Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (2 page)

back?"

"Yeah, but there were only three of 'em, not a roomful."

Savannah saw two of the other guys take seats in the

front corner booths. The girl sat down beside one of them, a soft drink in her hand. She gave Savannah an icy, bitter look that belied the softness of her youthful face.

Savannah's anxiety barometer rose a couple of notches;

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she and Dirk were now effectively surrounded. "Well, we gotta do something fast," she said. "They've taken positions. It's going down."

She reached under the table and tapped him discretely

on the knee. "Pass me your badge."

"Ah, man . . . how come you get to be the cop?" "Cause I'm the girl, and they won't get as shook up fit's me. Now give me the tin."

Reluctantly, he slipped his hand inside his jacket, hen handed her the badge under the table. "It's not in; it's gold. . . and you'd better not get any bullet toles in it."

She glanced around warily as she slid the thin, eather folder inside her sweater. "I'll try not to." Then, ouder, she added, "I'm gonna make a trip to the salad mt.. Want anything?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the leader of he entourage tense and lift his left hand slightly. The )thers froze, their eyes darting between him and the iooth where she and Dirk were sitting.

Dirk used the opportunity to glance over his shouller

at the front of the restaurant, the salad bar, and the )layers in their drama. "Yeah," he said with studied tonchalance, "nab me some breadsticks."

"Breadsticks comin' up."

Slowly, she stood and strolled up to the stainless-steel )ar with its fake stained-glass canopy. The teenage, nale employee had just finished covering the last metal

:anister and loading it on a cart with the others. All that .emained was melting ice, strewn with bits of lettuce Lnd other veggie castaways. He didn't look happy to see ter.

"I've got everything put away," he said. "We're closrig, you know."

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"No, I didn't know," she replied, walking up to him and standing as close as she could without arousing the

suspicions of the gangsters nearest her, about twenty feet away. "And I want some chocolate pudding."

"We don't have no pudding," he said, swabbing at the stainless-steel edge of the bar with a soggy rag. "And even if we did, I told you, we're closing."

Savannah took a couple more steps toward him, until they were nearly nose to nose. "I said . . . I want pudding. And I know you've got some in the kitchen." She jabbed his chest with her forefinger for emphasis. "You get back there and fetch it for me. I'm suffering from PMS and I need my friggin' chocolate fix. You hear me?"

The kid's eyes bugged slightly. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I'll see if we've got some."

As he started to walk away she whispered, "Stay back there. Both of you." He looked confused. She raised her voice. "And if you come out here without that pudding, mister, you're takin' your life in your hands!"

She lingered at the salad bar, checking out a shriveled radish, floating in the watery ice, until she could see that the boy had taken the clerk by her elbow and

led her into the back of the kitchen out of sight.

Like cigarettes burning holes in an old sofa's cushions,

Savannah could feel the gangsters' eyes boring into her as they watched her every movement.

Her mind racing, mentally rehearsing her next sequence of maneuvers, she meandered back to the table where Dirk sat. A thought raced through her brain, This is a dumb idea. You're gonna get yourself and Dirk killed.

She quickly retorted with a silent, Oh, yeah . . . can you think of anything better?

Predictably, there was no reply, silent or otherwise.

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What she had in mind probably wouldn't work. But she couldn't think of anything else, and she'd much prefer to be active than wait and react to a roomful of armed

kids with hardened, criminal mind-sets.

"Did you get me those breadsticks?" Dirk asked, loudly, rudely as she reached the table. He, too, was "getting into character" for their little drama, sitting there in the booth looking grouchy. Fortunately, for Dirk, acting grouchy wasn't exactly a stretch.

"Nope, I didn't get your breadsticks," she told him, "or my pudding either. They've put everything away. You're outta luck."

Taking a deep breath and saying a quick prayer for

safety that Granny Reid had taught her more than

thirty years ago, she stood next to Dirk. She felt him tense and knew he, too, was ready

Suddenly, she grabbed him and yanked him out of the booth and onto his feet. A half second later, she had plastered his face against the nearest wall. "All right, buddy" she told him, kicking his legs apart, "you spread 'em and don't make a move!"

She heard the gang members gasp collectively, and one of them said, "Hey, man. . . what the hell?"

Only then did she allow them to see the 9mm

Beretta she had drawn from her shoulder holster. "I'm a cop," she told them, showing them Dirk's badge in her other hand, "and I'm arresting this man. Just stay where you are and be cool, and I won't let him hurt you."

She put the badge away, grabbed a pair of handcuffs from her slacks pocket and put them on his wrists. "And you," she said, giving him an elbow in the back for emphasis, "better not cause me any trouble, or I'll part your hair with a bullet. What little you've got, that is."

Dirk growled under his breath; he was more than a little sensitive about his thinning, not-so-luxurious mane. "Watch it," he said. "You'll pay later."

"Was that a threat?" she said, showing him the Beretta. "Did I hear you threaten me, you lowlife scum?"

One of the hoods and the girl got out of their seats

and took a couple of steps toward Savannah. She watched them warily.

"So, what'd he do?" the girl asked.

The big guy at the door strolled over. "Yeah, whatcha bustin' him for?"

"Murder," Savannah said. "I've been after this guy for a long time." Turning back to Dirk, she said, "That'll teach you to go on a blind date that your ex-girlfriend

arranged. She fixed you up with a homicide detective, Lame Brain. We both owe her one."

Savannah gave the gangsters her best deeply concerned,

maternal look. "You guys oughta get outta here while you've got the chance. I've already called for backup, and in a minute this place is gonna be swarming with cops . . . reporters, too. Maybe even the America's Most Wanted crew. If I were you, I wouldn't want to be in the middle of a mess like that. Once they start asking you questions, they never let you go."

The older guy gave his troupe a curt nod, and they rushed the door, en masse. Only the girl lingered, gazing at Dirk with what looked a lot like groupie adoration.

"You've

been on America's Most Wanted?" she asked him, batting her eyelashes. "Who'd you murder?"

"He's a serial killer," Savannah supplied. "Murdered at least a dozen teenage girls. . . about your age."

Dirk shot Savannah a look. He was frowning, but his eyes were sparkling.

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"Really?" The girl was completely smitten. "Wow!"

"Yeah. ." Savannah added, on a roll, "even ate parts of 'em. Cooked 'em up, right there in his kitchen along with some onions, turnips, and mustard greens."

Dirk turned his face to the wall and cleared his

throat. His shoulders shook slightly

"Latisha." The leader was holding the door open. "Move your ass, bitch!"

"Hmm, smooth-talkin' laddie, treats his ladies nice," Savannah mused as she watched them hustle out the

door. "Busting him would be almost as much fun as slapping cuffs on you, Babycakes."

"Speaking of cuffs," Dirk said when the last one had stepped outside, "these are loose enough for me to slip 'em off if I need to, right?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd bind those mighty fists of fury, do you? I might have needed you to duke it out with the big guy."

"Yeah, right. How much of a head start are we gonna give 'em?"

"Not much. We've gotta see which entrance they take when they get to the freeway, north or south. Let's get going."

Keeping her gun in hand and highly visible, she led her "prisoner" across the restaurant and out the door. The gangsters were piling into two late-model luxury

cars. Apparently robbery paid better than private detecting, Savannah decided as she directed Dirk to her 1965 Mustang on the opposite side of the parking lot

Its China red paint glowed a sickly coral in the light of

the yellow parking-lot lamps. The feeble illinnination also made it difficult for her to read the license plate on

one of the cars that was revving up and getting ready to

leave.

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"I've got the Lexus," she told Dirk, who was shuffling along in captured-cannibal-serial-killer style.

"Yeah, and I've got the Acura. You carryin' your cell phone?"

"It's in my car pocket."

"Your what? Oh, yeah, I forgot. . . that's Southern for glove box."

When they reached her Mustang, Savannah opened the passenger door and shoved Dirk inside, then slammed it closed. A quick glance at the car nearest them told her the gang was watching. Sitting in the backseat, the girl had her nose pressed against the window and was

practically drooling on the glass. Savannah was amazed; females who were hopelessly smitten with Dirk were a

rare commodity.

She hurried to her side of the car, slid into the driver's seat, and got the motor humming. Her Mustang might be ancient, but thanks to her skilled mechanic, Ray, it could burn the wind when she applied a heavy foot to the pedal.

Dirk had already slipped off the cuffs, had her cell phone out, and was dialing. He ducked, hiding his face beneath the dash, as the first gangster's car peeled past them.

"Hey, Jake," he shouted into the phone. Dirk had never grasped the concept that you don't have to

scream into a cell phone to be heard. "Where are ya? Yeah, right now." He listened for a second. "Good, I got a hot one for you. How would you like to help bust the 'Burger Bandits.' I kid you not, my man. Get as much backup as you can muster. . . a chopper if possible . . . and head for the 101. I'll be tellin' you north or south in a minute or so."

Savannah waited until both cars full of suspects had

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left the parking lot before following at a discreet distance.

As she had anticipated, they were heading toward the freeway entrance ramps.

"Northbound," she said, a bit surprised at their choice. "I figured they'd be heading home to L.A. I guess we didn't put the fear of God in 'em after all."

Dirk conveyed the newest bulletin to Jake McMurtry. 'They're probably on their way to Santa Barbara," he added. 'There's plenty of burger joints to hit between here and there."

Savannah nudged him with her elbow. "Tell Jake we gotta take them before they leave the freeway. The next ten exits go into residential areas. And if they get to another restaurant, we'll be in the same situation we were before."

"Did you hear that, Jake?" Dirk barked into the phone. "Don't screw this up, man. We need lots of units, and everybody's gotta know they're armed. . . at least one Uzi. Don't want nobody dead, unless it's them."

Savannah winced. Dirk wasn't known for keeping his negative, even hostile, opinions to himself. Even after years of seeing the worst of humanity, Savannah chose to look for the good in people, although it wasn't always immediately obvious. Dirk didn't bother. Dirk's theory: Life stinks, the world stinks, and everybody in it stinks. And with an attitude like that, he daily collected enough evidence to prove his hypothesis.

"Damn it, Van," he said, "I wish we were in my car. Not having a radio stinks."

"Don't gripe. Your heap isn't even running right now. Is Jake calling it in?"

Dirk growled and nodded as he listened on the

phone. "Yeah. I hear him. He's outta breath.. . . must be

trottin' out to his car. Jake eats too damned much pizza."

This, from a guy whose decrepit Buick was a repository for a year's worth of junk-food wrappers and fast

food sacks. Dirk hadn't seen his rear floorboards since he had bought the Skylark in 1969.

Savannah speeded up a bit, keeping the two sets of taillights ahead well in sight. Other than a couple of eighteen-wheelers, they and the gangsters had the Ventura Freeway all to themselves. Recalling the hard, cold look in the leader's eyes and the dead expressions on

the other kids' faces, she felt a shiver of healthy fear. She would be glad when the cavalry reinforcements arrived.

Like

a fairy godmother's wish come true, three cruisers magically appeared in her rearview mirror. "Good goin', Jake," she whispered. 'They're he-e-e-re," she told Dirk. "You've got backup."

"Don't you mean 'we'?"

"No way. I'm just the chauffeur along for the ride. Shall I move closer?"

Dirk looked over his shoulder, observing the units that were quickly closing the gap. "Where the hell are you, Jake?" he shouted into the phone. "You want a piece of this or not?"

Turning back to Savannah, he said, "Jake's north of us. . . about ten miles. They're closing off the freeway, in case they run when we try to stop 'em."

The three SCPD cars pulled even with them, one on each side of the Mustang and the third behind. Savannah cursed her lack of a radio to communicate with

them and rolled down her window. The officer riding in the passenger seat did the same.

'The Acura and the Lexus, right?" he shouted.

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She stuck her head out the window, and the night air whipped her hair into her eyes and took her breath

away. "Yeah," she said. 'Three passengers in each. Gang-bangers. . . armed-robbery suspects."