Just Desserts (4 page)

Even before she reached the door to the room, Savannah could smell it—the unmistakable, unforgettable stench of death. The coppery odor of the blood, combined with the stink of feces and urine. And, of course, there was always that universal element that could be detected on a much more primitive level than smell: residual terror. It seeped through your skin and into your bloodstream and nervous system until you could taste it, bitter in your mouth. A very small taste of what the victim had suffered in those last few moments.

The office door was standing wide open. A vacuum cleaner lay sprawled across the threshold.

“The janitor said he opened the door, saw the body, and dropped his vacuum,” Mike explained.

“I’m not surprised,” Savannah said softly as she stepped over the cleaner and into the office.

The victim lay on his back behind the black lacquer, brass-trimmed desk. One glance told Savannah the cause of death: at least three shotgun blasts.

The most she had ever seen before was one per corpse at a double homicide.

“They certainly wanted to kill him good,” Mike said, hanging back in the doorway.

Savannah didn’t reply. She knelt a couple of feet away from the body and flipped her mental switch to automatic pilot. Emotions disengaged—until later. Intellect was running in high gear.

If she thought of this corpse as a human being, she wouldn’t be able to function. Anger would supplant reason.

The man himself was gone. The only thing she could do now to help him was to bring his killer to justice by studying the clues his remains provided.

One of the blasts had been directly to the face, destroying any hope of an easy identification. His features had been reduced to little more than a gory red mist of tissue particles that had sprayed across the white wall directly behind him, like a macabre Rorschach test. The level indicated that he was probably standing when shot.

Another blast had hit and removed the better part of his right arm. The remnants of torn flesh and shattered bone lay on the carpet behind him. Apparently he had been lying on the floor when that one had hit.

The third shot had ripped away the outer half of his right thigh. As with the arm, those tissues and fluids had oozed into the carpeting.

“I’d say he got it in the face first,” she said. “At least for his sake I hope so.”

“Yeah,” Mike replied, taking a step closer. “He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

“He was looking down the barrel of a shotgun for ... we don’t know how long.” Savannah shook her head. “I’m sure he felt a rather sick, sinking feeling that he was about to die.”

Without touching the corpse or moving anything, she walked around the body, viewing it from each side, making mental notes. He was well-dressed, in a cream silk shirt with tan linen pants. Not a particularly tall man, he could be considered well-built in an amateur weight-lifting sort of way. Judging from his jewelry—a heavy gold chain around his neck, a Rolex watch, and a distinctive diamond-and-ruby ring in the shape of a horseshoe—he was a man of means.

Not a robbery,
she thought,
or they would have cut off his finger, if necessary, to get that ring.

The small amount of hair that remained on the victim’s mutilated head—the part that wasn’t drenched with blood—appeared to be steel gray.

Instinctively, Savannah had known who he was from the moment she entered the office. But she had been shoving down the thought in her mind, hoping she was wrong, reminding herself not to jump to conclusions.

“Do you think it’s Jonathan Winston?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve only seen him once or twice,” Jake said, “but the hair looks like his. I remember him being about that size.”

“Did the janitor ID him?” she asked.

“Naw. He was so scared, he wouldn’t have recognized his own mother. When he saw all the blood he just ran like hell.”

“I don’t blame him,” she replied. Turning to Mike, she said, “How about you? Do you think it’s Winston?”

“Hard to be sure without the face.” Mike cleared his throat and glanced away, suddenly interested in the tips of his shoes. “But I’d say it could be him. I figure it probably is.”

“Yeah, me, too. Why do you suppose a classy guy like Jonathan Winston would get himself blown away?” she said, thinking aloud. “A sour business deal? Personal problems ... ?”

“Maybe somebody didn’t like what his wife’s been doing at City Hall,” Jake suggested.

Savannah felt a deep pang of sadness when she thought of Beverly Winston. Although she had only spoken to the councilwoman briefly a couple of times, she really liked her. For the past few years Savannah had watched approvingly as Beverly worked her way up the political ladder. She had spearheaded many humane programs to benefit the city’s neglected children and battered women, as well as the homeless and destitute, a constituency that had been overlooked by her predecessors. Word was, she intended to run for State Assembly next fall.

In the course of her own career Savannah had told far too many people that their loved ones had died or been gravely wounded. It was the hardest thing she had to do in the line of duty. But it was always so much harder if she knew the person.

God ... she didn’t want to tell a great lady like Beverly Winston that someone had blown apart her husband’s. body with a shotgun in his own office.

“Let’s get the deputy coroner down here,” she said, “and a criminologist to collect samples and take the pictures.”

She stood, pulled a journal out of her purse, and began to make notes and brief sketches of everything she could see that might be important.

Mike walked toward the desk and reached for the phone.

“Not that one,” she said, grabbing his arm. “We’ve gotta check for prints and the redial; see who he phoned last.”

“Oh, yeah ... sorry,” Mike said. “I’ll call from the unit. I need to check on the janitor anyway.”

“I’ll want to talk to him, too. But not just this minute. Make sure we know where to find him later today.”

Savannah followed Mike out the front door and past the mob of reporters. She had to get her homicide kit from her trunk. The lab technicians would dust for prints, vacuum the carpet and furniture for any trace evidence, and take all the scrapings, samples, and photographs that were necessary, then get back to her with the results.

But Savannah liked to take her own pictures. Sometimes she saw something in them later that she hadn’t noticed in the official photos.

Through the window of the squad car she could see Jake talking to an elderly man, who appeared to be scared to death. He hadn’t committed the murder; one look at him told her that. She would need to talk to him, though, to see if he could tell her anything, no matter how small, that might help. But it could wait until later. If the corpse inside was who she thought he was, getting a positive identification was the primary consideration.

“Savannah!” Rosemary Hulse called as she ran across the street to intercept Savannah before she could reach her car. “What’s happened?”

“A homicide,” she replied, opening her trunk and taking out the oversized briefcase that contained the tools of her trade: camera, surgical gloves, sample jars and a putty knife for scraping, banner tape, and plastic zipper bags. Savannah believed in being prepared.

“I already knew that. Who’s dead?” Rosemary asked bluntly. Reporters were always blunt—maybe even more so than cops.

Savannah paused for a moment, case in hand, before she slammed the trunk closed. In her mind’s eye she could see the amputated arm, the mutilated thigh, the shattered face.

“We don’t know for sure,” she said softly. “And I’m afraid it’s going to be a while before we do.”

Savannah stood at the edge of Sunset Park and marveled that one square city block could contain at least half of the town’s citizenry at once. On the second Sunday of each month, San Carmelita held an arts-and-crafts show in this picturesque park near the beach. Assigned their eight-by-ten space of grass, the artisans had erected colorful booths to display their wares: pottery, tole-painted woodwork, paintings, and air-brushed Tshirts.

On top of a hastily assembled plywood stage a country band wailed the dilemma of a cowboy in love with four women. A brightly costumed juggler and a G-rated belly dancer had each assembled a small audience of their own.

A cold, wet nose pushed its way into Savannah’s palm and she looked down to see Fiero, her favorite K-9 cop. The handsome German Shepherd had brought along his partner, Officer Carl Browning, and the two of them were entertaining a group of children with Fiero’s tricks.

“Fiero, up!” Carl said, holding his arms straight out in front of him, his palms up.

The dog jumped, twisted in the air, and landed on his back in Carl’s arms. Delighted, the kids laughed and applauded. One offered the dog a raspberry snow cone, which he downed with two gulps.

Savannah plunged into the throng, weaving her way through the food booths operated by charitable organizations. The smells of smoked teriyaki beef kabobs and freshly baked cinnamon rolls filled the air. Ordinarily, Savannah would have stopped to indulge, but at the moment she had no appetite—thanks to what she had seen that morning and what she would have to do now.

Beverly Winston’s housekeeper had said that she was helping out today at a booth sponsored by Hope Haven, a shelter for battered women. Savannah could see their distinctive red banner flying at the other end of the midway.

As she drew closer, Savannah spotted Beverly in the booth, handing out brochures and soliciting donations. She wasn’t a pretty woman—at least, not by the ultrafeminine Southern standards with which Savannah had grown up. The councilwoman wore no makeup, and her graying ash-blond hair hung in a straight, no-nonsense style to her collar. Her casual look consisted of a stiffly tailored navy pantsuit, a white shirt, and a red silk scarf. Savannah smiled wryly, noting that Winston’s colors were as politically correct as the smile she wore while she answered questions and shook hands.

Savannah browsed around a neighboring needlework booth and watched Beverly carefully for several minutes. When she had seen the councilwoman before she had always appeared calm, confident, at ease with herself and the world around her. But today her smile seemed strained, her posture unusually stiff, her movements jerky.

Could she have been told already?

It was certainly possible, but Savannah didn’t think so. She couldn’t imagine a woman continuing to work a street fair booth after learning that her husband might have been murdered.

Savannah noticed that her attention seemed diverted every few seconds from the people she was addressing. Her eyes searched the crowd momentarily, as though she were expecting some sort of confrontation or attack.

An uneasy feeling began to stir in the pit of Savannah’s stomach. She didn’t want to contemplate the possible implications right now. There would be plenty of time to do that at leisure. Unfortunately, she had an unpleasant job to do, and she might as well get on with it.

Just as she had left the piles of embroidered pillows and crocheted afghans to walk over to the councilwoman’s booth, Savannah saw a familiar figure approaching the display from her left. She moved quickly to intercept him.

Gary Anderson was a smug, obnoxious reporter who worked with Rosemary Hulse. But he lacked any of Rosemary’s tact or discretion. More than once Savannah had stopped him from shoving his camera and tape recorder in the face of a grief-stricken family member.

“Anderson,” she said. He continued on, blatantly ignoring her.

She quickened her pace and grabbed his upper arm, whirling him around.

What a wimp,
she thought. Her own biceps were better developed than the one she was squeezing hard enough to get his undivided attention.

“Detective, what a pleasant surprise,” he said with a sarcastic grin that didn’t conceal the fact that he was wincing.

She dug her nails in a bit deeper and glanced over at Beverly Winston. The woman was watching them from the corner of her eye, a look of concern on her face.

“Are you enjoying the street fair, Gary?” Savannah asked in a pseudocasual tone.

“Oh yes, very much,” he said. “I come down every month to check out the pottery.”

Her blue eyes locked with his and she gave him her best visual zap. He winced again without being squeezed.

“Don’t do it, Anderson,” she said softly.

“Don’t do what?” He gave her the wide-eyed, innocent look, and a smirk that made her want to smack him.

“Don’t be a jerk. She hasn’t been informed yet.”

He snapped to attention, reminding her of a beagle. “So it is him.”

“We don’t know; it may be. But either way you’re not going to jump her bones right now. You’re not. Got it?”

Her hand tightened again, and the look on her face defied him to resist.

“Like I said ...” He yanked his arm out of her grasp and shrugged. “... I was just coming down to check out the pottery.”

She waited until he had walked to the other side of the park before she approached the booth. Beverly was watching her every move, and the somewhat concerned look on her face had progressed to definitely worried.

“Detective Reid,” she said when Savannah reached her. “How nice to see you.”

For the second time in three minutes Savannah had been told that someone was glad to run into her. For the second time she didn’t believe a word of it.

“When was it we last talked ...?” Beverly extended her hand and shook Savannah’s with the perfect degree of firmness and strength. “... that meeting at the Women’s Center on self-defense, right?”

“Yes, I think so,” Savannah said, not returning her smile. She glanced around. There were far too many people nearby. This wasn’t the time or place.

“Mrs. Winston ...” Savannah leaned across the table covered with brochures and placed her hand on the woman’s forearm. “I need to talk to you. It’s very important.”

“Now?” she asked, nodding toward the line of people waiting to speak with her.

“Yes. I’m sorry. If you could just come with me for a few minutes ...”

Beverly turned to an elderly woman, who was sitting in a folding chair beneath the display’s awning. “Marge, could you watch the booth for me? I have to take care of something.”