Bitter Sweets

a person with just a computer and a modern .. . when you put your mind to it and stop feeling sorry for yourself, that is.”

    Savannah glanced over the papers and was duly impressed. “Good work, Ms. Hart. Don’t let anyone call you a blond bimbo. You are extremely talented and intelligent. Don’t ever forget it.”

    “Thanks.”

    “So, Earl Mallock held a city business license?”

    “That’s right. An antique shop, downtown on Harrington Boulevard. And he had a partner named Alan Logan. It went kaput a few months ago.”

    “We’ll have to get Mr. Logan’s address and have a talk with him.”

    Tammy grabbed the papers, sorted through them, and proudly produced a sheet with the information. “Here you go. Alan Logan’s home address, new business address, and unlisted telephone number. By the way, his credit rating is the pits... filed bankruptcy six months ago, after the business bit it. Got a divorce two months ago.”

    “Is that all you have?”

    Tammy jumped up from the sofa and headed toward the office. “You just go talk to him,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m on a roll here. By the time you get back, I’ll know if he wears briefs or boxers.”

    Savannah drove past the high school, with its hordes of loitering teenagers that made her homesick for her Georgia siblings, and turned left on Lester.

    Less-than-picturesque Lester Street ran parallel to the prestigious Harrington Boulevard from one end of the downtown area to the other. But only geographically speaking. Both thoroughfares were located in the quaint, Los Angeles tourist trap part of San Carmelita, the area that surrounded the old mission. The only difference was: Harrington Boulevard had been renovated back in the eighties-palm trees planted, sidewalks widened, wrought-iron streetlamps installed-and Lester Street hadn’t been touched.

    The fact that Alan Logan’s antique shop had once been located on Harrington, but was now situated on Lester, told Savannah that he had been forced to slide down a peg on the business ladder. Intuition told her that he probably wasn’t too happy about it.

    Glancing at her watch, she decided to give Dirk another call to find out what, if anything, was happening on his end. Punching in his car phone number on her own mobile phone, she watched the street signs, looking for Alan Logan’s shop.

    Dirk didn’t answer. Well, that wasn’t so unusual. He had a way of ignoring almost everything in life that he considered a nuisance, and his phone was certainly one.

    She tried the next most plausible possibility.

    “San Carmelita Police Station.” Bette, with the fake French accent, was on the board. Somewhere on the distant shores of her gene pool, Bette boasted a Parisian grand-m'ere, and she seemed to think this lineage gave her additional sex appeal.

    No one else seemed to hold the same opinion...but Bette didn’t seem to notice.

    “Sergeant Coulter, please.” Savannah tried to douse her Southern accent and sound official, so she wouldn’t be recognized. The last thing she needed right now was to have a long, boring chat with Bette.

    “Savannah? Is that you?”

    Savannah stifled a groan. “Yes. Oh...is this Bette?”

    “Yes! Where are you?”

    That was a funny thing to ask, Savannah thought. Usually Bette would launch into some nonsense about her latest boyfriend, her annoying neighbor, or some other equally lessthan-fascinating topic.

    “Just running some errands,” Savannah replied curtly.

    “Yeah, but where?”

    “Here and there. Does it matter?”

    “Ah ... so, what’s it like, being a lady of leisure, your own boss and all that?”

    Savannah bit her lower lip. “I really wouldn’t know. Is Dirk in?”

    “I wouldn’t know either.” Suddenly, Bette sounded a little icy around the edges. “Hold on.”

    “Reid, is that you?”

    When Savannah heard the grating, nasal voice of Captain Bloss, she almost wished she could transfer back to Bette.

    “Yes, I think Bette got her lines switched. I need to talk to Dirk.”

    “I’ll just bet you do. But I want to talk to you. “

    “Why? I don’t want to talk to you.” She was past pretending to be polite with this jackass. Their mutual hatred had been openly declared long ago.

    “This ain’t social, Reid. This is business.” Warning bells went off in her head, like her smoke detectors at home the last time she had burnt a skilletful of liver and onions. The prospect of “talking” to Bloss was