appreciate you insulting my guests without my permission.”

“O'Donnell was your
guest?
Since when?”

“He was on my property.”

“He was standing on the sidewalk. That's public property, which means he was fair game.” Dirk shook his head. “Damn it, woman, don't give me a hard time. I'm having a really rotten day.”

Savannah decided to add a Coke to the menu.

 

As Savannah walked into the examination room of the morgue, she was glad she had eaten a sandwich with Dirk. Because, upon seeing Earl Mallock lying on the table, his torso cut open and internal organs exposed, she figured it was a good day to diet.

The smell assaulted her nose and went straight to her gag reflex. Earl had been a bit ripe when they had found him in the shack. Time hadn't improved his condition.

“Savannah, good to see you. Want to watch?” Dr. Jennifer Liu stood over the corpse, scalpel in one hand, Earl's liver in the other. As always, she had a bright smile on her face, and her dark eyes glimmered with excitement. Dr. Liu simply
loved
doing autopsies.

“It's always fascinating,” Jennifer had told Savannah once. “No matter how many you've done, each one is different. I love getting in there and seeing what I can find.”

Savannah was infinitely glad there were people like Jennifer in the world. Medical examiners, morticians, and piano teachers—society needed them desperately. But Savannah had to admit that, whatever it took to do the job, she didn't have it.

Dr. Jennifer's young assistant, a fellow named Mark, was peeling Earl's face down from the top, revealing the bare skull with its perfectly round, black hole directly in the center of the forehead.

“Have you got a mask?” Savannah asked, trying not to inhale, only exhale . . . . a tricky maneuver.

“Over there in the second drawer.” Jennifer pointed with a bloody surgical glove. “Help yourself.”

Savannah hurried to the cupboard and pulled out a small blue dust mask.

“Vicks?” she asked.

“Top drawer,” Mark replied. He grinned and added, “Wimp.”

“Up yours. Sideways.” Savannah smeared a huge dollop inside the mask, then put it on, snapping the elastic around the back of her head. Instantly, her eyes began to water, but it was worth the sacrifice. Although no amount of Vicks could completely eliminate the stench, it cut it in half and kept her from gagging.

“What have you found?” Savannah asked, joining them beside the stainless steel table. She hung back a bit, telling herself it was because she didn't want to interfere with their work, but knowing it was because she—like all other healthy, living beings—had a natural and instinctive aversion to anything dead.

“Interesting stuff,” Dr. Jennifer said, “huh, Mark?”

“Yeah, fascinating.”

Mark didn't seem to relish his work. Savannah suspected the only reason he was an autopsy assistant was because it made him a popular guy at the local bars. He had an entire repertoire of morbid, corny jokes that resulted in him receiving more than his share of “stiff” drinks on the house.

“Like what?” Savannah asked.

“For one, I'd say that Mr. Mallock recently lost a lot of weight . . . . and probably not the healthy way. His skin is a little saggy for a male his age. He also has stretch marks there on the underside of his belly and his upper thighs.”

“That's what I understand, too,” Savannah said. “I've been told he was quite heavy not that long ago.”

“Another thing . . . .” Dr. Liu looked pleased with herself. “He isn't a natural redhead.”

“I knew that one, too.”

“Oh.” Jennifer hated to broadcast reruns. She much preferred to wow her audiences, rather than tell them something they already knew. “Okay, Miss Smartie Pants, I've got at least one thing that's going to surprise you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, let's go over here to the microscope while Mark opens up the skull for me.”

“Yes . . . . let's.” Savannah hated standing too close when the saw was buzzing. Flying bone chips made her nervous.

As they walked away, Mark took a large, clear plastic bag and placed it over the head of the corpse. A few seconds later, the room reverberated with a noise that sounded like a chain saw cutting down an oak.

Savannah didn't look; the head was always the part that made her shoot stew if she wasn't careful.

“Over here,” Jennifer shouted above the din as she pointed to the microscope. “Take a look.”

Savannah leaned over the scope, squinted, and wondered as always, what she was looking at. Things certainly appeared different when magnified a zillion times. Once, Jennifer had shown her a common cat flea, and that night Diamante and Cleopatra had both been double-dipped, like a couple of chocolate-covered ice-cream cones.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Tissue from Mr. Mallock's wrists, near where the wire had been twisted. Just like the sample I showed you that I cut from his ex-wife.”

Savannah looked again, not understanding the connection. This material looked very different. “But Lisa's had those blue-black specks in it.”

“That's right. Inflammation cells. Mr. Mallock's has none.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the wires weren't on him nearly as long. In fact, judging from the lack of swelling in the surrounding tissues, I'd say his wires were applied postmortem.”

“Postmortem?”

Jennifer smirked, well satisfied with Savannah's degree of shock.

“You got it.”

“But why would someone restrain a corpse?” she asked, thinking aloud. “Or maybe they just wanted it to look like the first murder. A copycat?”

Dr. Liu shrugged. “That's for
you
to decide. I just gather the facts, right? It's up to you and Dirk to catch the bad guy.”

“We're trying, we're trying. What else do you have?”

“Two different kinds of wire.”

“Seriously?”

Jennifer nodded her head. “The first one was common copper wire, like they sell in any run-of-the-mill electronic store. A thin variety.”

“Electrical?” Savannah instantly thought of Ian Warner's shop.

“Yeah. But the second wire is even thinner. I'm not sure yet, but I'd say it's piano wire. And another thing. . . .” Jennifer reached for a nearby manila envelope and pulled out a coil of copper wire. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to the end. “See how jagged and uneven the cut is?”

Savannah saw a number of gouges along the last four inches or so of the wire and the very end looked as though it had been sawn, rather than neatly cut.

“Yes, I see. What do you think it means?”

“I'd say the person who cut it used a knife. See the scrapes along the side? Those were probably made when he dragged the blade along the wire, before actually severing it. And see how it's sort of crimped?”