Just Desserts (30 page)

He gave her a soft smile. “Gibson is a jewel. He’s been with me for almost fifteen years now. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Did you ‘import’ him from Britain?”

“No. Gibson has been a citizen of the U.S. for twenty years. Actually, we worked together at the bureau in Washington.”

“The bureau.” She hesitated a second, then plunged ahead. “Ryan, that’s why I’m here. It’s been brought to my attention that ... well... frankly, I’ve been told that you were dishonorably discharged. I suppose it’s not any of my business, but we have sort of been working together on this case, and if we work together, I need to know where you’re coming from. We have to trust each other. Completely.”

The smile on his face had disappeared, and a look of deep sadness had taken its place. “Does that mean you can’t trust me if you know I was dismissed?”

She thought for a moment, wanting to answer him honestly. “I’m not sure. But I wish you could trust me enough to tell me about it.”

He sank back onto the sofa and closed his eyes. After a few seconds he opened them and breathed a sigh of resolution. “Okay. That’s only fair.” He reached over and covered her hand with his, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Savannah, but as your friend, not your fellow detective.”

He seemed so sincere that she felt like a jerk for even questioning him. Damn that Dirk, anyway.

“What were the grounds for your dismissal?”

“The stated reason, or the real reason? Like you, I have one of each.”

That stung. It hurt to think he had been in the same boat as she. “Both, if you don’t mind.”

“On the paper, it said, ‘Gross Negligence of Duty.’ ”

“Were you grossly negligent?”

“I don’t think so. But someone was killed, someone I was protecting from organized crime.”

Savannah thought that one over. “I hate to say it, but that sort of thing happens all the time. No matter who you are, the mob has its connections, and sometimes there’s only so much you can do.” ,

“I agree. But, as I said, that was the
stated,
legal, written-on, the-papers reason.”

“What was the real reason?”

He closed his eyes again, briefly, as though trying to blot out the pain. “You have to understand the turmoil of the times. There had recently been a lot of yellow, tabloid journalism about J. Edgar Hoover. Some pretty sensational stories that, true or false, were embarrassing to the bureau. Let’s just say it wasn’t a good time to be a fed if you were gay.”

Gay.

Gay
.

The word stuck in Savannah’s brain like a scratch on an old 45. And, like the warped record, her mind just couldn’t seem to be able to skip to the next groove.

“You’re ... you’re... um... you’re...”

“Gay; yes.” He looked surprised at her reaction, though not as surprised as she was sure she must look. “I’m sorry, Savannah. I thought you knew. I mean, what did you think?”

“What did I think?” she blurted out. “I
thought
that you liked me.”

Tears stung her eyes for the umpteenth time in the last few days. God, she was going to get dehydrated if this kept up.

He leaned closer to her and placed his hand under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “But I
do
like you, Savannah. I like you very much. You’re a wonderful person, and I enjoy every minute I’m with you.” With the tip of his thumb, he wiped away one of her tears, then the other. “I like your sense of humor, and your wit and wisdom. I enjoy just looking at you; you’re such a pretty woman.”

“How can you say that?” she said, pushing away his hand.

“What? That you’re pretty? But you are!”

“How the hell would you know? You’re... gay!”

He laughed softly and shook his head. “I might be gay, but I’m not blind. I can still enjoy the sight of a beautiful woman, even if I’m devoted to someone else.”

“Devoted... to...? You mean, you have a... a lover?”

Again he chuckled. “Of course I do. I told you before, Savannah, Gibson’s been with me for nearly fifteen years. I—”

“Gibson! Gibson? You and Gibson are... Oh, my God!”

Savannah fell back onto the sofa and, although she had never had much respect for overly delicate Southern belles, she could swear she was about to have a case of the vapors.

“Mercy,” she said, sliding into her thickest Georgia accent, “I thought he was your
butler,
or your
chauffeur.
But he’s your ... Oh, dear, I just don’t think I can take this.”

Ryan disappeared for a moment, then hurried back from the kitchen with a glass of water. Handing it to her, he said, “I’m really sorry, Savannah. I didn’t know you were feeling that way about me.” He shook his head. “Men can be so dense sometimes.”

“Oh, please... don’t tell me you wish you were a woman.”

He collapsed onto the sofa where he had been sitting, laughing so hard, he nearly dropped his towel.

Not that it mattered now, she thought.

“No, Savannah,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t wish I were a woman. I quite enjoy being male. Believe me.”

“Shit. You’re one of those ‘well-adjusted’ gays, aren’t you?”

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I don’t think there’s any such thing, Savannah, as a well-adjusted gay ... or straight, for that matter. We’re just all trying to get through the best we can, don’t you think?”

Savannah didn’t know what she thought. She was beyond cognitive thought... way beyond.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, returning his kiss on the cheek. “For trusting me. By the way, is this confidential?”

“No, not at all. Gibson and I have always been very open about our relationship. I honestly thought you knew. Are we still friends?”

“Sure. You bet.”

She stood, picked up her purse, and headed for the door. All she wanted was a lavender bath... and maybe a stiff belt of Bailey’s laced with a little hot chocolate. Naw, fuck the chocolate. She’d just take a bottle of Scotch into the tub with her.

“Well, there’s one good thing about this,” she grumbled to herself as she walked out the door. “Dirk will be tickled pink.”

“
D
etective Reid, I’ve called you before ...” the voice said as Savannah stood beside the answering machine, scooping Pacific Salmon Pâté into the cats’ dishes. When she heard the distinctive
ca-wl-led
Savannah nearly dropped the spoon.

Hot damn! It was that New Yorker who had given her two lousy tips so far; the first too general, the second too late.

“... and it didn’t seem to help.”

She was right about that.

“I’m sure now. I don’t know who actually did it, but I know who set it up, who paid for it. And I think I know why. You need to ...” There was a pause as she seemed to be searching for the words. “... to look into the fashion industry in more depth. I think Mr. Winston and Ms. O’Neal were killed more for business reasons, not personal.”

Suddenly her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sorry, I have to go. I hope that helps.”

Savannah listened as her machine told her the time. Four thirty
P
.
M
.
Only ten minutes ago. And that had been the last message.

No one else had called since.

Aha! She almost cackled aloud. “I’ve got you now,” she said as she yanked open a nearby drawer and pulled a slip of paper from inside the telephone book.

Carefully, she followed the instructions on the note, pressing the appropriate code numbers, then the star symbol.

She waited, breathless; then, sure enough, a phone began to ring.

One, two ...

Pick up. “Elite,
etc.
This is Tammy speaking. May I help you?”

Elite,
etc.
Elite,
etc.
Where had she heard that before?

Suddenly she remembered, and the memory produced a shock of adrenaline that sparked every molecule of her body. Elite,
etc.
belonged to Paul Connors, the great-looking blond designer /manufacturer who had been escorting Beverly the night of the charity ball.

“May I help you?” the voice asked again. The New York voice.

“Hello, this is Elizabeth Worthington-Smythe,” Savannah said, trying to disguise her own accent with something she hoped sounded as British as Gibson’s. “Is this Tammy Reese?” she asked, staring at a bag of Reese’s Pieces that lay on the kitchen counter.

“No,” she said, “this is Tammy Hart.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I believe I have the wrong number.”

“That’s quite all right. Have a nice day.”

Savannah hung up the phone and did a little jig, nearly stepping in the cat food. “I got ‘cha, I got’cha,
I
got
you,
Miss Tammy Hart.”

As Savannah flashed back to that night at the charity ball, to Paul Connors with his wavy blond hair and Armani suit, a very pleasant thought occurred to her: Tammy Hart might be a small fish in the pond, but Savannah had a feeling she had just gotten her hook into the mouth of something much bigger... maybe even a man-killing shark.

As the petite blonde hurried up the walkway toward the stairs that led to her second-story apartment, Savannah watched from the shadows of some nearby shrubbery. She didn’t want to give the young woman a heart attack, but Savannah didn’t know if it would be wise to present herself to Ms. Tammy Hart in public. Without more information she couldn’t be sure that Tammy wasn’t being watched; the last thing she wanted was to endanger the person who had tried to help her.

“Tammy ...” she said softly, stepping into the light as the woman approached.

Suddenly she found herself staring down the nozzle of a small black spray canister.

“What the hell is that?” Savannah asked.

The young woman didn’t bat an extremely long, nicely curled eyelash. “Pepper spray,” she said in an ominous tone that left no doubt as to her intentions.

“You don’t need that, darlin’,” Savannah said in her laziest drawl.

“Savannah Reid?” she asked, comprehension dawning on her pretty little face.

“In the flesh,” Savannah replied, then added with a sigh, “all of it.” Thin women made her feel so... so... so
not
thin. “Why don’t you just ask me in for a cup of tea and let’s talk?” she said. “Woman to woman.”

“I’ve invited you all here for a special reason,” Savannah said as she looked around her dining-room table at some of her favorite people, several of whom had been added to the list quite recently.

The Tiffany reproduction dragonfly lamp cast its jewel-refracted light on John Gibson’s silver hair, Tammy Hart’s blond waves, Dirk’s bald spot, and Ryan Stone’s chestnut...

Dear lord, gay, straight, or celibate, he was still the most gorgeous man she had ever set eyes on. If she hadn’t been so fond of John Gibson, she might have tried to redirect Ryan’s sexual orientation. So what if the shrinks said it couldn’t be done? Any man who said that it was an irreversible state simply hadn’t enjoyed one of her hot oil massages.

But Savannah had known so few couples, of any gender combination, who had actually enjoyed their companion for fifteen years. No point in trying to break up something that solid.

“I’d like you all to meet Tammy Hart. A few hours ago Tammy gave me some information that I think we
all
should share. Everyone here is pretty sure about who actually did the murders: Eric Bowman. But we didn’t know why, or for whom. Tammy has given me the other piece of that puzzle. And, with the combined talents of the individuals sitting at this table, I think we can wrap this up pretty quickly.”

She turned to Tammy, who sat quietly, hands folded demurely in her lap, a notebook computer sitting on the table before her.

“Tammy, if you would just repeat to Dirk, Ryan, and John what you told me in your apartment a few hours ago...”

Tammy nodded, but Savannah could see the apprehension in her round hazel eyes. It was one thing for Savannah to trust her own personal safety to these individuals; they were her friends. But Tammy Hart was about to put her life in the hands of people she didn’t even know, in the hopes of obtaining justice for two other murdered individuals whom she had never known.

“It’s okay, Tammy,” she said. “These are all good people. And they’re pretty damned smart, too. Except for Dirk. He’s a bit slow, but we keep him around for decoration.”

Dirk flushed, but everyone else laughed, breaking the tension.

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself,” Ryan said.

Savannah could see Tammy melt under his green gaze... foolish girl. But he seemed to put her at ease.

“I work for Elite, etc., as the personal executive secretary to Paul Connors. Mr. Connors designs, manufactures, and distributes several lines of formal evening wear for women.”

“Excuse me,” Dirk said, holding up one hand. “How long have you been with Connors?”

“Five years.”

“Then you must know him pretty well.”

Tammy glanced down at her hands in her lap. “I thought I did. Until recently.”

“Tell them what you found in the company’s computer,” Savannah prompted her.

“A month or so ago our system crashed. I was able to get us back on line.” She grinned shyly. “I’m sort of a computer nerd. And in the process I discovered some hidden files.”

“What type of files, dear?” Gibson asked.

“Mr. Connors’s private files, which he had programmed with a password. Only he could access them. I stumbled into a couple of them and, to be honest, they were very suspicious. So I overrode his password and tapped into the others. That’s when I first began to think that he wasn’t the person I thought he was.”

Ryan scribbled notes furiously on a leather-bound ledger. “Exactly what did you find, Tammy?”

“A different set of books than the ones we were operating from. Apparently, about two years ago, Mr. Connors invested heavily in Jonathan Winston’s company. Elite,
etc.
was doing much better back then. But Mr. Winston didn’t pay him back according to the schedule they had agreed upon secretly.”