Bitter Sweets

of death was the gunshot to the head.”

    In spite of herself, Savannah recalled the grisly details of the wound. “Yeah, no shit. We didn’t need Dr. Jennifer to tell us that.”

    “Her wrists and ankles had been wired like that for at least six to eight hours before she died.”

    Savannah’s stomach twisted a few notches tighter, and she nearly drove through a red light. “Great. I’m sure I’ll dream about that one. Any hair or fibers?”

    “The victim’s. Some longer red ones that might be the kid’s.”

    There was more; she could hear it in his voice. “And?”

    “And a couple of medium length dark brown...almost black...and curly.”

    Unconsciously, Savannah reached up to her own head and fingered the thick, dark locks that she had tied back with a scrunchy. Distinctly, she remembered bending over the body. It was amazing how easy it was to transfer material from one source to another. “Oh, joy,” she said without enthusiasm. “What else?”

    “Bloss decided to get involved in this one personally...it being the daughter of a friend of the chiefs and all.”

    “Yeah, he never misses an opportunity to kiss the back of Hillquist’s trousers.”

    “The secretary at the resort gave us up, told him there were three of us there this morning. Of course, he recognized your description right away.”

    “Of course. Did you know that he told me to come in and ‘talk.’ “

    Dirk took too long to answer. “Ah... yeah, Van. I heard.”

    “How serious is he?”

    Again, too much silence. “He...um...he told me to bring you in.”

    “You.7” Her south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line, rebel temper flared. “That son of a bitch. Of all the others he could have sent, he had to rub salt in the wound by picking you.”

    “Not exactly.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I volunteered.”

    “You what?”

    “Damn it, Van, if anybody’s gotta do it, I thought it should be me.”

    “Thanks, I reckon.” Tears of rage flooded her eyes and she could hardly see the road. “So, are you going to do it?” she said, “Are you going to take me in?”

    She heard him clear his throat. “Would you rather come on in...on your own?”

    “Sure.”

    “Good, I’m relieved to hear that. When?”

    “After I run some errands.”

    “Oh.” He sounded less relieved. “And how long will that take?”

    “Look, Dirk,” she said, trying to sound patient and as strong as she wished she were. “I know your hindquarters are dangling over a hot skillet here, and I don’t want to make things any worse for you than they need to be. But I’ve got work to do. And I’m not going to find Earl Mallock if I’m sitting in that damned station house, getting the third degree from Bloss.”

    He didn’t say anything for so long that she thought they might have been disconnected. Finally: “Okay, Van, I haven’t heard from you, and at least for the moment, I can’t find you. All right?”

    “I love you.”

    She knew that would get his goat. Dirk could handle street violence, criminal brutality, public controversy, and the occasional whack upside the head, but he couldn’t cope with affection.

    “Yeah, right. Talk to you later. Good luck.”

    “You, too.”

    She made a U-turn at the next light and headed back toward the beach and the Shoreline Club. No going home. No raspberry cheesecake. Not now.

    Not until she had some more answers...or at least fewer questions.

    CHAPTER EIGHT

    Savannah had been in worse dives than the Shoreline Club, but it had been a long time. Just walking into the place made her feel like a full-fledged yuppie. She appeared to be the only one wearing anything other than Tom denim, black leather, and enough chain and assorted metal to rebuild the fleet of classic Harleys that were parked outside.

    One sniff of the stale booze and rancid smoke mixed with pungent human sweat told her she was probably the only individual in the joint who had recently bathed.

    The Shoreline had a definite “nautical” motif: a couple of stuffed fish on the wall, nets strung across the ceiling that were embellished with an intricate lacing of cobwebs. The bar was covered with a thick layer of clear resin coating which sported an assortment of hooks, sinkers, bobbers, and lures.

    On the barstool nearest the door sat a couple of scrungy Hell’s Angels rejects. The chubby one had a bright red scar that bisected his face diagonally. Apparently, the doctor who had stitched him hadn’t bothered to