Cooked Goose (8 page)

But, mostly, he just irritated the crap out of her, and she loved returning the aggravation. Having the opportunity to irk him made her day.

She lifted one eyebrow. “Excuse me? This is a public street I’m standing on and, thanks to you, I’m now Jane Q. Public, so I’m right where I belong.”

“Go home, Reid.”

“Go to hell, Bloss. Go directly to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

“How juvenile.”

She wrinkled her nose as though she had just caught a whiff of a week-old road-kill. “Yeah? Well, nanny, nanny, boo, boo. And your mother dresses you funny, too.”

Bloss gave her a condescending look that made her want to slap him stupid, then he walked away, heading for the car where Dirk was questioning Angie.

Lucky Dirk
, she thought as she watched Bloss, mentally calculating the length of the proverbial stick up his butt. Why else would someone walk that stiffly? Or maybe it was a simple case of deficient dietary fiber.

She heard a girlish giggle behind her right shoulder. The titterer stepped forward, and Savannah recognized the outlandish orange and green spiked hair. It was the punked-out kid from her self-defense class.

“Oh, hi, Margie,” she said, embarrassed that she had appeared so unprofessional in front of a student. “Sorry you overheard that. I don’t usually talk to law-enforcement officials like that, but I sorta hate that guy.”

“Me too. What did he do to you?"

“It’s a long story. What do you mean, you hate him, too? What did Captain Bloss do to you?”

Probably had her arrested for drugs or shoplifting
, Savannah thought, as she checked out the leather clothing, trimmed with metal studs and the pierced lip, cheek, nose and eyebrows. Then she reminded herself that not every kid who dressed like a weirdo was a criminal. Just lacking in taste.

“He left me and my mother for another woman,” the girl said, “when I was ten years old.”

Savannah’s jaw dropped. “What? Bloss is your dad?”

“Yeap. Sucks, huh?”

Savannah shook her head, trying to rearrange her scrambled brain waves. “Wow! I didn’t even know he had a kid.”

Margie laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “That’s a scary thought, huh? A jerk like him procreating? My mom should’ve had him neutered on their honeymoon.”

Savannah studied the teenager’s face. Her expression was belligerent, but, beneath all the exaggerated makeup, her eyes were filled with sadness.

“Not necessarily,” Savannah said. “You seem like a nice kid.”

“Naw, I’m a brat. Ask anybody who knows me.”

While they’d been talking, Bloss had made his rounds and returned with the tall, handsome Officer Titus Dunn in tow. Bloss fixed his daughter with one of his classic glares which was, undoubtedly, intended to instill fear and intimidation. Margie glared back, the picture of adolescent rebellion.

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

“You need to hire somebody to write you some new lines,” Savannah muttered, recalling his earlier greeting to her.

Officer Dunn started to grin, but swallowed the smile when Bloss shot him a warning glance.

"I was looking for
you
,” Margie told her father, her demeanor as bristly as her hair.

“How did you know I’d be here?” he snapped.

“I was in the kitchen when you took the call. I heard you say where you were going. So later, I decided to—”

“What do you want?”

“Money,” his daughter returned, her tone turning as curt and hostile as his.

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell, yes, it matters.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I’m going out with Amy, okay?”

“Where?”

“Don’t know yet, but I need some cash.”

“No.”

Margie’s face flushed angrily. She stuck out her open hand, ramming it against her father’s chest. “Give me the damned money!” she screamed. “No-o-o-ow!”

Savannah glanced over at Titus, who was also watching the bizarre exchange with amazement. Neither of them dared to breathe.

Having been raised Southern style, at the end of a hickory switch, Savannah couldn’t comprehend such blatant defiance.

Bloss glowered at his daughter for what seemed like an eternity as his face turned as dark as hers. He was huffing and puffing like a disgruntled bulldog, his meaty fists clenched at his sides.

But the girl didn’t budge.

Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “There!” He tossed a handful of bills at her. “Now get out of here, and stay with your friends. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

Margie gave him a sarcastic, self-satisfied smirk and walked away, clutching her cash to her chest.

“When are you coming home?” he called after her.

“When I get damned good and ready,” she yelled back as she climbed into the driver’s seat of a new, ice-blue, BMW convertible nearby.

The Roadster took off, spinning its wheels in the roadside gravel.
 

Savannah cleared her throat and shook her head thoughtfully as they watched the car disappear around a curve. “Well, well.” she said, giving Bloss her best, fake, look of compassion. “Darned kids these days. Sometimes, they just won’t do ya proud.”

CHAPTER SIX

December 11, 12:30 a.m.

If Savannah and Dirk had been concerned about the latest rape victim’s security, all their worries evaporated when they saw Officer Morton O’Leary stationed outside her hospital room. King Kong himself couldn’t have charged through that door, even with Godzilla as a backup.

When Savannah and Dirk passed through, Savannah flashed O’Leary a friendly, open smile and received only a perfunctory grunt in return.

Six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound Officer O’Leary’s steel trap mind might have been a tad rusty in the hinges, but he took his job as first line defense very seriously. And if his sheer bulk weren’t deterrent enough, he carried a .357 Magnum as a side arm and a billy club the size of a California redwood.
 

No one got past Morton O’Leary.

No one even tried.

Once inside the private room, Savannah and Dirk saw a sweet-faced nurse who was standing beside the bed, looking over her charge with obvious concern.

“How is she?” Dirk asked as he looked down at the woman who was lying still, eyes closed, her head swathed in bandages, her right arm in a cast. Both of her wrists bore the dark, telltale lines, indicative of having been bound. The lower half of her face, that showed below the wrappings, was grotesquely swollen and splotched with patches of red, black, and purple bruising.

Savannah winced, unable to even imagine how much that beating would have hurt. The victim looked like someone who had been involved in a violent traffic accident. But her situation was all the more horrific because it had been some sick individual’s intention, not Fate that had put her here.

“She’s asleep,” the nurse said. “She has been for the past hour.”

“Has she said anything?” Savannah asked, thinking that the woman’s face was so badly contorted that she would surely be unrecognizable to her loved ones. It would require plastic surgery to put her right again. And those were just the physical injuries. The emotional scars would be permanent.

“She just told us that her name is Charlene Yardley,” the nurse replied. “And she asked us to call her ex-husband.”

“Did you?” Dirk asked.

“Yeah.” The nurse lowered her voice and added, “He wouldn’t come, the jerk. But he gave me her sister’s number. I called her, and she’s on her way.”

“I wanted to ask her some questions,” Dirk said, “but if she’s sleeping, I—”

“She needs the rest, poor baby.” Savannah patted Charlene’s hand, noting the torn nails and skinned knuckles. Apparently, she had put up some sort of defense. “That bastard really put her through the mill.”

Charlene’s eyelids flickered. “Mama?” she whispered through cracked, puffy lips.

Savannah leaned close to her. “What, honey? Did you say something?”

“Mama?” she murmured again.

Savannah shot a quick look at Dirk and the nurse. Dirk gave her a nod

“You’re going to be fine, sweetheart,” she said. “The worst is over and done with. You’re safe now. Everything will be okay.”

Charlene’s eyes fluttered again and this time she opened one just a crack and looked up at Savannah. When she closed it, tears slid down both her cheeks, and she began to cry. “You aren’t my mom,” she said between sobs.

Savannah’s heart ached. “I wish I were,” she said softly. “Your sister’s on her way here to see you.”

“Oh, great. That’s all I need. My sister’s stupid and a drunk.”

Savannah gulped. So much for close family ties. “Do you want me to try to find your mom for you?”

At the suggestion, Charlene only cried harder. “You can’t,” she said. “My mama’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Having struck out twice, Savannah was reluctant to swing a third time, but she had to ask, “Why did you think I was your mother?”

“You sound like her.”

“Oh.” The light dawned. “Was your mom from down South?”

“Savannah, Georgia.”

“Well, if that ain’t a coincidence. I’m from Georgia, too. And my name is Savannah. Is that close enough?”

At least Charlene had stopped crying. That was a step in the right direction. So, Savannah decided to press a little further. “This detective who came in with me—his name is Dirk Coulter. He needs to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to it?”

At the mention that a man was in the room, a look of fear crossed Charlene’s battered features. “No,” she said adamantly. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Dirk took a step back from the bed. “Van, maybe you should do it,” he said.

Savannah nodded and stroked Charlene’s fingers. “Do you feel like talking to me?” she asked in her most beguiling tone. “Just for a couple of minutes. If you get too tired, we’ll quit.”

She hesitated, then said, “Okay.”

“Did you see the man who attacked you?”

“Yes. Well, sorta.”

“What did he look like?”

“He wore a beard, a big white one, like Santa. But it was fake. It slid around when he was, you know, when he was raping me.”

Savannah glanced over at Dirk, who was suddenly all ears. “When the beard slipped,” she said, “did you happen to see his face?”

“Not really. Not enough to tell anything.”

“Do you know if he was Caucasian, or black, or Hispanic, or—?”

“The other policeman asked me that, too.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask again. Just in case you might remember something else.”

“It was dark. But I think he was white.”

“What else was he wearing, besides the beard?”

“A black shirt, like a sweatshirt. And I think, jeans.”
 

Savannah thought for a moment. “Did the shirt have any words or pictures on it?”

“No.”

Of course not
, Savannah thought.
That would be too easy
.
 

Oh, well, it was worth a try. Your average criminal wasn’t known for his high intelligence quotient and more than one had been nabbed because he had committed his particular crime dressed in a T-shirt that said something like, “Dudley Trucking—Bowling Champion 1979.”

“Could you see the color of his hair?” she asked.

“No. He was wearing a red and white hat, like Santa Claus.”

“How big a guy was he?”

“Bigger than me and a lot stronger.” She began to cry again. “He…he really hurt me.”

“I know, honey.” Savannah felt tears well up in her own eyes. She glanced over at the young nurse, who was biting her lower lip. “But you’ve got great doctors and nurses here,” she told her. “They’re taking good care of you.”

“But what if he comes back?” Charlene asked. She was trembling so hard that Savannah could feel the bed shaking as she leaned against it. “What if he comes here to the hospital and tries to kill me again?”

“He can’t,” Savannah told her. “No way. Right outside your door is the biggest Irish cop you’ve ever seen, and he’s packin’ a gun the size of a Sherman tank. Ain’t nobody comin’ through him, I guarantee it. You’re safe now, Charlene. Really. I promise.”

She continued to sob. “But I don’t feel safe.”

Savannah didn’t have the heart to tell Charlene Yardley that one of the worst things her attacker had done to her was to rob her of the simple, human joy of ever feeling safe again.

“I know you don’t,” Savannah said, “but we’re going to catch that bastard for you and put him away so that he can’t ever hurt you or anyone else again. I swear.”

Charlene turned her face away, but she gripped Savannah’s hand even harder. “He…he….” She struggled with the words. “He did awful things to me,” she finally said, as though she were confessing some deeply personal, mortal sin.