Cereal Killer

tiles and Spanish influence disappeared, replaced by a chic suite of offices that looked like an Ansel Adams photo.
    The walls, the clean-lined, contemporary furniture, and the decorating accents were all shades of black, white, and gray. And on the walls hung life-size, full-length photographs similar to the one they had seen in Kameeka Wills’s house.
    Beautiful women of abundant proportions lined the walls, each more exquisite than the one before. Whether they were standing on a beach, sitting in a tropical garden, or posed against a blank backdrop, they commanded the camera with their presence.
    Not a skinny, heroin-addicted-looking one in the bunch, Savannah thought as she walked across the dove-gray carpet to a sleek ebony desk in the corner of the room. They all looked healthy, vibrant, and fulfilled, their eyes sparkling with consciousness and confidence.
    Females... in every sense of the word.
    If this was what Leah Freed’s agency was all about, Savannah decided she liked her a lot more than she had five minutes ago. There needed to be more of these photos in the world—pictures that celebrated the beauty of women in all shapes and sizes.
    “Hello,” she said to the receptionist, a young woman who was herself a generous size. “My name is Savannah Reid. I believe Ms. Freed is expecting me.”
    Instantly, the receptionist jumped to attention. “Oh, yes. Leah is expecting you. Just one moment, please.” She lifted the phone and punched a button. “Ms. Reid is here to... yes, I’ll send her right in.”
    Hanging up, she rose and ushered Savannah to one of the three doors that led off the reception area, the door imprinted with the gold letters “L.J. Freed.” Opening the door, she announced, “Ms. Reid, this is Leah Freed and—”
    “Yes, yes, Belinda, we’ve met.” Leah Freed came out from behind an enormous desk piled high with papers, glossy eight-by-ten photos, and multicolored files. One glance around the untidy office told Savannah that the agency’s first impression of chic and organized, given by the reception area, might be smoke and mirrors.
    Today, Leah was dressed in a hot pink suit with white piping and a white neckerchief with pink polka dots. On a woman of lighter coloring, the ensemble might have been gaudy, but on a deeply tanned person with Leah’s black hair, it was only mildly garish.
    Leah’s more attractive accessory, the cocker spaniel puppy, was nowhere in sight, and the agent seemed less personable without the softness of her canine companion.
    She motioned Savannah inside with an impatient wave of her hand.
    The receptionist, formerly identified as Belinda, asked Savannah, “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea or—?”
    “Nothing!” Leah snapped. “Leave us alone and hold all my calls.”
    With a submissive nod, Belinda turned and quickly disappeared.
    “Here, sit down,” Leah said as she swept an armload of papers and files off one of the chairs beside her desk.
    Savannah could feel the ruff on her back rising, as it always did when she encountered gruff, controlling people. Or at least, anyone who was more gruff and controlling than she was. But she decided to give Leah Freed the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to the fact that she was probably in shock, grieving the loss of her friends.
    “What do you know so far?” Leah said as she plopped down in her own chair behind the desk and folded her arms in front of her.
    “Bottom line, huh?” Savannah couldn’t resist giving her a small, baiting grin.
    Leah registered the challenge and, for a moment, lowered her intensity a notch. “Always the bottom line,” she said, a bit more softly. “I’m not one to pussyfoot around.”
    “Me either.”
    “Good. Then we’ll get along. So, what really happened to Cait?”
    Before Savannah could answer, Leah added, “I figured that stupid husband of hers did her in, but now that Kameeka’s gone, too...?”
    For a moment, the agent’s lower lip trembled just a bit; then her face hardened as though she were steeling herself for Savannah’s answer.
    “It’s a bit early to make any sort of determination about either of their deaths,” Savannah told her. “According to the medical examiner, Caitlin died of heat stroke, brought on by strenuous exercise coupled with dehydration.”
    Leah gasped and covered her face with both hands. Savannah saw a shudder go through her as she fought to control her emotions.
    When she finally moved her hands, Savannah saw