Cereal Killer

would you ask him to call me. Tell him it’s very important. No, I want to talk to the detective who’s handling the case and he’s the one... yes... my name is Tesla Montoya and...”
    She went on to leave her phone numbers, the one at home, at the agency, and her cell, insisting that he call her the minute he got her message.
    Then she hung up, and Savannah could hear her making another call.
    “Tesla Montoya here,” she was saying. “I need to see Dr. Pappas. Now. Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    On die other side of the curtain, Savannah’s heart was racing. Dirk had a lead, and it sounded like a hot one.
    Damn, if she weren’t pretending to be some sort of half-assed, wannabe model, she could just approach Tesla here and now, and identify herself. She might tell her whatever juicy info she was saving for Dirk.
    It was still worth a try.
    She stepped behind the curtain just in time to see Tesla slip her phone into her purse. Startled, Tesla jumped and gave her a suspicious look, one laced with fear and the still palpable element of guilt.
    “Are you okay?” Savannah asked, as simply and sincerely as she could.
    “No.” Tesla turned her back to her and began to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt over her swimsuit. “I’m not”
    “Can I help?”
    When Tesla finished slipping on a pair of sneakers, she picked up her purse and finally turned to Savannah. Tears were streaming down her face. “No, you can’t help,” she said. “Nobody can help. Nobody but me.”
    A moment later, she was gone, leaving Savannah with a burning curiosity... and a desperate need to call Dirk.
     
    “Call me, you knucklehead,” was the less-than-gracious message Savannah left on Dirk’s answering service. “What’s the point in having a cell phone if you don’t pick it up? Geez.”
    But by the time she’d returned to her home, she hadn’t heard from him.
    With anyone else she might have worried, but Dirk had been the last person she knew to get a cell phone, proclaiming that the darned things were a violation of one’s privacy. Or as he had put it, “A guy can’t take a drive, a leak, or a nap without everybody expecting him to be available.”
    He was famous for switching his off, or just ignoring the buzz when he had something more important to do besides chat—like read the morning comic strips or watch wrestling on TV.
    As Savannah drove up her street, she spotted Marietta’s rental car parked smack in the middle of her two-car driveway. And she realized that, once again, she’d be parking the Mustang on the street—something she was loath to do after treating the pony to a new, bright red paint job a few months ago. New paint just seemed to be a magnet for yahoos with no brains in their heads and a set of keys in their hands.
    But along with her irritation, Savannah couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved. When she had left the house that morning, Marietta hadn’t yet returned from her big date the night before. And all day Savannah had been fighting off the fear that she might find her sister in much the same sorry state as those poor, murdered girls.
    At least Mari had survived her cyberencounter, although Savannah wasn’t exactly looking forward to a pity party with Marietta wearing the victim hat if it hadn’t gone well.
    Then there was the other possibility that wasn’t pretty either—having to listen to salacious details about their lusty evening and having to smile, nod, and say, “Oh, how lovely for you, dear,” in all the right places.
    Not to mention fighting one’s gag reflex.
    Either way, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to an evening spent with Mari, Mari, Sometimes Contrary and Almost Always Love-Struck.
    But when she walked into the house and entered the living room, she saw a Marietta sitting on her sofa who didn’t really fit either category. She looked perplexed and more than a little worried.
    Tammy sat at the desk, her back to Marietta, deeply absorbed in something on the computer screen. So completely absorbed that Savannah had a feeling it was an avoidance ploy to keep from having to engage in conversation with their guest
    “Hi, Marietta,” Savannah said brightly as she shoved her model’s kit into a space behind her easy chair. “What’s shakin’, sugar?”
    Marietta shot a nervous look at the telephone, which was lying on the coffee table in front of her and said, “Don’t know yet”
    Ah, Savannah thought. We’re waiting for Prince Charming to