Just Desserts (12 page)

He held out his hand. “I’ll take the tape,” he said quietly. “I have some tests of my own I’d like to run.”

Every alarm on Savannah’s mental professional switchboard went off: flashing lights, sirens, loudspeakers.

At this moment the chief himself could be considered a suspect. He certainly wouldn’t be the first boyfriend who had smoked the husband of the woman he was seeing. To hand over to him a crucial, incriminating piece of evidence was unthinkable.

“Sir, I—”

“Detective Reid,” he said, much louder than before. She could hear the veneer of his civility wearing thinner. “That isn’t a request; it’s a direct order. Hand me the tape.”

She glanced over to Bloss. Why she would expect any assistance or support from him, she couldn’t imagine. He gave her a smug I-eat-shit-for-a-nickel grin. She resisted the urge to smack him silly: maybe later.

With a feeling of defeat she reached into the tote, pulled out the plastic bag containing the tape, and placed it on Hillquist’s open palm.

“Thank you, Detective,” he said with no trace of gratitude in the words. “And there’s one more thing....”

“Yes?” She had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t going to like this one either.

“For the moment I insist that you keep the details of your investigation right here in this room. You are to discuss it with no one other than Captain Bloss or myself. Is that clear?”

She nodded.

He wanted more. “I said, is that clear?”

“Yes,” she said, swallowing the bitter taste that was rising from her stomach into the back of her throat. “Yes, sir. Quite clear.”

Too
clear
, she thought as she left the room, her recently lightened tote under her arm. The situation was all too apparent. Willing or not, she had just become part of a major coverup.

“Whoever said that police work was exciting?” Savannah muttered as she sat in the middle of her living-room floor, practically buried beneath an avalanche. Letters, phone bills, credit-card purchase reports, address books and journals ... all documented the life and times of the deceased Jonathan Winston.

“Paperwork. That’s all there is to being a cop. Someday they’re going to find me dead, cold as a frog on a mountain, crushed by a ton and a half of paperwork,” she told Cleopatra.

A hummingbird came to take a sip from Bogey outside, and the cat bounded to the window, tail switching, mouth quivering with anticipation.

“And you’ll miss me!” Savannah called after her. “Damn it, you will!”

On the coffee table beside her was a legal pad and a pen. After carting this stuff home from the station—she had suddenly had a hankering to be as far away from there as possible—and sorting through it for two hours she had a sizable list of leads to be checked.

The search had been tedious, to be sure, but she knew a lot more about Jonathan Winston now than before.

Overall, his life appeared to have been running rather smoothly, for the first time in years. Other than the facts that his marriage was dissolving and he was murdered, Jonathan seemed to have had things under control.

After some financially difficult, first few years, the business was showing a profit. An impressive profit. His bills were paid, his savings account fat, liquid assets flowing nicely.

The only red flag was the fact that he had withdrawn several six-figure sums from his savings over the past few months, and Savannah couldn’t find any record of where the money might have gone. Definitely a detail worth noting and pursuing.

A list of test results from his yearly examination showed that he was in top physical shape, exceptional for a man his age. Even his cholesterol level and weight were down. Savannah recalled her own physical last month and felt a passing hatred for J.W.

Oh, well, he probably didn’t enjoy eating, and what was a little extra weight? She wasn’t fat or even chubby. She was voluptuous, bodacious, and curvaceous. Couldn’t ask for better than that.

At the thought of food, Savannah realized that it was nearly time for dinner. Having already changed into pajamas for the evening, she decided to send out for Chinese.

Just as she was about to abandon the U.S.S. Winston and call it a day, a tidy little bundle of letters caught her eye. The delicate blue paper with its lacy edge was definitely not from his stockbroker. Yesterday, while talking with Beverly in her library, Savannah had seen her stationery on the small rolltop desk. It had been a sedate dove gray, with a watermark of the mansion in the center. Far more formal than this.

A dozen or so letters were bound together with a thick rubber band. Not as romantic as satin ribbons, she thought, but...

Studying the first letter, she saw that it had been postmarked recently, only a couple of weeks earlier. The return address had no , name but was from the neighboring town, Oak Creek. The handwriting was small, sedate, and definitely feminine.

Again, feeling as though she was invading someone’s most private affairs, she began to read the letters. Beverly wasn’t the only one in that marriage committing adultery. The letters, from a woman named Fiona, were filled with flowery expressions of undying love and gratitude. Apparently the sex had been pretty good.

In the middle of the fifth letter Savannah realized that Jonathan and Fiona had once been married. It was equally obvious that Fiona wanted a reconciliation and expected it to happen soon. Either Jonathan had been contemplating leaving Beverly even before he had found out about her affair with the chief or he had been lying through his teeth to Fiona.

Either scenario was certainly possible, Savannah decided, based on her knowledge of men and their “wicked, wily ways,” as Gran put it.

Savannah was just finishing the last letter when a knock on her front door startled her so badly, she almost dropped the page.

“Dang it... scare a body half to death,” she grumbled as she rose stiffly from the floor—she had been sitting there a long time—and stumbled to the door on numb legs.

Glancing through the peephole, she saw a hideous, completely nauseating sight. Something pink, wet, maybe slimy, right there and magnified for her appreciation.

A tongue.

Dirk’s tongue.

“Very funny,” she said as she yanked open the door. “You know, Dirk, the most important thing about a good gag is knowing when to turn it out to pasture. You’ve worn that one thin.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he said. “Next time I’ll be sure to hack a big green loogey first, just for variety.”

“Why are you here?” she asked, not bothering to sugarcoat her tone. “Why didn’t you call first, and what do you want?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “To make up—I didn’t have a dime—and to share this with you.”

From behind his back he produced a pink bakery box, which she knew contained her favorite food in the world: a Black Forest cake from the German bakery on the corner. It was ... very simply... to die for.

It was also very expensive. Immediately her suspicions rose. Since when did old Dirk the Tightwad fork over thirty big ones for a cake? His idea of splurging was to buy Savannah her own thirty-nine-cent package of powdered minidonuts, rather than making her split a pack of six with him.

“I’m not going to let you into my knickers,” she said, “if that’s what you’re thinking. Not even for Black Forest.”

“Ah, hell, Van ... I gave up on that years ago. Open the goddamned door before this fuckin’ thing melts.”

“That’s what I’ve always loved and admired about you, Dirk,” she said, standing back and ushering him inside. “You have such a wonderful, lyrical way with words.”

“Must be the Irish in me.”

“Yeah, must be.”

The closest Dirk ever came to being Irish was wearing a green T-shirt on St. Paddy’s Day and downing some green Guinness.

“What’s all this?” he asked as he stepped over the piles of papers on his way to the kitchen.

“Winston’s stuff,” she replied, not really wanting to open that subject again.

“Anything yet?”

“Nothing good.”

He set the cake box on her counter, opened the cupboard, and took out two large plates. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No, I was just going to order out.”

“Then you’ll want a double-sized piece,” he said, readjusting the angle of the knife to accommodate her appetite.

“Exactly. One for dinner, one for dessert.”

No matter how rough the waters became between them, they always weathered the storm because they shared one common harbor: food.

Like her, Dirk was a hedonist who made no apologies about his constant search for fleshly pleasures. Only his strong sense of thrift kept him from destroying himself in an orgy of self-indulgence.

She gratefully accepted the overburdened plate and led him back into the living room. They assumed their usual seating arrangements on evenings like this: Savannah in her easy chair, Dirk on the sofa. He frequently dropped over, unannounced, to watch a movie or game or to share a pizza—if she was buying. At one time Savannah had thought his visits were mostly due to the fact that her big color television was more fun to watch than his postage-stamp-sized black-and-white.

But over the years she had slowly come to realize that, whether he would admit it or not, Dirk was lonely and enjoyed her company. If she was being honest, she would have to confess that she enjoyed his, too.

“So, what’s the occasion?” she asked as she savored the flavors of chocolate, cherry, brandy, and cream, beautifully wedded into an orgasmically decadent culinary experience.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not meeting her eyes. Dirk could lie his butt off when he was on the streets, but he was lousy at it in his private life.

“I mean ... the last time you bought me a Black Forest was for my fortieth birthday. And even then you got a bunch of the guys to chip in.”

“Are you saying I’m cheap?” He looked only mildly offended.

“You’re cheap. Very cheap.”

“How can you say that when I—?”

“For heaven’s sake, Dirk, you hang paper towels up to dry so that you can use them again.”

“What’s your point?”

“You’re the only man I’ve ever known who actually darns socks. I’ve seen you walk into a nice restaurant with a sack lunch under your arm, order a cup of coffee, and sit there and eat your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich at their table.”

“So? You get a lot more for your buck buying peanut butter than those expensive cold cuts, like bologna.”

“Never mind,” she said, suddenly feeling tired. “Why did you drop by tonight... really?”

“I told you: I wanted to make up.”

“It wasn’t that big a fight, Dirk. Neither of us bled.”

“All right, all right; you sure are a suspicious old broad. I heard that you got hauled into Bloss’s office. They said the chief was in there, too, and when you came out you looked pretty upset.” He paused and put on his sensitive-man face, which usually made her want to barf. “I came over tonight because I thought you might need someone to talk to. I—”

“Bullshit. You’re nosy, and you want to know what happened. You thought you’d come over here and ply me with Black Forest until you had gained my confidence. Then, once I lowered my defenses, you’d exploit my vulnerability, manipulate my basic human need for compassion and understanding from my fellow man. Is that it?”

He stared at her for a moment, nonplussed. Then he said flatly, “Naw... I was just gonna butter you up with the cake and get you to spill your guts. That’s all.”

“Then you just flushed thirty bucks,
compadre,”
she said, licking her fork. “Because I’ve been instructed in no uncertain terms not to discuss the case with anyone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Thoroughly gagged. I can notta say nada.”

“Not even to another cop? I’m your partner, for God’s sake.”

“Sorry. My lips are seated.”

“Not too tight to eat my cake,” he muttered under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“Nothin’.”

Savannah watched his lower lip protrude slightly, as it always did when he pouted. Dirk was a big guy and a forceful personality; he was accustomed to getting his own way in the world. He instantly regressed to adolescence when he didn’t.

“Seriously, Dirk, I wish I could tell you about it. I’m pissed, I’m confused, and, to be honest, I’m a little scared of this whole thing. I have the feeling I’m disarming a bomb and don’t know which wire to snip first, the red or the blue. And I have this sinking feeling that no matter which one I choose I’m gonna blow it ... in more ways than one.”

The petulant look dissolved from his face, to be replaced by one of genuine concern. “It’s that bad?”

“Yeah. It’s that bad.”

“Are you gonna be all right, Van?”

She nodded. “Sure I will. I mean, what could happen ... really?”

“God, Savannah! Don’t say that! Nobody should ever say that, especially a cop.”

He was right, of course. Gran would say she was borrowing trouble, just uttering those words. She had opened the door for all those pesky little demon guys out there to come right in and plague her life.

“I’ll be okay, Dirk,” she said gently, touched by his obvious concern. “Really, I will. Don’t worry.”

But as the words left her mouth Savannah realized that she was saying them as much to comfort and convince herself as Dirk.

She was going to be all right in the end. Wasn’t she?

Dirk didn’t leave until just before midnight. Savannah was grateful that he had stayed until she was tired enough to go to bed and right to sleep. She had a feeling that had been his intention.

As she saw him to the door, he paused, his hand on the knob.

“If there’s anything I can do, kid, anything at all to help, let me know. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do. I may take you up on your offer.”

For what felt like a long time he stood, looking down at her. Every now and then Savannah felt something radiating from him, an affection, an attraction, something that wouldn’t have been there had they not been different sexes.

They hadn’t pursued it. Common sense dictated that they remain partners first, friends second, and lovers—not at all. In an office setting it might be foolish to mess around with your coworkers, but on the police force, it could be deadly.