Poisoned Tarts (11 page)

“Wait.” Savannah put her hand on the tech's shoulder and pushed her back into the seat. “Hold on a minute. I want to see something.”

After looking down at Michelle's legs and feet, she said, “Did you move this seat?”

“What?”

“Did you adjust the seat, move it forward or back?”

“No, of course not. Why?”

“How about the mirror? Did you adjust it, or was that the position it was in when you first got into the car?”

“No. I didn't move it. I'm really careful about that kind of thing.” Michelle looked confused and more than a little defensive. “Why are you asking me this stuff? I know how to—”

“Sh-h-h. I know you do.” Savannah reached into her purse and pulled out the pad where she had been jotting notes since she had first talked to Pam O'Neil at the Dante estate. “Michelle, how tall are you?”

“Five-two,” she admitted reluctantly, “not that it's anybody's business.”

“And your feet reach the pedals just fine there, right?”

“Uh…”—she looked down—“…yeah.”

“And when you look in the rearview mirror, it's in a good position for you?”

She glanced at the mirror. “Yes. Why?”

Savannah checked her notes. “Because Daisy O'Neil, our missing girl, is five feet, ten inches.”

Dirk had been on his cell phone, alerting the lab that he was on his way in to see them, but all of a sudden, he was interested in the point Savannah was making.

“That's right,” he said, checking out the position of Michelle's body in the seat. “Daisy would have had the seat a lot farther back than that if she was the one at the wheel.”

“Somebody else was driving Daisy's car,” Savannah said, wondering what the significance of that might be. “They may have dropped this car here, got out, hopped into another car, and driven off in the second one.”

“That would be my guess, too.” Dirk nodded thoughtfully. “And whoever was doing the driving wasn't nearly as big as Daisy…or that boyfriend of hers, either.”

“Nope. Petite. A very short man or a small woman.”

Savannah's eyes met Dirk's, and they exchanged knowing looks.

“I guess I know whose prints you're going to run a comparison on first,” she said.

“Yep.” Dirk slipped the envelope into his inside jacket pocket. “In less than an hour, I'll know if it's Miss Tiffy's.”

Savannah crossed her fingers.

If she'd thought it would've done any good, she'd have crossed her eyes, toes, and legs, too.

 

Savannah drove Dirk to her least favorite part of town, the industrial area. Not all that many years ago, this land had been covered with orange, lemon, and avocado groves and strawberry fields—blooming, bearing fruit, cleaning the air, and perfuming it with the intoxicating scent of blossoms and fresh citrus.

Now it grew nothing but more and more gray steel and cement.

Progress.

Los Angeles had arrived.

And in the middle of the boring and soulless maze of windowless concrete block buildings with steel garage doors was an equally unremarkable windowless building with a small, white door with the Great Seal of California emblazoned on it.

They parked, hurried up to the door, and Dirk punched the doorbell button.

A moment later, a voice spoke from the intercom speaker mounted over the door just below a security camera.

“What do you want?” asked a pseudo-gruff female voice. “Whatever you're selling, we've got enough.”

“Open this door, Eileen,” Dirk barked back. “I got something that's gotta be processed right away.”

“What else is new?”

When the door opened, a sixty-something woman with long, curly silver hair was standing there, her hands on her hips. She wore a crisp white lab coat, blue jeans, and sneakers and a broad smile on her face—for Savannah.

Eileen Bradley had been head of the lab since Savannah had been a cop, and she ran the place with impressive efficiency and frightening despotism. But in Savannah's opinion, Eileen was a good egg…as long as you weren't foolish enough to cross her.

“Hey, girl,” she said, giving Savannah a warm hug. “I don't see nearly enough of
you
around here.” As she turned to Dirk, the smile dropped off her face. “
You
, on the other hand, I see far too much.”

Ignoring the insult, Dirk reached into his pocket and pulled out Michelle's envelope. “I've got a latent here that I need run ASAP.”

Eileen turned to her other techs, a middle-aged Latino and a freckle-faced young miss, who were both sitting at computers, their noses practically on the screens. “Hear that?” she asked them. “Detective
Coulter
has something that
has
to be processed
right away
. Drop everything, run over here, grab his evidence, and kiss his ass.”

Savannah cringed and gave Dirk a sideways glance. She half expected him to explode. And maybe with anyone else, he might have. But Eileen had the upper hand, gold shield or not. She could make him WAIT. And in Dirk's world, that gave her rank and stature.

“It's important, Eileen,” he said in a far softer tone than Savannah might have expected. “A kid's missing and—”

“And another kid's dead,” Eileen interjected. “Shot four times, twice in the head. Do you mind if we process his
bullets
first before we get to your
latent?”

For a moment, Dirk looked confused and a bit chagrined. Then he flared, “Who? You mean that damned gangbanger who got himself popped Monday night? Give me a break. My kid's an innocent civilian. That punk was asking for it.”

Savannah winced. “Dirk…don't…” she whispered as she waited for Eileen to slap him.

But Eileen didn't. She balled her fingers into fists but kept them at her sides as she glared up at Dirk. “I don't believe you said that,” she told him in a low, deadly even tone. “He was seventeen. He had a family who's mourning him. What the hell's the matter with you, Coulter?”

Savannah reached over and gently took the envelope from Dirk's hand. “Why don't you, uh, go out and wait for me in the car,” she told him under her breath. “Okay?”

Dirk's face flushed, and she knew he was furious. But to her surprise, he turned around and left the room.

And to his credit, he didn't even slam the door behind him.

“I'm sorry,” she said to Eileen and the other two techs, who were now all ears. “He's really worried—we both are—about this girl. She's a good kid who's been missing for forty-eight hours now, and that's too long,
much
too long. It's not looking good at this point.”

Eileen's face softened a bit, so Savannah continued. “I know you guys are swamped. You always are. And it's a terrible shame about the kid who was murdered. But he's already gone. If you can run one print, and I'll even give you a possible match for it, it might point us in the right direction. Maybe we could save this other kid.”

Savannah held out the envelope, along with her most beguiling, pleading, half smile.

Eileen shook her head and sighed as she took the envelope and opened it. She pulled out the card, held it up, and gave it a long look. Finally, she said, “Okay.” She turned to the young woman behind her. “Cindy, drop what you're doing there, and take care of this for me.”

Turning to Savannah, she added, “ASAP.”

Savannah smiled. “Thank you. Eileen, you're the best.”

“No, I'm second best.
You
are the best. You not only do your job, but you also have to do it with
him
. When you get outside, remind that numbskull of that.”

“I will. Oh, I will.”

“Y
ou didn't have to do that, you know. I was handling the situation just fine back there,” Dirk complained as she drove him back to her house to pick up his car.

“You were not.” Savannah stared straight ahead, trying not to grip the steering wheel so hard she'd break it in two. Classic Mustang steering wheels didn't come cheap.

“I was, too.” He huffed and puffed a bit. “I'm not as stupid as I look. I know how to talk to people.”

It occurred to her that if anything, Dirk looked smarter than he was. But she decided to keep that to herself and simply replied, “Do not.”

“Wha…what?” he sputtered. “How can you say that? Aren't you the one who's always been happy to hand your suspects over to
me
to interrogate them?”

“You're good at
scaring
people, not at talking to them. You pretty much suck at that. Most of the time, you don't have a clue what to say to get what you want out of folks.”

“Oh yeah? Says who?”

“
Me
. And to prove my point—you're sitting there yelling at me when you should be thanking me that your print is getting processed right now. Instead, you should be sweet-talking me, telling me what a great gal I am and how grateful you are to have a sparkling gem like me in your life.”

“I should kiss up to you after you embarrass me like that?”

“Absolutely. You should be smooching hiney bigtime, boy.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

“Because it's lunchtime, and you're on your way to my house.”

Dirk thought that one over a long time before he cleared his throat, donned a repentant face, and said, “Thanks a million, Van. You really came through for me back there. I appreciate it. Bigtime.”

She grinned. “You're welcome.”

They drove a bit farther. “What do you want for lunch?” she asked.

“You got any of that fried chicken left over?”

“I think so.”

“Good. That and a big helping of your potato salad should do it.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out his cell phone, and flipped it open. “I'm gonna call Eileen and tell her to get a move on with that print. She's had it for twenty minutes now. What are they doin' over there, making plaster of Paris volcanoes with their chemistry sets?”

Savannah sighed. “Right, Dirk. And you be sure to mention that when you talk to her.”

“Oh, I will! Don't you worry. I will!”

 

“When do you think you'll get the results on that print?” Tammy asked as she helped Savannah lay odds and ends of leftovers onto the table.

Savannah rolled her eyes. “God only knows. It's a long, sad story.”

They could hear Dirk in the living room, harassing somebody on the phone, and Gran was upstairs, taking a nap.

“How can I help with this?” Tammy said as she took the lid off a jar of kosher dills. “It's nice having your granny to myself, but she and I both have been itching to do
something
on this case.”

“Thanks, sugar. I can't think of anything right now, but if I do…”

“How about her computer? Doesn't she have a computer I can be rummaging through, reading old e-mails, stuff like that?”

“Her mom told Dirk that it quit working a few weeks ago. The hard drive's fried or whatever. They donated it to some charity or something.”

“Darn. How about her cell phone?”

“I already looked it over. The incoming and outgoing calls have been erased. The only ones showing are the ones she's missed the last couple of days—her mom's and her boyfriend's.”

“Hm-m-m…you should ask her mom if she normally does that. Most people don't.”

“Except cheating boyfriends.”

“Let's not be sexist now.”

They both added in unison, “And cheating girlfriends.”

“Dirk, come in here and eat your lunch before it gets cold,” Savannah called out.

Tammy giggled. “It's already cold. It's straight out of the refrigerator.”

“Like he would notice.”

 

As they sat around the table, Tammy munched on her salad, Dirk devoured a chicken leg, and Savannah downed a ham sandwich.

“Is Granny still napping?” Dirk asked in midchew.

“Yes,” Tammy said. “I wore her out this morning, taking her to the old mission. She spent hours there.”

Dirk looked confused. “But the mission is Catholic. I thought she's a Baptist or something Southern like that.”

“She is,” Tammy replied. “But the mission has the biggest thrift store in the county. It's right next door.”

“Ah.” Savannah nodded. “No wonder she's exhausted. Gran loves a bargain.” Turning to Dirk, she said, “Any word from Eileen yet?”

“Several words,” he grumbled. “Several nasty, totally uncalled-for words.”

“Imagine that. But no print ID yet?”

“No. She made it pretty clear that
she
will call
me
when she's finished.” He took a bite of potato salad. “That woman needs to take a few anger management classes.”

“Go figure.”

Tammy had been sitting quietly for a few moments, apparently mulling something over. Suddenly, she brightened. “Ah…I know something I can do!”

“What's that?” Savannah asked.

But Tammy was already halfway to the living room.

“What's the bimbo up to?” Dirk asked under his breath.

“Don't call her that.”

“Why not? She can't hear me.”

“Because I don't let
her
call
you
names around me, and I don't want you to—”

“She calls me names? What does she call me?”

“Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”

Tammy came back in, several papers in her hand, and sat back down at the table.

“Do you call me names behind my back?” Dirk demanded to know.

Tammy looked up from the papers, confused for a second, then said, “None that I don't call you to your face. Just Dirko, Pee-Pee Head…stuff like that.”

“Oh, okay.”

“What have you got there?” Savannah asked, eager to change the subject.

“The printout of Daisy's bank statements for the past six months. I see here that she pays for her cell phone by check. That's a good thing. Or at least, potentially a good thing.”

“How?” Dirk asked. “Why would that matter to us?”

“Because it means she may not have set up an account to pay her bill online.”

“And…?” Savannah prompted.

Tammy gave her a sly grin. “That means that…um…‘Daisy' could still do that. And if she did that, she'd be able to look at all of her incoming and outgoing calls. Even the ones that have been deleted from her phone.”

“And let me guess,” Dirk said. “Sometime this afternoon, you're going to do her the big favor of going online and doing that for her.”

Tammy nodded, looking very pleased with herself.

“And what are you going to use for a password?” Savannah asked. “OscarJr?”

“No way. If I'm going to do this for Daisy, I'm going to do it right. The second worst thing people do when setting up their passwords—after choosing one that's just way too obvious—is using the same one for everything.”

“So what are you going to use?” Dirk asked.

Tammy's smile disappeared, and for a moment, she looked quite sad. “I know what I'd like to use,” she said. “I'd like to use FoundSafe&Sound.”

“Don't we all,” Savannah added. “Don't we all.”

Dirk's phone began to play “Funeral March of a Marionette,” the theme song from the old TV show
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
, one of Dirk's very favorites…next to
Gunsmoke
and
Bonanza
.

Everybody at the table brightened.

“It's Eileen!” Savannah said.

“Yeah?” Dirk answered, ever the smooth talker.

He listened, then grinned broadly. “I love you, Eileen. Have I ever told you that? You're a queen among women, a real—”

He stopped talking, took the phone down from his ear, and stared at it. “She hung up on me! Can you imagine that? I was being nice to her, and she had the nerve to—”

“Dirk!” Savannah reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “Damnation! What did she say?”

“It's a match,” he said. “The latent is a match to the thumbprint on Tiffany Dante's DMV record.”

The table erupted in cheers.

Dirk pushed his only half-empty plate away and stood. “I think I'll go lean on a certain little spoiled brat. I think I'll see if I can't scare her…”—he looked at Savannah—“…since I've been told on good authority lately that I'm good at that. You wanna come?”

“And watch an artiste in action? Of course.”

She turned to Tammy. “Do you mind staying home and checking those phone records for us?”

Tammy smiled. “Hey, as long as I'm sleuthing, I'm happy.”

Savannah reached over and patted her friend on the top of her shiny blond head. “And that's why we love you, Nancy Drew. Give a holler if you get anything.”

“Will do.”

A minute later, Savannah and Dirk were gone, swirling away like a Kansas tornado, and Tammy was sitting alone. She glanced over at Dirk's plate and said, “Wow, old Wind in His Pants really
is
eager to solve this case! He left
free food
behind! Like Granny Reid says, ‘Wonders never cease!'”

 

When Savannah and Dirk pulled up in front of the Dante mansion, she thought she had suddenly been plunged into hell itself. The exquisite grounds were littered with dismembered, rotting corpses, coffins and tombstones, and every conceivable sort of monster, and cobwebs were strewn over every bush and hedge.

“Oh, gross,” Dirk said as they got out of his Buick and walked around the circular driveway to the front door. They passed a ravaged torso, a severed hand with the bloodied knife lying beside it, and a disembodied head, who looked surprised and displeased to have been separated from his other body parts.

Workers were still setting up, spreading more Halloween “cheer” on other parts of the lawn. One fellow was dumping a dark red liquid into the fountain. A moment later, the four tiers began to flow with “blood.”

“Ew-w-w,” she said. “They've got a real Dante's Inferno here.” Savannah glanced over at a coffin to the right of the door and saw that it was occupied by a vampiress dressed in Gothic dominatrix attire. “And you say that
I
overdecorate for parties,” she told him.

He shook his head in disgust. “I'll never mention it again. Your bowls of spaghetti brains and vats of grape eyeballs are understated elegance compared to this crap.”

After ringing the doorbell, they waited, and waited, and waited.

Finally, the door opened, but instead of the maid who had greeted them before, the person on the other side was a young man on his way out, weighed down with a dozen or more hangers full of costumes.

As he sailed by, Savannah saw everything there from the Bride of Frankenstein to a bloody-fanged Easter Bunny.

“I feel like Alice in Wonderland on a really bad LSD trip,” she said.

“I hear ya. And this is in the daylight. Can you imagine what this is going to look like tomorrow night?”

“Scary thought what money can buy.” She looked inside the still open door and saw at least five or six more people scurrying around with all sorts of equally disgusting props.

“Let's go on in,” Dirk said.

“Uninvited?”

“That guy with all the stupid outfits, he invited us in. Didn't you hear him?”

“Sure. I believe his exact words were, ‘Walk right in, folks, and make yourself at home.'”

“Yep, that's what I heard, too.”

As they walked through the door and into the glorious foyer, Savannah nearly ran into a life-sized Grim Reaper dressed as a pirate. As she walked by him, the skeleton brought the blade of his scythe down in a chopping motion, nearly hitting her on the head.

“Watch it, you bag of bones,” she told it. “I'm armed myself, and a gun beats a sickle any day of the week.”

They walked through the house down a hallway that was now a gallery of serial killers. Jeffrey Dahmer's holographic portrait hung between Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, Jr., and above Henry Lee Lucas and Ed Gein.