Cooked Goose (30 page)

“At least I didn’t see no blood,” Dirk continued, “or nothin’ that would make you think he got hisself killed here.”

“Bloss didn’t get nabbed,” Savannah said, quite sure of herself. “He isn’t missing, he’s hiding.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There’s no suitcase or overnight bag in any of the closets, except a Barbie one in the second bedroom, which must have been Margie’s, when she was a kid. A man who travels as much as Bloss does would have at least one handy.”

Dirk shrugged. “Maybe he just throws his junk in a pillowcase like I do.”

Savannah made a face and shook her head. “And his shaving stuff is gone.”

He thought that one over for a second, then nodded. “Gotcha.”

Opening her purse, Savannah took out cell phone and a business card. She called the number on the card.

“Mama Tallulah, this is Savannah Reid,” she said brightly. “I was in your shop earlier today.”

“Yes, of course,” Mama replied in her charming, gracious accent. “The very happy woman. Are you still happy, child?”

“Oh yes.” Savannah took the ring box from Dirk and turned it over and over in her hand. “Tell me one more thing, Mama. The rings you sold those men—the ones we were talking about today—did you put the rings in presentation boxes when you gave them to them?”

“Of course. A work of art must be properly displayed.”

Savannah smiled to herself. “Do you happen to recall what kind of boxes they were?”

“The same boxes I always use—a standard, blue velvet ring box. It has the symbol of a small crescent moon on the bottom.”

Savannah flipped the box over and there, stamped on the bottom, was a tiny gold moon sliver.

“Thank you, Mama. Keep smilin.’”

She switched off the phone and handed the tiny box back to Dirk.

“Well?” he said.

“No applause,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Just throw money.”

On a built-in desk at the end of the kitchen counter, a telephone jingled. Savannah and Dirk looked at each other.

“Do you think we should…?” he said.

“No, wait a minute. Let his machine pick it up.”

They listened as Bloss’s gruff voice basically demanded that the caller leave a message or else.

But after the long beep, instead of a human reply, they heard a series of beeps and clicks.

“It’s Bloss,” Savannah said. “He’s calling in to get his messages.”

Dirk reached for the phone. “I think I’ll answer it. Ask him where the hell he is and what’s goin’ on.”

Savannah grabbed his hand. “If he’s hiding, he probably won’t tell us. Wait.”

They listened as two messages played, both from concerned personnel at the station, asking if he was intending to report to work today.

Savannah pointed to the caller identification box. “We don’t have to ask him,” she said. “That’ll tell us.”

They peered at the read-out.

“Jackson’s Diner?” she said. “That sounds familiar. Where is that?”

“It used to be Angel’s Taco Heaven. It’s just down the street from the Blue Moon Motel.”

Savannah’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, ha! Figures. Let’s get going.”

* * *

2:25 p.m.

The rapist sat on the edge of the bed in the dark room, armed and waiting.

One more. Just one more, he told himself. This one was a matter of principle. Nobody got away. Nobody. It was his code.

He gritted his teeth and promised himself that when this was over he was going to sleep—for days, for weeks. Maybe even for eternity.

At this point he didn’t give a damn. His life was over anyway.

This wasn’t fun anymore. Whatever thrill he had gotten from it in the beginning—it was dead. As dead as he was inside.

He knew he was a corpse walking. But alive or dead, he would settle this last score. Yes. It was a matter of honor. And only a matter of seconds. Because he could hear footsteps approaching.

He wasn’t the only corpse walking. No, he wasn’t.

There were two.

* * *

As Dirk drove toward the outskirts of town and the Blue Moon Motel, Savannah couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she had first experienced when she had driven Margie and the kids back to her house.

“Still bothering you?” Dirk asked her as they passed over the Rio Verde Bridge, marking the city limits.

“Yeah,” she said. “And it’s getting worse.”

She pulled her cell phone from her purse and called Tammy’s house phone.

Briefly, she explained the situation to her assistant. “The kid’s really worried about her old man,” she told Tammy. “We had to ask her some questions, and she’s no dummy. She figured out that something’s up.”

“Do you want me to go over there?” Tammy offered. “I’ll just keep her company until you get back.”

“Would you mind? I’d really appreciate it. Vidalia and Butch are a bit too wrapped up in themselves right now to provide much support for her. She’s been through a lot lately.”

“No problem, I’m on my way.”

“Thanks, Tam. I’ll give you a raise in pay.”

“Pay? You’re going to start paying me? I don’t have to work for love and personal fulfillment anymore?”

“Goodbye, smart aleck.”

When Savannah hung up, Dirk said, “Feel better now?”

Savannah shrugged. “I guess so. A little.”

“We’ll check out the motel and get you back as soon as we can,” he said.

She continued to stare out the window and wonder. “Thanks."

He stepped on the gas.

* * *

2:37 p.m.

When the door opened and the intended victim stepped into the motel room, Officer Titus Dunn found that the feeble rush of adrenaline wasn’t enough to carry him this time. His hand shook violently as he lifted his gun from his lap and pointed it at Harvey Bloss.

The infection was too deep, the fever was too high, and his strength was almost gone.

But all he had to do was pull the trigger. Number Three would be properly dispatched. Vengeance complete. Mission accomplished.

He had anticipated the look of shock on Bloss’s face when he flipped on the light and turned to see him sitting there. But he was disappointed. Bloss didn’t even look surprised as he walked across the room to the dresser, picked up a whiskey bottle that had been sitting there and poured a plastic cup half full.

“Dunn,” he said calmly as he drank about half of the amber fluid in one gulp. “I was wondering what took you so long.”

A surge of anger shot through the killer, giving him the extra jolt of adrenaline he needed. He steadied his gun.

“With two fingers,” he said, “pull your weapon and put it on the table there. Slowly.” He waved his gun toward a rusted contraption with a torn leatherette seat. “Now, sit in that chair.”

Reluctantly, the captain complied.

Dunn tossed him a pair of handcuffs. The simple gesture caused a pain like white lightning to shoot through him, but he pushed past the misery.

“Cuff your right hand to the chair arm," he said. “Do it! Now!”

Dunn studied his captive with eyes that burned. But it was a cold fire.
 

“So, you were expecting me sooner?” he said as he watched Bloss struggle with the cuffs, trying to put them on with his left hand. “It’s not easy, running around for days with two bullets lodged in you—bullets your ‘brothers’ gave you. Thanks a lot...Bro.”

Finally, Bloss snapped the cuffs closed on his own wrist, then squinted at Dunn with those dark, slitted eyes that Dunn had learned to hate.

“You came after my daughter,” Bloss said. “My own kid! What the hell did you think I’d do?”

“What made you think it was me?”

“She saw your ring, you moron.”

“It could’ve been DeCianni or McGivney. They’re Marshals. They’ve got rings.”

“I checked them out. They had alibis. Both were accounted for; you weren’t.”

Bloss shook his head and gave his captor a contemptuous look that made Dunn want to go ahead and blow his brains out on the spot. But he had waited for this a long time. The fantasy of carrying out this execution was the only thing that had gotten him through the night before, when the fever had been so high, the pain so bad.

And since this would be his last killing, he didn’t want to rush it.

“I can’t believe you wore one of our rings to do shit like that,” Bloss continued in that self-righteous tone that made Dunn furious. “Those rings were a symbol of justice and the power of the law. But rape? What kind of lowlife are you? I can’t believe you were even a cop, let alone that we let you join the Marshals.”

Titus laughed, but the movement caused an agony in his ribs. One of the bullets had struck there, in his side, and passed on through. The other was still lodged in his left shoulder. A bucketful of stolen antibiotics and driving rage had kept him going so far, but he had just about reached the end.

“You didn’t mind us wearing those rings when we took care of dirty business for you,” he said, “like that pimp in Oak Creek, the coke dealer in the valley, or that kid in East L.A. All that boy did was steal your wallet and whack you around a little. But you couldn’t report it because you got robbed with your pants down, bangin’ a hooker.”

“That kid was trouble, had been all his life.” Bloss passed his left hand over his forehead that was slimy with a film of sweat.

“And you decided he had to die,” Dunn said, “so we killed him for you.”

“I told you to rough him up, not kill him.”

“Sometimes things don’t go as planned. How were we supposed to know he had a gun in his boot, that he’d draw on us. Of course, you didn’t exactly shed any tears when we told you he was dead.”

“That was different. It was justice. That’s why I formed the Marshals in the first place, why I invited you guys in ... to administer justice when the system broke down and let a criminal slip through the cracks. And that’s a long way from raping and beating innocent women.”

While Dunn silently seethed, the only sound was that of the clock ticking on the nightstand. Dunn felt a wave of weakness and nausea sweep through him. He could taste the saltiness of his own sweat that ran down into his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He allowed the rage to build to a crescendo inside him.

The more fury he felt, the more steady his hand became, but the more difficult it was to breathe.

“And is that what you thought you were doing when you sent McGivney and DeCianni after me?” he said. “My so-called brothers, coming to murder me in my own home? Did you think you were administering justice?”

Bloss glowered at him, not bothering to hide his hatred. It wasn’t a smart move for a man staring down the barrel of a gun, Titus decided. This guy deserved to die, because he was stupid, if for no other reason.

“It was justice,” Bloss said. “And if you’d gotten what you deserved, you’d be dead and McGivney and DeCianni would still be alive. They were good men, not scum like you.”
 

“Well, this is what
I
call justice. Marshal Dunn strikes a blow for law and order and takes out the brother who betrayed him. Maybe they’ll carve that on my tombstone.”

“Your tombstone? You’re the one holding the gun.”

“We’re both dead. But you’re going to hell first, buddy…just a few seconds before me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When Dunn made the comment about the tombstones, Savannah and Dirk knew it was time. For the longest four minutes she could remember, they had been standing outside the slightly ajar motel door, listening to the exchange inside.

The case was solved. Now all they had to do was get their least favorite police captain out of the room, hopefully without having his hide or vital organs perforated.

Dirk gave Savannah a nod, she kicked the door open, and he rushed inside, weapon drawn and trained on Titus. Savannah did the same.

Titus hardly even flinched. He glanced over his shoulder at them, but immediately turned back to Bloss.

Even under the stress of the moment, Savannah was shocked at Titus’s appearance. She had never seen anyone— at least, not anyone living—who was so gray, so bloated, so miserably ill. She couldn’t believe he was still conscious and functioning.

The golf shirt he wore was crusted with black, dried blood over his torso. His slacks were just as badly stained, and a swath of clumsily applied, filthy bandages were wrapped around his left shoulder.

“Coulter, Savannah, this is between Bloss and me,” Titus said. “Just turn around, the both of you, and walk out that door."

“That’s not the way it’s going to happen,” Dirk said quietly. “You know that. You know what we’ve got to do here.”

“Yeah, and I know what I’m going to do,” he said. His voice sounded a bit quivery, but his resolve appeared solid.

Savannah braced herself, holding the Beretta in her right hand, her left beneath to steady the weapon. In all her years on the force, she had only been forced a couple of times to look down that barrel at anything other than a paper target.