Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (14 page)

“And I’l never be the sorrier?”

“You got it. Deal?”

Waycross laughed. “That’s a bargain and a half!” He reached over and patted Tammy’s hand. “Tel ’em what you came up with, darlin’, while they were upstairs snoozin’ to beat the band.”

Seemingly from nowhere, Tammy produced her electronic tablet and turned it on.

“Did you already run down that list of phone numbers for me?” Dirk asked.

“Oh, I did better than that. I used the info on that list and hacked his account. I’ve got his cal s and texts from months back.”

“Don’t y’al need some sort of subpoena for that kinda thing?” Waycross wanted to know.

“It’s the victim’s records,” Tammy told him. “Who would we subpoena?”

Savannah cleared her throat. “You only need a subpoena if you’re a cop.”

“Let’s get real here,” Dirk said. “You only need a subpoena if you get caught.” He took a swig from his cowboy mug. “Or if you intend to use anything you found out in a court of law.”

Savannah nodded. “And al we’re doing right now is sticking our noses in the air and seeing if we can catch a scent. How else are we gonna figure out which path to go down first?”

Waycross slathered an obscene amount of butter on a biscuit, while Miss Health Nut Tammy pretended not to notice or disapprove. “Don’t pay me no never mind. I was just wondering about your methods, not questioning your ethics. I’m sure whatever y’al do, it’s on the up and up.” The other three at the table shot each other guilty little looks, before returning their attention to the morning refreshments.

“And what did you find out,” Dirk asked, “while you were doing al this high-minded, total y ethical hacking and snooping?”

“I found out that Jason Tyrone didn’t have any family to speak of. And for a guy the whole world supposedly loves, you’d be surprised how few friends he had. Or at least, if he did have friends, he didn’t communicate with them on the phone.”

“Maybe he was just a busy guy who didn’t like to chat or text,” Savannah suggested.

“Oh, he made cal s. Lots of them,” Tammy told her. “Cal s to his agent. Cal s to his manager. Cal s to the producer and writers of the movie.”

“That’s understandable,” Dirk said, “for a guy who’s in the middle of making a movie.” Tammy nodded. “Exactly. Nothing sinister or unusual there.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Savannah began. “I appreciate this gorgeous breakfast and al . But . . .” She lifted her nose and pretended to sniff the air. “.

. . I don’t smel a thing amiss. Nothing you’ve told us so far would lead us down any particular path. If we’re gonna get some meaningful work done today, we need to know who to harass first.”

Tammy’s fingers flew over her tablet’s screen. “If it were me, I’d check out his ex. Here, I made a list of some of the texts that passed back and forth between them this past month. There’s been some very emotional, negative energy in that relationship lately. It’s no wonder they cal ed it quits.

Or maybe I should say, ‘Jason cal ed it quits.’ Obviously, Thomas didn’t want it to end.” Tammy handed the tablet to Savannah, and she scanned the list while sipping her coffee.

Just as Tammy had said, many of the texts were less than cordial. While some were nothing more than the usual domestic squabbles about housework responsibilities and who was going to make the next grocery store run, some were downright bitter.

Three weeks before Jason’s death, Thomas had sent him texts of an accusing nature. Apparently, Thomas believed Jason had been sexual y intimate with his leading lady, Alanna Cleary.

Shortly after that, Thomas’s tone had changed to one of pleading, begging Jason not to end the relationship.

Savannah handed the tablet to Dirk. “Looks like the gossip rags had it right,” she said. “It seems they did break up over Alanna.” Dirk read for a while, then said, “Over Alanna or over Thomas’s jealousy about Alanna. Just because Jason was being accused doesn’t mean he was doing anything wrong.”

Waycross gave Dirk a hearty nod of agreement. “That’s right, man. Us guys get accused of a lot of malarkey we never did.”

“And a ton of it that you did but didn’t get caught doing,” Savannah said.

Tammy snickered. “Present company excepted, of course.”

Savannah choked on her biscuit. “Of course.”

Dirk laid down the tablet and picked up his fork. “Thomas did it. Al we have to do is prove it.” Tammy’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that just a little bit judgmental?”

“Yeah,” Waycross agreed. “Ain’t you sorta jumpin’ the gun there, good buddy?”

“Nope. It was Thomas.” Dirk chewed on happily. “It’s always the husband, the wife, the lover, sometimes just the one-night stand. But if somebody winds up dead, it’s almost always somebody they made love to.”

Tammy and Waycross both turned to Savannah, questioning looks on their faces.

“What he just said . . . it’s absolutely, positively true,” she told them. “Sad commentary on the human race, huh?” Chapter 13

“Hmmm,” Savannah said, as Dirk drove the newly polished Buick along a scenic, winding road that led deeper and deeper into a magnificent piece of country property that now belonged to Thomas Owen. “This is a nice little breakup gift, if ever I saw one.”

“No kidding,” Dirk replied. “Either Jason Tyrone must’ve been real y, real y rich, or he felt real y, real y guilty for cal ing it off.”

“Probably both. This little bit of real estate must have set him back mil ions.” She reached over and gave his thigh a little squeeze. “If you and I ever wind up cal ing it quits, don’t expect a severance package like this one from me.” He gave her a look of alarm. “Hey, don’t even kid about a thing like that. There ain’t gonna be no severance. This here’s a life sentence.” She smiled at him sweetly. “I agree, no divorce. Homicide, on the other hand, is a possibility if you don’t stop spittin’ toothpaste al over my bathroom mirror. But no divorce.”

He looked so relieved that she felt guilty for having made the joke at al . And she vowed to herself never again to be flippant about a topic that would cause her husband such consternation.

She also reminded herself that although she had never suffered through the miseries of a divorce, Dirk had. His first wife, Pol y, had run away with a much younger rock guitarist. Savannah wasn’t sure which had upset Dirk the most—the kid’s youth, or the fact that the rocker had sported at least ten times the amount of hair as Dirk.

They drove over a beautiful rock bridge that crossed a bubbling creek. As the stream flowed along on its rocky bed and disappeared in the distance into a grove of giant oak trees, it made a lovely, soothing sound.

Savannah wished she could somehow reproduce that sound in her bedroom at night. Going to sleep would be no problem when lul ed by the music of nature.

To their left was an orange grove. The scent of the ripening fruit mingled with the perfume of the white, starry blossoms, lending the air a fragrance that was as beautiful as the perfect rows of trees themselves.

To the right grew an avocado orchard, its trees much larger and foliage far darker than that of the oranges. Avocados hung on the thick, sturdy limbs in profusion. Apparently, this year it had been a bumper crop.

“You’d think the income from a ranch like this,” Savannah said, “would keep old Owen in the manner to which he had become accustomed.”

“Ranch? Ranch?” Dirk shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “It just ain’t right, them cal ing a fruit farm a ‘ranch.’ Ranches have cowboys and horses and steers and manure and manly stuff like that. There ain’t nothing masculine about avocados. I mean, they taste good in guacamole, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“I think ‘avocado ranch’ is a legitimate term. I’ve heard it many times.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you ever hear of an avocado roundup? Did you ever see any rough, tough cowboys, wearing Stetsons and boots and chaps, lasso a bunch of avocados, throw ’em to the ground, and brand ’em with a hot iron?”

“No, but I might tie a rope around you, throw you to the ground, and stick you with a hot poker if you don’t drop this ridiculous conversation.”

“Okay. I wil , if you just admit one thing.”

She sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted, in spite of her long night’s sleep. “What’s that?”

“You admit that you can’t even imagine Pa, Hoss, or little Joe raising a bunch of avocados on the Ponderosa and cal ing it a ‘ranch.’ It would have been downright unnatural.”

Up ahead, Savannah could see the outlines of a magnificent contemporary home, nestled among some ancient, gnarled oaks. They were nearly at their destination.

It was time to put Dirk out of her misery.

“You are absolutely right, my darlin’,” she said. “You couldn’t be more right, and I couldn’t possibly be more wrong.” He looked confused for a moment, then a bit pleased, then somewhat pissy. “How come it is,” he asked, “that even when I win an argument with you, it doesn’t feel like I won?”

“You know, sweetie pie, you’re absolutely right about that, too. Just as right as rain. You win. You couldn’t be any righter if you had to be.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Savannah knocked twice, and Dirk did the same three times, with hard, determined knocks, before anyone answered the door. But when it final y opened and Savannah saw the bedraggled guy standing there, she instantly knew he was Thomas Owen. She also knew that he was in an acute state of shock and grief.

And even though she felt an enormous wave of pity for him, she also reminded herself that people who had recently committed their first homicide frequently appeared that way.

Fortunately, there weren’t al that many hardcore, psychopathic serial kil ers in the world. Most murders were done by ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. And the act of kil ing a fel ow human being usual y had a devastating effect on the murderer as wel .

So Thomas’s swol en, red-rimmed eyes, gray pal or, slumped shoulders, and rumpled clothing did nothing to convince her of his innocence.

Dirk might’ve been a bit of a nitwit when it came to conversations about the Ponderosa’s lack of avocado-raising propensities, but he knew more than his share about homicides. And anybody who had conducted even a few murder investigations knew that the victim’s significant other was always number one on a detective’s list of suspects.

“Thomas Owen?” Dirk asked in his most officious, no-nonsense, cop voice.

The young man ran shaking fingers through his short, mussed, blond hair and nodded curtly. “Yeah. Why?” Dirk opened his badge and stuck it under the guy’s nose. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department.”

“And I’m Savannah Reid,” she told him. “We’re investigating the death of Jason Tyrone.” When Thomas didn’t reply, Savannah added a simple, “And we’re sorry for your loss.” He gave her the weakest of smiles, then said, “Thank you. How can I help you?”

“We’d like to come in and sit a spel ,” she told him, “if that’s okay with you. We hate to intrude in a time like this, but Sergeant Coulter here has a few questions to ask you. Strictly routine, of course.”

“There’s nothing routine about Jason dying.” Thomas’s eyes fil ed with tears.

“No, of course not,” Savannah said quickly. “We understand that the two of you were close. And I’m sure that his passing must be very painful for you. We won’t stay long, real y.”

She glanced in Dirk’s direction and saw that he was beginning to lose the little patience he had. She hoped that Thomas would invite them in without Dirk having to strong-arm him.

She had always found it to be a touchy, delicate situation—the business of interviewing a person who was close to the victim. And that chal enge was compounded when he or she was a suspect. If you hadn’t yet proven them guilty, you had to treat them with al the kindness, civility, and compassion that you would anyone who had lost a loved one. If they were innocent, the last thing they needed was an overaggressive police officer adding to their stress at one of the worst moments of their life.

On the other hand, you didn’t want to coddle a kil er. It was a difficult balancing act.

“Okay,” Thomas said simply. “Come on in.”

He led them into what turned out to be a magnificent home. Though it was contemporary in design and had a lot of steel, concrete, and glass in its construction, an abundance of wood and stonework gave it a natural coziness.

Teak ceilings that soared twenty feet or higher lent the living room a delightful, open feel. Floor-to-ceiling glass wal s revealed the magnificent landscaping, bringing the serenity of the outside in.

And gigantic indoor palm trees thrived in al the sunlight the windows provided.

Savannah had to think that so much nature, such an abundance of greenery, had to provide a great deal of peace to anyone fortunate enough to live there.

Unless, of course, someone they loved had just died.

Thomas led them to an inviting sofa made of highly polished bound bamboo and comfortable cushions with a colorful tropical print.

“Have a seat,” Thomas said, motioning to the couch. “Do you want something to drink? I’ve had quite a lot myself the past couple of days.”

“No, thanks anyway,” Savannah said. “But don’t let us stop you, if you want to have something.” Early in her career, she had discovered that interviews were far more productive when the interviewee had consumed a bit of alcohol. Not enough to make him nasty and bel igerent, but enough to lower his inhibitions a bit.

Eagerly, almost grateful y, Thomas hurried into the kitchen. He returned thirty seconds later with the glass half ful of an amber liquid. When he walked past them, Savannah caught the distinctive smel of scotch whiskey.

She thought he was going to have a seat in a chair near them. But instead he paced back and forth in front of the window, stopping occasional y to stare out at the Japanese garden and take a sip of his whiskey.

Final y, it was Dirk who spoke first. “Nice place you got here. How long have you lived here?” Of course, Dirk knew how long. Tammy had told them the exact date that Thomas had taken occupancy when she had given them the address.

But Savannah herself frequently asked questions to which she already knew the answer. It was a technique that was particularly effective at the beginning of an interview, when you were trying to determine if the person was honest and forthright or just your garden-variety, bold-faced liar. It beat the “Sniffing For Burnt Pants Method” every time.